Category Archives: thoughts

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occurrent zwing-zwang

“It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”
Duke Ellington & Irving Mills

Live life in the swing. Yeah.
At the end of a swinging session I do come to rest in the middle, in the stability of the equilibrium, to balance things out in my head.
But, to live my life, I believe I have to swing out.

Sometimes my swing goes right around and I’m back where I started, lumbered with some unwanted baggage picked up in the swing. Occasionally I get into these overzealous swings. They make me think, “WTF happened now?” The troublesome thing is: a round swing can last for years, — ouch.

My swings are multi dimensional and move in a zig-zag pattern. It is not a predetermined pendulum 2D swing like the tik-tok kind, but 3D and snaky and veering in motion: up and down, actually in all directions, and still leading forward, somehow. A kind of a pulsating swing invigorated by popping thoughts. Boi-ng, doi-ng, doi-ng, boi-ng…
To me that is a zwing-zwang, a zig-zag with wings. This type of swing experiences dramatic directional changes in motion but illogically stays zwinging until I settle in the middle again.

The more I zwing-zwang from one extreme side to the other edge in this 3D arena in my head, the more I invoke the potential to walk through the next door in my mind. One could call it psychic scouting down unexplored avenues.

Maybe to clear this increasingly confusing picture up: imagine life happening inside a ball, — the universe, your universe, — within which you zwing-zwang around (like a ‘mad’ (wo)man), looking for doors. That ball is also in motion. Balls always go forward. Any directional change of the ball (the life you are in) is forward or at worst forward to where you started. Notice the omission of the misleading word ‘backwards?’ You can’t go back because you are immediately confronted by time if you would try, telling you that travelling back is not in the big plan.

Anyway, behind the next door is a present I don’t fully know yet and another resting place. From there new reason will present itself to zwing-zwang again and find more doors.

When the doors close and the bridges collapse and doom and gloom besets me, I know I have to zwing-zwang more.

My swing becomes a jump without return (not back!), when I’m done. Like jumping from a springboard into a pool. The oscillating, rebounding board stops without me, the pendulum is still.

When I don’t perform the swing motion in zig-zag, i.o.w. when I don’t zwing-zwang, then I miss places in between which could be doors. The swing-less middle has no interesting doors, it consists of latent energy only, but it can swing me towards the potential, the doors.
Some doors exist where no door is required, like a door standing alone on a path in the mountains opening to the same view I already have.
Those doors serve as a pacifying reminder that there always is an entrance and an exit, which is actually a deception because there is no return (as has been clarified), but our belief tells us differently.

Where and when there are no doors, beware, there could be windows, very large ones, deceiving you into believing that you are free under an open sky.
Even an open sky can close in seconds, like a window shutting, and show you that you are always inside something, perhaps even point out how stuck you are there.

Therefore, there is great benefit and importance to vigorously zwing-zwang in life because that lifts you above the ‘inside,’ presenting you with doors and windows you might otherwise not find and enter and explore.
Once you are lifted above the inside you are suddenly presented with a rudder for your ball, like the foot or hand that has the ability to throw a ball in a chosen direction… forward.

“Finding your step in the swing is the purpose of everything.”
Raiden Germain

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Parable of Ega and Oge

Ega and Oge were walking down the Avenue la Vie.

Ega, perpetually smiling with red lips, glistening eyes, long dark lashes and golden nails, was dressed young and fashionable, – petit, attractive and light hearted as she indulged in life.
Oge, serious as always, with a frown, wearing the fake cloak of importance with the misleading hat of wealth in the squeezing shoes of worldliness, sunken in thoughtful misery, regretted the journey.

They stopped at the Café Devineresse and sat down.

“Monsieur, Madame, what shall it be,” the attentive waiter asked?

“I will have the troubled life with extra problems and the gloomy future,” Oge sniped, “with a glass of bitter memories, – stirred.”
“Oui monsieur, – I see, the usual then, and liberally sprinkled with financial woes and health issues.”

“And you Madame?”

“I will have the hot, rich lover on a bed of laughter, a side dish of extra fun, a few wonderful surprises and a tall cocktail of pleasure and happiness.”
“You have an exquisite taste for our specialties Madame,” the waiter whispered behind his cupped hand, not to enrage Oge.

