The Cloying Curvature of Sleep


In the dark, our senses clamour for an anchor to re-ground our drifting souls back to the realm of waking dreams; because the disembodied night-world of dreams, drifting within the fitful, diseased and cloying curvature of sleep is too fecund – too overblown – too ripe to the point of near putrefaction for our cowering souls to bear. Even a libido forged from the feral elements of lust, despair and an amoral pursuit of sensation cannot endure for long the neon-infected nausea of dream-nights spent careering, like a yacht in a dark and raging swell, between points of illogical tenor and sublime import. There are no ports in the cerebral storm of nightmares and occultish visions – only the escape of breaking back through to the surface and the corporeal familiarity of waking and walking. This illusion as thin as ice of course, but the precariousness and the imagined ordinariness of existence above on this creaking, cracking surface far preferable to the bottomless, unseen and mortifying depths beneath…

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Soul Image


Anyone who is himself his outward role will infallibly succumb to the inner processes… moreover, the anima is inevitably projected upon a real object, with which he gets into a relation of almost total dependence. Every reaction displayed by this object has an immediate, inwardly energetic effect on the subject. Tragic ties are often formed in this way… In a man the soul, ie anima, or inner attitude, is represented in the unconscious by definite persons with the corresponding qualities. Such an image is called a “soul-image.” Sometimes these images are of quite unknown or mythological figures…In all cases where there is an identity with the persona, and the soul accordingly is unconscious, the soul-image is transferred to a real person. This person is the object of intense love or equally intense hate (or fear). The influence of such a person is immediate and absolutely compelling, because it always provokes an affective response. The affect is due to the fact that a real, conscious adaptation to the person representing the soul-image is impossible. Because an objective relationship is non-existent and out of the question, the libido gets dammed up and explodes in outburst of affect… (Jung).

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The Beauty of Time


Synchronicity spoke to me,
Whispering corn alive with
The portent of things unseen.
And I saw the fate of all of us,
Atoms back to stars;

Our time on Earth had ended
And viscous beasts surveyed
The Land left above the water.
Rotting relics mourned for man
Lost so long ago.

The Sun still rose and
The Moon gleamed at the beasts,
Just as always.
Our passage, our loss
Before an impassive cosmos.

The tumult to our egos
Had we seen this brazen fate.
How Love and Glory would have
Drenched our daily soul
With gratitude and awe.

How pained and yet how humbled
Would our hearts have been,
At the conceit of gold and politics
As the light of an epoch darkened
And closed our eyes forever.

How we might have breathed
Our gravity so differently
Had we seen, had we known
The finite count of being
And the miracle of knowing.

For those who see
For those who know,
Look skyward, breath in
The Flow of time and
Let today begin to glow.

For it shall not last forever.

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Under the Skin


In the absence and intrinsic impossibility, indeed, of human perfection, each of us should nurture, like a small, other-worldly pet in a cage, a deep and tremulous secret; something fevered and un-sharable; exotic and feral.

We know so little of ourselves in any case that the mirror projects an amorphous androgynous lie; a shell devoid of soul stares back. What is this mesh of sinew and calcium before me? How could we possibly know ourselves given this reality of transplantation straight to the imagination of Edgar Allan Poe, where morbid, clawing horror confronts us in reflection – a seething mass of cells, cavorting in a barely conceivable danse macabre, seamed together inside flaking layers of wafer-thin, living wrapping, secretly crawling with microscopic, voracious, amoral life. And yet, this collection of flimsily-construed carrion, somehow giving rise to impulses, connected and pieced together with devilish wires and threads; scintillae flowing in the breeze, implying hungers and desires, imploring satiety. How apt indeed, the insectoid-denouement for the blinded, shallow, masses of flesh in Glazer’s Under the Skin – lustful men drawn like flies to feed the pure and unquestioning hunger of a succubus; surely cinema’s, if not all of art’s finest exposition of the impossibility, the indifferent savagery of the human condition, and paticularly the male condition: fuelled by desire, consumed by lust, mere floating remnants of an empty-bag-of-skin all that awaits at the natural end of that path – a timeless image of terrifying profundity and truth…

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The Revelation of Beauty


To admire and to be simply happy for, and in, the presence of beauty, rather than to consume it, or to be compelled to own it – to make it one’s own; this is the first modern precept of happiness. To substitute desirousness with wonder, appreciation and genuine, humble deference is to break free from the cloying, incessant hunger of lust and longing. And this is also one delicate but meaningful step towards the path of deeper enlightenment where we truly understand that happiness lies only within – no riches, no achievement, no sex, no power or control will ever bring more than an illusory facade of soon-to-crumble pleasure and joy.

