Heavenly muse

‘In the mind of a fool one might find wisdom. Such is the way of the fool that he will thrive from his ignorance. Realising his wisdom, he sheds his ignorance and will speak for the masses. They will see he was one of them.’

A Guide to enlightenment

― John Bodhi

Providence. It came from the delicate flutes playing Indian music that serenaded the smoky air. “Pal Pal Teri Yaad” from Falguni Pathak. John had memorised it as only a music lover could, its meaning yet a mystery to him. He murmured the lyrics along as he drifted around in the brown living room, messy yet lively, and stepped across the floor, knowing this precious moment in time could have only come from divine guidance. John Bodhi knew it to be so: the music said so. He propelled himself through whirling incense smoke and made Scottish bird sounds freely: ‘Kaa kaa! Kaa kaa!’ John felt intensely relaxed, free of all manipulative powers and, he snidely concluded to himself: indeed the space cake had brought him into that wished-for-altered-state, where all things appeared beautiful and worth wild. Moving like the sea, his mind wanted to cry out! A deep inner transformational force was riding him.

    As he danced through the air with wavering hands his mind settled down for a touch of land, and soberly resolved: this is the best way to take it easy after a rough week of working nightshifts. And having a little fun while he’s at it, he thought with a smile. Still some forty hours apart from his next shift! He felt like King of the World. His own world. No resistance. Slumbering through the meagre filled living room he managed to put the volume of the stereo reasonably down, clean the two tables, put his records in order and in general ordered the place. A sleeping body lay on one green couch.

Exquisite, simply exquisite! John thought as he carefully ate the last crumpets of space cake. He took a long look through the dirty window to see Dublin Fair City. John noticed the busy traffic that streamed past bricks and concrete. His mind sailed through it and ascended slowly in memory, bringing up images of the past like a PowerPoint presentation. It had been a wild ride up to here. Six months earlier he drifted in from England to try his fortune with the famous Celtic Tiger. It was after a year of plumbing, connecting pipes and working in wet cold dirt underneath people’s houses in “the city of a thousand trades”, Birmingham, that he searched for any other job. A short e-mail response on a small newspaper ad “Working in a call-centre in Ireland” quickly led him to this stimulating dirty little town called Dublin, a bristling city he found flushed with challenges. He found an office job: on a chair behind a PC learning a proper profession. How little did he know before he started working as a Technical Support employee for SerkoS; one of the many IT companies that sprouted like mushrooms to feed on Ireland’s fat tax-free soil. It was his first job working with computers, and yes he learned alright; in his own time. John sighed and turned away from the window. This strange country with weird people that always seemed to slack him off. Slowly he got up and walked to the stereo to put a new CD on. Within moments Bobby Darin’s parade thundered in the room, lifting his spirit and sending it flying across the room. John smiled and sang along in a loud voice. This life in Dublin, John thought, challenged the immortality of the soul. A typical Irish job then, a man in the pub told him with a wide grin the first night he went out in Dublin. It was the first of Dublin’s many revelations. John sighed and squatted down on the floor in front of the stereo. The music blasted right through him. In the corner of his eye he saw movement in the kitchen. Was he not alone? The thought fled him just as ready as it came as Bobby Darin repeated the couplet once again, calling for John to sing along word for word, and his mind drifted outwards again back to memory.

Regretting his new found work within weeks, and hating the nightshifts that came along with it, John had drifted across Dublin in search for a new job. Without much apparent success he had hastily given up. John shifted on the floor as he slumbered, and lay down with his arms wide. Then one day… He came from a job interview, where he swiftly got rejected, when he suddenly heard Strange Brew from The Cream as he promenaded past a faint little shop. A sound that hit him in the face like cold water on a hot summer’s day. The featuring record Disraeli Gears now stood proudly among other masterpieces in his record collection. John had stopped and walked backwards, shortly standing in front of Dublin’s many independent small record shops. That first magical visit was the start of a wondrous journey to rediscover the music masters of the past. Rare grooves. It was what made John feel alive and in touch with the world. Perhaps it was karma? What if the present was the result from the future? He rolled over the ground, got up and slowly scratched himself. Would he put on some Underworld?

    ‘Oy! Could you turn that terrible noise down! Can’t even think properly!’ Someone shouted. John turned in shock, which quickly changed for relief as he saw his housemate Nick stepping in the room with a broad smile.

    ‘He man.’

    ‘Just messing with ye, it’s grand! I’ll be out, see you later!’ and gone was Nick again.

