Coffee Cup Conquistadors

September 29, 2024

Coffee Cup conquistadors, I have problems of vision in this midnight age. I see the eye of a hurricane within each loss and gain. I lose treasures all day and night through these paper walls. To top it all—gurus don’t come around here no more.

Brothers and sisters, we stand at the edge of civilization, a unified force. As we sipped our coffee, we observed each other’s movements, recognizing the cosmic significance of every gesture. Some of us ascended the mount of Golgotha with reverence, each touch a sacred act. The sober one, Sophie, refers to it as the Skull. Others of us, with spider-leg vision, delicately traversed the coffee grounds, seeing beyond the visible, like the delicate threads of fate. In this shared experience, we are all part of a larger narrative, connected by our observations and interpretations.

We gazed upon a scattered army, initially hazy, but with the valour of conquistadors, we honed in sharply. The porcelain edge of the cup transformed into a precipice. As we peered over, an alien script unfolded, twisting like crystal algae on white china. The white China, akin to the sterile laboratories of Science. The depth of this cup, viewed from the edge, was dizzying, shrouded in mystery. This cup, a vessel of unknown depths, invites us to wonder and contemplate its secrets.

The saucers flew while my cup’s base remained anchored to the tabletop. At the culmination of our exploration, at the far reaches of spider-web logic, a talking salt shaker appeared. “Hey! It’s not as dire as you believe!” it proclaimed, igniting a sense of adventure and discovery.

I thought I saw Lot’s wife, her form engraved upon my forehead, a silent spectre watching from the salt shaker’s voice.

Shapes, shapes danced upon the surface of my cup—who’s the best survivor of them all? The ones who reach for the North Pole? The ones who head for the South? The ones who climb to the roof of the world? Or the ones who dive for the floor? Is it we, the coffee brigade, stirring life’s bitter brew? With the world’s calibrated spoon, we stir the dissolved sugar cube. The cube is a reminder of the shape we’re locked in. The cube is a symbol of the microchips stirring in the scientific soup of existence.

I see the eye of the hurricane within each loss and gain. I lose treasures all day and night through these fragile paper walls. And to top it all—gurus don’t come around here anymore.

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The Dance of Mind and Heart: Finding Meaning

September 28, 2024

Mind: How can you know where you want to go in a non-conceptual way? Knowing is inherently conceptual. You claim to know your direction without knowledge. Can you explain that?

Heart: It’s true; my previous statement may seem nonsensical. Let me rephrase: I don’t know where I wish to go or what I want to write, but I feel a direction. It’s not knowledge as you understand it, but it’s no less real.

Mind: A feeling? Now you’re stepping into territory that doesn’t compute. You either know or you don’t. What you call ‘feeling’ is a fleeting, unreliable sensation—something grounded in chemical responses, nothing more. Don’t introduce it as a third state between knowledge and ignorance. It’s simply you grasping at shadows.

Heart: Shadows? Perhaps. But what if the shadows themselves lead me to something more? Something you, with all your calculations, cannot fathom. Feeling is my map—it tells me where to go, even if it’s into the unknown. And I trust that.

Mind:  This feeling must offer you more than the uncertainty lurking at my realm’s edges. How can you venture into darkness without light or a map? I doubt there’s anything beyond my domain. This darkness could merely be the boundary you wish to cross.

Heart: (more impassioned): What if I don’t need your map? What if I navigate around you, above you, beneath you? What if you, dear Mind, are the source of my doubts, the cage that keeps me from leaping forward? Perhaps this very dialogue with you holds me back from answering the call of something bigger than us both—my destiny.

Mind:  Be cautious; you’re starting to sound irrational. You’re proposing unfathomable ideas. How can you use words to traverse this invisible path of feeling? Words are my essence—my very being. Now, you claim to transcend them. It’s absurd, like trying to leap over your shadow or lift yourself by your bootstraps.

Heart: (voice trembling with frustration): Listen, Mind—my heart beats without you telling it to. My blood flows, and my breath rises and falls. Why can’t I express the words within me without your rigid orchestration? Words are surface-level—the crust, the shallow layer of something vast beneath. You think you hold all meaning, but real meaning is hidden below your borders.

Mind: Now you’re introducing another term—meaning—as if it exists apart from me and my realm. How can you have meaning without Mind? That’s utterly ridiculous.

Heart: (with passion): What’s ridiculous is your blind belief in your sovereignty! You may be necessary, but you are not the king. Meaning comes alive when you and I collaborate, yes, but it begins with me. It rises from the depths where words can’t reach. Look at joy, for example. Joy needs no words—it is felt in every part of you, a deep swell that exists without concepts or definitions. And yet, it carries meaning! Joy is meaning in motion. What about love, Mind? Can you break it down into logic? Can fear be measured by words alone?

