Summer night at 4am

It was 4 am, now 5 and the mind had been awakened, questioning, reasoning, erasing, curious, had been there before, as the “time laps” camera speeding up the unfolding of a bud to a full blown wild petals of colour, a thousand petals, breathing out perfume, and was drunk and forgot the world that unfolded in perpetual movement where man made his entrance, naked, unaware, being this perpetuality of ever expanding, nameless movement 

 His nakedness, felt this vulnerability,
 his awareness, his fears gave birth to his consciousness
And so he began naming of the stuff his body could feel,his fears, impulses made demand of him.

He did not know that he too was the universe, there was no separation but in his nakedness feelings became his thoughts.
And that was real if not relative, but real to his reality of survival, he named it as such as innate as he was there, he feared his not being there, he was alive to his consciousness, strifes…so his vocabulary grew he became the centre of the vastness he explained as that too necessitated his survival, that too was in the throw of the timeless movement, it was too late to throw the baby out with the bathwater……..

all grew in a flash, yet that was too a word caught in time, the movement was timeless but within timelessness there was man who started his play, Stage one, scene one…in which time was caught to create stories to survive as he was there a throbbing thing, now expanding from within as from without where time did not exist.


You good “Intellectual ” people, concerned with human lives living a meaningful life in today’s complex society…
You have been brain draining for and against “Religion” as though it was a “Thing”
I listened carefully and heard arrows flying hay-away flying off the bullseye.
The “Thing” is a word given meaning for what was beyond meaning. Yet we needed a word to have a reference point.
One could write endless books about a Mango tasted first hand, once lost, innocent in primordial jungle.
No matter how many centuries that tale, descriptions of that shape, taste, aroma, delight, had been reported, re written, disputed, referred or murdered over, No one could or would have understood what the “First Man” found, tasted and was nourished by.
For that matter all others who came across that fruit and elaborated on that essence,would or could not have managed to convey the experience.
Human experience being limited, yet his need for security and meaning unlimited, he grabs at all straws he finds to survive the sufferings of existence.
He has indeed given his energies, talents, wealth to create magnificent forms of art and architecture, ceremonies to worship that taste that quenched the longings that 
“First Man” tasted.
No matter where and who started his story and what shapes it took at different periods of human history, with growing followers longing to be quenched by the same, began to worship the tale without having had the taste.
Yet his longing and desperation, on his knees, begged and prayed at that alter and walked out light hearted without having had that first taste.
Would we analyse man in the realm of his mental, physical make up to understand why his heart was indeed lightened by that worship?
Would we deny him of living a second hand life of illusions and ignorance as our latest science proves him wrong?
Scientific Knowledge itself is in continuous search.
Did Jesus not refer to the impossibility of the camel entering the eye of the needle?
 Mohammad saw the worship of forms and asked all forms in figures to be broken as they were only “Representation” of the formless.
His followers created magnificent geometric forms, built different and wondrous places to worship.
Buddha was wise enough not to give “It” any form or name. 
Yet Buddhist travel long and queue in reverence to view a small yellow object supposing it to have been a tooth of his!
These days we see smiling Buddha representation sold at every 10 cent store. Such objects are placed at alters of today’s “Enlightened” It is chick to belong to that clan.
“Religion” is a word for the word and form less.
Living had necessitated something beyond the “material”.
Man being very creative, clever, mischievous, envious, hierarchal, has run away in “Time” and “Thought” to prove his point at any cost to any who differed from his “Belief” Belief had become the very rock of his existence.
Indeed  humanity has gone through centuries of murder on behalf of his “belief”. Yet never questioned what “Belief” stood for.
This “Modern Man” who feels himself well above old stories, has found new stories.
he has had new leaders who showed him new tricks of the mind.
Surely if you sat in a soundproof room, repeated any word, gazed at candles or a Mango, went in a trance, would also experience what the man who sat at the alter and wept at the feet of his god, would have felt.
Would we not want to examine that very question of ways, methods, rituals,  substances that give that “kick”, be it momentarily, to have that experience of something beyond his “lsolation”?
If we are really interested to go beyond, we have to question the root of this need.
Not intellectually. 
Only find the space to walk fearlessly alone with that question in nature, stay there stay starved as no person has the answer,
You may just come across that fruit that will nourish your search.
You will not be the one who can convey to another scent of a jasmine.
  We have arrived at that point of human evolution to get this for himself.

