A refuge from the eternal cynic …….

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An Equation to Persuasion

Numbers are the universal language in the mind of humanity

They are the mathematical principle of our inherent tapestry

In nature designs and  heavenly equations

Rotate endlessly beyond our considerations

Why then do we conjecture about the logic of its proposition

That life is eternal with such antipodal opposition ?

In a universe of distinct and geometric symmetry

Where the laws of movement are governed by natural tyranny

The musical mastery in the octave of a tonal interval

Where two frequencies having a ratio of 2 to 1 are integral

Why then does the meandering minstrel of philosophical bent

Guide us through this hypothesis with an aim to circumvent?

Has a miscast chord aimed from above the celestial sphere

Forced us to reevaluate the reason  we are here

Is it some kind of mistune played on our minds

Focusing on the ancient  written designs

Whose words we ponder with urgent solicitude

Speculating the proof which nurtures disquietude?

All of life resonates the death of its image and likeness of its being

Is a ritual to the perfect harmony of its continual foreseeing

Like a harp from the heavens of an unknown destiny

Playing the tune of mystery mirrors the pain of history

With the force needed to make that leap in time

To take us into the higher octave into another paradigm.

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A Little Revulsion to Be Free

 

1930 - from the top left: Paul Eluard, Jean Arp, Yves Tanguy, Rene ClevelBottom Left: Tristan Tzara, Andre Breton, Salvador Dali, Max Ernst, Man Ray

Funny how history has thrown up so many variations of looking at the world. Human kind has never had a shortage of what to think or make of the world.  The Surrealists of the early 20th century are a case in mind.

Surrealism was a movement born out of the remains of madness and terror. After the Great War, the writings of an obscure psychologist in Vienna, Sigmund Freud suddenly seemed relevant. Soldiers had experienced what was called “shell shock” in the early twentieth century to a degree never experienced in the warfare of previous generations. The Great War produced such numbers of afflicted soldiers that no excuses of cowardice or treason, no amount of executions could make vanish the effects of war on the mind. The madness of war lingered and altered the rules of public engagement for so many individuals. It also set the tone for a movement that rejected outright the institutions of a society that allowed so many to die horrible deaths and with apparently little to show for but piles of dead bodies, rubble and wounded spirits.  As a wartime nurse, André Breton had observed the power of the wounded mind over the helpless body and in 1921, he visited Freud to learn more of what the doctor called the “unconscious mind.”

For Freud, dreams were “the royal road to the unconscious,” meaning the mind was capable of communicating at various levels, and perhaps the least of which was the conscious level. The deeper buried layer of the mind “spoke” in codes, whether linguistic or visual, and these clues had to be decoded by the psychologist who could translate the obscured messages. What he learned from Freud gestated in the mind of Breton and so began a movement of artists from every discipline to shake the shackles off a hypocritical, uncaring and morally bankrupt society whose rigid conventions of social behaviours carved the road to so many senseless deaths. Contemporary society holds on to a delusion that this war and others that follow evoke noble and commendable acts of self -sacrifice which are still commemorated as some kind of testament to the courageous spirit of our species, but the Surrealists cut through this social facade and dismantled the propaganda  of the Great Hoax  and saw the power games of the rich which lured so many unsuspecting young men into illusory notions of King and Country  to kill their fellow comrades across the vast trenches of Europe. The Surrealists rejected everything that society and civilisation deemed to be normal and scoffed at the hypocrisies of institutionalised society by looking into their subconscious and releasing a primordial instinct based on emotional relevance.

Salvadore Dali was one among many artists, including writers, sculptors, playwrights, poets who absorbed this new freedom to explore, express and to test the limits of the human imagination in direct defiance of social codes of conduct and attitudes and created some of the most wonderful Surrealist Paintings of this era. The Surrealist works of art remind us that the unconscious imagination is another window to another reality.

The Persistence of Memory (1931), Salvador Dalí

The Persistence of Memory (1931), Salvador Dalí

Dalí described his meticulously rendered works as “hand-painted dream photographs,” and certainly, the melted watches that make their appearance in this Surrealist masterpiece have become familiar symbols of that moment when reverie seems to uncannily invade the everyday. The coast of the artist’s native Catalonia serves as the backdrop for this landscape of time, in which infinity and decay are held in equipoise. As for the odd, rubbery creature in the center of the composition, it’s the artist himself, or rather his profile, stretched and flattened like Silly Putty

Through the Eyes of young Salvador Dali

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GIRL AT A WINDOW, 1925

There’s a wonderful moment of casual idleness and nonchalant focus in the setting of this painting. The frame is a timeless celebration of youthful nostalgia. If such an emotion that goes by the name of existential immersion  can exist in the perception of an audience whilst contemplating the memory of a painting then this painting by the young Salvador Dali has captured it well…………

This work belongs to Dalí’s years of formation and style definition. We can see a young girl’s back in front of an open window, while admiring the sea of Cadaqués. Throughout his life, Salvador Dalí found a source of inspiration in the summers spent in this village, and the protagonist of the painting may be his sister Ana María, his model until 1929 when he meets Gala. It is very likely that, at the moment of creation, Dalí was enjoying a summer vacation with his family in Cadaqués. The frame depicted here, can be seen from one of the windows of the house that the family had on the Es Llaner beach. Houses are reflected in the glass of the window; some can still be identified today as part of Cadaqués landscape.

From the Other Side !

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Whenever I happen to perchance walking past or into a cemetery there is a timeless feeling of relief and tranquility washes over me like a cleansing agent for my emotional stresses. Walking past all of the rich and varied epitaphs on the grave sites offers a beautiful tapestry of singular moments caught in the memories of the deceased. I sometimes feel humbled at these precise moments of contemplation questioning, what is more important than celebrating communal life in all of its glory and transient wonder? I have never been obsessed with the thought of dying and I am not into living my life waiting for death but the absolute and final exit from this stage holds an unbelievable fascination for me. The idea that a close friend or relative or even a personal role model was with me in flesh and blood and we communicated once upon a time, undergoes a hard process to accept that this physical encounter will never happen again. I do not feel morbid or emotionally anxious about this inevitability that befalls everyone but at times I ponder the various platitudes surrounding the thought of death and also scan the mental images of this thought as perceived through the passageways of history. The conceptual reality that we walk into this room of life through the front door and then exit through the back door into a land unknown and from where no-one has returned leaves me stunned,  in a sense like being stung with a strong dose of medicinal reality.  I reflect on all of the trials and tribulations, all the hopes and the aspirations of so many; in fact all of humanity who have preceded me. In this realisation there is a comforting thought that emanates from a socialist perspective. All the riches, all the powers, imagined or real vanish once we pass that threshold. I empathise with my ancestors and imagine the sensual mysteries that life would have held for our progenitors; I witness the soothing theories of after-life and trace their natural demise with the ongoing rationale of contemporary science. And still as I meditate the discoveries of the modern world, the legacy leaves me with stunned silence and reverential respect for all that have passed by and for all who will enter into the beyond.

I use these ponderous thoughts to whip up a mock epitaph using an image to bounce off……

From Beyond

Welcome stranger to my final rest

I come to you from the other side

A faceless person emerging from this nest

With a passion to guide

In life as in death the sad truth

Is captured in this prism I hold

The  wonders of  eternal youth

Of celebrations foretold

Do not deny me the dignity

Of your reflective thought

Strike a light on my memory

Immortalise what I sought !

Are We All Gambling On Another Day?

I’m not sure if you know of Charles Bukowski but after reading his poem Gamblers All it got me thinking about things in life -especially my life. Here’s a copy of it below:

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Gamblers All – Poem by Charles Bukowski

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,
I’m not going to make it, but you laugh inside
remembering all the times you’ve felt that way, and
you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face
in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,
get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the
newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your
wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,
like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,
moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch
the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow
get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull
days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful
and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous
part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works
his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and
out through your shoes.

it’s been a tough fight worth fighting
as we all drive along
betting on another day.