    John looked around him, considering this moment. Slowly he had learned to appreciate his working shifts. In between John listened to golden oldies and experimental music and while most people seemed to be working, he crisscrossed Dublin to hunt for arcane albums and limited race records. To John, God was a musician. Music was life. He found it in old seventies recordings, obscure and unheard labels with music that jingled the mind and anything that seemed to call out to him from little music shops, like Smiley just before Rathmind, or little stables at the indoor markets. He swiftly learned to avoid the bulky places like Virgin Records or Tower Records: they had neither character nor choice at all. He knew his special places. So many gems to be found if you knew where to look and Dublin became a hunting ground for the well-honed hunter that was John the music lover. John growled and grinned at his own expression.

Trusty as they were, most Irish people seemed to like him, even though his skin was fairly dark and he spoke with an appalling stuck up cockney accent. The accent troubled him and at times earned him a God honest slacking. He worked on getting an Irish accent, often to great amusement to the Irish, quite willing to rabbit along to see how far he’d get before twisting his tongue in their rhyming slang that made no sense whatsoever. They rarely meant it personal. Sometimes he felt as if they were brothers to him, all part of one great family called Mankind. And yet at other times he faced incomprehension and sometimes downright racism. Birmingham had been nicer in that respect. John shook his head at these thoughts. The Irish could be sharp as a razor in their tongue and full of wits and whimsical in their sally. In his time in Ireland people had called him a crazy pothead, a softy and a goddamn hippy. But when he was out hunting for quality music, there was something in the glaze of his keen set eyes as he flicked through old and neglected records, intensely focused on finding prey, ferocious as a hunting tiger and swift as a sea bird. The Phoenix arose under his hands when he saved another masterpiece from silent oblivion and blasted it loudly on his stereo. It was his personal goal in life to share it with the people around him, whether they agreed to it or not.

    John smiled and got up and put another CD on. The Dave Pike Set.

Albeit reluctantly at times, his exceptional taste of music attracted a small group of people who shared a musical indulgence, next to a substantial and sometimes even spiritual one. With a smirk John danced in the living room, snapping his fingers to the beat.

Harbouring such strong emotions about his music, John let it guide him through his life, abandoning his ambition for work. He only cared about the music. In the living room John started to groove and for a brief moment he wondered again about his housemates: Hans a depressed Dutchman and Nick, a cheerful Englishman who almost never was at home. At times John felt a strong dualism between them with himself in the middle, constantly trying to find a balance. At times things had gotten crazy, though he couldn’t bear himself to think up any solid examples. With a smile he pivoted on his heel. Their shared living room was nicely decorated with patterned wallpaper from a time when LSD was the alternative for being just bored. White tables stood defiantly next to two green couches facing a low pineapple table.

    Quite smooth indeed! Nick said after John had redecorated their living room, and Hans had only nodded. And they never objected when John would lighten heavy incense at occasions. Was it because they looked at him with awe for his way of living: expressionistic and carefree as he worked his way around his own needs; or because when he lighted the incense it cleaned the house of all bad influences and spirits? The latter fact, perhaps, which could have also been a side effect of the first. Of all the people that sauntered in his life, one way or the other, only a few actually knew his full last name; others just filled in the gaps as they came along. “Some friends went straight to heaven, others fell into hell” as Shane Mc Gowan once sang. All in all, his live was a secret one, about to come to light, slow and painfully like birth.

Strength

Uls stood silent. His cigarette burned and grey smoke twisted in the air, and as time ticked away he remembered to take a puff. He felt unsure, wondering what he did here. It was days after the last time he had thought about himself like this. There was a threat here, a lingering death, violent and sudden. For a brief moment he entertained the thought that it came from within him. And that was not an unreal possibility: had he not ever taken a life? He could not remember and yet Uls was somehow sure of his power to kill. Yes. Bringing Death unwanted. Taking a life. It would take real willpower. Strength, yes. He felt a hidden strength deep inside him. And it wouldn’t necessary bring Death ― it was possible of course ― but not really necessary. Strength. Had it always been there? Or grew it slowly into place like maggots in dark warm corners on thrown away food?

Radio played mono far away. Did he hear a horn blowing? Uls listened. A strong classical tune directed the wind, whipped it up and brought it down slowly with deep cellos and a high playful violin. Uls thought he could recognise Barbers “Adagio for Strings” but it was gone in the changing wind before he could catch its tune. Again Uls remembered his cigarette, looked at it and threw it away. It drew an odd look from an elder couple sitting on a bench some metres away. Uls looked back but felt none of the menace that his eyes registered. Slowly he turned around and went for a quiet walk over the dike. It was a nice day for it.

Underneath the dike the sea cobbled softly. A quiet breeze guided seagulls over the silent waters of Howth. The tourists hadn’t found this heaven yet at this time of the year. Only a few people ambled around, slowly and unsure, sometimes stopping to rummage in a travel bag, making pictures and trying out their sunglasses. Uls sent pebbles flying over the water as he gave them a hard toss. Giant clouds drifted overhead, their shadows rolling over the land. Beams of bright sunlight shone here and there through the clouds. Although it was Saturday, it gave the day a more religious touch. The serenity of it all brought peace into some hearts. Uls felt the whole scene looked too grey; he desperately needed some lush green. With a grimace he sent another pebble flying.

