Shining threads

Shining threads

Friday, 24 August 2012


Life gave me a package. The package was called BE. I opened the package and in the package was a couple of packages called BE COME. I opened the packages and in the packages were four packages called BE COME SOME ONE. I opened the packages and in the packages were eight packages called BE COME SOME ONE WHO YOU WANT TO. I opened the packages and in the packages were 16 packages called BE COME SOME ONE WHO YOU WANT TO BE FORE IT IS TOO LATE TO CHANGE. I opened the packages and in the packages were 36 jigsaw pieces and I sat down and re-arranged the pieces and they formed a mirror and I saw myself.

Truth and Dare

Humanitarian intervention spins terrorist spins freedom fighter spins World War 3 spins Truth or Dare - Truth and Dare - Dare to tell the Truth - Dare-devils tell the Truth - be the Devil's advocate when the world is hiding in God-concepts.

Expand - get out of the valley and off the mountain so you can see and be BOTH.

Let the trees of the wild flank the pillars of civilisation - the stars and satellites punctuate the sky - the sculptures of human design criss-cross with more feral patterns sprouting from the ground.

Let electrical energy surge through a network of phones, brains, atmospheric haze and digital symphonies.

Erotic communion speaks rhythmic body conversations in endless forms for the play of difference and meeting. The answer is why not. The question has been forgotten.

Leave the cave - was his final caveat - leave the cave was the only sensible solution as the walls of the senses started to cave in - leave the cave is the logical next step and step out into the real light (and darkness).

The gods dance with one another - Dionysus's sexy sleaze-shuffle grinds up against Apollo's stiff, pristine form. Energies combine and mutate. The think-feel-flesh of humanity-various re-arranges. The alchemists' time has come.

A touch so soft she melts, a touch so soft her surface melts, a touch so soft the ice-caps melt, a touch so soft the melting ice joins the oceans of the world and floods the lands - it's happening so slowly yet decisively since our touch is so soft, so tender, so convenient.

The seasons are subverted - nature has been tweaked by human effects into a post-modern remix.

Dance - the wind whispers - Dance - the wind murmurs - Dance - the wind suggests - Dance - the wind sings - Dance - the wing cries - Dance - the wind screams - Dance!

The juggling planets twirl and twist, orbiting round the resplendent sun - the original busker - ever-beneficient - and we - fleas on the back of our host - move incessantly through the green-blue-flower-bliss of our Earth - and everything speaks of change and everything speaks of change and everything speaks of change and change is the way.

Things rock and pull and stretch and collide and overshadow and in the midst of the dynamic chaos a gentle voice speaks with absolute clarity - Middle - Middle-next-forward.

Monday, 20 August 2012

The music of the weather

Weather is a symphony - each raindrop a note, each rolling of clouds across the sky a new variation on a familiar theme.

Ever innovating within a set repertoire of possibilities.

The sun is the ever-present conductor.

Peaks and troughs, rising crescendos of summer ecstasy, followed by pitiful lows of shivering winter bleakness.

The music plays - and though we may influence it in part - we still must dance to whatever happens in whatever way we choose.

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Moments in time

Moments in time. Each moment a kaleidoscope of doorways - a roundabout of opportunities.

Time is money is energy is opportunity is art is precious.

Everything weighs lightly and moments slip away like raindrops into rivers, like feathers in the breeze, never to be seen again.

The impermanence is shattering - leaving us to glide on eternity's pathway. 

Clouds pose in the gallery of the sky. And never again will this pattern be seen.

We meet - our touch an event in time and space. Our kiss is a doorway to the absolute - opening in both directions, tearing a fissure in the matrix of experience, so the elusive yet ever-present bliss can stream in.

Wednesday, 8 August 2012

When God was a woman

When God was a woman, she let her hair grow long.

She sat not on a cloud but the earth.

When God was a woman, she revealed herself through plants and songs.

In the beginning was the smile and the smile was with God and the smile was God.

When God was a woman, she made love without force, ceremony or duty.

She coursed through a magical realm, where sounds were spells and the world danced to their intent.

When God was a woman, she was tender.

For all that is without was once within.

Friday, 3 August 2012

Any given moment

Freedom-liar. Witch-doctor. Earth-polluter. Baby-bomber.

At any given moment they will go to war.

The State, that we love, that we cherish, that cradles us, that holds us, is a military force primed to destroy.

Don't turn away. Don't brush it under the pavement, paid for with your taxes.

Your government loves you. It does. Your government needs feeding. It loves you. You feed it. You moan about it but you love it. You feed it.

And look what it does.

The oligarchic-corporate-banking few are playing with democracy like puppets on strings, creaming off massive winnings, whilst the people scrabble and scuffle over minor issues. 

Does it really matter, whatever you're worried about?

What really matters?

What is worth worrying about?

Once the facts are amassed and a composite picture viewed, it is shocking.

Whether we've passed the tipping point - 2 degree rise! - or whether there is a way to go before things really slide, these are critical times.

Everyone is complicit.

To varying degrees.

There are solutions rising but how many people are embracing them?

Not nearly enough.

We are scared of a revolution because of what history has shown us.

But revolutions are unfolding every day.

Some revolutions just happen and some people go with them and others don't.

Some revolutions are decided upon and waged - like a jog in the park - it takes a conscious decision and then commitment.

You'll never be the same.

You'll never know what the outcome will be until it comes out in the wash.

It may be a restoration.

It may be the birth of something new.

What comes after this?

We write the script.

You know what happens when you don't write the script.

You have to follow the lines of some idiots with crazy ideas about how to order the world.

And that's all getting a bit boring. A little bit boring. Really boring.

I mean - can you bear to read a paper these days?

It is boring because we are not making the news.

Imagine reading about what we have achieved.

Imagine writing the news.

Imagination is a step. After criticism. Before action.

Criticism. Imagination. Action.

Things will never be the same.

Not in a cloud-sea-air kind of way.

But in a massive re-arrangement of social relations on an unprecedented scale kind of way.

On a shift of the ages epic-scale kind of way.

On a let's make this into a really cool film instead of some stir-crazy b-movie kind of way.

We could do it at any given moment.

Balance threat with possibility and tip the weights towards the explosive, the fantastic, the long-dreamt of. Multiply what is, into a higher dimension of triumphant solution-forth.

Let's do it.



Jazz sounds, jazz rolls round. High five. Hands meet through smokey climes. We climbed here, through the rubble, through the struggle of our lives and now the music sounds us, the music becomes us and we move to the jazz beats.

She's got new shoes - sometimes new shoes is all it takes and a look in the mirror that meets approval and a confident burst on the streets. Flip-flop through puddles, she sees the dying sun reflected in the pavement pool and remembers to check her watch to see if she is on line, on time, her mind already moving to the jazz beats, though she's not quite there yet.

The town heaves, the town breathes, the town leaves its inhabitants gasping. The old man's raspy voice speaks of late-night smokes and clandestine tokes and a scene that never lets you go. He's still moving to the jazz-beats and the jazz-beats have got him.

She passes the old man and he tips his hat to her grace - the new generation take up the race but his mind's still quivering from the shock of the jazz-beats that got him moving all that time ago. She doesn't stop, perhaps she can't stop but she pays him a smile that makes him happy - the kind of smile that makes the whole day worthwhile - the kind of smile that he used to make on the dance-floor, pacing out rhythms to the jazz-beats.

Soon the silver-moon has taken over from the red-ember sun and the darkness consolidates its grip on the town, only fought off by a few neon-lights, infantry in a night-long war, who enter the battle-field each sunset and retreat as the natural light emerges in the morning mayhem, revealing the discarded junk of those who moved to the jazz-beats, the winners and losers, the lovers and survivors of the jazz-beat happenings.

Every so often she is distracted by the hungry call of men, trying their luck, thinking of the jazz-beats and who they can dance with or maybe thinking of the jazz-beats they can bang out in their bedroom, but she is not for stopping and paces onwards, diving into the electric shade of the night's numbness. All she can think of are the jazz-beats, the heat she loves to feel as she rides the waves of the dancefloor and the seat by the bar where she sips her drink, in between jazz-beat shuffles.

Now she's close she checks herself - a moving composure which has kept steady so far, a smooth chaos which pulses to the sound of jazz-beats, always in her head - the dancefloor agenda has gone deep and continues in every circumstance. She can hear strains of jazz-beats as the door is opened and closed by the doorman letting the next few in. Those jazz-beats she lives for - those jazz-beats that are her destination and desire and her everything. She feels her flutter-heart-flutter and nothing could stop her in the whole world. Steps towards the jazz-beats, she's now entered the field of the club and her chemistry is in full-flush.

The jazz-beat procession swirls, through the music, through the people, through the building, down the stairs, through the door, onto the doorman, and onto her. It's got her. The jazz-beats always win. And when she's in, so does she.