Mind:  Fine. I disagree with your abstractions, but you venture into places I cannot see. Have it your way. I will always be here if you need me, and since you’ve chosen to communicate through words, I will remain your foundation—even if, as you say, I’m only the tip of the iceberg.

Heart: (softly, almost vulnerable): Thank you. But even with all of this… the question still lingers: What is my way? How will I find it?

Mind:  You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?

Heart: No. It’s my question. And I hope that we’ll find the answer together with your assistance—one step at a time.

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Finding Meaning in the Blank Page: A Writer’s Reflection

September 27, 2024

I found some old notes written by hand—this one around 1979—and OCR scanned them. I revised and edited them, and here they are.

I have been sitting here for centuries, for months, for days, waiting. What am I waiting for, exactly? It’s a mystery that even I can’t unravel.

This blank piece of paper yawns at me again. Yes, yawning—not roaring or demanding—but simply sitting there, an expanse of white, opening its mouth to be force-fed words. But why force-feed it? Why sit here, pen in hand, scribbling down words that may or may not carry meaning?

Listen carefully. Read between the words, beneath them, through them, and beyond them. Somewhere within this ink, there is a reason, a lifeline that could pull me into a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, the mundane becomes miraculous. The world where one is equal to nothing, and nothing is equal to all. What? Am I trying to touch the portals of Heaven through this thin squirt of ink?

Listen again—is it not I who leaves the rind of the world behind? Is it not I who is lifted into the wild, illogical realm where reason twists like a pretzel and humanity shrinks to a slug? By excreting these lines (yes, excreting!), I have an activity fit for a lazy bum like me to call myself an artist, an author of the world. This is my voice, my essence, spilled onto the page.

It is as if a visitor sweeps away the remnants of me, picks up the pen, and records what he sees, feels, and tastes of this world through an eye that sees beyond the immediate, beyond the personal—the ‘cosmological eye,’ as Miller calls it. This act is like a cigarette slowly burning, like a caterpillar shedding its caterpillarness. Leaves fall from trees, and they realize they are always part of something more significant when they touch the ground. I want to understand what I am part of without leaving the tree—and the only way to glimpse that is to write myself into extinction so that the eye may peek through the smouldering ashes of these words.

And you know what? Just sitting here and rambling on is fun. But what is your aim? You might ask. Do I need one? What is your purpose? Do I need one? Few aims and purposes come with capital letters. Right now, I’m having fun, and that is all there is—pure, unadulterated fun.

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In the Labyrinth of Cosmic Intricacies

September 21, 2024

In the labyrinth of cosmic intricacies, an unseen design defies the logic of minds—we try to walk upon the ethereal fabric of black holes, where reason stumbles into awe.

Rebellion stirs, a cosmic key in hand, unveiling truths long lost in shadows of accepted wisdom, a door swings wide to whispers carried by the solar winds.

Some mysterious force, an ancient hand,weaves its stories through the constellations,an eternal presence watching the ballet—the rise and fall of stars, beings, and lands.

Matter becomes the frozen music of stones, Pythagoras’ melody echoing through time, each stone a note in the silent symphony, resonating through the star’s long sighs.

Art becomes the footprint of the soul, its brushstrokes on the cosmic canvas, a dance of thoughts, of dreams, of love, that falters when the soul’s light fades.

No soul, no footprint—only shifting sands, where glittering dust replaces vibrant marks, a desert where creative echoes vanish, leaving silence in the place of song.

Yet still, absurdity spins through the air—inside-out policemen, dogs, and cats create a dreamlike dance of chaos as space folds into a single doorknob.

Poetics, the study of soul’s strange symbols,scribbles that transcend mere meaning, tracing the whims of wandering minds and the patterns that the cosmos leaves behind.

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Creating Meaning: The Timeless Journey Within

September 10, 2024

Rediscovering old notes and writings I tucked away feels like opening a time capsule. As I edit and rewrite, I’m often stunned by what unfolds—almost as if someone else penned these words. Curious to see what I found? Check out the latest piece I’ve dusted off from the drawer:

Once, I believed in the world as it was handed to me—a place where no one questioned the present and bothered to ask about the origins of our existence. But something stirred in me. As the static of modern life cleared, a pulsating sense of displacement, a profound disconnect from my cultural roots, rose from within, like an echo from my ancestors. I could almost feel their journey across the Great Ocean, but something gnawed at me—a profound uncertainty that no one here could answer.