‘Zir, would yer stop doing tha’ please yeah? Thank yer.’ A plum lady asked Uls in an accent he couldn’t place. She was seated on a bench a few meters past him and she had that fat appearance that somehow reminded Uls of a proud pig. Taking his time to take a closer look, he decided it was because of the stout voluminous nose. First of all it gave her a nasal tone of voice. And secondly it stood out defiantly, matching the obstinate look she was giving him now, somehow measuring and still confident. Like a wild swine ready to charge, challenging him. What did that stupid cow want? He turned aside and threw another pebble across the water.

    ‘Oi! I jest asked ya if yer could fucking stop doing that!’ she shouted loud enough for a few people on the dike to get startled and give them both the odd stare. It was turning out to be that kind of day. Uls didn’t react, only wondered about that peculiar accent. He whirled around with his finger up and ready to ask her, but as he did she turned her head aside and muttered something that Uls made out as: ‘…Rat-arsed cunt’. He thought better of it and started a steady pace along the waterline where he sent another pebble sailing over the clear water and slowly recollected his thoughts on his inner strength. Death. He made up his mind. The day was too nice to mow over terrible thoughts and Uls started a gentle sprint. In weather like today’s a fit man could run for hours, which was what he needed to do to get back to Dublin and find out who the strange geezer was who had left him here after a grand night of going on the piss. Or perhaps he had been wandering off alone again into oblivion; in any case it didn’t really matter how he got here. Uls took a deep breath as he picked up his pace. Perhaps he would pass a pub along the way and go for a pint. Smiling to himself, he noted that in any path of life, there is a passage through darkness. And perhaps he was now finally coming out of it. He grinned as he found his walkman in his pocket and pushed play and heavy industrial beats ushered Front 242 in his ears.

Separation

"Ireland, Sir, for good or evil, is like no other place under heaven, and no man can touch its sod or breathe its air without becoming better or worse."

― George Bernard Shaw

‘Oppressor. It’s a harsh word but I use it anyway. Now…’ a voice started louder, ‘I am not a religious man, but we all can see clearly….’ The soapbox tumbled as the speaker got pummelled by a crude wooden cross wielded by a red-faced Irish priest.

    ‘You fecker!!!! Don’t ye dare mess with dear God!’ the offender cried and he continued to bash the ill-starred speaker with the end of his cross.

The crowd responded tentative, yelping with the religious power released from its hold by the angry priest. Contenders quickly grabbed him before he could brutally murder the speaker, and as he was jousted and pulled towards the nearest pub, he rasped: ‘God sees everything!’

Hearing a rowdy mob approach the pub owner quickly opened his doors and ordered them all inside. Several men jolted the priest to the bar to have some serious talks about the use of violence and if it was alright to cheat on the Miss’s on a bachelor party. Someone ringed the bell for free drinks and the black kept pouring. The rumour that emerged from the pub while it had been dead as a grave only minutes before, seemed to set the whole world in motion.

    ‘It’s all bulox anyways eh?’ a hardy man said to the priest, who was in the process of loosening his clerical collar. The priest stopped.

    ‘Don’t ye…’ he started. Tup. Someone put a heavy beer in front of him and he turned to it. Another man aside the priest tapped him on the shoulder.

    ‘The ambulance is scraping the fecker off the street now; he’ll be alright my man told me. The Razzers knows it was you but have a chat with ye t’morrow.’

    The priest thanked the good man and lifted his glass in a cheer. Everyone who noticed him toasted and drank. It was a Dublin daydream, and none but God had seen.

‘Invasions.’ Another man standing on a soap box started in the park to a new audience. ‘Masses of aliens, just ready to kill…’ the new speaker said, building up a deliberate tension by raising his hands, ‘They are out there!’ the speaker tried, but his skinny arms carried no weight. His eyes twirled around as he added: ‘...And they are here!’ He squinted his eyes looking around him wildly, scaring a little girl in a daisy dress that turned crying to her father, who patted her but paid no attention.

    ‘The grey men, who want to stop me? They are RIGHT HERE!’ The speaker said, and a short man who stood upfront wiped off some spittle from his face. As he rubbed his eyes he looked around him. He noticed the little girl still crying and her parents and a big brother standing behind her. Her father had the looks of a Liverpool man, with the stern face of a dock worker and the far away look of a long time unemployed. The short man frowned as he discerned a grey skin complexion on the man’s face, but felt sure enough it wasn’t the grey the spitting speaker in front of him referred to. Apparently he was still warning for the aliens to come, but the short man shook his head and wandered off, going for a pint.

