My Lady of the Earth: A Tale of Renewal and Time

November 12, 2024

In the heart of a forgotten desert, a lone figure trudged down a cracked highway, each step scraping against the sun-scorched asphalt as if metal clanked against stone. His feet felt like tin cans, hollow and beaten, dragging his weary body forward as he clutched an old glass bowl—its only inhabitant a sliver of something ancient and alive, a glint of Time itself suspended in water. His arms ached, heavy and empty, as though they’d died long before, holding nothing but the fragile keepsake of ages past.

But just as his strength waned, there was a shift. She appeared as if conjured from the dust itself: My Lady of the Earth, the Sun’s seventh Queen. With a graceful lift of her arms, she raised him above the smoke, the Screen of all that clouded and concealed. Her touch was unlike anything he’d known, reaching through the rusting paths of his veins, setting them aglow with purpose. In her embrace, he felt something long lost—a feeling like Home, a warmth too timeless to describe.

He looked upon her as her veil began to dissolve. Beneath it, her face bore the quiet strength of mountains, still and unyielding, forever patient. From her eyes spilt silver brooks, flowing over her cheeks without urgency, slipping past with a gentleness that defied the chaotic world below. The brooks whispered of hidden peace, where Madonnas rested in perfect balance, and saints lay quiet in their coffins, untouched by mortal turmoil. Shadows of the powerful faded here, hollow ambitions dissipating like smoke. Even the rooster—herald of dawn and disturbance—lay silent in her presence as if Time paused.

She was both familiar and fierce, the Only Child of Passion and Earth’s eternal heartbeat. Winds swept through the dust, weaving through her form, rooting into her flesh, and carrying the age-old whispers of forgotten stars with them. Her body, raw and untamed, glistened in the light of the Sun, bound to it yet free, dancing in an endless circle of life and death, decay and rebirth.

With a flick of her golden feet, she nudged the Moon, sending it into an orbit known only to the wise and the wild, beckoning all with a silent proclamation. The man held his breath, feeling the weight of her gesture, her assurance—this was no end but the beginning, an age reborn. And as he stared into her eyes, he understood: he was no longer lost in the desert. He had been brought back to her, the soul of his journey entwined with the spirit of the Earth, who whispered to him that, like her, he too was eternal.

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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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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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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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Unlocking the Mysteries: Pavlos’s Surprising Transformation in His Grandfather’s Study

July 27, 2024

Pavlos sat alone in his grandfather’s study, a place steeped in memories and the faint scent of old books and leather. The room was his sanctuary, a haven where he found solace among familiar objects: the fruit bowl on the side table, the worn chair, and the portrait of his grandfather gazing down from the wall. The dim light filtered through the dusty curtains, casting an ethereal glow on the room. But today, something was different.

The call—he couldn’t think of a better name for it—began as a subtle warmth in his palms. It grew, radiating from the center of his hands to the base of his fingers, eventually reaching the tips. The warmth transformed into a quivering tingle, like millions of tiny feathers stroking under his skin. Startled, Pavlos looked around the room, his eyes landing on the picture of his grandfather. The warmth in his hands faded as he focused on the portrait, but when he redirected his attention back to his hands, the warmth returned.

Intrigued and a bit unnerved, Pavlos decided to experiment. Could he maintain the warmth in his hands while being aware of something outside himself? He chose the picture of his grandfather as his focal point. As he concentrated, a surge of energy raced up from the soles of his feet, halting abruptly near his navel. The energy solidified into a powerful sense of centeredness and balance, filling the emptiness within his chest with a newfound strength.

The sensation intensified, spreading through his body until he felt as though he were aflame from within. Strange symbols and geometric shapes, hieroglyphics, and formulas began to rise in his mind like smoke. His body blazed with a profound understanding that transcended mere thought. “This must be what religious sighs are about,” a voice said. Was it his own thought or something external? Pavlos could no longer distinguish between inner and outer reality. The posture of his body, the position of the furniture, and the entire ambience of the room reverberated through his nervous system, tingling with a new sense of expectation.

Pavlos’s heart raced, his mind spinning with questions. What was this sensation? Why was it happening now? The study had always been a place of comfort, but now it felt like a portal to another dimension, charged with an electric anticipation that made his skin prickle.

The sense of expectation coiled upwards from the base of his spine like a neon curl, sparking into his body’s nerve circuits a shock of recognition. Pavlos felt a connection to something greater, something ancient and wise. The room seemed to pulse with life, as if it held secrets waiting to be discovered. He could hear the faint ticking of the old clock on the mantle, each second amplifying the intensity of his experience.

He closed his eyes, allowing the sensations to guide him. His breath deepened, and he felt as if he were floating in a sea of energy. The warmth, the symbols, the voice—they all merged into a single, harmonious experience. When he finally opened his eyes, the room looked the same, yet everything had changed. He felt more alive, more attuned to his surroundings and to himself.

Pavlos realized that the call was an invitation to explore deeper aspects of his consciousness, to unlock potentials he had never known existed. A wave of emotions washed over him—curiosity, excitement, and a bit of fear. With a sense of purpose and curiosity, he embraced this new journey, eager to see where it would lead. The study, once a place of solace and memories, had become a gateway to a realm of profound discovery and self-awareness. As he stood up, the portrait of his grandfather seemed to smile down at him, as if approving of the path Pavlos was about to embark on.

The adventure had just begun.