It also the road which opens on an unexpected and transformative vista, which is the realisation of how ubiquitous and omnipresent beauty is, in essence; suddenly announcing itself from every quarter, raining down its invigoration with awe-inspiring constancy and delicacy – molecules in every form, riven with their own type of beauty; only our understandable anthropomorphic lens ever casting doubt on this. I should not lie down quietly and succumb to cancer or fail to flee a marauding crocodile, yet, even with those, I can still admire their ingenuous and inimical beauty and instinctive resolve…

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Jung’s Concupiscentia…Desire


The only criticism of Jung’s take on the world of unconscious instinct dominated by sexuality and the power drive (or self-assertion) corresponding to St. Augustine’s dichotomy is that it is really not so unconscious. Well, let me clarify – these dripping tensions illuminate my every step. Take yesterday; cafe – coffee – preparation for a job interview which ought to have been my sole focus. Summer day and therefore, an oozing, simmering stream of youthful female forms glistening like the nuggets in the gold-pan of a fevered dream. Hunger. Desire. Copious, knowing glances. Distraction. Dissatisfaction. Inner contempt for my weakness; for this primal usurpation of any possible mindfulness – Buddhist balance shattered by longing, by the desperate thirst for immersion and enrapture; for the brief encapsulation of the simplest purest purpose – of the connection of touch, wrought from a beautiful, unknown shape. Of knowing, just briefly, the shared path of physical enlightenment and the passing, happy illusion that the abandonment of all further yearning will now be possible; Oh to be lost and found in those moments; those giving, longing, enlivening touches of another being, equally small and afraid in the universe, but in those mutual moments of accession, stripped to the nakedness of our very souls, crying with thankfulness and the temporary banishment of fear – its burden shed with such trembling release – creating, together, a brief and breathless illusion of godliness. Two strangers, in the unforgettable transience of a shared unity – wrought briefly within and against the universe… such deep, deep longing to know the compassion and sanctity of another’s touch.

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Musings of a Reflecting Soul


I imagined your musings dropping gently on my head as I slept – the wistful pitter of a leaking ceiling before the torrent. I could really feel the deep value and resonance of them within the dream and felt sure that when I awoke, they would make me feel more than a little valued. But I should have known better. In acknowledging the changing and transient nature of any given truth of the emotions, as I ordinarily would, when I awoke I could remember barely a thing about how your meandering reflections on my state of mind had made me feel, only that they had existed.  “This is how I feel now, today” readily becomes “that was then, now it is different” when tomorrow comes – and back again another day, and so forth. No more pointedly so thanwhen we are in and out of dreams. Vacillation and contradiction live gleefully in us all and within me, more pronounced than in many others, I suspect. The fever of night only worsens things.

I was preparing to respond to your musings and flicked through the newspaper on the bus in preparation.  I randomly landed on a story, which ends with the quote: “Maybe it’s not about the happy ending, maybe it’s about the story”.

So wrote Athena Orchard, aged 12, as she was dying of cancer.  Now gone, her family found this amongst 3000 words secretly inscribed on the back of her wardrobe door.  Moving, tragic and inspiring.  And those particular words, of a young girl with a profound shadow shaping her short existence, encapsulate everything I wanted to say and pretty much the essence of where I am just now, on so many levels.  But now I’m not sure what you actually asked me, and what I may have just dreamt. Same difference, perhaps.

What has gotten in to me is a brilliant question, anyway, even if I don’t know who asked it.  It’s the key question, really.  And it’s back to ‘story’ again – not a new theme in our dialogues. My memory of our conversations have adopted a sweet and treasured hue in my memory, dusted perhaps with a little melancholy; as for your kisses – the promise they held at the time – something more rounded, more untold, more revelatory than I had a right to expect. And in the mirage of memory, I contrast the intricate but different flavours of our first kiss at Notre Dam, with one some weeks later at the airport where you stood longingly, as I sat on a stool; with the last one in the Natural History Museum (the last time we saw each other, in fact).  Something subtle had already changed in you by then.  I knew instinctively.  You didn’t resist, but all of the reserve that had left you in those earlier kisses was starting to regroup and harden.  It all no longer held the same promise for you, within you.  The decisive ‘moment’ in the story had already passed, so-to-speak.  And then of course you went to Tunis and the same feeling was reflected back, ever so subtly in your texts and emails.  Again, as always, just my unavoidable, distilled observations, just feelings and descriptions of changing flavours and aromas, and not accusations or criticisms or tirades – so far from that, in fact – as our freedom as detached corporeal agents, independent of any oppressive gravity is a given in all of this, in the deepest sense, and like a body in motion, you have every ‘right’ – the imperative, in truth, to follow, naturally, without recoil or resistance, the twists and turns and sweeps and banks of any given story as it unfolds for you in multi-dimensional space – and I can see quite clearly, and with a reflective and accepting heart,  that that is all you were doing, as was I.

