And just like that…
the ghost style comes back.
In his hand a parabola
on his mind, the Dao.
I found this a couple of weeks ago. Scrawled badly on tattered paper, screwed into a ball and thrown away in the one of the car parks on Broadwater Farm: a pyschotropic clipping from before:
“She sleeps but a furlong away
through fields, the ketamine
invades my brain.
It’s the style, it’s not me who’s biting
a juddery dances
Midsomer mud and low mist settle
‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin (Shakespeare)’.”
And now, no excuse but one of the reasons for my absence. Literally this is big…
I’m going to take you to a dreamscape, not a landscape. Here is the first image and I want it to conjure something in your subconscious memory. Double Click. Where does this take U?
Something happened in the midst of this terrain in late 2002. It can be seen as an incident: something that was experienced and witnessed, which I cannot now describe using everyday language or talk. I do not think that I will ever be able to describe it. In fact, this incident took place over a number of weeks. I remember an issue of Mojo magazine, this was in my bedroom at the time. I remember hearing Desire by Bob Dylan play through the walls. This image now shows the window sill in that room. I do not recall whether this sill has been adorned in the same manner. Much must have gone on since the Autumn on 2002. Now, what does this photograph mean? I have an inkling of an understanding…
This incident actually went on for over a week. It resulted in a complete transformation of a subjective grasp of the known universe. Ruptures in the dreamscape can and do happen. Near-nightly jolts of deep enlightenment. Mornings were shaky because of the events of the previous evening. Eckhart Tolle was being discussed. As was
Free to Be Human: Intellectual Self-Defence in an Age of Illusions
by David Edwards. Read this
Don’t even get me started on The Last Hours of Ancient Sunlight. Everybody I met had read that. I remember during this week, we went to visit a Canadian pianist by the name of Carl something. I remember Carl had also read about the last hours and it had left a deep impression on him as well. He burned me some piano music by Schumann. The incident was soundtracked by a lot of music. Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen were on frequent rotation. This is not to downplay the influence of Africa, on the house and on that week. This Africa has remained with me.
I was very close to this place, in a small village called St. Pierre de Caubel. Much earlier, so many years ago, sometime in the late 80s/early 90s, I still have memories of a day I attended at the local primary school, it was just for one day. This is the school…
And I wandered the cemetry of the village, trying to find the gravestone of someone I thought I knew, who I thought I would find here
There’s less melancholy now. The grave was not there. And this may mean that the trinity of spirit which/who had so much to do with this transformation, are still there. Still going strong. Still, the dreamscape is still haunted. See?
Loaded with memories of a very happy time in childhood. Lots of other children. Lots of places to play. Utopia exists in the mind and here, on many occasions across a developing mind, was forged a vibrant and meaningful notion of an earthly paradise. Visiting today, and this notion still abounds. I was reminded that I spent my 18th birthday at the same house. Now, I play with Qi in the garden. I awoke shortly after 8 to practice the bagua quan mother palms. One day my practice was interrupted by a large hairy caterpillar. The next, a mother duck had abadoned her ducklings in the dry river bed by a lawn. They were unable to climb the sharp banks. Alarmed quacking. Qilin Spits out the Book.
I have taken so much from this house. A bag of runes. Songs if Innocence and of Experience, a version from a school in South Africa. An ethnic visor. The seven inch of Can’t Touch This by MC Hammer.
Having been back there, and spend time lolling at the Centre de Zen Shiatsu on the Place de l’Eglise in Issigeac, the dream is still alive
and the dreamscape has come back with me to London.
Now when I dream, exciting things still happen