He hurried away with the order and reported back to the owner of the establishment known by the name of Dieu Gracieux.

“My goodness,“ Dieu ventured to say, “Oge has still not learned to order our specialties, and he has such a beautiful, lovely wife as an example.”

“Oui, Oui Mon Dieu Gracieux,” the waiter replied, ”I presume then that we will serve what he has requested?”

“At the Café Devineresse we will always serve what our esteemed clientele desires,” Dieu Gracieux stated, and proceeded to create the order.

Ega and Oge are anagrams of age and ego
Avenue la Vie is the avenue of life
Café Devineresse is the Soothsayer’s (foretell the future) cafe
Dieu Gracieux is God Graceful

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Scripted or scripting?


Of course, emphatically, most of us will state that we are the scribe of our script.
A scribe in this sense being this omniscient piece of us that ‘sees all and knows all’ and can, therefore, script the play of our life.
Undoubtedly, this scribe is in charge of direction, events, goals and ultimately results.
Being so all-everything takes a lot of pressure away from the ordinary human being who makes up the rest of that big piece that we are.
I suppose this scribe within us also has to be fed. I imagine the food is the reward of success it achieves through the script.
“Creation feeding the creator.”

Dare I allude to a God-like core within us?
Well, I have decided to dare.
Where there is God you also find Anti-God.
Am I now going too far in my script sketch?
Is this Anti-God just the figment of a split mind?
No!
That belief of the Anti-God comes from much simpler, other examples, like for instance: where there is light there is a shadow. And, has the brightest light not also got the darkest shadow?
Definitely, this world is composed of contrast and opposites, so we all know who or what the contrast to God is.

Back to the scribing part.
The scribe is in cahoots with DNA, evolution, the ancestry chain, and, in collaboration with the mind affects us with an illuminating, motivating and often automated influence.
Can I seriously have any say over what is happening, never mind exercising a veto right?
Who am I then but a puppet in this predefined process? A quasi-liberated pawn, but one who in addition to being conscious and aware also has the responsibility of a conscience flung upon him.
Pawn or not, I certainly am unable to just heed these embedded forces with blinders. I will question them and attempt to dictate my own destination, — for the better or something different.

Clearly, however, there are original, fundamental, immutable parts or ingredients that are manufactured already and that define my motion in life.
So then there is a script, right? Some cloud walkers say that there is a contract. Or, at least, there is this idea that we have been provided with all the tools to survive this life episode.
We wouldn’t have made it this far if our tribe wouldn’t have survived. But, this is where it gets interesting. If it were a ‘survivor’ game, then surely there wouldn’t be so many of us around and constantly increasing? Although, nobody actually survives in the end. We are subjects relegated to keeping the treadmill of life moving. Does it need a conscience for that? Seems like an overkill to me.

The notion of survival, and surviving under all circumstances, also does not apply anymore. It is 2017, for script’s sake. Dog eats dog is for dogs, and an eye for an eye belongs in the Old Testament. When life becomes survival again then the achievement of humanity has slipped through our hands (like, sadly, in so many parts of this planet, for reasons (obvious) and not to be expanded upon here).

I think the primordial drive within, that combination of all the forces and influences that have brought us here, cannot be changed. We should, however, as early as possible, become acquainted with what drives us before worldly influences shape us. That’s why entrants into this life (babies), because of the ‘gift’ of cognitive awareness, should not be chiseled into this existence but allowed to enter gently. Earliest influences are absorbed into the hungry strains of new life as the stepping stones onto the stage of Life. We don’t need another pawn or survivor, we want another free thinker.

So, looking at all of this, I venture to conclude that we can write our own script and we are actually meant to, because, why would we have been given all these ingredients if everything is pre-determined?
Even further: scripts are generally used in movies and they can go into any detail and include as many actors and events as I, the scriptwriter, can imagine.
And, because as we have heard that so much happens in automated mode, I don’t even have to write the script, I just have to direct the movie.

Just as a side note: My written material is never meant to offend and my disclaimer always applies.

While some of the lines in my script are certainly my creation, where did the rest come from that I can’t figure?
My script has run out prematurely, no arguing here.
Could there perhaps be more than one script?
And what if the movie director(Moi) is a flop?
Well, fire him. The imbecile. Get Moi the 2nd.

