It’s been a while, and now it will be even longer. The last posting here closed with sparing detail ‘for the sake of what is awakening in old chambers of description’ and this one is fully in accord with that. A few days ago on a ridge above Ghost River, in the woodland foothills of the Rockies, this scribal enterprise came to an end. While being held in a sacred chamber of pure peaceful power all my attention to detail was revealed as script-perpetual. Though I may have been true in terms of describing such detail I was overlooking the slow-motion quantum-spin of the exercise. So, thank you most dearly for reading thus far. And I hope there has been some value in it, especially in coming to this moment of its own reckoning. From now it will be in suspension until the as-yet unsaid presents for communication. Till whenever … truly whenever … that’ll be me, Duncan, into silence gone. With love.
It’s been a dry run these past few weeks … yet remarkably fluid … and the other evening a friend commented on how things must be easy on the clear side of alcoholic mist. I really liked the idea. But instantly recognized that ease has eased off into a terminal twilight zone, leaving calm rawness in its place. And that rawness has now been strangely tethered to an emptiness which is quietly subverting everything: into a no-code interzone. Where even the holy ghost does no haunting.
Though there is no pink tinge to this ambience it is not desolate. In its way it’s intimate in the extreme. And yet marvellously, invitingly, remote. No schizo-quiver to it. Just the singularity-streaming of here and there in a concentration of forward presence, just beyond a recently evacuated space of consideration.
In daily-do terms this leaves nothing to be desired and everything to be met as gone. And as for this Monday, well it couldn’t help but be an example of what it is in: a calendar translated into non-chronic posterity. There are details to this, but consider them spared. For the sake of? What is awakening in old chambers of description everywhere … like here and now.
At minus 28 degrees, with ice creaking on the roof like a grumpy glacier, it is extremely pleasant to be a little idle in the morning and not setting off in the pre-dawn to do quaint-saint time in the utility grid of caring. There was a hippy politician back in prankster time who put himself on a California ballot as Nobody, with the campaign slogan ‘Vote for Nobody. Nobody Cares’. And the slightly acid buzz of that has mellowed nicely into a free personal flavour of this transit. Meaning that I can say, without tongue in cheek, that I am nobody and I do care. But in a way that is fundamentally carefree and non-perpetual.
These last few days have been a fabulously alive hibernation and the lack of surface eventfulness has been hugely empowering of gratitude for the simple suchness of mortal poignance. Especially now, as all of it is summoned to arise in response to an inner spring which knows not of poignance – arising not in accord with seasonal timing but in agreement with an awesome timeliness: the one which never wasn’t. And now is everywhere as announcement of always. Well, more than announcement and more than always yet not ineffable. The runes for this kind of script are too busy dancing to line up for perusal and cranky temporal measure is doing a wheezy-squeeze on the morning.
So time to leap up … after a fashion … put on the winter togs and head for an actual 3D appointment: physiological frame-working of presence into another day of doing the do. As done.
Well there’s Schumann resonating like a giddy geezer and there’s visceral-virtual boogie almost snapping the elastic and there’s Orphic-punk shadow play all over the sundial. So? Well, there’s also ascendant mainbeaming for the moment doing subtle subliminal wonders deep in the entrails of bio-time at 2.22pm precisely. And there’s incredible inter-zone suspension. Of? Transmission of any kind of code. While? Level shift is delivered for real.
And now for something completely retro. Like continuing to do the do. Even in this form of tippy tappy tripping through the lexical suggestibilities of memory and data sensing on many levels of mythic individuality. Mostly though this seems more like an astral page of dear diary atomizing into dancing dust, illuminated in ascendant mainbeaming as the glittering powder which sweeps across the scene of a spell as announcement.
I was invited by my dear master a few years ago to enjoy feeling communicating starlight. At the time, delight so instantly burst through some membranes of hesitation concerning hubris that the invitation has been travelling innerly all this while. And now it has met ascendant mainbeaming, also on innerworld circuits of appointed reconfiguration-readiness. As I note this I know I am serving notice on this. To be read as fully accepted. ‘Tis the way of it. Fair go, true blue and she’ll be right. Just because.
In from the brilliant yet dark woods yesterday to a city in slow motion phase-shift and back to the attic with its new sense of stately slipstreaming. Time out and time in keep meeting like an open secret these days and there is only enjoyment of the way the calendar is going transparent. And as for standard densities of form exertion … well, what were they?
Anyway on something of a narrative note: there we were with friends in the warm heart field of a wood burning stove exchanging, extremely late, seasonal gifts and came to a particular parcel. Just the way it was wrapped had the legend Merry Christ beaming out of the general swirliness of the greeting paper … and inside was a gift of completely sentient light. It was a picture of me and my beloved on a summer visit out on some grassy dunes with our friends’ dog, a one-eyed golden hound named Sadhu, in the lead.
Unwrapping the gift had the piquancy of knowing that the whole woodland haven, of dear presence in our time, is be wrapped up and bundled off to others in the next few months. And our friends will be over the hills and far away. All of which is free of old flavours of loss. As the knowing within gratitude becomes actively generous and the plus/minus routine of an old deal meets the newly arising reality of sheer gift … merry christ replacing santa’s bluster with infinitely kind welcome to the innocence which seeks no gratification.
There we have it. And here’s to the increase of it, completely.
As mortality-show channels begin to open into meeting and lines of appointment weave into one flow, there is yet hopping and popping in the old time-machine. Rather like that desperate extra flair which goes into auditioning for extinction. Except that now it’s all different and free of lingering claims to special consideration. And this has brought forward a lucidly soft focus which is bringing all frames into portal-vision. While leaving tender postcards of human momentariness free to find the slow way home.
