The morning transformed us:
the path through the pines
became a glowing portal,
and we were gone.
The Wizard was alert:
the Dog sensed it
and voiced his concern.
The Path led through
shaded glades,
with just a hint of strange movement
within the shifting shadows.
Dog bristled,
stern warnings in his throat,
prompting the Wizard
to chant an arcane, but powerful,
spell to counter Chaos.
Waves roughened the darkening cove,
obscene shapes showing
through the foaming crests.
Suddenly a sharp crack...
the smell of ozone.
We picked up the Thursday flyers
from the foot of the driveway,
and, as the dog was exhausted,
sat on the verandah
for a Time.
The vibration of the Third Eye Chakra
gave a shimmering orange neon edge
to the Reality of
the quiet hill.
The jackpines meditated,
and focussed
on the gentle sigh of their breathing;
the South Wind whispering
tropical secrets
of moonlight romance.
The shadows skipped
forward
and
back,
as though we were stuck
in a time loop:
an Escher mobiüs strip
of Eternity.
Truth beckoned,
just an illusion away,
as Cosmic meaning
was revealed.
This.
Now.
A Brief Introduction to Brane Theory
The central idea is that the visible, three-dimensional universe is restricted to a brane inside a higher-dimensional space, called the "bulk" (also known as "hyperspace"). If the additional dimensions are compact, then the observed universe contains the extra dimensions, and then no reference to the bulk is appropriate. In the bulk model, at least some of the extra dimensions are extensive (possibly infinite), and other branes may be moving through this bulk. Interactions with the bulk, and possibly with other branes, can influence our brane and thus introduce effects not seen in more standard cosmological models. ~Wikipedia
Brane Storm
A slight brushing sound,
and the jackpine was surrounded
with a crackling
ferocious
blue electric aura:
sentient, living, feeling,
it communicated with its peers
in the small grove
on a sacred Hill.
Their light pulsed with wild appreciation
as they exchanged stories
with a visible orange breeze
that smelled of lime,
and spoke
with a wind-chime voice.
A heavy grey luminescence
cloaked boulders in the garden,
enabling the earth to speak
with deep
with resounding
with echoing
voice,
reflecting an inner joy,
communicated
by
harmonic
vibration.
All of this then,
only a brush away,
a brane away,
and only partly aware
of the old man,
and his dog,
watching, enchanted,
from the Reality
next Door.
In this Reality
it was a foggy day,
with misty droplets
shimmering... luminous
in the morning air.
My beagle pondered
entanglement theory
as we listened,
enchanted,
to the infinite
names of Truth
sighing through the pines.
Other Realities pulsed,
just beyond sight:
an ambulance screams
across a cove so tranquil
that the sole loon is embarrassed
by his laugh.
...and a small blue-green bubble
floated,
invisible,
through a cosmos too vast
to be called
god.
“Keep climbing,” they said, not saying why.
“Don’t turn back, you have to try.”
So onward I trudged, though the path was steep,
without looking back at my valley deep.
I was born in the valley,
where it smelt of spring, and new-mown hay, and growing things.
In the valley, where the robin sings,
and every Sunday the church bell rings
sharp at seven:
where they talked of Heaven
not hell.
I remember the school, and the dusty road
where I’d run to help father carry his load
of greens from the garden, or fish from the sea.
He seemed to stand taller when smiling at me:
and the smile never faded.
The days were long,
but short as the stay
of a summer circus,
or a rainy day
in grandmother’s attic.
Then I watched the travellers, and saw them walk,
and not all passed, for some would talk.
And they spoke at length of the mountain high,
and of golden temples that reached the sky.
And I heard
and spoke not a word.
But thought.
Then joined them in their weary climb
and pilgrimage to heights sublime.
But our breath grew short as we reached a plateau
in a land of mist, where bitter winds blow.
I could see no more of the valley below.
“Upward,” they cried, and surged ahead.
They pushed those weaker. They walked on the dead,
not seeing.
And I ran in terror from the crowd,
and heard mad voices calling loud.
But the sun had come from behind its cloud,
and I saw the valley, with fields fresh ploughed,
and ran faster.