Here comes a new script:

FADE IN:

EXT. A LONELY GREEN PARK BENCH UNDERNEATH A MASSIVE, ANCIENT OAK TREE – EARLY EVENING.

A handsome, scraggly bearded, shock-headed alternate is holding a brown paper packet, wiping his mustache with his dirty coats’ cuffs, stretching his feet like in rigor mortis.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. A FLOAT PLANE OFF AN ISLAND IN TAHITI BOBBING UP AND DOWN IN THE GENTLE SWELL WITH THE SILHOUETTE OF TWO OCCUPANTS INSIDE AGAINST THE AZURE BACKGROUND OF THE SEA – EARLY MORNING

INT. INSIDE THE COCKPIT OF THE FLOAT PLANE, SUN RAYS ENTERING FROM THE FAR LEFT – EARLY MORNING

A lean looking, brown, sophisticated adventurer, resembling the park bench occupant, starts the radial engine of the float plane. His beautiful woman beside him looks on.
He looks at her, their eyes meet and seconds later he switches the plane’s engine off and leans over to her.

FADE OUT.

SaveSave

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line-jumper

When did I become a line-jumper and what is a line?

A line in this sense is a border that we shouldn’t cross.

Shouldn’t, – as defined by society, ethics, manners, conscience…mom and dad…
But nobody said “mustn’t” cross, except Grandma, because she knew stuff nobody else did.
That borderline is not an Iron Curtain or a DMC Zone with armed police patrols and watchtowers and minefields physically preventing me.
Although, when I think about it, it actually is, because if you cross such a line in public, boy you know about it.

In the privacy and seclusion of my thought world, however, I don’t jump the line, I use it as a venerable starting point for my imaginary excursions into ‘forbidden’ territory.
The world that opens up there is beyond description in intensity, pleasure, horror, reward, naughtiness, audacity…
If mind police would exist they would have squad cars lined up on my line: in gear, engines revving, foot on clutch, ready to pounce, because he is a serial offender.
And, if judgment day considers any line-jumping, I am in for a terrible surprise, like a ton of bricks as a ball and chain, forever suspended over a bunsen burner up my tenderness.
Not one soul will want to help me in that situation.

I became an lj as soon as I recognized that there was this “shouldn’t” side to a line. Initially cautiously, circumspectly, even fearfully, but driven to explore and quick in learning to return to the line as if nothing happened, lest you wanted a lecture.

Of course, because I am a line-jumper I think everyone else is too. We just don’t flaunt our line-jumping prowess like a gold chain. Despite the intention not to wear the line-jumper brand, and remain incognito, I have the feeling line-jumpers somehow know about others. I am also careful and skeptical of those who are line-jumping judges. They must have exemplary mind control or are just liars.

There is one side of line-jumping where you want to light an atom bomb in someone’s face or be stupidly daring.
There is another side too.
It’s not bad, but it is nevertheless also beyond the line. If ‘they’ make a strong enough case against you, you might end up in a place that really exists, but is so far from the line for most of us, it might as well be called Bedlam’s Cuckoo’s nest.
This other side of line-jumping I want to refer to carries the unenviable baggage of being branded delusional. The mere mention of the adjective has the sirens of the cuckoo’s nest proclaim an emergency upon me. So I have to tone down the delusion and call it an illusion born from a vivid imagination and now I’ll just skirt the gates of admission. Close call though. Where was the line now? That rigid line had flexible inserts. Much like having a bulldog-shrewd lawyer on your side that finds those inserts and turns delusional into inventive, ingenious and now suddenly judge and jury jubilate and acquit me.

I don’t walk the line.
On a good day, meaning when I have that acceptable (pre)disposition to the world, I might slalom over that line, hitherto and fro, like an inebriated driver attempting to follow the white line, but that is only because the world is watching me with a magnifying glass. As soon as I feel unobserved I flatten the pedal and pull back on the stick and dodge even my own surprises.

Somehow it always happens that I return to the line though, as if without it there wouldn’t be a reason to do anything. There is comfort, safety and sobriety around the line because it can get pretty rough out there. The line is like my bed, it is not where I spend my life, but only about a third of it.

Are you a line-jumper?
I’d love to know, – for my own sanity.