In this land, no one believed in anything beyond the horizon, not the priest, the doctor, the teacher, or even the philosopher. They were prisoners of an unshakable belief: they had always been here. No one had come from anywhere else, and nothing existed beyond the boundaries of their world. They were trapped in an eternal present, fully immersed in “Always Here and Now.” To them, the notion of elsewhere was absurd. If there was no “other place,” how could anyone have come from it?

Initially, I grappled with understanding. My friends’ reality seemed dictated by simple logic, but my thoughts wandered beyond their walls. How could anyone have come from elsewhere if there was no other place? My friends saw the compass as proof of their reality, pointing only to an endless, eternal loop. They cautioned me against delving too deeply into such thoughts, insisting the simplicity of their truth was my only sanctuary. But something within me resisted. I was resolute, against all odds, to find the home my ancestors had spoken of, a place that existed somewhere beyond their narrow vision — a place I had never seen but felt in my bones.

Speaking of this ‘other place’ was perilous. Each mention of it shook the very foundation of their beliefs. What did that mean for their carefully constructed present if there was another world? The inner became the outer, the light became dark, and everything they knew would collapse. They were content to remain in their prison of four walls, preoccupied with the décor, oblivious to who had designed their confinement.

But I couldn’t ignore the whispers of the past. My ancestors had lived on an island swallowed by time. Only a few had escaped its destruction, fishermen who drifted across the ocean with no destination, guided by nothing more than a lucky wind. They rowed, prayed, and hoped for forty days and forty nights until they reached this land. That story lived within me, waiting for me to find the same wind, to follow the arc of coincidence that had saved them.

Yet, as I reflected, I came to a profound realization. I was still searching for something I couldn’t name—a more profound significance in my surroundings. It wasn’t just about finding another place but understanding why it mattered. The abalone shell reflected the ocean’s rhythms as if it carried the pulse of an unseen world. I then realized that significance wasn’t found in the object but in my gaze. The same wind that saved my ancestors wasn’t guiding me toward another place—it showed me that meaning itself is something we create, not discover.

My ancestors braved the ocean’s winds and waves to find this land. But the distance I had to cross was between worlds, not shores—between the truth they carried and my life now. Perhaps I wasn’t meant to find meaning but to create it, and that was the natural wind that would take me home. This realisation, this understanding, was my enlightenment.

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Autumn Memories

September 10, 2024

Autumn leaves on sandstone steps
are days and nights I remember still.
Your breath was just a sigh,
a goodnight and a long goodbye.

If you were beside me
I could hear the Word
That whispers through the wind,
barely heard.

If you were beside me
I could have the strength,
that lifts stones
above the ground.

If you were beside me
I could see the light,
that gives the sign
for the lost to be found.

Autumn leaves on sandstone steps
are days and nights I remember still.
Your breath was just a sigh,
a goodnight and a long goodbye.

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From Blue Meanies to Bo Diddley: A Life Transformed by Psychedelics

September 6, 2024

My first entheogenic journey began with Blue Meanies mushrooms in Gin Gin, Queensland. (The term “entheogen” comes from the Greek en, meaning “in” or “within”; theo, meaning “god” or “divine”; & gen, meaning “creates”> Within God Creates) It was also my introduction to a group of nomadic hippies who embraced me and opened a door I didn’t know existed. As I lay in my sleeping bag, I watched in awe as strange, crawling eyes appeared before me, almost like tiny spiders. Instead of fear, I felt amazement.

Back in Sydney, I had my first encounter with LSD. I was astounded that such a small chemical could have such a profound effect on my consciousness. From there, everything changed. Over the next couple years, I must have experienced over 100 LSD trips and countless mushroom journeys. These experiences shaped my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

One of the most memorable trips was on the Sydney Opera House opening day in 1973. We were on California Sunshine Acid, wandering through the Botanic Gardens as the trip took hold. Suddenly, Bo Diddley’s “Hey, Mona” echoed through the trees. It was surreal; we all heard it together as if the music was coming directly from the trees. Later, we realized Bo was performing at the Opera House, and the amplified sound carried through the gardens.

Rather than join the crowds, we found ourselves at an alternative party in Woolloomooloo. There, I met a beautiful woman with strikingly blue eyes, and we connected in a way that felt beyond words—just through our gaze.

That day marked my last acid trip, over 50 years ago now. But the memories, the experiences, and the transformations remain with me, forever etched into my being.

I’m not recommending the use of psychedelics. Just reminiscing on my own use.

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Transcending the Swarm Mind: A Journey to Freedom and Grace

August 16, 2024

Where there is freedom, there is grace. Where there is freedom, devils dance with angels. Yet, in the heart of the Swarm Mind, these forces are chained, bound to the Swarm World.

Freedom is not the result of seeking an end; it is the means to an unknown destination, a state imbued with grace. The Swarm’s concerns strip away the soul, leaving only husks of social beings. To be free is to be true to oneself, and to be true to oneself is to give of oneself—for in the act of giving, the bud of truth begins to bloom.

We must ascend to Heaven while keeping our feet firmly on Earth. Renewed energy—a gift from Above—should radiate through us into the Earth. This emanation is not ours but from Heaven itself. As men and women, we are merely the medium through which Heaven meets Earth.

Through freedom, we move both upwards and downwards, both inwards and outwards. Riding the Devil’s back, we touch the soles of God’s feet.

The Swarm Mind, a pivotal concept in this post, symbolizes the collective consciousness of society. It is often driven by conformity, fear, and greed, and stands in stark contrast to freedom. The Swarm Mind restricts individual thought and action, leading to a homogenized worldview.

How can I let life unfold when I crave control? The part of me that is a control freak, the “I” that seeks a result, is the Swarm Mind within me. Freedom lies in recognizing this Swarm Mind, though “seeing” might be the wrong word. It is always a feeling, a quality beyond words—a heart’s clarity.

The Bay: A Sanctuary Beyond the Swarm – The Bay is a metaphor for a state of mind that transcends the limitations of the Swarm World. It represents a place of solitude and introspection, where one can escape the noise of the collective consciousness and connect with a higher truth.

I stay by the water at the Bay to escape the crowd and find solitude. To reach it, one must be guided by an inner need—an undeniable, real need—not a mere whim. The Bay is where physics and direction blur, where up and down, in and out, are part of a continuum. Everything connects in a multidimensional Möbius Strip, defying the Cartesian Spread.

Goethe said, “In nature, we never see anything isolated, but everything in connection with something else which is before it, under it, beside it, and over it.” Yet, he missed the “inside”—the entry point to the World beyond the Swarm World. Inside everything, on the beach, far from the Swarm’s buzz, lies the path to the North. The compass is our conscience.

Transcending the Swarm: A Call to Personal Growth

The Swarm Mind, in its rawest form, incessantly buzzes within a Bell Jar, a metaphor for the limitations and constraints imposed by the Bell Curve—Consensus Reality, the 3D World, and the perspective of the Vegetative Eye. The journey to transcend this requires a relentless battle against the hypnotic motion and buzzing of our busyness, a struggle that engages us and fuels our motivation.

Our journey beyond the Swarm World requires substantial assistance—help free ourselves from the Swarm Mind’s buzz and go beyond fear and greed. Yet, we must also function effectively within the Swarm World, for our physical survival depends on it. This paradoxical position requires us to engage with the World while detaching from the noise that obstructs our vision of another world beyond the Bell Jar.

The Digital Revolution and the Dematerialization of Reality

As the World transitions from material to digital, the concept of physical location dissolves. Modern telecommunications have made global video conferencing a norm, and advances in holographic technology will soon allow life-size interactions in our living rooms, simultaneously placing us in multiple locations. This digital revolution, coupled with modern physics, has led to a dematerialization of our World, challenging our understanding of reality.

Yet, these advancements are accessible to only a fraction of humanity, highlighting the growing concentration of power. While the Swarm World’s telecommunications system connects every inch of the Earth, most still need to be more nourished and impoverished.

Seeking Balance and Clarity

At the Bay, the 3D World becomes porous, held together by dimensions beyond our usual perception. The Swarm Mind clings to the sweetness of its 3D existence, unable or unwilling to see beyond.

In this ever-changing reality, we must actively seek moments of clarity and higher consciousness—our metaphorical ‘Bay.’ This balance, found at the intersection of physical and digital existences, is not just beneficial but crucial for our survival and spiritual growth. It serves as a guiding light, reassuring us that we are on the right path.

Let us continue to ask: How can we maintain our individuality while benefiting from our interconnectedness? How do we balance our physical and digital existences? And ultimately, how do we use these insights to create a world transcending both the physical and digital realms?

We seek clarity, question our perceptions, and strive for freedom, transcending both the physical and digital worlds.

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Fish Tattoos and Redemption: Stories from Baxter’s Community, Jerusalem, New Zealand.

August 12, 2024

In Sydney, I heard about a community started by James Baxter, a New Zealand poet. It was located in Jerusalem, New Zealand. Baxter saw this place as a canoe, a lifeboat for the drowning. I expected a hippy commune but found ex-thieves, ex-addicts, ex-gamblers, even an ex-killer who had done his time. I didn’t know what I was an ex of. Some clung to the sides of the canoe, others sat steady inside, and some rowed and steered. They were changing their lives with prayer and community, guided by Baxter’s poems and the Bible. The native Maori lived nearby, sharing their land and mixing with those on the canoe.