Lower in the city’s richer parts, a man in black jeans and t-shirt grinded an electric guitar and shouted from on top of his lunges: ‘Lay lady lay!’ A wet-cell car battery supplied the energy for a roaring metal sound, that started slowly but quickly filled up with murky chord structures and a down tuned rhythm that overplayed with infectious guitar licks.

    ‘Lay lady lay!’ he blustered in between. Bob Dylan had never meant it like that. There wasn’t much else going on in Grafton Street, safe for the occasional pub hoppers and lost tourists and youngsters running amok. On a street where no-one seems to get excited about anything, a black hat slowly filled with small change and the guitar man would play till his battery went dead or the last round sounded in the pubs.

As the night crept onwards and cornered the sun in the dark of an alley, and the moon gently appeared, a silence settled over Dublin. A city without the reed hurdles that once gave it its name. Where only the river Liffey, mother to the old land, remembered the rare old times, when long ago four tribes once came to Ireland clad in black smoke, their ships burning ashore and their presence a sudden mystery to the local people. And now, with Ireland’s sudden economical boom that rattled through the moist island, there were sudden newcomers again. After decades of mass emigration, the Irish suddenly found themselves welcoming fortune seekers and dreamers from Europe, Asia, Africa and descendents coming back from America. They came in their many thousands, leaving home and house to arrive in a country surprised to see so many new faces again. They came with progress and brought diversity. Dubliners would look at their Liffey and wonder if she knew why ‘for fuck’s sake what the wankers are doing in their towen’. A dreamy spirit might take a sudden movement on the water for an answer, the chaffing of water around the bridge piers for a smile.

And yet every Dubliner could know it if he’d only searched his heart: here is the homeland where you are truly welcome, here be the country where the grass is always greener.

Signs

"Thinking without action images visions which die stillborn. Dreamers and visionaries who do not act to give form to their dreams and visions do not express power. ... All the power that man has is in his knowing. And all of it is expressed only by his thinking. However, work must be performed in order to express power. But the power that we express is not in the body. The power that we express is in the still fulcrum of God centering every man ― the Light which centers everyone and every creating thing. In that still fulcrum of rest is all the power. The action which extends from it is the expression of power, what we call Creation."

― W.Russell, The Secret of Light

Abandoned in a chaotic wood with a heart locked in hardness, Rick sneaked through trees and bushes, seeking for his heart’s content. As he pushed through, the branches cried out in pain as he broke them. Then he was in the light, as he came upon an open spot surrounded by red mushrooms with white dots. The spot appeared to be occupied by a strange gathering of white fairies and black devils. His eyes searched their fantasy features for an open mouth or a smile gladly given. As he came closer, Rick saw the fairies dancing and the devils swinging with malice, on a melody that to Rick sounded disharmonious. The woods around the scene were alive and swayed along with whirling leaves. Rick noticed the air heavy with moisture and he saw growing clouds that seemed to drown the air with an unnatural smoothness.

    Putting his focus on the fairies, he scanned their faces for any happy emotion. They were too hurried to enjoy their dance he saw, and Rick looked at them as a whole, appreciating their harmony. Lightness and joy entered his heart as his eyes witnessed the fairies dancing, delicately between the rustling leaves, their wings transparent and touching softly at passing one another. There was a certain attraction, pulling him towards this erotic dance, luring him into sin. And then with a sudden dread Rick felt his eyes drawn to the devils, which aimlessly and without care, stampeded through bush and pool breaking branches and splashing water with their moshing. Rick looked closer at the devils and faintly saw they wore animal faces. He could make out the spotted head of a leopard, the rich manes of a lion and with a fright to his heart Rick recognised a wolfish grin.

Noise. Rick could distinguish it aside the rain which had started to fall down; there was also a soft ringing. Where would this all lead to? Anguished, Rick could do nothing but watch as the sound captivated the fairies with resonance and slowly wetted their wings. The raindrops fell around the devils and instead of falling at their feet the heaven water stopped just before it hit the ground, clustering along the violent dance of the devils. Now Rick could see a dark sun glistening on their skins. Their hooves splashed the water up and there was a force that held the gathering water. Rick’s feet were nailed to the ground by this scene: he could not move them, captured by an unknown force. The dance of aggression whirled as it accelerated in movement and in between the cluster of water, leaves and splintered branches, Rick saw dark and light faces. He tried to move his feet, and break the seal of standstill, but his legs refused to obey him, confounding him securely. The enthralling sound further distorted the elves and their wings got heavy with moist and when one fell out of step, the fairy got trampled by dark forms engulfed in shapes of water. Another fairy tumbled to the ground and was crushed aside by violent movement. One by one the fairies started to fall. Rick wanted to escape the scene, leave them to their folly! The water rose to the noise that had moved from the background to full out offensive banging. All of a sudden a devil stopped in front of Rick and looked at him sharply with beady black eyes. It disrupted the dance. As the noise arose even higher, the devil moved its lipless mouth and without sound Rick knew it was calling him by name. With a fright Rick wondered what sense there was in bringing that awful sound into the once balanced scene. Did he bring it? Just by being there?