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The Scream

The Scream

Pastel on cardboard created by Norwegian Expressionist artist Edvard Munch 1895: was sold for nearly US$120 million, at Sotheby’s, in 2012.

I wail and scream. I howl
I bleed and I implore
Desperate cries distort my lips
Torn into a grimace
fearful open the visage
Clueless and lost I am
Anguish is upon my soul

Dark wrinkles now remain
where tears in streams
once hoped in vain

A devilish nightmare
horrible and mean,
from inside my ulcerating stomach
and my flailing heart,
forced its shadow onto my scene
Warning me, ‘beware’

A thousand cellars deep in agony,
dank with acid, bile, and irony
It’s me

I bang my head and bite my nails
My soul from sorrow is impaled
and my spirit poison has inhaled
wishing for the comfort in the grave

Eyes in white rage ajar
now burned out,
once upon a time two sunny stars

My fists are clenched,
spiked with ragged bony hands
stabbing aimlessly at burned out plans
I once knew another side of this fence

Screaming threatening,
helpless windmills are my arms
Harsh and vile the words accusingly escape
Hear me whoever and whatever you may be:
You are fearsome, belligerent, debilitating,
uncompromising, ruthless and emetic
I am on a vertex uncontrollably forlorn
Sickeningly, rhymeless, unpoetic
Pushed too far, beyond repair I’m harmed
I suffocate
It’s deadening

Disappointed, disillusioned, hurting bad
Events heaped upon me that made me crying sad

Life’s definition –
amongst buried papers, dogmas, egos
and coated in red tape:
An endless suffering caravan of greed and hate
Controlled by law enforced by society
I scream some more
It is too late
Piety, sobriety, and deity, notorious dubiety

What now?
I scream again, I scream
I tell the universe I’m sore
Sick of all the hell, right to the core
Liberate me, bring about a change
Never will I accept some fate
Turnaround my life
I still believe it can be done somehow

But scream I must
till then
Before I settle into dust
and blow away,
Scream, scream, scream in pain
Amen

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It was fascination …

On reflection. In hindsight. Looking back.

Connecting the countless breadcrumbs life spills: splodges, pools, and deltas of crumbs;
from the thinnest of silk threads to glistening rays of desire leading to my intimate blue skies and starry nights;
the weaving print of dots showing the way to the source of every reason for my doing.

Looking eyes lead us to see and that evolves into understanding. Eventually, and sometimes, a conclusion happens upon you, – a knowledge befalls us.

It was ‘fascination.’

I was bewitched, charmed, spellbound, entranced and grogged by so many things to such an extent that everything else, even the sensible stuff, bounced off this cloak of enthusiasm cast by my absorption.

Nature and music were the earliest and probably most potent ingredients in my life in the conglomeration that became a soaring rainbow union of interests.

In this Ferris wheel of creative engagement in one’s life, any capsule or gondola of curiosity can take precedence over another. The wheel turns and everything can experience the wave-like motion of flight into the heights and then feel the grounding stability of rest at the bottom. The man-made gyroscopic effect of stability and direction existing only long enough to affirm the intrinsic flux of things.
Fascination ignites randomly in no particular, predictable firing order. The pistons of our inner engine rumble, spin, whine, screech, thump and think along like an orchestra to a rhythm defined by the great conductor of creativity within. Fascination is crazy, polarizing and unifying in an energizing flurry of dynamism; meditatively still and laser-like in its exclusive, focused concentration. The elixir composed of imagination fuses with fascination and propels us on – deliriously clear-headed​, super receptive and hyperactive.

Your fascination should become your occupation. Why spend many hours each day slogging along when you could surf the day blown by the wind of fascination in a sea of happiness and fun?

You can’t force fascination or buy it. It is either present or not and as such is a gift to enjoy and the most important tool to guide us.

But, what is fascination? How do I bring it about?
It happens sub-consciously when any of the senses feel pleasured. When thought is enamored and I am attracted.
We are already fine tuned to what fascinates us; to what we like and what we want. You either are or aren’t fascinated.

Fascination stares us in the face with an uninhibited invitation to follow.

A fascinating trail of crumbs leading to the only possible source, – fascination.