Charles Bukowski
 This poem really struck a chord in me not only for its stark reality and pragmatic philosophy about modern contemporary suburban lifestyle but also because  it changed my attitude towards my approach in living and experiencing my days. I try and keep this alive in me.
In more ways than one we are all gambling on getting through another day and if we put this in perspective then all of our worries, concerns, anxieties evaporate into a meaningless corner of social priorities based on illusions of importance.
The idea that each day could be our last is a celebration of fortune. I mean this in both the obvious  sense of fortunate to be alive and the metaphoric sense of surviving the elements of nature.
No one escapes the trials and tribulations of day to day living but to see it expressed in such simplicity and with such fresh perspective lightens the load. The stress and the discomfort become a shared and collective experience which triggers a genuine drive to see life from the vantage point of a risk taker who is forced to sucuumb to the pressures but also realise that luck plays a huge role in the fact that we are alive and empowered to think, interact, experience, observe and participate.
The poem injects an appreciation and a celebration of the life I have and having said this I am reminded of one of Einstein’s famous quotes , ” God doesn’t play dice with the  Universe !” and my response to that is ” What’s God got to do with it?”
 How do you see this poem?
Any comments, suggestions, directions, ideas, criticisms, overhauls, rejections are more than welcome……..
We are all visitors to this place and travellers through space so bouncing off one another can only improve or disprove my emotional reactions…and I really want to know what it is that I am trying to visualise and communicate with help from my comrades in life…

A Call To Bacchus

 

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Oh to dream my desires and lose myself in these fires

To contrast my body with the selfless misery

Of so many souls trapped in a vortex of my imagery

I love the soothing, sensuality of it all

Makes me want to embrace myself to the core

Please don’t awaken me to this illusion

Allow me once more to fulfil my delusion

Too many times I have abandoned this need

To submerge myself under this creed

                                            Entangled, enhanced, enriched, embraced

Inside this cauldron of my maker’s face

A mask for pure lust on a week long trail

Give me your flesh and let me sail

Into the sunset of oblivion….

What is this thing we call Time?

Time is a strange thing……

The Oxford Dictionary defines it as ” the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole”

The Online Free Dictionary describes it as , “a non-spatial continuum in which events occur in apparently irreversible succession from the past through the present to the future”

or 

 “an interval separating two points on this continuum; a duration…

I can remember clearly the long hot summer holidays of my youth where the endless blue skies were captured and time seemed to stand still in my memories as if the moment was like an extended pause along this “non-spatial continuum”..

yet further on down the road…………….

I can also clearly remember the pressures of time and the lack of hours in the day to fulfill my work commitments……..my days are divided into working hours and the years progress and the cultural context of my concept of time becomes my reality.

But is this the only reality of time ?

If we imagine the microscopic world  of quantum physics then the idea of time takes on a different complexion…………

Quantum World of Time

I have the imagination to reflect and consider other perspectives of time experienced by other cultures….

Take for example the Eskimo culture where the sun stays above the horizon or below the horizon for periods of up to six months at a time. For the Eskimo culture time is not a continuum of day/night cycles. Their time is measured by the number of sleeps they have. This is not easy to appreciate but important to internalise.

For many cultures in the past and the present the idea of time was and is the repetition of the cycles of the weather, the moon and the sun.  Things came and went and happened in much the same ways as we experience our bodily functions.

So what exactly is this thing we call time ?

Well, time is subjective and it is personal…the experience of time translates with a person’s social , cultural  and historical context.

Image result for time and cultureSo if time is subjective and experienced differently by different individuals in different cultures and in different periods in the history of humankind how do these experiences relate to objective time ?

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By objective time I mean the concept of time surrounding us in the universe ..

or another way to phrase it is endless time…….. 

 

How does endless time capture or contemplate our concept of personal time ?

A mathematical equation can summon an understanding of the dimensions of time.

If space is endless ; then time is endless

endless space = endless time

 To appreciate the reality of time we must dissect it with the reality of space because space and time are mutually interdependent- one cannot exist without the other.

The equation merges into an x-y axis where x is time and y is space….

So on any given point in the continuum of endless time our imprint is transcribed momentarily in the continuum of endless space.

Logic dictates that the point of dissection between these two axes is immersed in a configuration of endlessness so  hypothetically any deviation from this point renders the event of the intersection with two possible outcomes…..

Outcome 1 : The point of intersection has left an imprint in the fabric of space-time and has left a permanent legacy which is lingering and fixed in objective time so this would add material to the universe fulfilling its ever expanding process.

Outcome 2 : The point of intersection has dematerialised into an obsolete event and space-time rebounds filling in the imprint with a renewed presence.

Below are interesting lectures: One delivered by the physicist Lawrence Krauss where he attempts to explain the ever expanding universe in ways that are easy to understand and appreciate and the other by Carlo Rovelli examining the dimensions of time:

To Infinity and Beyond: The Accelerating Universe

 What is Time ? Carlo Rovelli

Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.