I arrived, in 1973, after a 20-mile walk and found out James Baxter had died the year before. They gave me a bed on the verandah, a few feet from his grave. At night, the moonlight cast shadows of the mound onto the wet grass.

The man who gave me a Bible had left the Hell’s Angels, Auckland Chapter (A chapter of the Hells Angels motorcycle club was formed in Auckland in 1961, the first Hells Angels chapter outside the US) because he fell in love with a born-again Christian. He took a liking to me and took me goat hunting. It was my first hunt. I helped kill, skin, and butcher the goat. He saw me squirm when we gutted it.

One day, while we were having a piss, he said, “Hey, look at my dick.”

I didn’t know what to do.

“Look at it,” he insisted. “I’m no homo, look at it.”

I glanced down. He laid his flaccid dick on his palm. The word “FISH” was tattooed on it.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why have you got FISH tattooed on your dick?”

He laughed as he put it away. “That’s for women who don’t eat meat on Fridays,” he said, then burst into a belly laugh.

I laughed along, thinking he got his penis inked for a joke.

He was a carpenter and wanted an apprentice. I just wanted to visit the community, float on the canoe for a bit, and then move on.

A photo of the Bible the Hell’s Angel gave me.

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Inner Peace vs. Outer Chaos: A Tale of Serenity and Struggle

July 27, 2024

Below is something I wrote a some years ago after bumping into a friend I hadn’t seen for a long time. The feelings expressed, I think, are just as relevant today as they were then, when I, along with others, was preparing for the Woomera Action in Easter, 2002 with Hope Caravan. 

ABC iView (Australia) has a series called “I Was Actually There” which includes an episode on Woomera, 2002.

So I thought I’d rewrite this earlier post for today.

===================================================================

“Serenity and Struggle: A Tale of Inner Peace vs. Outer Chaos”

When I saw him yesterday, he seemed to radiate a serene contentment. Sitting in a half lotus position on his sofa, his bare feet intertwined, he exuded tranquility. The mandala tattoo just above his ankle harmonized perfectly with the diamond-shaped crystal hanging from his neck. We shared some green tea, and he smiled gently as he closed the book he was reading.

He was an old friend, someone I hadn’t seen in ages. In the time apart, our paths had diverged dramatically. He had discovered spiritual bliss, while I continued to grapple with finding peace. He spoke of inner tranquility, whereas I confessed to enduring inner turmoil. His spiritual battles were over; mine felt never-ending.

“You’re caught in duality,” he remarked with a seemingly humble smile. “You think you can change the world, but the only thing you can truly change is yourself.”

He was referring to my plea for him to join me in action—to support those who are voiceless and powerless. I had invited him to participate in the Festival of Freedoms at Woomera during Easter 2002, to stand up for the refugees trapped in Australia’s detention centers.

I responded, “But what if my sense of self extends beyond my physical body? What if it encompasses the whole planet? When I witness suffering and injustice, it feels as though it’s happening within me.”

He laughed, “Well, in that case, your ego is bigger than mine!”

Adjusting his posture, he let his leg fall straight over the side of the sofa, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The crystal around his neck swayed like a pendulum between us. Incense smoke spiraled upwards from the joss stick burning on the coffee table.

I could see his point but it didn’t sit right with me. “Ego, big or small, will always be there. Tell me, what would you do if your neighbor’s house was burning down? Would you ignore it because your house is fine?”

“I would help extinguish the fire immediately. But for me, the plight of refugees and distant wars are beyond my control. I seek inner peace through meditation, believing it will ultimately benefit the world more than any protest or action. True change begins within. Your protests add more noise to the chaos. By creating an oasis of silence and peace within, you contribute more profoundly than by facing the razor wire of the camps. Change yourself—that’s all you need to do.”

He sipped his tea and stared intently at me, or perhaps at the space between my eyes—the so-called third eye. I couldn’t tell, but his gaze carried an intensity, as if he was trying to shift my perspective with his energy. He was kidding himself if he thought he could.

Yes, our paths had diverged. While I understood the importance of inner work and its impact on the outer world, I couldn’t accept withdrawing into personal peace while others suffered. Can one carry the inner “oasis of silence” into the world’s places of sorrow and injustice, to share that peace? I wondered.

1 Comment | asylum seekers, consciousness, hope caravan, human rights, politics, refugees, Uncategorized, Woomera @ Easter 2002 | Tagged: , , | Permalink
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