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high, deep, far

there is no great introduction here, the question is:

What is it that had the greatest influence on our (collective) human development?
Let’s use the past as if it was a puzzle to solve, and apply acute cognitive (self) observation to answer this.
Look high and deep and far.

Wherefrom cometh that intuition to act in a way that is most beneficial to our human progress?

How long should we look back in time into the human past?
So far back, obviously, that we get a clear picture of the energy that was responsible for igniting the flurry of human progress that we are experiencing.
Are one hundred years enough? Perhaps? Will that show what principles and ideas are at work pushing the frontier of our human ability and knowledge with such devoted pace and resilience?

Progress is born out of the notion that when you think hard and long enough about any idea in your head, you will be required to manifest it.
So beware when you dream something up. Progress directly comes from doing that dream.
We humans also think? and insist that we have a choice, before the almighty unknown, as to what we do and how we react to something.

“We have! Don’t panic.”
This pacification tagline pronouncing that we have a choice has become the most sought after slogan wrapped in legal controversy on the advertorial altar, unobtainable even by the rarest jewels of judiciary brilliance.
“We have! Don’t panic” is (pro)claimed by moi.

We have an idea. We drop the idea.
We have an idea. We drop the idea.
We become an idea. The idea takes control and fuels itself.
It is always good grounding to know what the original question that brought the idea about was. That’s the idea’s manifest of its purpose of existence.

So what had the greatest influence?
Which propellant in the evolutionary cocktail kick started humanity into this dynamic era of modern day with so such vigor and intensity?

Did we arrive at a philosophical vertice-verge-corner, this very privileged viewpoint into existence, and from there the vision became clear?
Were we ignited to become the deities of our destiny by the words of the great philosophers, thinkers, and gurus?

Art is the hatching egg of creativity.

Something crystallized into focus and reflected into irresistible action.

What was that ‘thing’ that got us humans so frenetically deliriously going, when in comparison the stone-age must have lasted forever?
Can we go back to try and understand what energy that was, and what fed it?

Living life, – with ever greater awareness?

That nearly sounds hedonistic with a paradisical encore.
Addictively, good-feelings must have a lot to do with celebrating our humanity in imaginative ways.

Eventually, the momentum demanded a certain backbone structure to progress with ever greater speed.
This necessitated communication between parties that was faster than the Inca runners (Chasquis) or horseback messengers so we could organize parties for even greater celebrations in even more imaginative, fascinating ways of paradisicality.

Was the need for communication then the trigger?
Was the requirement for tranporting ‘stuff’ becoming a high-profile issue?
Surely communication and transport have catapulted us forward letting us implement our grandest ideas like none other?
As one part grew others followed to make the whole work.
i.e. agriculture, food science, textile, manufacturing, medical, academic, scientific, engineering, technological, financial, software, … all these parts were infected with tremendous growth and they contributed significantly in rolling the ball of progress faster and faster.

What are the one or ten that stick out as the greatest influencers?

There was a sudden rising awakening that we could do anything if we really tried. As if intrinsically sealed in some covenant.

Communication today: satellite, radio, 4K 3D TV, smartphones, books, the internet, tablets, video’s, gigabyte transfer rates and terabyte volume, must have been difficult to imagine in 1917. Communication is all encompassing and has mutated into something incredible and indispensable.

Communication has brought us together and transportation makes the experience tangibly real.

Our achievement on the transportation side is bespoke spectacular, breathtaking, beautiful, incredible… We are superstars in the transportation field and data transportation is crazy-frigging-unimaginably-ginormous and has by far the largest demand.
On earth, you can have something delivered to your door within 12-48 hours from just about anywhere. By plane, ship, car, truck, bike.
You can drive a blow-my-hair-back Italian sports car and your partner can drive the German version of ‘ein wildes Auto,’ tamed to respond, oh ja, like crazy artworks from a thesis project of motion.
And don’t get me started on airplanes, these graceful creatures of our meta-imagination.
Any motion that transports something could be viewed under the heading of transportation. Deliberate transport only, please.
A private jet in transportation is like an island in real estate, a yacht is like a ranch.

Transportation and communication are more than roommates. The one without the other is unthinkable and inseparable.
They are vehicles of imagination.

To answer the question one would have to look back, see the stuff that stuck out and that made an impact and imagine the future along this line and trend.

What is next?
Imagine and predict from vision.

Here is where it gets interesting.
We are in a position to deduct, predict, postulate, even imagine, based on data from the past.
Each individual of us can formulate his/her future by looking back and imagining a path.
Of course, the future is unpredictable but it is a guaranteed given and we can influence it.

If we don’t know the ‘what’ and ‘where to,’ which many of us don’t, then the past might give some clues how our pudding of reality should be like.
Sweet, no?
Anything to do with communication or transportation has amazing potential. Elon Musk thinks so too.

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make it real 

As if something touches me, it's how I feel
There's nothing I can see –

A week ago my life aligned, 
 I penetrated a wish of mine
 A willful effort gave it life
 carved from my dreams to rise

Perfumed like rainbow candy is the air,
 my nostrils seek the whispering wind 
 Like spumy foam of rose and honey my thinking thinks –
 Effervescent, present ever this affair 
 
My spirit lifts and floats away,
 unconfined this day
 
On the brink of real and magic
 my mind dwells,
 fluttering its wings to a broomstick's spell 
 Passion-power, imagination,
 mojo fuelled with elation,
 fondness for the sky,
 I am on the fly!

The wheel then turned
 Today-o'clock is present time
 Loud rings my chime again
 proclaiming: another wish affirmed

Today is real 
 as true as now,
 the pain I feel,
 and what I miss
 and what I see
 and consciously allow
 
This very wakeful moment
 a torch into my memory shines
 Archive of the past, 
 like an empty bottle reminding me of wine
 Sweet though it was, bubbly and alive,
 that flight has landed, – now I drive

Part of this moment
 in the future rests,
 inspired by the past
 It visualized and learned
 Towards the light it yearns,
 then takes to flight once more,
 leading to my heaven's door
 
T'is not the last time
 that I'm flying higher than the stars
 Climbing, reaching further and afar
 Sending rhyme and prayer to the lofty shrine
 When I'm flying, paradise is mine

Something touches me, it's what I feel
There's something I can see – 
I think I'll make it real
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Ready for the bang?

The day started with a bang.

It was a loud bang that nobody heard, not even yourself.

Still, you thought that today was going to be the day where everything you ever wished, dreamt, wanted, would happen, – all at once.

Gasping for breath you hardly managed to open your eyes. Wobbly feet supported your entry into the next 24-hour marathon of existence. The mirror threatened with a name change to morror if your tousle-head looked into it any much longer. It would take all your reserves to stay in the run today. Quitting was out of the question as you were informed of the bombardment by real manifestations of every request you ever conceived.

Today was a lifetime-squared in a day exponentially expanding.

Today was an avalanche and earthquake resulting in a tsunamic eruption with heart-stopping potential. Your coffee better is laced with caloric excess to sustain the relentless exposure to life’s unrestraint storm of surprises sweeping you aloft and around.

Are you ready to face exhaustion only to re-compose yourself again embracing the next wave of meteoric showers realizing your every desire imaginable?

Tell me, be honest, were you ready today?

I was.

I saw it coming. I tempted and instigated it. I planted the seed and then charmed it to pop with the flute of my imagination. I just couldn’t forecast the precise day, but I was as ready as I’ll ever be.

The bangs banged from every conceivable corner of my day as the revolver of life spun through its cylinder furiously spending wish-fulfilling cartridges as if every minute only had one chance to be the most spectacular firework in my history.

I was drenched to saturation experiencing life between and during every breath in such kaleidoscopic intensity on a vehicle of rainbows amidst the big bang of my unfolding momentous reality.

It was a rush of such gigantic blow-me-away intensity and a vertiginous high that even space travelers, sages, and heroines would give up their vocation to experience it.
I was in a sea of availability with a horizon of infinity under a sky of reality shone upon by the sun of possibility. Drunk and sober, overloaded to sparking point, boiling with uncontrolled energy, surreal in behavior to all but the initiated, consumed to transcendence by metamorphic passion, assisted by forces leveraging universal laws unleashed by the power of today.

My day. Mayday-Mayday. My day today.
Today was one day filled with a lifetime.

Now imagine having eighty-years of days of such events soaring your spirit with a thousand super-nova-octanes past the verges of any limits till your soul is satisfied and eternally at peace.