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Journey Back to Eden: Seeking Paradise Lost After Leaving the Job

June 14, 2024

I am sitting here, thinking. Like watching a movie called “My Brilliant Career,” it’s been ten years since I left my job. Faces, moments, conversations, and meetings from my work days flood my mind. It’s as if my memories are fragments of a Burroughs tale, rising like steam from a hot towel only to fade into the ether moments later.

It’s a relief to realize how my job once threatened my dreams, and in many ways, I’m still healing from that ‘brilliant career.’ A decade has passed, and I’m more at ease, no longer compelled to ‘perform.’ I’m rediscovering myself, a journey that brings hope and inspiration. I remember standing on the threshold of university, my mind a whirl of anxiety. It wasn’t just fear—it was the dread of my untainted thoughts being moulded by the rigid paths of academia. The world of ideas and the university’s mould threatened to erode my individuality, my soul. My version of Paradise Lost—that was university.

After the initial thrill, the job was worse than losing paradise. My drive for self-improvement overshadowed my fears at the start of university. My job pushed me deeper into the material world, the marketplace. Now, after all these years, I seek to reclaim the innocence I had before university. Yes, I feel like I’m on a journey back to Eden, a state of mind leading to a restored paradise.
The old Zen imagery of an enlightened mind—chop wood, carry water—and the notion of no moon, no water subtly infiltrate my ‘Retired Mind,’ offsetting the remnants of The Job. I find joy and peace in chopping and splitting logs for our evening fire, tending the fire, going on long walks along the river bank, reading, and living more leisurely.

I look at my unfinished drafts without scolding myself for their incomplete state. I am reading and playing with ideas, with no idea where they might lead, except for the pleasure of reconnecting with my work and myself. I recognize the seemingly self-centred nature of it all, but I feel compelled to nourish the part of me that was unappreciated and overlooked by Job World. This journey of reconnection is engaging and interesting, and it’s a pleasure to rediscover my work and myself.

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The Quest for Inspiration

April 18, 2024

The oppressive Australian heat bore down as I trudged along the endless road to the small Queensland town where my friends had once lived. Car after car whizzed past without stopping for the wayward traveler. After hours of walking under the relentless sun, I finally reached my destination only to find their house abandoned – they had moved on.

Feeling lost and alone, I sank onto the front step, uncertain of my next move. That’s when the wizened old man appeared, his weathered face seeming to defy the laws of age itself. He fixed me with an inscrutable stare for a long moment before speaking.

“Your mates are gone. But you’re in luck I’m still around.”

His humble shack was a one-room timber structure that emanated an odd warmth, the air carrying the scent of freshly-hewn wood. We sat on tree stump stools as he poured our drinks. I explained that I had come to Queensland seeking inspiration to work on my thesis about the mystical poetry of William Blake. His response took me by surprise.

“Ah, Blake could perceive the hidden truths, my friend. The rest of us are blind to such mysteries.”

This peculiar old man had me rapt as he delved into the sacred geometries, the mystic language of numbers, and how words and logic obscure the greater realities. His words wove together theosophical concepts and Pythagorean numerology.

“Within these corporeal shells, we are mere observers,” he proclaimed. “Catching fleeting glimpses of the vastness through sensory keyholes.”

I could only listen in silence as he added with a sage nod, “Having nothing to say may be your salvation.”

As I bid farewell to the enigmatic stranger, stepping out into the crisp air, the world itself seemed transformed around me. The return journey, hitching rides and passing through landscapes both familiar and foreign, carried an ineffable sense that I had been granted a glimpse into something far greater than myself.

With each passing car and transient vista, I felt I was traversing the synapses of some vast cosmic mind, every experience and perception flickering like synaptic connections within the neural network of a greater consciousness. Finally arriving home, I marveled at the profound interconnectedness of it all. I could taste the words Blake had penned in “Auguries of Innocence“:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour

What once seemed an impossible task no longer felt so hopeless. The thesis that had tormented me for so long now carried the promise of insight and meaning.

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

The above event demonstrates for me the ideas of synchronicity and hyparxis. Below is a schematic diagram of a “MOMENT”. It shows 3 dimensions of the ‘moment in time’ – Serial Time, Spatial Time and Timeless Time. This diagram is based on J G Bennett’s ‘Dramatic Universe‘ where he explores these issues of Time. Yes, it’s my hand drawn version!

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Mother’s Reflection on St George Icon

January 17, 2024

The door creaked open a bit, letting in the scent of incense down the hallway. Shadows danced on the bedroom walls, leaving the corners in darkness. The flickers came from the kandili beside the family’s icons in the corner of my mother’s room. I made sure not to think that my mother worshiped those images. She once said, “These holy pictures are like windows for us, a peek into the eternal worlds while we’re stuck in this one.” It was tough for a kid like me to wrap my head around that. But every time I kissed an icon, I reminded myself I wasn’t worshiping it.

I nudged the door open a bit more, trying to slip into the room without being noticed. Stepping onto the woolen rug, I tiptoed to the edge of the bed. There, I saw my mother on her knees, arms outstretched toward the iconastasi. Her back faced me. Slowly, she stood up, crossing herself. In the reflection off the icon of St. George and the Dragon, I saw my mother’s face. Her image overlapped with the saint’s, dividing her nose in half with the saint’s spear. One eye covered the saint’s chest, while the other floated above the horse’s bridle. The tip of her eyebrow touched the captured princess’s crown, her mouth a cushion for the Dragon’s back.

Mother’s greying hair framed a perfect silhouette within the silver frame.

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