Meander

Deepak Chopra's fascinating insights into self therapy, as articulated in his Synchrodestiny, is well worth a read, whether you are a genuine pursuer of spiritual matters or encamp yourself in the rational side of the universe, ever ready to hurl the next rotten tomato at such offbeat theories and methodologies. He essentially discusses how easily we immerse ourselves in the material realm, thus disconnecting with subtler levels of reality that pervade with energies, or "pure potentials", capable of manifesting themselves as positive opportunities in the material dimension of our daily lives. Notwithstanding the obvious commercial slant in advocating a universalist outlook that weaves diverse spiritual and religious traditions into a common voice, I am nonetheless pleased to find that we both share common thoughts about causality - the implicit acknowledgement that underlying our failure to comprehend the subtler (or nonlocal) realm, is our inability to make sense of non-linear causality, where the ontological boundaries between cause, causation and effect can go all haywire. Conversely speaking then, have we all attributed false and vain significance to certain events and achievements in our lives, conveniently overlooking the sobering realization that in our material realm, all occurences could merely be radial extensions or elaborations of an unchanging, central prototype of causality? Perhaps, until we grasp the mere ornamental function of worldly concepts such as "importance", "significance" and "glory", we are doomed to an endless meandering in our rivers of pain and dissatisfaction.

Reflections on Troy Stones

Esoteric religious artefacts are usually completely incomprehensible, for the value in their mystique is surely proportionate to their inaccessibility. Rarely, then, have I chanced to stumble upon such a gem, whose very design conceals a subtle symbolism, or should I say an embodied metaphorical representation of the concepts which they portend to elaborate upon. Such a candid, if unintentional giveaway, this Celtic Troy Stone can be! Once used by sagacious old women to communicate with the other world via altered states of consciousness, as they twirl their bony fingers through the paths of these intricate labyrinths, humming arcane melodies, who would have thought that the fludity and lack of formness of these designs might potentially be a symbolic parallel of the uncodified and malleable characteristic of Celtic oral narratives! With that, rethink the fertility symbols, the spirals, their union with the Green Man and that plethora of contemporary iconographies...in our modern attempt to freeze what was meant to be fluid, our innermost artistic and conceptual instincts betray us in the most blatant and regrettable manner indeed! What better option to take, then, than to forfeit myself in her enchanting melodies, and weave my own fabric of sorrow, regret and remembrance; my own poignant reconnection with the Ancients...

Fat Kid

In all we do we desire symmetry, and court duality as if it were a precious rose that would quit lest it be defended through the night. If that was not the case we would not behold Adam and Eve, our Purusha and Prakriti, and indeed despite the denial of those who trudge the ancient path, our Goddess and Green Man. Even in the most distasteful events in life, we are not spared by perhaps the comfort of being able to invest all our sorrow and grief in a singularity, such that the intensity of our struggles could at least seek a focused resolution. In pursuit of the invisible line that dissects good and evil, certainly not as balanced as we might wish for, there can only be ambivalence. And so it is, that after the previously mentioned uprooting of the dog in the manger, grevious infelicity continues to descend upon me. With an uncannily perceptible snap, I collapsed upon baked concrete. However in some divine exchange economy, yet governed by duality, I was afforded by virtue of the stunning injustice some tokens to barter for reprieve. Hence the bold stride towards a cherished dream; the light knock on the doors of greatness. Hence the gentle, reassuring reply, chirping of some hope and salvation. Yet despite all the rambling, who would join me in mourning for the elimination of the precious Gayle Nerva? Oh the lamentations continue...

Secret Dancers

A germinating seed extracted from the soil that loved and nourished its being, soon embarks on a journey of decay. A rabid pack of werewolves, guided by Soma's unfathomable new fancy, departs from its domain and soon loses its deadly bite. And who could imagine a polar bear parade around the equator? Or the beguiling curse of an albatross unleashed beyond the oceans? Equally daunting as all of the above, is the uprooting of my body, heart, soul and mind, from a territory that once rang of familiarity, where I engaged the morning breezes in rounds of pursuit, and the evening shadows with melancholic reverence. Granted, the new dwelling affords sufficient silence and serenity for my tastes, but has woe ever failed to befall on the shoulders of those who do not possess the roof above their wretched heads? And then! In some sadistic metonymic mockery, another part of me lies in wait to be extracted from its home. This dog in a manger, this petulant brat in a mustering of orphans, this trickle of salt in a sea of sugar, the one that does not chew, yet dons the cloak of one who faithfully does....begone with thee!