I am ready again and again.

Are you?

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turbulent saudade

Verandah rain

Ver and Ah

Like a thousand times before in my life, I stood on the verandah.

I overlooked a flourishing green garden that could creditably claim the term ‘Lebensraum.’ An Olympic stone throw away gaps between the trees provided glimpses of the mountains in the distance.

One could mistakenly say that I was looking, but I wasn’t entirely just seeing something ahead of me. It was a seeing, – but more in a knowing way seeing in my mind, – all that what was around me, even assuming a deep metaphysical dimension too. I saw with my mind’s eye, – that eye, which adds imagination to vision, – in parallel to my real eyes that were somewhat inexplicably staring in a removed way, out of focus from reality.

A pronounced and conscious experience of the present unfolded itself. An enamored bond, – of having been here in this exact location a thousand times before, thinking similar thoughts, – enacted itself like a ritual. A magnetic attraction to a place of origin pulled me along.

In case you wondered, I was not having the cognitive experience of let’s say a visitor who comes with a fresh, curious and receptive look.

I was in reflecting mode and felt encouraged with hope as I stood on the open verandah, refreshed deep down into my soul by the view directly into nature. However, I was also prone to flooding by emotional thought drowning from the weight of the intensity of my imagination reliving events.
At the opposite extreme was a determination and belief that my reality is adjustable to my wishes and dreams, perhaps whims too, if I can only get in touch with this inner being called ‘Life.’

The land of nature presented a captivating view.

Grass spread like a living, deep-pile carpet towards bushes and shrubs giving way to trees sloping gently down towards a river hidden from view. There was an un-invaded openness and the occasional hill posing like a sentinel, – guarding the dragon mountains that pronounced themselves behind the horizon on a background of the deepest blue sky, smudged with white blobs and the dew point flirting with ambient temperature in the creation of a baby called Rain.

An inner turbulence of Saudade, – a melancholic hue with a cloudy patch of shadowy sadness and an indeterminate incompleteness, was in abstract contrast to the warmth and light of the late summer’ midday.

The summer-rain latitudes express boundless gratitude with profuse growth and breathless beauty in nature. A thousand colors pinked and perfumed with Double Delight and Mint, with touches of plumbago blue, bottlebrush red, cumulus white and Chinese-lantern orange, escalating into undocumented green presentations beyond the scope and comprehension of mere definition. Thoughts were punctuated by the melodious call of the Black-headed Oriole and the announcement of the Red-chested Cuckoo with long moments of haa-haa-haa-de-dah of the Hadeda’s, awakening the last slumbering senses.

Memory was choreographed against a scenery of unrestraint growth painted with the tincture of eons of existence and strains of loose imagination. Events re-lived themselves as if their stories had to be highlighted once more and gain attention, connecting the thread of existence with the fabric of eternity, materializing in this unique present. An invitation to re-read the past with the lantern of ‘now’

(‘now,’ this whole, current cognitive, conscious awareness experience a human has: re-inventing itself periodically through subconscious actions on a different level to the physical, with emotional, compassionate and passionate growth)

illuminating pages hitherto less exposed, their meaning obscured until now, as the dots of life started connecting through lines: revealing a path, pointing to a purpose, exposing a gift, – presenting a meaningful picture that quite naturally highlighted and indicated a preference. The invocation of one’s creative spirit in a way that kindles meaning and brings benefit and pleasure to all concerned.
(There are many rituals, ideas, substances, practices to invoke the spirit – ideally find your own)

Everything rhymed in colorful poetry as nature’s hormones reacted to a dose of growth-vaccination in the form of heavenly water.

Remembering became an act of adding content to what seemed an immutable forest on the canvas of life by superimposing events sometimes so grossly out of touch with the underlying reality that they created a contrasting inset of disharmonic visual irritation. When the drive to understand life is also an incognito mission to retain sanity, then answers are essential for maintaining stability. They provide views through a stabilized gyroscope in the turbulence of Saudade. Answers are the voices in our silent universe of thought and they are the conversation that leads to more enlightenment and knowing.

For the 1001’s time I am standing on the verandah, – once again looking for knowing and starting the ritual from the beginning, accompanied by a deep sense of feeling.

Signed
Mel an’ Choly