Slowly opening his eyes, Rick could still hear the ringing. It was the house telephone. That was not good he thought to himself, as the buzzing of his alarm clock should have awoken him. Franticly Rick jumped out of bed. He landed on a weak limb that gave out the moment he pressed his weight on it, leaving him crashing down. He fell with his arms hitting the table opposite of his bed, which tumbled over, and as Rick slammed the ground the table contents hit him square in the chest and stomach. He lay there numb for a few seconds, experiencing pain and sleep fighting for his body, when he noticed the ringing again. His left leg was still dead with sleep. His stomach hurt. Rick tried to get up. Angrily he joggled his senseless leg. Rick stumbled down the stairs, accusing his bloody lazy leg. It was rebellious! Sabotage! And at this moment he started to notice the bad hangover that he had to deal with today. Oh his freaking head… Rick just managed to pick up the phone before it stopped ringing.

    ‘Hi this is Rick.’ He said, almost awake by now.

    ‘It’s Goldie here. You are a bit late today I’d say.’ It was his Swedish manager calling from work. And she was dead right.

Univocal his watch and the clock stood at a quarter past nine. After a quick shower and a scavenge through the kitchen Rick left the house in a hurry. He strolled to the bus stop after he tried running, his alcohol racked body allowing for little exercise this morning. A final last sprint could not cope with an unusual bus driver who set his mind to be on time and Rick spend the next fifteen minutes waiting for the next bus and smoking his last cigarette. The painful experience of waking up didn’t affect his mood as much as the strange dream. It made no sense, and didn’t seem to relate to any dream-explanation he could manage to remember now. Elves and devils… Well of the latter he had enough at work. The lure of money. If that was the most likely comparison, what did the elves mean? Rick wasn’t fond of mystery, or for sugar dolls who always tried to fall in line. Ah why even bother? Such petty wonder indeed he agreed to himself and he let it drop from his thoughts as the next bus came and he gave the exact change.

    The word leprechaun, the Irish fairy, didn’t come to his mind and wouldn't probably have made any difference. Looking outside a steaming window he saw streaks of a grey old Dublin, the city where the Celtic Tiger had arisen and now loose on a crawling infrastructure through a hazardous jungle called future. Rick sighed deep, the dire Monday morning terror covering his eyes as he tried to enjoy a quick nap. He would really have to start drinking less… Or get better at it.

‘Zoby! What’s the crack!’ somebody shouted. And not for long he was awakened by further exchange of words, fiery and draughted, the common complaints shared between public commuters alike. Like the white cliffs of Dover, the white building of LightSkye and SerkoS doomed up on the left and Rick pressed the stop button. Several others dropped from the bus showing that haunted dread that comes with coming late to work. Rushing in quickly past security and through the long hallways, ignoring the rows of cubicles and eyes that recognised him as Rick hurried to his own desk, where he found a little yellow note that screamed attention like a damsel in distress. It was signed by Goldie, and it told him he could make up for his lost time by working double overtime to make summaries of the business value of the new products. Awesome he said to himself. A joker’s smile laughed him in the face from a postcard stuck behind his personal note board and Rick smiled back in jest. Under the jokers smile the card read: ‘If a fart explodes in your pants and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound[i]?’ Rick had stuck it to his board to remind himself the power of humour. He put his computer on and lurched his way to the cafeteria for coffee.

Goldie towered over most office workers as she approached Rick, her blond hair and slim appearance still earning her glances despite her aging face. Rick guessed her around forty but respected her too much as a colleague to ask her. As she came closer Rick saw her constant smile again, one that armed her against the world. Even before Rick could see the stark blackness of her pupils, he felt overcome by her presence, the contrast between the dark fleece jacket and the white blouse she wore only enhancing it further.

    ‘Ah, Rick, our top German salesman, nice of you to show up! Had a good rest? Hmm?’ She asked and Rick couldn’t make out if she was mocking him or if she really meant it.

    He coughed and started: ‘Well, not really, thanks for waking me up…’

    ‘What, you had a nightmare? You shouldn’t watch scary movies before you go to bed!!!’ Goldie joked and made a sort-of-bogeyman-posture, which must have been a Swedish one.

    ‘Actually, it was the strangest dream...’ Rick tried again, but Goldie said promptly: ‘You got my note? I’d like to see the Value Proposition covered by tomorrow, so the sales guys can start using it in their calls. They start on that Power Event campaign by tomorrow morning so you better finish it today!’ she said firmly and didn’t wait for acknowledgement; briskly she marched on to tackle another hapless person. Rick pulled his shoulders in theatrical showing and went back to his desk without the coffee. It set the state of the days to come, and the sober week that followed.

---

[i] The original Koan is : “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”, author unknown.

The gift of Freedom

“A man is a god in ruins. When men are innocent, life shall be longer, and shall pass into the immortal, as gently as we awake from dreams.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Gently a ginger man tapped the inside of his shoes with his big toes, nodding as he held his umbrella with a steadfast hand. Uls was his given name, having deep thoughts as he looked at the crossroad giving a calm look of disposition. It was not so much the sense of going in the wrong direction, nay Uls felt, but more a sense of feeling incomplete. He perceived a lacking of connection with his higher self. Now wasn’t the time yet. As he stood there in contemplation, Uls took his time and waited for his own thoughts to conclude, feeling not bothered by any of those busy people around him. They kept clear of his trench coat that flapped in the upcoming wind, dancing with the heavenly promise of rain.

‘Er… Scuse me, but…’ a thin faced man with clear blue eyes started. Uls turned to face him, the scruffy starting of his red beard confronting a clean-shaven face. It could have been the start of a riot, a mob fight or an outright classic standoff.

    ‘Yes…?’ Uls answered with a tone of voice that sounded well honed, rich in dark undertones and drained in vanilla honey; suitable for whiskey commercials.

    ‘Sir… We’re running a partition against the city plans to change the business contract with the Guinness brewery for the sign opposite to O’Connell bridge?’ the shaven man summed up as he must have done so numerous times before.

    Uls blinked. ‘What...? Are they planning?’ he managed.

    ‘To give the advert space to Heineken, can yer fecking believe it? It’s an outrage, that’s what, we got our man up there on the council but all they see is punts, y’ know? No bleeding sense of culture, that’s wot. Who but the damned pikey foreigners even drink this gutter water?’ Uls tried to respond but the petitioner continued with more verve: ‘…And I tell you what, it’s a bloody overtake, let me tell you, we should have never joined that damned European Union, that’s how I feel you know, but now there is no reverse and if that Euro is coming it will give us an even higher inflation rate already as tis, mark my words. But what do I know, I only work in a shoe shop, well anyways… Can we count on ye?’ He ended with the undeniable Irish lilt of a Dubliner and held up paper and pen.

Bearing his most sincere stature, Uls put his umbrella between his legs, slowly took the pen and tried to give him the worthiest signature he ever composed. The day seemed to demand it from him.

    ‘That’s our man. Grand. Well thanks a million and if you ever need new shoes come and see me at Margaret’s Shoe Heaven in Henry Street, that’s the packed shopping street squaring O’Connell Street, we’re open every day till eight and I’ll give you a fair discount too. Take care!’ The petitioner took off leaving Uls in a different state then before. Why had he signed that partition? What was in it for him? Somehow he felt as if something was taken from him, and a deeper feeling said that he was separated from the world. It kept on talking in his head. Dreamlike he noticed the wind again and held the umbrella tight in his hand. It felt like a hold in a collapsing world.

Overwrought with dreamy thoughts in his head Uls slowly stepped into the fading world of shopping people. His heart smothered in emotions of agitation and unwanted distraction. Quickening his pace he fell in line with a pair of young schoolgirls discussing last night out in blaring voices and wide gestures. As he broke rudely through their company and pushed them aside their idle chatter collapsed in impolite questions and loud Irish cursing. Looking aside he found himself briefly looking at his own broken reflection in the window glass before it broke apart into the sharp ugly faces of fat senior tourists sauntering to the same corner. Before anything he crossed the street and took a sprint to dodge the oncoming traffic. As he pushed through lines of waiting people he decided he could do with some company. And some drinks. And some fecking brand new brown shoes, he added and managed to put a smile on his own face.

Randolph Carter dreamed. Again. Memory merged with reality. His consciousness had endured so much and yet survived; and now far from his empty body, sensations that could be one or the other overwhelmed Randolph’s mind. Yes, he knew he was only lying in a cheap hotel bed in downtown Dublin, twisting and turning in his own sweat. And yet Randolph experienced his primal self being entombed for all eternity in a dreamlike state. Again. If life was a book he would flip through to the next chapter right now. The realisation of a prodigious weight upon his chest came to his conscious, and Randolph recognised sleep paralysis strangling him slowly. After many years this dreadful memory unfolded again to his mind’s eye, a memory that burned into his being from so long ago and yet, the memory itself challenged that very thought.

It had been an eternity. Forever and a day. Endless time. All those had passed and still time had ticked on. Randolph Carter looked back to this memory with alien eyes. Imprisonment. He couldn’t move. Locked inside a body. In a sarcophagus of strange metal. For eternity. Waiting till time itself would break apart. Oh the undying horror of it! He could only think, contemplate, ponder, ask, consider, wonder, hate or love but without his facial expressions: all of his muscles were frozen in this dire state that begged all senses.

    The weight on his chest increased, and Randolph thought he could hear the curses of the Karabasan, when this memory dream lingered to an end. A tormenting Mara stampeded on his chest and wedged free a piece of the memory from his wretched mind. The Machine. Through the slit of the metal sarcophagus Randolph looked, stared, gazed, gaped, gawked, eyed, peered and goggled at the strange workings of an alien Machine. The flashing of its lights and displays sent of lone thoughts, awaiting till his end would come. Or was this only a dream?

Randolph awoke abruptly and took a long deep breath. Free! That dreadful memory again! It came unforeseen, and brought grave matters of the cosmos back to this drifting state. Where was he going? Taken aback, Randolph lay on a bed sheet wet with his sweat, sucking in deep breaths of precious life. He felt despair returning, which he thought he had abandoned long ago, together with this dreadful memory and its haunting call of duty. And still, as always he had a choice, one he had taken before and yet… It all came back to him.

Living with a Reilly

“…In the spiritual life there is no momentum, you are always at the beginning.”

― Allan W. Anderson

‘Yes….?’

    Reilly rose quickly from a leather office chair and looked up showing expectation. His face was a blank, a new drawn card ready to be turned. In his arm he carried a coat slightly wet from the morning’s rain. Dressed in a cut suit which made his slender posture seem lumpy, Reilly felt misplaced. The wooden floor on which he stood creaked slowly with each step and sounded to Reilly like creeping death.

‘You can see Mister Gibbons now.’ The secretary said plumb, putting emphasis on the last word for reason unclear to Reilly. As he went for the large varnished wooden door, the secretary looked at him from the top of her glasses, her eyes flaring with a glowering scorn. He gave her a shy smile and then a nod, before he hurried across the hall and opened the door. There he entered serenity. Like the quietness before a storm.

    ‘Mr Reilly. Please be seated.’ He was greeted by Mr Gibbon’s hard voice.

    ‘Thank you, Mr Gibbons.’ Reilly took the seat offered to him. Mr Gibbons was holding papers in front of him and their eyes did not meet; Reilly carefully looked around the office, seeing rusty colours and old black and white pictures which spoke of a ruler with little care for taste. Now Reilly turned to look at him obediently. Mr Gibbons was still reading.

    ‘I read in your letter that you are interested in this job, because and I quote:

“I think this job has all the ingredients I am looking for in a job and I believe my skills and insight can be a valuable asset to your company in this function.” Mr Gibbons cited.

    ‘Yes Mr Gibbons, I…’ Reilly started, but was stopped by a hush from the older man behind the desk, his possible employer and benefactor. Mr Gibbons lowered the papers in front of his face and now Reilly could see him clearly. A ponderous and crooked nose stood out a sour grey face. Reilly amazed at the details of it. Beady eyes carefully measured Reilly while the old man licked wizened lips with an almost dark purplish tongue. The white hair sprouted thinly on a head that showed the very shape of his skull clearly. Death would be proud on such a face. Reilly sensed a hint of fear.

    ‘Do you have any idea where our Company stands for, Mr Reilly?’ the man with Death’s face asked him sharply in a tightly controlled voice. The way he said ‘company’ clearly indicated a capital letter. Reilly was unsure if this was a rhetoric question, and waited to be sure, further studying the man’s colourless face. It seemed drained of all emotion, as if a painter had drawn real life colours on a canvas, the true greyness, without betraying the colours themselves. There was a long pause.

    ‘Can you tell me, when my father laid the first stone to the foundation of this very building, Mr Reilly? Or why Gibbons Solicitors Inc. has an outstanding relationship with the Spanish Royalty and a particular close bond with their heir, Mr Reilly?’ The words flashed through Reilly’s mind and he could not place them anywhere. The conversation was going rapidly now, Reilly noticed, perhaps awry.

    He tried as confidence sounding as he could muster: ‘Well actually I...’ but was stopped dead in his tracks by Mr Gibbons now by a rapid movement of his hand, somewhat threatening.

    ‘Do you think, Mr Reilly…’ Mr Gibbons said, and continued in a stronger voice: ‘That you can barge in here, telling me, the only proud Gibbons left in this lordly company, that you are the right candidate for this job???’ He stood up rashly and smashed a fist on the table. A purple vein on the flushed man’s forehead flashed red and started pumping faster visibly. A storm was coming.

    ‘I am terribly sorry, Mr Gibbons, I didn’t mean to…’ Reilly said.

    ‘What!?!? You didn’t meant what…? If you got any sense in you lad, you’d think twice before you even step into my office! And you’d better bloody prepare yourself! I hate people who don’t prepare themselves!’ He threw the papers on the desk and sent them scattering like leaves through the office. Reilly looked at white papers falling on the dark floor. It somehow resembled a spiritual fall. His stomach turned sour.

