It's like magic; but it’s more real – but how do you know?
Download, burn and play.
I was looking to download this album and anything else by Daddy Was A Milkman, because it’s going to be cheaper and easier to get my daily dose of bone restoration by having this music waft through my house and slowly fill up my car into a bath over my head, than milking cows and mixing cocoa with chicory, roasted grains, and a teaspoon of honey and a dash of cinnamon and ginger, when I wake up ravenous from three hours sleep, and have new work to be living my life on. But try doing that where I live! I could stream, I stream all day from the virtually unlimited source of MP3 available. But I want to be selective on this one and have it to place, like hard evidence, like oozing peaches, about my house.
Which brings me to my waking thought of narrow margins, lilted in an Irish I cannot place in my head to the sqwuaking of seagulls; the thought up and running but the rest of me still suspended somewhere between the Atlantic, the Pacific and the North Sea, I thank the mothers holding the trinity.
I'll tell you what makes me livid, I mutter to myself, people who pretend they don’t have the answers because their guardian spirits won’t let them have them. I sit up in a flash, flip onto my knees, twist a leg from underneath me and step out diagonally on the other side of the bed with a souplesse I haven’t known in 21 years. My morning extends across the walls like a tantra tapestry frayed but writing it up in muted colour true as the light of day veiled by meekness, awe and delight.
The Spiel
We are always kidding ourselves a bit, aren’t we? It wouldn’t be fun if we didn’t. Usually it gets less when we marry and have kids flinging the reality check our way. I had a kid and got married, but nothing changed for me, because, I finally caught on I hadn’t ever been doing much of that make believe to grease the cogs of a new real, in the first place. And true enough, I wasn’t exactly having much fun. I was always at play, but that can be a serious matter as it is for any child under 10.
The Two-way Immediacy of Knowing
There is no gift in believing what you see, we all do it. The rest is illusion and wishful thinking. But we also are capable of seeing what we believe, and in this there is much to receive from the spiritual world one is invited into, called, like those saints used to have vocations. For me, it is where reality (all there IS) begins and Love can continue us. For the rest it tends to deceive.
Think of the Invisible Gorilla Study with the dancing gorilla printed in the dark mass of the lungs on an X-ray, missed by cardio-thorassic consultants or in a test situation, simply because they were not looking for one. Once you find it, you cannot miss it anymore. But try to locate it again in a year, and again, you will have trouble remembering what you are looking for. Imprinted knowledge makes no memory worthwhile keeping. It serves only the temporary and generic.
If you transpose this sparring of the mind with the brain onto the use of one’s spiritual intuition (which is a higher faculty of seeing the immaterial) you may appreciate to explore anything of the nature of that higher sense, you will have to develop an air-tight strategy, and a stringent daily routine to cover all angles and avoid slip-ups. You need to lay on a huge reference library to fact check your readings and avoid over eager analysis of all “coincidences” until you are sure there are no gaps inbetween which random elements can slip to content your curiosity.
My method is simple: I work at break-neck speed to accumulate a vast unrelated number of materials, as erratically as possible, almost every day, creating as much chaos as I can, to overload the rational brain. The chances of a simple automated recall are thus brought back to a minimum especially now the brains are becoming a little stiff in age, and fatigue is building up like a plaque and the renunciation to the way things are have reduced my vested interest. Of course, needless to say the academic in me says, this prooves nothing. No matter! The enthusiast (en-theos: god within) waves away this shortcoming: if I, myself and me are having a good time of it then surely all is valid by the rule of thumb that life has to be made possible?
All I can really say is that by now, with few means left to discard the distance travelled, I have decided that I can read the braille of a day punched by time, and use it to infer the significance to me, if not divine intent, a plan I am not much in the loop of.
No Free-Fall!
However, free-spirited it may sound to go diving or sailing one has to be rational, no doubt about it. The sailor or diver is prepared to spend 99% of his time on the skill and technology and technique for that one moment of freedom. If skywalking is the mirror image to diving then the same goes for me.
It is that one moment, though, that equates to all one ever will need. Is death not but a moment? Would seventy years well spent in a suit and tie, attending pool parties or acquiring a luxury yacht float your funerary boat any better? Would managing the corporate world outmuscle the management of your own house?
Me and soft-cell spirituality don’t get on too well. It makes for a pleasant gathering of amical contacts, where my intensity has no place. It is better if I keep to my side of the fence. But inevitably the high octane of my sweet pea and lavender beds will seep through the cracks and unnerve those who live too close to me. It always happens. I cannot help it and it always means it is my turn to bow my head and sink deep into the earth like an embryo in a bulb. To see what you believe makes for a fairly lonely life, yes. But don’t pity me. I always have God (the grace of self rule) and then the Bridge Building Engineer never seems to piss off like I keep biting him to….
Sailin' away on the crest of a wave. . . Takin' a dive 'cos you can't halt the slide
Humble Post Script
They say it will be warm next week, the gods will be Turning Up The Heat!
which means a luxurious swimming pool of heavy air all to myself (my fellow countrymen don’t thrive on heat much). I cannot wait to lounge on the rooftop of my heart and wait for the sultry nights to replay my last fandango to me. Not that this will show me my worth, not my trust or love. But what can a heart do but bask on the azotea where east and west, north and south converge to appeal to the truth of man?
Not that my sympathy born out of such clear-voyance as there is on the elevation built up by the decades of good living and right walking, will instill greater trust.
Not that my truth and my beauty will shine to illuminate your dark corners. Nor that even with my attained degree I have the authority by which to afford the slightest ripple; a vascilation that alerts the alligators, always instantly. Ah! the power of belief, is wasted on me.