Albert Einstein

Any comments, suggestions, directions, ideas, criticisms, overhauls, rejections are more than welcome……..

We are all visitors to this place and travellers through space so bouncing off one another can only improve or disprove my ideas of time…and I really want to know what it is that I am trying to visualise and communicate with help my comrades in life…

The Religion We Call War !

Syria and the Civil War

Al Jazeera has posted a history of the Syrian War on its web page.

Syria’s civil war explained from the beginning

Looking at this documentary makes your blood boil with anger , looking at it makes you resent the rotten core of humanity and what we are capable of doing to each other in the name of some specious cause. In any conflict the equation is simple – you hurt me and I’ll hurt you back and so the cycle spins out of control and we sink into the dark abyss of barbaric behaviourism.

The disbelief I have in the notion that people are still clinging to some religious authority to justify or codify these events beggars belief.  Sitting back in the safety of armchair politics and surveying these cruelties I can only imagine at the desperation and lingering threats that have become daily rituals for people living in war zones. I know that the will to survival is a strong potion; however, the phenomenon of martyrdom and a secure place in an imagined afterworld is also a frightening prospect the modern world is having to contend with.

Why is it that war has been and remains such a glorified subject in our history?  in our lives? in the institutionalised pages of our collective memory? The likes of Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, Hannibal, Genghis Khan, Napolean Bonaparte are indelibly imprinted in our shared narrative yet has anyone really questioned the logic of this adulation? Has anyone stopped to think of the senseless slaughter, the whimsical insanity that these power mongers have perpetrated on their fellow species?  Have we seriously considered the vanity and the lunacy of these individuals? in their quest for power through the killing and the maiming of their fellow comrades in life?

Why is it we devote so much social paraphernalia to the institutions of war? We have Academies and Museums devoted to war, we honor the heroes and the dead of war and we commemorate the sacrifices that war has come to symbolise in the social traditions of sovereign states. We are obsessed with war. War is the illusion of greatness in a species destined to destroy not only itself but everything and anything that stands in its way. And yet when the conflict settles and the dead are buried and gone, we rinse and repeat our worship at the gates of wars’ institutions.

War is the religion that feeds our insatiable desires to outdo one another and if we resist then, the old adage” Might is Right” creeps back and shuts down the political will to oppose.

Carl Sagan sums it up in his eloquent speech reflecting from a vantage point in space looking back at the Pale Blue Dot we call Earth when he reminds us :

From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it’s different. Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives.

The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

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A Humble View on a Life Unwasted

In this thing we call life I would like to document the ways I see the world and how I experience contemporary news. I understand that I do change and that my perceptions are products of my context. The winds of change will affect my context over time and it will be an interesting experiment to see how my voice transforms itself Image result for a life wastedinto a vocal instrument for responding to the world I inhabit.

Creating an online depository of these reflections might offer an interesting read and insights into the purpose and grand scheme of a life I would like to think is unwasted.

The Overtures of Time

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I look into the mirror of my memory and I see stardust. A vortex of imagery encircles my imagination and I begin to fall under the pressure of gravity. In the midst of the corner of my eye – I descend – and witness a sea of humanity. In an instant echoes of time explode into a myriad of colours. The tapestry of history is draped before me… Oh, how I long to suspend  self – righteousness, to disengage  logic and pierce the barriers shackling my existence. I need to disentangle the crusts of calcified social conditioning and open the door to reality and view a world  that is less inhibited, less influenced by the musings of wise but staid old men we are taught to esteem from ages past.

The science of conscience seeps through the cracks of reasoning and I am catapulted to a lonely summit overlooking a moral landscape struck and blinded by the thunderings of unconscionable nature. It is a cold, hard power of a frightening epiphany that ironically soothes me whilst waiting for the signatures of mortality. I live to participate in this thing we call life and I breathe to extricate this thing we call sanity….29af2-artclockeyeimage

Photons of endlessness float rhythmically in and out of the pores of flesh and a mind glimpses radiance in unison…My thoughts are incomplete – there is no other way- unable and incapable to articulate the systemic harmony experienced in this pulsating certainty we call time… a reflection and a direction mesmerised by the sun’s setting once again over and over….painting the kaleidoscope of humanity’s crimson horizon.