I Have Never Had a Discount for Love

I have never had a discount for love; love is never at half price. If it dies, it dies whole; if it lives it lives whole. Love detests coupons; love detests a price. You can’t capture love with a penny or a pound and many before me have said the same thing.

If I could cram my whole life into this room and lock the door. It will disappear like a lift into the bowels of the earth; it will become the smallest atom passing through a black hole in space and back again, then it will jump into song. But if love is inside that atom, the atom will not be able to contain it, it will stretch and strain and squeak and scream but it will never hold love in. Love is not in the atom; love is elsewhere, in the memory of life. Love picks you up like you’re a three legged fly and says poor fly, and when love gets the order to march, love will give you back your legs.

Upon the night of Halloween the voices came again telling me that their way is the only way. Lies, I said, your tricks do not deceive me and then I awake. And there I was, in a room, and in that room is my whole life, and I must pay the re

An Avenue of Blackbirds.

The earth has been financed, every square inch of it. Everyone is in debt, the big debt is here. It puts a seal of debt on every human being. Stocks for guns are up, human beings are down*, so why not keep shooting them?

The financial world says of love, it’s no good, get a job. So you get a job and then the financial world sees you as a useful item, you are on their radar. Should you stay off radar? Would you be poorer? The poor can live happily – until they have to pay their taxes. I don’t mind dirt roads with holes in them so long as the sea is blue and the birds sing, but the mess of finance makes the sea and the air polluted and our wildlife numbers grows fewer.

It was a great experience to hear the blackbirds on that one summer Sunday, last century. I still remember walking down Burdett Road, listening to the blackbirds, they were singing in every tree I passed, and on both sides of the street. I ran the gauntlet of blackbirds, until I got to the traffic lights in Limehouse. They had maybe quarreled with each other, they had probably smoothed out the wrinkled cloth of their territories for the privilege of  their own tree to sing in; nesting season was over and now it was their singing time. There was no war of extermination, there was no hierarchy. Each blackbird could sing with exuberance and love.

Then came big human political decisions and the world of blackbirds collapsed into the empty purse of mankind; their numbers collapsed as human debt rose; they collapsed because humanity has no love; except for money, and their greatest skill is war.

And each winter humanity has the privilege of helping them to survive; instead the reality is humanity – will do what it does best.

*Erica Jung, Fear of Flying, I think

The Colours of Life

The Colours of Life

There is a thick fat yellow that glows more warmly than gold
There is an unconscious dark blue so dense that it supports your weight as you walk
There is a deep dark blue-green that oozes like a swamp of essential life
If I could drown the world with these colours, all governments would cease and eyes would see

Is Love like Gold Left Behind

They say, do not compare this to spiritual love. But love is a palette of colours; love is a compass of points; love is the circle from night to day; love is the lifetime and more.

Can they say: you are not allowed all the colours?
Can they say: you cannot travel to the four corners?
Can they say: you must be awake in the day and be asleep at night?
Can they say: you should only live half of your life?

Is love a picture half finished?
Is love a journey never started?
Is love like gold left behind?

Love is good news and bad news
Love is the whole twelve notes
Love is the whole chart of the elements
Love is the leader and you are the follower

What’s left of love is still light
What’s left os love is still food
What’s left of love is still love
Love times love times love

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Frog and the Sensitive Boy.

He was disconnected from life but did not understand the disconnection. He was cruel to life not having any empathy. He was at one within himself but he was not at one with life. Oneness with life is about respect for life, the pool of life, the family of life. Life is bigger than us all, it moves through the days and nights like a turtle climbing a beach to lay her eggs, one step at a time.

Life, we are reminded, is sighing and groanng all together, man kills man, animal kills animal, the earth pushes and shoves against itself. Within life, there is the cruelty of the single minded psychopath, the sociopath, the hunter, the manipulator, the spoiler. Life doesn’t need an organiser or a manipulator, it needs a referee, an umpire, someone to stop the arguments, the disputes from turning into conflict.

Sensitivity to life is not oversensitivity, it just is. It has accepted that life is far from perfect and that things can go wrong in a big way, which means the extinction of life, the driving away and the hunting down of life. Sensitivity to life is normal, it’s the hunters and the slayers and the ones who like to annihilate and who defend their status by saying or accusing the sensitive one of being too sensitive and confusing them as to who is in control of life and what is allowable in life.

You’re being too sensitive says the little boy who stabes a frog or picks the legs from an insect but he doesn’t like sensitivity. Sensitivity in another is a threat to his higher than thou status; his belief in his right to be in control over life and death and if there is no God, who is there to reprimand him. He feels supreme, he feels like god and that is what he lives for. But life isn’t living to be supreme, to be seperated from God, life has to deal with death everyday and knows from experience that life needs to be protected from those who are insensitive and who permit themselves to be like gods.

We were children outside school in the dinner break. We went into the gorse by the canal and there was a frog minding its own business. One boy in the group stabbed it with a stick and staked it into the ground and then exalted over his action. The group as a group said nothing because children aren’t taught about Life, about how life is vulnerable and needs to be protected. It was left to die there. But after school I went back alone, I pulled out the stake and put it back into the canal. I partly realised it would probably drown there, I wasn’t saving it from its slow death but I felt I was putting it back with its family, back into the enviroment that loved it.

You’re being oversensitive said the self appointed leader. But I was not being oversensitive, I was being as one in life, I was arguing for sensiivity as the norm’. Without sensitivity to life – life would be torn apart by the hunter, the psycopath, the one who likes to be in control over life and death.

 

Three short stories

1/

At work he was reduced to slavery, the kind of slavery that no amount of pay could free you from; he was sandwiched between gravestones, sandwiched between birth and death like a grape in a vice. His mind, was liquefied in his head, it began to swirl around in clouds of oblivion. Out of the oblivion cries were heard, desperate curses made their way out into reality.

People stood and stared, he was a shadow given a wooden body and set free; he was a body twisting and turning in the midst of a sacrificial fire. Dug deep into the flesh of time like a blackhead, the national company he worked for was surrounded by wrought iron railings, the kind that protect a grave. The director came into view floating like one of Goya’s witches.

In a dreamlike state I climb a fire engine ladder towards him to ask about my future. It’s too bad he says, you should never have asked for more.

2/

The child was brought up by the god of war, but loved too much. When he entered puberty the threat to the war god’s authority was plain to see. Tired of the child’s love and hating his first born son with a vehemence that not even his enemies had felt the god of war turned his son into water, bitter cold water that flowed away from the fires of the war gods rage into the winter night over the bed rock over the land, steaming and destroyed, stained by blood, polluted by death.

Over the land he flowed into a new continent. There was a young girl who came to him sometimes, looking into the mirrored surface of him and he fell in love with her. Each day she passed by and took a sip from the cool water of him without knowing who he really was. He looked at her with great sorrow, alienated, but loving to see her constant happiness And rested there for so long that he nearly forgot who he was or where he came from, so at peace was he. And other people came by too, singing and dancing.

After a long time had passed this land became threatened by his father the god of war and he came to the land to destroy and enslave this peaceful land, and to take enslave the girl he loved but his son was there and became agitated into fury like a gushing raging river, he went foreword to meet his father head on. The fire arrows were extinguished; the swords shattered by the torrent that rose unexpectedly above the god of war and the angry deluge crashed down onto him and extinguished the hatred of the war god and his army. All that was left was the god of war who asked who he was and where he came from. The fury of the waters abated and became still and the war god looked into the waters and saw his son reflected there, then he lay down with a broken heart by the waters edge and died.

3/

Life was good then, there was kindness and freedom in those early days like no one had ever known before; the freedom to move about without fear of death or failure. Then they built a temple, it rose high up into the sky and from the top sacrificial blood began to stream. Widening through the centuries into a river until the Great War when the river of sacrificial blood became a great ocean,

and the shadows of the dead flew above it like a cloud of black crows.