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Archive for March, 2010

Bocas del Toro Archipelago, Panama

 

what happened then, I cannot say

I know I must be far away

to far flung lands where palm trees sway

my wanderlust begs me, come play

 

I’ve sailed cool oceans green and blue

adrift on tides, or else I flew

to lands of old and lands of new

any other place would do

 

than where I am, I can’t sit still

the world to see, to get my fill

of ship’s foghorns, train’s whistled shrill

travel sounds, my heart be still

 

when will I rest?  you can be sure,

not until I’ve seen the shore

of every beach, and then some more

look, there’s a boat, do you have an oar?

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1. scribbled, secrete notebooks and wild typewritten pages, for your own joy 2. submissive to everything, open, listening 3. try never to get drunk in your own home 4. be in love with your life 5. something that you feel will find its own form 6. be crazy dumb saint of the mind 7. blow as deep as you want to blow 8. write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind 9. the unspeakable visions of the individual 10. no time for poetry but exactly what is 11. visionary tics shivering in the chest 12. in tranced fixation dreaming on object before you 13. remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition 14. like Proust be an old teahead of time 15. telling the true story of the world in interior monolog 16. the jewel centre of interest is the eye within the eye 17. write in recollection and amazement for yourself 18. work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea 19. accept loss forever 20. believe in the holy contour of life 21. struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind 22. don’t think of words when you stop but to see better 23. keep track of every day the date emblazoned in your morning 24. no fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language or knowledge 25. write for the world to read and see your exact pictures of it 26. bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form 27. in praise of Character in the bleak inhuman loneliness 28. composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better 29. you’re a Genius all the time 30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored and Angelled in Heaven

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And so it is that Grandmother Turtle and all her descendants must walk very slowly, for they carry the whole weight of the world and all its peoples on their backs.

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In commitment to the sanctity of our individual evolution
we take the many dimensions of our Walking skills,
which have become our natural mode of Walking
out into the marketplace,
connecting to our lives in their totality.

DAILY WALKABOUT

Everyday Walking now insists that
we be fully aware.
Not only during quiet, contemplative or practice times
nor only during our more physical, exploratory times,
but in everyday walk to the bus,
through the supermarket,
or at social events.
Through work and play,
our lives become a seamless trail in
the direction of living
the highest we can.

The doors of our practice sessions open.
We walk out, taking with us
all that we have experienced
as our way of Being in the world.
As our honoring of the Good, the True, the Beautiful
the Sacred
the Useful
the Healthy.

Our Walking encompasses all walking.
Ordinary and extraordinary activities
are easy and feel-good.
We consider each moment, each action

that constitute the everyday menu
of our lives,
as important
and worthy of clear attention.

COMMUNAL WALKABOUT

Walking in the company of our brothers and sisters,
means recognizing the impact
of personal poise and presence.
Maintaining awareness of self, and of other.
Actively valuing relatedness and relationship.

Stepping our days among friends, family, colleagues, teachers,
children and elders
competitors and opponents,
we generate mirror-like awareness
of the subtleties of social interaction,
and the actions, feelings and intentions
of others.
A remembrancing of how
our own relaxedness—openness—
stability— intentions—
and willingness to pay attention,
observe and listen,
can serve us well in all relationships.

Question.
Listen.
Observe.
Think.
Where are you going?
Why are you going?
How are you going?
Do you know the Way?
What guides you?
These reflections are pathways
to Life and to Spirit.

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One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice –

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do –

determined to save

the only life that you could save.

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‘He’s late,’ I say to my friend

In her vintage coat and her long black hair

‘Give him five minutes,’

she says.

‘You’re late with the lights,’ I say

to the waitress behind the gilt mirror

‘We’ll switch them off soon,’

she says.

A dark figure hop-scotches across

the flickering square. 

‘Sorry I’m late,’

he says.

.

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Dusk over Silversands

 

 

The saturated moon drenched me with light. It was white that night – not quite full, holding vigil above the Koegelberg Mountains. Cloud clusters threw shadows across the sand. An art performance in celebration of earth hour displayed a sea serpent dancing above a thin line of waves, its flames thrown eastwards by the breeze. Trails of smoke continued where the flames tailed off, hoping to screen the electrified lights of Hermanus, defiant of the spirit of a one hour world wide blackout.  This legendary sea monster, known to guard the golden apples of the Hesperides began to sink, its metal rings, soaked in paraffin, collapsed into great raw chunks of mythological impersonation.

I continued to walk, shells splintered under my feet as I listened to the last call of an oystercatcher, watched the V shaped flight of sacred ibis disappear between mountain gorges. The still sea lapped against rocks. Kelp beds lifted and fell rhythmically.  A path wound its way between Sea Farm and the beach, the rocks. Rotting kelp, dead seabirds and seals writhed with muscid flies – the sound of them, a mass of popping bubbles spewing maggots onto the shoreline. “An underfoot webwork of carnivorous rubies, a star-swarm thick as gnats.”  On this night they did not offend, dancing around my feet. Such a night does not acknowledge disharmony.

The village houses were tucked behind the mountains now. No sign of man, not even a light from a fishing boat. A heron lifted its neck. It and I stood still, petrified shapes in silhouette. Minutes passed, it lifted a foot, suspended it in the cool evening air. It snaked its neck before returning to its fossilised state.

I turned to watch the crystal pin lights drown in the sea. The stars who’s glow had been stolen by the moon sought refuge in the waters dark fathoms. A school of Dolphin’s leapt into the air to catch the falling stars. A humpback whale lifted out of the water -a sword thrusting for a moment through the atmosphere. The wound bled black rivers of carbon waste. My path became dotted with piantbrush lilies, their scarlet heads – flames of candles sanctifying the amphitheatre around me.

Earth hour had taken my hand and led me to a world of light.

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