No hard line to it. But a moving front of implacable, true timeliness that does not argue or plead or impose. It only makes way for what is due.
And what is due? As the morning races away and the day looms like a hovercraft/submarine fusion, all setting takes the form of matrix wallpaper … peeling nicely along slightly incandescent fissure lines … and the duly appointed hour of reckoning becomes the nano-second of exact (very quietly ravishing) ’pass-go’ piercing. In such newness there is, along with disappearance of cyclic backdrop, a replacement of visioning with something like lucid dreaming without imagery. As awakening fades like the Cheshire Cat’s grin into the memory of enchantment wrapped up into bright delivery to the most ordinary detail of what we find – on the way to the Oasis, and beyond.
As I said to a shipmate on the Celtic Seas, on one of those gnarly original voyages, when he asked how fared the watch: ‘ Steady as she goes Till there she blows’. And now it’s pieces of eight as loose change and the whole horizon going portal. Here we go.
Moments to go … not usual ones … in a zone of emergent coherent momentariness. As time runs amok through scenarios of custom, trade and condensation.
What’s condensation doing in that little trio? As a period of the distillation of essence it represents the inter-dimensional concentration of desire into that which tends to flicker through the lower dimensions as a self-confirming disturbance.
Quite unlike the holy fire of true disturbance which arises from atomic honesty and leaps to dimensional fleetness of transition without tracing psychic designs on the dreaming screen of standard time. The jig’s up and it may as well be merry. But there is no reality-burden on that wee wish at all.
In the precincts of another Eve there is no compulsion to move. At the same time there is no complacence about not moving … Quietism subsumed into an Essene-Zealot fusion … because of core sensitivity to the invitation (eternal in the coming) to respond: to that which is sheer aliveness communicating only love to one and all.
No need to agonize over the permutations of deafness to this music which have so far defined the context for biomortal storylining, and which insanely continue to demand more ‘tech assist’. Way better to be jobless than to work in that fabrique.
So, along with domestic duty juggling and general diary hopscotch, this got written. Almost a case of ‘look Mum, no hands’. After back lane mechanical endeavours, and before setting off for the oasis of the North where navigational attention comes to the end of charts, it remains to wish only goodness to all sentience in what is coming to be gone.
Perfect ice patterns on the window above me and other-worldly ambience all around me, delivered by the music of a long time wayfaring companion, James Asher, are most delicately detailing a setting for what is coming to pass: a holy spell of immaculate realism. Most familiar and most strange. As I heard the gentle giant telling a sincere soul recently that in the innermost there is no Tibetan lineage, so also: this that is arising is dearly devoid of past charms, delivering only gracefully clean aliveness as gift to any anticipation of any kind.
And that then being now leaves mystery dispelled and opened to the constant surprise of being simply so in newness … awesomely … even as constancy leaps around the timescape of happy haphazard with the sure touch of ultralite finality. ‘Nuff said. Hardly. Not even begun. But intimated as irresistibly festive stirring in the webworks of truth-dreaming and heart-yearning. With amazed gratitude, so be it. Happy Christmas to all in goodness gathered. As meaning unwraps the gift of time and we, the celebrants, enter starry ranges of endless immediacy.
They used to call this time Advent … twinkling windows of sentimental promise marking the progression … and now it’s more like a NoName brand of MerryMix, not quite fully responsive even to flaming brandy. This ain’t a grinchy mood coming on. It’s a confession of sorts. As old structuring of expectation gives way to the telling of the foretold: in an instant, in an inner cascade of holy instants which communicate like micro-dots of the entirely new – subversively thrilling the foundations of that which is about to topple. A tipple before you topple, vicar?
The other night, with my beloved, I moved into more of an Easter than a Christmas by entering into the meaning of having taken physical form. It came as an irresistibly delightful fire of certainty (sitting nicely at the heart of the glowing hearth of midwinter) delivering actuality with communication from within-beyond. Even though words tend to stage-fright in the presence of annunciation, what could be rendered later would be that resurrection and ascension are not sequential. They are gloriously (and humbly) simultaneous.
As I write this, almost for no reason at all, I am remembering something I heard from Good Ole Boy country up here in Alberta some time ago. This local lad was riding a mule in the bush and they came across an invisible line (apparently this happens with mules from time to time) and there was no way the creature would cross it. No stick, no carrot. Nothing would work. So the rider turned the mule around and eased him over the line backwards. He and I gave great praise to that mule last night. And here’s to all our crossings … happily into ever onwards.
Huge blocks of time go by in nano-seconds, as a black brilliance quantum-shrinks whole colour-scapes of conjecture into zen punctuation of the yet to be declared. So this is the season for holy merriment. And the treasure of it is stirring mightily. While the mystic gifts of a first take are in miracle mugger mode … no innocent abroad is unknown to their generous agenda … promising to beat the death out of you in a light alley, and then give you everything.
Who should be so lucky as to be here now … if not for you … with the slightest trace of Yes blood-streaming through the soft tissue of haphazard presence. Star of wonder, alright. Speckling the midnight brew with irresistible tabs of awakening-in-oblivion and summoning the fabulous company of lost promise to one real round of super-vivid disappearance.
Even the robes of welcome to ‘come what may’ have been streamlined through a vanishing point to deeply crafted, utterly real transparencies of power and glory. Glorious array indeed. As I am writing this, my beloved has just come in and dropped into my lap a paperback ‘Proof of Heaven’ … well, OK, yes, sure, thanks!
And so this scribal moment is done for now. Time for meeting and beyond. The summation is on and no finishing touch is required. Leaving the dots blinking in a greeting kind of way. ‘Nar mean.