You are passing my mind

 Life is rushing by, 

not knowing whereto, from where…at times touch glories, then the dark,
Some times  helpless watch suffering
sometimes just holding gives comfort without words…
This timeless land where humans are caught, having passed the rout where no signpost stood…
can not yell back, can not tell a story…no one listens, the winds have blown all dust away,
 They keep on going, settling dust as they go, 
as if no one’s been there before … 
Don’t call it Karma, don’t give it a name, 
it is the nameless that stands in your gaze, beauty, ecstasy and love,
I’m laying on my back, curtain blowing, a pleasant breeze , 
it’s 14:45, and the sun is burning high on stones bellow at 33…but it reads more like 36c….
I hear a few chirping of tiny birds about the Eucalyptus trees…
There is a silence in this timeless hour…
You were just passing through my mind.




 throbbing fragile beauty

 integral part

Is the whole

our lives



perpetual movement

 motions the Universe

Held in passion in love


this life we live

Pondering in May

Life begins with a sense of longing for itself.

This longing is sought out wherever it enters out of time, transfixed gaze of the wild eye, movement of the slithering snake, lizard, or that energy that electrifies you from some beings.
There is no location where you can grasp at as lightning itself……it is a spark that enters you and you are stunned, you want to hold on…. but can not and have no word, even an utterance on it’s behalf…it is the longing for all the mysteries of being, being in and out of it simultaneously…grasping at what you can not for you are itself…and words fall between your clumsy fingers like ash.
We go astray when we are overwhelmed in that solitude for which we long for and may be the ”why” some who feel that longing the most, are sensitive the most, are reaching out in substances to feel momentarily some spark of that that they long for and so as grasping at thin air that demon of addiction gets the grasp of such fragile souls…a few, by some miracle are saved and find alternatives to their search.
In my personal life, as long back as i remember this feeling was strong…it was desperate to be dead to that connection and so utterly, shockingly exhilarated by such moments that the not knowing or understanding, or simply need of holding on to it would be shattering…As futile as grasping to hold this thin air of breath itself.
Here, mostly alone, there is the luxury of the wealth of silent nature’s offerings…(Suddenly the Golden Oriole began to sing his sweet golden song)…
Then there is the miracle of internet through which connections to vast variety of people talking, expressing themselves is available.
It is clearly noticeable, possibly even more clearly so as a distant observer, to watch those who’s entire manner is synchronised with their depth’s of being or in contrast to others so consumed by construed culture that you only see a tragic marionette.
These thoughts have circled my mind as to why some people get through me.
We are primitive to what we can understand of ourselves as we have no vision of our evolutionary growth as in a movie, running on the screen of our minds.
If only we did, then, may be we might get glimpses of our impulses, searches, longings and despairs.
Then may be we might understand that we all grew out of those elementary sediments of ancient oceans, grew together, taking various paths to wings of flight, fins to oceans or feet to stand this earth.
Gravity holds us tight to stand this unquenched thirst for longing to connect, once again to the origins of creation…an oxymoron.. our longings lead to creation of life in the ecstasy of sexuality.
If it were not for the climax there would be only frustration but then when the climax is devoid of that connection is the bloody smashing of bodies falling from great heights to brutal rocks which all addictions even in this act leave humans desperate and separate from life.
Is this why with all sophistication of our minds we have sexuality, blatant or subliminal entering every advertisement barging into our lives? Is this the force of life longing for itself whilst being itself?
The hills are pink with these fragile flowers just sprouting out, daringly, without a care for just a while to dry up and return to the ground upon which they grew.
Is this the ecstasy of being?

Banality of Normality and ecstasy of violence.

A rare occasion, drove me into a small cafe, in the nearest village, growing dark earlier in November,

Children walk in  gregariously with grandparents, parents, after school break…order Churros and Chocolate, in lightness and innocence…

Mothers proudly roll in their strollers, tiny babies decorated with stylish bows and shining cheeks, every one is delighted and peers inside, baby is scared and shakes, over stimulated…


Older children are oblivious of adults and soon bury their heads in their smartphones and live their secret lives…whilst granny patiently asked for what he wishes to have…his wishes are not in the realm of her imagination…they live worlds apart…still in this village, centuries the same but not now.

I watch the granny spooning her coffee shakily into her mouth, stroking the crumbs with her old hands unto a paper serviette, she is neat in her beige cardy and pearls, knowing she has nothing to say to the beloved grandson sitting by her side.

Their distance is tangible even across the noisy room.


Huge TV monitor hangs high over the space, an alter, spreading images, sounds of fierce battles between gorgeous women, men with exaggerated manliness, battling for good, slaying, murder, chase and torture to save some great ideal… noise is deafening, images so wild my senses are in shock yet others seem oblivious, have grown accustomed as all a background entertainment…rolls on and on…


I pay and get into my car, turn the radio on to hear the news, there too as the man speaks, a hurried electro drumming is chasing the spoken words, a crescendo, louder and louder, winding up the bad news into a frenzy every one has grown used to hear and forget to just get over another day!


The shops are full, Christmas is near, people have to do whatever they have learnt to do…

The planet is still rotating it’s usual speed, taking a few moments more or less, we are assured that moonrise and sunsets will follow to hold us in the promise of wholeness even though we play hard to play our virtual games, getting more real until we no longer differentiate the line in between…


Clinics are full, experts profit, tattoo artists make a killing, drugs are ever more sought, if not in secret in hospitals and big pharma growing, growing,


Every one has a solution and every one is in pain, people inventing methods upon methods to take a break, sit cross legged, repeat a mantra, join a group, sing a song, give a hug or take one…feel connected a moment or two to return to daily drudgery of survival in a lonely hole, concrete block, TV and all, to just pass another day, a night to pay the bills and call it a life!


Yes we laugh and dance, dress up wild as occasions allow, Halloween, day of the dead…all in regular intervals allowing out some release from pressure.

It’s hard to hold on to sanity watching these games all in fun whilst others are truly dying babies in arm, drowning, hip deep in sinking mud, buried under rubbles, laying slayed in pool of blood whilst we party in feathers and sequins…all to forget, forget our violence in momentary ecstasy.


What have we done to this living?

Timeless Land

The moment that is new is when eyes open, breathless,

View formations, changes upon clouds, having shed their weight over thirsty land

Now, catching last lights of the sinking sun, slowly, slowly moving on………..

Breathless you stand gazing upon the timeless land.

Silence is broken

Silence is broken on these hills
The gentle night was broken at sunrise by clanks of metal, roaring the newly cut roads, winding these hills which cried out “Not Yours, not yours”…but you, heard it not and brought in the metal with fantastic wealth…
Had you forgotten your brothers, fathers and kin who shed their blood over these hills?
Had you forgotten all the tears and pain, fear and treason played over greed of the land?
No longer than some 600 years have passed……
Yes you forgot!
Now the silence is broken!
Large machines tear apart the land, stick poles all around, fencing, digging, screaming, “mine, mine, mine”……..
Many men are glad of their daily bread, they gladly dig in dust and heat……all rejoice at growth, incoming wealth to want more, buy more of what no one needs, and where do these “needs” ever end?
Is there a fence to limit that greed?
Did you forget the land that fed your needs?
Yes you forget and bring about cycles of repeated pain, illusions of needs bringing it all back home again!

Silence of the Night

It’s a silky silent night to disturb and write…

But the hooting of the owl, trilling of one lone cricket nothing moves but the mind.

Almost a benediction holds the stars touching the earth, night dew gathers softly around what vegetation remains of rains of the past…

Oh the mind, the mind wants to be, to be, feels throbbing of the body, wanting to disturb rudely this nothingness…..

not in fear but persistent feel, feeling the being here, now in this silence a witness who wants to say, I bear witness, only this I, the observer of nothingness that holds finite infinity that knows no time or measure….

All at once is here, right now, here, here…listen….

The owl does not tire, nor the cricket…holding this holy silence of the night!

What are we?

To be awake to our passing thoughts,  passing moods, rising and falling emotions needs enormous interest with passion to look deep beyond the layers to discover this entity I call the I!

To be called upon, out of the blue, incident of years gone by, joyous or painful, hits us deeply!

It seems all the “felts” of the past are captured on recorded slices waiting silently to be awakened by a thought.

It seems that all “time” past through present is there at once!

Yet we look at our hands, feet, face and wonder who is this I?

This I is drawn to revel, repeat and relive that that gave it substance and ecstasy, yet shudder when the pains of past hurts open up and bleed the heart.

Who is this I if it were not for the “Felts”?

What is that feeling when the moon begins to rise, the sun slipping behind the hills leaving a rapture of colours painting the clouds, the waving branches, bathing of birds, playing of children, old man, woman taking shaky steps…….Is love a feeling?