I mended my nets and sharpened my hoe,
and forgot the mountain covered with snow:
and I watch the travellers passing by.
And once in a while, at night, I cry
and wonder.
Perfect sunny Sunday, with temperature just above 10C, so Ranger and I walked down Dolby Hill Road (it used to be Dobie Hill, but the sign writers - surprise, surprise - misspelled it) to #7 Highway, then up to the Post Office, then back to West Jeddore Road and home.
What is wrong with people? The side roads were not too bad, but the side of the highway was littered with a sea of jetsam from the passing cars. A small sample of what we saw along the kilometre and a half of highway that we travelled (and, yes, I counted!):
3 26oz rum bottles,
1 26oz vodka bottle,
3 26oz miscellaneous alcohol bottles,
5 12oz liquor bottles,
8 beer cans,
3 beer bottles,
6 soft drink cans,
12 Tim Horton coffee cups,
16 other throwaway cups,
6 styrofoam fast food containers,
3 car oil plastic bottles,
4 car additive plastic bottles,
2 used condoms,
3 roaches,
over one hundred cigarette butts,
too many plastic bags of various sorts to count,
several small plastic bags full of garbage,
and a huge assortment of stuff that I was unable to recognise.
I really do not believe that this is sustainable. As the population grows, our average IQ seems to shrink, and with it our sense of environmental responsibility. What are the people who throw this stuff out of their cars thinking? First of all, the beer cans and alcohol bottles, together with the roaches, would indicate that a lot of people are driving impaired, and then there are the condoms! It would seem to me that, if you are going to use a condom in a car, you would at least pull off the road, and stop the car, and not just use it while driving. It is just wrong to multitask while having sex! Focus.
Consume, consume, consume, and then, of course, just throw it away. Who cares, right?
Sigh.
Oh, despite all of the above, Ranger and I had a good walk, and felt better for it, at least physically. Mentally? Well perhaps that's another rant.
February gets us while we are weak and severely lacking in Vitamin D. The bleak whiteness drags at our spirits, erasing memories of spring and summer, and making us question who we are. Northern winds drive razor-sharp blades of ice at our exposed skin, and freeze the breath in our lungs. February is like a black hole on the edge of our cyclical lives that draws us closer and closer to our event horizon, permitting us to escape at the last minute solely so it can enjoy watching us suffer again next year.
The box under the tree
wasn't wrapped in shiny paper;
didn’t have a bright red bow.
It was rather battered,
wrapped in torn brown paper
tied up with dirty string,
but the tag held his name:
he gingerly unwrapped it
and opened the lid.
With a mental “whoosh”
the contents assailed his senses.
* * *
The boy played with his wind-up train set
under a tree decorated
with sparse baubles
brought from a home
that now seemed far away.
His baby sister gurgled on the blanket
beside him,
while his mother sang in a kitchen
warmed with the smell of cocoa.
The young man,
lonely as he worked the midnight shift
on this bright Christmas morning,
thought of Christmases past,
and smiled.
The sailor, hitching home
over snowdrifted roads,
awaited the next car
to take him a few more miles
closer to home,
closer to family warmth,
and mincemeat pies.
The memories of family,
all much loved, some long dead;
of friends far away
in time and place:
mental milestones of happiness,
and of heartbreak:
the friendly ghosts
of seasons past.
* * *
The battered box
vanished from his mind
as he watched the activity
beneath the sparkling tree.
The children,
surrounded by presents,
added noisy counterpoint
to the carols on the stereo.
His wife, long accustomed
to his Celtic melancholia,
smiled as he wiped
a single joyous tear.
His Gift was memories,
a sense of family,
of continuity,
and love.
Here’s to past and future friends,
to loved ones we hold dear:
here’s to those here with us now,
and those who can’t be here.
Here’s to those who have passed on,
their memories with us still:
here’s to building a better world,
with love, peace, and goodwill.
Season’s Greetings from Greyhavens
Welcome, and Namaste
Greetings fellow travellers,
For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.
As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.
May your Dharma be clear
Peace
"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."
Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream
