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19.1.14

The Art of BALANCE

THE ART OF BALANCE IN 2014

One thing’s for sure:  Finding balance in a wildly tilting world ain’t easy.
Shall Balance shall be our discipline of awareness?  Or the mysteries of the quantum?  Or the still points of meditation?  Or the physical sculpting of Tai Chi?  The beauty of poetry and art?  The joy of singletrack?  Cooking food for our loved ones with micro-attention?  Breathing into the mountain before us?  Working with our minds honed to razor sharpness and our hearts wide open?  Working with Joy?  Like basking sharks sucking in the plankton of life in all it’s myriad, mad, beautiful, wild variety.  Shall we swim through the world open to it all?  Grounded, loving, true to our being, joyful or sad as we feel.  Let this be our first goal/paradigm/aspiration:

The Art of Balance should be the business of an enlightened mind.

Grounding:  Knowing who you are is a vital component to Balance.  What are your true motivations, fears and impulses?  What is the nature of your shadow?  Oooo…er, yes the inner daemon that lurks behind the veil.  Your very own personal Choronzon.
How can we become the grizzly bear balancing on a pole while juggling fireballs and holding one hairy leg gracefully aloft while unpacking the mysteries of the universe with our razor mind and open heart or spinning a jokey myth before a group of awestruck kids?
A reality surgeon.  A cosmic jestor.

THIS AIN’T NO MARKET AND IT’S CERTAINLY NOT FREE!

The masqueraded world wants you to be many things and what masquerades as the world wants you to aspire to be the kind of person that it wishes to sell stuff to.
Most of the people who are running the world want to sell you stuff.  It might be physical stuff like cars, washing machines, houses, cosmetic products, stylish clothes, particular types of music, handbags, a whole variety of fancy electronic toys to make your life more er…organised or whatever.  Then there’s a whole crew who want to sell you a load more stuff but this time it isn’t physical, this time it’s ideas.  Ideas about what constitutes meaning in the good and successful life.  And yes, you guessed it, most of the ideas depend on you buying the physical stuff from the first crew, who are often the very same people.  These ideas are often about the creation of dissatisfaction with the state of things as they are in your life right now.  They are relentless about how ugly you are without that skin cream, about how short/uncool/dumb/repulsive/unplugged-in/and just plain awful you are, as you are right now.  But there’s a solution, and all it takes is just a little money and you can be up there with the beautiful people, with the cool people, with the people that everybody wants to hang out with, just so that some magic and stardust might rub off on them but get this-YOU CAN BE ONE OF THE MAGIC PEOPLE!  All you have to do is give them some money and you will be re-made, but this time in the likeness of a GOD!

It is almost unbelievable that anyone takes this bullshit at face value, but it infests the deepest channels of the subconscious with it’s insidious messages because it is everywhere and always.  Nowhere is free from it.  There is no space of privileged silence.  Because far from being a king or queen, the consumer is a slave, and the foundation of modern capitalism rests on promoting dissatisfaction with the self in order to sell you stuff that you will only buy if you think it carries that certain cachet that will set you apart from all the other slaves.
And so the illusion is maintained, and standing outside this paradigm takes the most enormous courage and self-trust.  To see the emperor’s clothes for what they are requires x-ray vision.  To believe entirely in the impoverishments of low grade current market capitalism is to wear blinkers that exclude the true and the beautiful.  It’s not the visionaries who reject the blandishments of fear-based capitalism that are weird.  It’s the society that founds itself on these incredibly stupid illusions, most primarily that stuff creates meaning!
The great advantage of these free marketeers (and maybe we need to read some of their stuff over the next few weeks) is that as with much of the world’s intellectual bullshit, there’s an element of significant truth in it all.

I don’t think any intelligent person is going to reject the modern world out of hand.  Beware those who propose a return to the cave!  Public health especially fresh water and free medical care at the point of need are, for those countries who have them, one of the defining points of civilisation.  I also like video games and access to lots of different foods, a huge range of literature and movies, the internet and computers generally.  I like campervans and small sailing yachts and and electronic music and barbecues and beer and amazon and all-day opening and mountain bikes.  I love it!  But I also love the hill and the heath, the wind over the empty moor, the mountainside camped on alone at night, the summoning by the rockpool.  The silence, the stillness, the intensity.  The otherness.  

Therefore we must seek ontological banditry of the robin hood style to refashion meaning for the brothers and sisters.  Remake the paradigm in the image of a child.  Sculpt out a new capitalism that works for the world and does not require slaves.  We have the means, we carry it in our wallets, we spend it every day.  It is a very silly and easily obtainable (with a little effort) source of energy.  We must direct it with our minds and hearts and for Pan’s sake-we have to wake up!

One thing’s for sure:  Finding Balance in a wildly tilting world ain’t easy.  But…bring it on!

23.11.13

Lost in Broadstairs Folk Week.

I am in Broadstairs with Jim-one of my best mates and we are looking forward to a unusual and passionate celebration of radical cutting edge folk.

And by the way-what exactly is the term 'Folk' if not a vague descriptive noun for 'music of the people'?

But here in the heart of Folk week an aural nightmare begins to unfold with the relentless plinkety plonkety happy clapping bell ringing morris dancing bearded folky set with their weird looking ancient instruments and their tarrum tarra refrains and their pewter mugs hanging from their rucksacks.  This cacophony of ancient musical shite.  Oh Lord of the Sounds deliver us from 'Folk'.  Even now the restless deebeedeebedu plucking mandolins and the weeweeweeweewo violins tear at me having heaved in through the unsafe orifices of my unguarded ears like audio burglars smashing up the china shop of my so carefully collected internal rhythms.  Why is no one walking around wearing headphones-noise cancelling ones?  'Why are you here?' I wish to scream at groups of scantily clad 17 year old Italian girls with their glossy hair and the big brown eyes of gently ruminating cows and their language college rucksacks and their long long brown legs.  Why???

Then we stop along the prom and see three young lads soundchecking with mobile gear and he sings and we suddenly have some passion and originality and a voice with some beautiful stretching emotion hauled out of a guitar, a bass and a tiny drum set.  This is music!  This is what it's about!  Relief floods over me-all is not lost.

But they have to pack their gear away to yet more empire building folkies with their tarrum tarra again and their fucking whining violins and their Ewan McColl dirty old town renditions-awful! Soundtracking our over-salted, over cooked and over priced cod in 'Posillipos' Italian where sour looking Italian waiters ejaculate black pepper over our gruel-food.
Then Jim quite literally has this amazing lightbulb moment!
'Let's get back to the flat' says Jim,
'too right mate' I assent, 'any more violation of the eardrums in this manner and I am prone to murderous intent upon a possible innocent party.  Indeed let us repair to the safe haven of my flat.'


On the road up my friend nearly steps in a mound of vomit on which mould is growing.  I internally gag and day 1 is, thank Saturn's round rings, finally over.

I sleep badly having a sea kayaking dream about my kayak being smashed just before a Scottish Island expedition.  I wake at 4am feeling nauseous like a parrot has crapped in my throat.  But out at sea earlier in the day I saw a beautiful lugger blowing to windward.  Her bowsprit almost her length again holding full sail like a vision of what-might-one-day-be.
And in the morning the sea shimmers like a silver curtain-beautiful as we walk past Bleak House.  Fucking Dickens I muse internally.  He's like a rash in Broadstairs, and I will deliberately never read Bleak bleeding House!  Anyway I saw the TV series, and I liked it muchly.  I have started writing again-where will it all end?



8.11.13

I AM BACK FOLKS!

After a significant hiatus I am back blogging-more posts to follow very soon!

6.5.13

Norwich Cathedral

Norwich Cathedral



The Gothic cathedrals-the idea of 'God' in the medieval mind, transmuted into stone.

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16.4.13

Thatcher Free Zone



THATCHER- FREE ZONE

Can you hear me Mrs Thatcher,
will you listen to my words?
Cos if you don't go pretty soon
 it's gonna get much worse.

The city streets they're burning,
the youth ain't got no work,
your plastic bullet policies-
you know they just don't work!

And in your nuclear paradise
time doesn't fly, it dies-
I see it in the poverty
and, in the people's eyes.

Well they murdered Prosser
in Winson Green
He let out a few yells-
the shouts of the cops and
the screams of a man must have 
rung round those prison cells.

How can you love justice
if you are so unmoved
at the rights of an ordinary man
being so flagrantly abused.

So I'm lookin' for a Thatcher-free,
thatcher-free zone,
a thatcher-free,
thatcher-free zone.

The old folks they're freezin'
after all that they've seen
while bankers drive around in 
chauffered limousines

So I'm lookin' for a Thatcher-free,
thatcher-free zone,
a thatcher-free,
thatcher-free zone.


RIP MARGARET THATCHER 1927-20013



8.4.13

Margaret Thatcher dies aged 87

Well it will set the chattering classes off as we are regaled with the various paeons to the New World she ushered in.  However my own feelings about Thatcher are somewhat different-I consider her vile government and her pernicious impact to be one of the great disasters for British and European society in the twentieth century.  But I also consider her to have been a lame duck and incompetent politician saved by a momentous concatenation of events mostly reliant on two factors provided by two different very stupid men, both of whom suffered from tremendous hubris allied to an astonishing lack of strategic insight.  The first was Arthur Scargill, an egotistical communist with an agenda so hopelessly out of place that to see him lead the brave miners who so faithfully followed this strutting martinet was heartbreaking.  The other was the gold braided thug General Galtieri who invaded the Malvinas Islands as a means of stoking up his political capital at home which was ebbing as a result of his almost complete political ineptitude.
The result was that the lame duck was transformed into 'The Iron Lady', and a fantastical Catherine The Great type character was manufactured by the Media and the myth was born of the Lady who was not for turning.
The asset stripping of the country's natural wealth and housing stock from public ownership into private hands at knock down prices remains one of the great grand thefts of history.
The death of manufacturing to be replaced with parasitic financial service industries remains a huge social and national disaster whose grim effects continue.
The narrative that transfigured the great socialist objective of equality into a lie about laziness, and the 'ill man of Europe' continues as a myth underpinning greed, selfishness and the chronic cult of the individual at the expense of all else.
The legacy of Thatcher is the mentality of greed and selfish individualism over collective responsibility.
To call it Thatcherism lends it an intellectual coherence it never actually had as a set of ideas based on gut feelings much like a political system founded on the letters page of The Daily Mail.
Yet there is one thing that can be said for Thatcher as she performed in the House surrounded by her yes men-there was no doubt who was wearing the trousers!

7.4.13

Easter Sunday 2002 - Pontins

EASTER SUNDAY 2002 Pontins



The past? It's a frozen, foreign land.
A labyrinth of tourmaline-a dream
of black horses flowing out to sea.

Breaking the chains of memory
that tie us to the static of the land

The past? It is a strange and twisted tongue.
I cannot bend these chords to utter it!
Cannot find the rhythm in the line.

While fools found gold in crystal streams,
I rooted, ankle deep in mud, braying:
Who are you? Why are you here?

The past? That coldly-calculated joke.
Those idiots fell about the place side-splitted,
While I looked for help, for meaning, for a sign.

It was not that I didn’t understand.
It was that I would never understand.
Because... I seemed to be a stranger there.

The past? It is shapeless, blind, mute.
No road maps or strangers passing with news.
The very idea seems cruel!

And is it not cruel, this vile thing
set loose around the houses? This abusive
heart-skewering fear.

Nightsounds are lonely in the vale.
Smoke-rings of obliterated joy.
Oh these losings of familiar things!

These losings of familiar things.
These tales of the three rings.

And the first...shall be:

Of Despair.

Next:

Of Spirit and Healing.

Then:

Of Transformation!




31.3.13

Words for Steph

 
Words for Steph
 
from the Dougans
 
Well Steph, we’re going to miss you not least because you’re just about the best babysitter in the World, and you do it all for a Chicken Korma from Marks’s!  Ben says any other babysitters would just be ‘pants’ and Jack says ‘Stefna’s the best!’
Seriously though we are all sad to see you go but happy for you too.  You have been a good friend and we will miss you.  We all wish you every happiness in the world and we’ll keep in touch through e-mail.  Hopefully too we’ll come and see you next year by which time you will no doubt be talking in a languorous southern drawl and referring to the rest of the population as ‘them damned yankees!
Meanwhile yippety dang and howdyeedoodee, keep a weather eye out for rustlers and liquored up commanches and watch out for Evil Eye McNeevil one of the wickedest meanest outlaws in the whole South.  And if, while wandering around the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains you should come across a small boy shouting ‘Shane!  Shane!’  Please strike him several times about the head.
Lots of love,
Tony, Ben and Jack.

We never saw her again!

The Kitchen-The Soul of the house!

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19.2.13

Those moment's of impending transformation.


BROKEN GLASS

I’m stuffing all the sheets in the machine
When, reaching for the detergent, I strike
A gentle, glancing blow against a glass,
Which topples and then smashes on the floor.

A curse is gently breathed, and then I stoop
To bring some healing back into the day.
Then I slice my thumb on a sharp shard,
And pull back quickly-cursing once again.