    ‘Failing to prepare is preparing to fail! And this company has endured all these times by not failing, Mr Reilly!’ Mr Gibbons shouted at him.

    Reilly didn’t answer, too shocked to say anything. He could only stare at the angry face, flaming like the furious Death, and he knew that his own face would show anguish.

‘Now. I would really like to know from you, Mr Reilly, why you would like to work for Gibbons Solicitors Inc.’

    ‘I don’t, Mr Gibbons.’ Reilly answered meekly and he rose from the chair and left the room without turning back.

The secretary looked at her watch, then at the back of the last candidate. A red light blinked on her desk and said as she pressed a button: ‘Yes, Mr Gibbons?’

    ‘When is the next candidate?’ Mr Gibbons snapped.

    ‘At nine thirty, Sir.’

    ‘Right. You can send him through immediately. Pity of the last one... I really liked him.’

    ‘Yes, Mr Gibbons.’

The Human Race

“Mankind has, from as long as anyone can remember or has written down, always known sadness. It is our driving force. The old Celts described a world full of suffering. Only suffering gives meaning. You learn life as you undergo the struggle of it. Je Maintaindrai. What does not kill you makes you stronger[i]. The selection and breeding of our ancestors have gotten us far. Look at what you’re doing now. You and I evolve. Walk with my message and learn more for every day can be another step higher into consciousness. Let our mysteries unfold as we open our minds.

As we grow in perception, our vision grows[ii]. When our vision grows, we grow in awareness. When we grow in awareness, we become more who we are. To suffer is a virtue. We are all lesser beings who can learn and have a fuller life. Death cannot be avoided. Neither taxes, nor the misuse of power and government. Accept this and then you can accept yourself. Live your life for yourself. Care not what the neighbour says, but be a good neighbour. Do not depend on others. Only you can enlighten yourself.

Never did the world stand still for its own madness. “Power attracts pathological personalities. It’s not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible[iii]“. Order is the standstill of creation; it mimics the greater workings of chaos and its strangling hold spreads out like a cancer. Even though the Celts knew this, with their plotting and manipulating wise women, still their old order died without the new sacred blood. Always accept new blood. As for the Goddess, each stone laid upon another is a dagger in her back. Know that She always watches.

    Rectify your way of living for otherwise it will not progress. Love the earth, marry the land and watch the seasons. Only the flexible animals survive. Only by accepting this instinctive truth can you attain godhood. Listen to yourself, for you will not lie to yourself.

Neither God nor Satan wants you. Both represent order. A dualism which our complex world can not match. Bungling underneath the greater workings, less then a pawn, you are left alone on this abandoned world. ALWAYS. To consume is being consumed in this New World. The flame of desire will drench the world in Hell. And who but the lifeless faces on TV will speak to you? Seek neither results nor credits for your work for it leads to carelessness. Be aware of the balance in your work, the balance in yourself. For we have forgotten what has passed away and unaware of what is coming to be. We are of this world but sadly not in it. We are in Plato’s cave. We are enslaved by our own creations. We dream endless dreams in machines.

All this can change. The universe has always followed its own pace. To be one with the universe is to be one with your own nature. Be modest and devoted. Embrace chaos and there shall be no final embrace. Only through self-realisation can you truly set yourself free. Live your life content and aware of your own true presence. Be Authentic. Who dares to stand up in a crowd of millions and starts to ask questions about this life? Are we not blessed? Is this not the world as it should be? Civilised as they were claimed to be, the Romans did not inherit the world. Nothing in excess was the second phrase written on the gateway that leads to the temple at Delphi. The first phrase was Know thyself. Let us learn these lessons again and again. Kill your ego die with the sword of doubt and only then can you learn how Fortune’s Wheel is turned.

Zion lies within, where it always has been. The ultimate truth is within reach, plain for everyone to see, but covered with lies and false values and fear. Fear to hurt and fear to get hurt. Where is life in this empty vessel of desires? After the nicer car comes the bigger house. After birth we run in a straight line into the reach of Death’s scythe[iv]. Security kills the unknown. Maslow knew us well when he placed security before self-realisation[v]. And only through messages such as these can we hope to feel a fraction of a true spiritual journey. This message is but one in the sea of information.”

“A leaflet to enlightenment”

― John Bodhi

Given out at Duke Street, Dublin, 2001

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[i] Friederich Nietzche , “What does not kill you makes you stronger.”

[ii] Teilhard de Chardin, “Fuller Vision is fuller being.”

[iii] Frank Herbert, Chapterhouse, Missionara Protectiva,Text QIV, published by G. P. Putman’s Sons, 1985, ISBN 0-399-13027-6.

[iv] Hans Teeuwen, “After birth we run in a straight line into the reach of Death’s scythe”, Industry of Love, 2003, ISBN 0-198-3561234-2

[v] Abraham Maslow, A Theory of Human Motivation, 1943.