Anyway, what you get here today,  yesterday and tomorrow from my mouth and from my mind is forever and always a ‘story’, just a piece of writing,  a narrative, a mix of emotion, imagination and hard-nosed, blood-pumping literary fiction.  But try to understand it is never ‘fabricated’ or artificial.  The polar opposite is true.  Ever since I first saw your reflection shimmer back at me in the cloying heat of my imagination, I have divulged a deeper, truer, more heartfelt, more uncompromising, untempered me – stripped of facade – than I had ever dared imagine. It is the soul that lives entirely in the crossover world where reality, imagination, art, philosophy, longing and psychology are all swirled up, like petrol on a wet roadside, with individual colours identifiable but the aggregate effect the beautiful-yet-poignant kaleidoscope, the polluting rainbow, which is seen as a soiling spill, despite its beauty.  Others may get the solo colours, one at a time, but not you.  All this has been peculiarly organic, impulsive and inevitable from the outset.  And I hold that fact, rapt and pure; treasured simply for the story, not the happy ending, which will never come in reality, divested of all its potential by the inconsolable nature of spacetime.

So, this passing, unexpected, thrilling, confusing, enlightening, riveting, disconcerting phenomenon of ‘us’, and this thing between our souls, is devoid of ultimate answers, as is the interrelationships between any two or any number of entities. Only the elusive, impossible quality and substance of ‘inner peace’ offers this allure, this satisfaction, contentment, transcendence.  Other people, other things, other concepts, bodies and experiences cannot provide a sustainable transformation in the soul because the soul is simply not for transfiguration.  It is always an illusion; one that the Saints pursued with vigour nevertheless.  Aren’t monasteries and convents full of people who have willingly deluded themselves around the reachability of an ultimate state of perfect body and mind?  Even those who believe they have attained ‘inner peace’, have simply become stationary and frozen at a random, particular mind-set – an unnatural one where the story no longer unfolds; where the passage of time, and the movement of matter through space, to the harmonies of time is being artificially ignored to maintain a pretence of a ‘nirvana’ having being reached.

Incidentally, I am intrigued by your take on ‘legacy’.  The legacy that my ego pursues with greatest passion and devilment has nothing at all to do with progeny.  Perhaps that is the artistic streak in me, bent on some form of lasting recognition, even modest, even posthumous.  Although perhaps (and this hasn’t struck me before now) I have had the luxury of this way of thinking, subconsciously, because I DO have children.  Or perhaps not – without children, the creative drive in me would be even more vehement, possibly even more unhinged.

And so back to ‘us’, whatever hilarity that was, is and might be.  And back to the evolving kisses, the ‘Tunis alteration’, so-to-speak; I can see that you simply reached the conclusion slightly earlier than I did, albeit that we have both since arrived at the same place, that all this sparring, this intertwining and re-extraction, this hungry if compassionate dancing of words and mind ultimately holds no special, transforming power of ‘happiness’, exactly like you once said.  It may even carry the potential of too much ‘cost’, in different ways, for too little ‘gain’.

It cannot continue to carry an excitement, a vigour, a promise, a thrill as it once did. This is the law of entropy, of movement, of evolution, of growth and decay. Its offering, its suggestion is not really the untold heights of imagination, release, fantasy, drama and magic that it may have dangled, siren-like.  It is simply what it is – two random bodies condemned to the grace and fixity of the laws of nature – in a real world – a fascinating, wonderful yet crazy and so-often-mundane world – where waking reality is psychologically deeply inferior and infernally disappointing compared to the emotions of our daytime and sleeping dreams.

And yet I live in the vain hope of defying nature, so that instead of the inevitable gradual dissipation of this beast which grew between and amongst us, that now, miraculously, enlivened by the strange kind of ‘mindful and alluring pointlessness’ it has carried, subtly, throughout – that its grounding, now, in the world of physical limits, of less-than-mystical reality can help it plant itself like an fecund seed of self-actualisation in our souls; the removal of its illusory dimensions, giving it firmer, untrammelled roots.  But is that just a fabled, if gloriously conceived, giant beanstalk…?

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