Struck then by the nature of this glass-
This new glass of a hundred razor shards;
None could hold a drop of the dark blood
That even now is leaking on the floor.

This glass is nothing like it used to be;
Not vessel, container, chalice or cup.
This glass has embraced chaos with a crash-
A moment of transformation has just passed.

As if a sign’s been written in the sky,
The essence of the moment is revealed-
Just as the glass is falling-does it scream:
‘I did nothing wrong! So why me?’

Or does it smile into the falling day?
Knowing no power on earth can intervene
Beyond the hit and miss.  It sings, ‘I go
                                                   With all my glassness! I say yes to this!’

28.12.12

Poem-'FATHER' A dark meditation on the Father.

FATHER

Father Fa-ther Farther
The lips must push apart to make the sound
The jaw knocking/unlocking like a skull at play
Nestlings calling for the warming milk

Father Fa-ther Farther
And at the sounding of its screw, it scores
Its rings like scars within my tubes
Ringlets of its turns jangle in my jars

Father Fa-ther Farther
An infant growling in the god-stopped gash
A curlew wailing in the winding of the day
A blind thing mewling in the moon-sliced night

Father Fa-ther Farther
Silenced in the space of sliding time
The echo urges in a flash then falls
An insult in an un-remembered tongue

Father Fa-ther Farther

17.12.12

The Sunday Poem

WHISPERING WINDS OF CHANGE

A string of charismatic maidens queuing
At my gates have spoken of great portents
They have read within the marrowed runes.
The raven’s arcing flight seemed quite important,
And the crow has shrieked me as a fainted-heart.
So must I write my intent on the sky?
Shoo! And sprawk! Curse of the feathered fiend
Upon you all and let me be alone!

My curse hangs in the air like, smokey gauze.
Then, little nails of no’s the rain spits down,
And anger swells within colliding clouds.
Even the squirrels mutter at me and frown.
The disapproving trees shake fingery leaves-
This raging of the whispering winds of change.

13.12.12

Response from Norman Baker MP to Leveson Inquiry.

13 December 2012
heartofbalance@gmail.com Our ref: CW/TD/13122012/SDM

Dear Mr ******,

Thank you for your recent email regarding the recommendations made in the final report of the Leveson Inquiry.

The Lib Dems have led the debate on media accountability. In 2010 we were the first party to call for a judicial inquiry into phone-hacking, which led to the Leveson Inquiry. We have also been calling for a stronger Press Complaints Commission (PCC) since 2003.

Lib Dems have also never been in the media’s pocket – while other parties pandered to media moguls, we have consistently been the only party to raise concerns about media accountability and ownership. Politicians and the press have, in general, been too close for too long. We need to end these cosy relationships so that the press are free to hold politicians to account.

It should not be up to politicians or media proprietors, who both have vested interests, to decide how the press is regulated. That is why the government commissioned the Leveson Inquiry in the first place. We said we should implement his findings, provided they were proportionate and workable – and by and large they are.

I was therefore pleased when, breaking with parliamentary convention, Nick Clegg, Lib Dem leader, stood at the dispatch box and offered an alternative view to the Prime Minister from the government benches. I have enclosed a copy of the Deputy PM’s statement, for your information.

Cross-party talks are just now beginning to discuss the findings of Leveson and I hope these will lead to draft legislation being published in the near future, which I very much hope to be able to support.

I hope this is helpful.

Yours sincerely

{LICENCENAME}

3.12.12

Response to Cameron's Mendacious Volte Face on Press Regulation!

From<heartofbalance@gmail.com>

To Norman Baker MP

Subject  Please implement Leveson
Message  Before Lord Justice Leveson’s report into press behaviour was published the leaders of all three main political parties broadly agreed that his recommendations should be supported on a cross party basis and that they would implement them as long as they were proportionate and workable.

Lord Justice Leveson has recommended independent regulation of the press guaranteed by law, this has been supported by Nick Clegg and Ed Milliband. David Cameron does not agree. He announced that he would not support Leveson’s recommendation to give the new regulator essential legal backing, meaning it will lack the independence and teeth that are the hallmark of the current failed system of self-regulation.

As your constituent I urge you to write to the Prime Minister asking him to back Lord Justice Leveson’s recommendations as he said he would; and to guarantee the independence of the new self-regulator as independent to ensure that the press remains free and accountable.

Yours sincerely

Heart of Balance






Death with Stars by Lauren Williams

The first published work by a future comic strip giant.

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