Where is that Love?

Greetings!

As many Visible blog readers couldn't but fail to notice, the commenting facility has changed at Smoking Mirrors, Visible Origami, Reflections in a Petri Dish etc. This was due to happen anyway, but was brought forward because of recent and ongoing problems with Blogger's native comments system.

Since the commenting system was changed a day or two ago, there appears to be a general reluctance on the part of Vis' readers to submit comments through it.

Ray B (who I am in touch with frequently) wrote me to advise that the reluctance of people to comment most likely stems from a suspicion that the new comments facility is some sort of honey trap to get submitter email addresses, or that the blogs have been hijacked or some other other form of foul play.

This, absolutely is not the case. For the new commenting facility, all the system requires is for the "name" field to be filled in (whatever name you choose to provide, it doesn't matter).


And that is all;
You do NOT need to register for anything;
You are not required to provide an email address.

Just a name is all, whether real or contrived.


As a for what it's worth, the commenting facility is called Intense Debate and was created by a company as far removed from G00gle or Alphabet as you're likely to find; it was made and is maintained by Automattic who are an all round bunch of friendly geeks. Check them out.


So, less of the reluctance to comment, please? Give Vis the feedback his work deserves. And when commenting, it will help for now if any comments are made via the blog post pages, rather than via the various blog home pages.


Questions?

If you have any questions or just want personal confirmation that Visible's blogs remain in friendly hands, you're welcome to email either of the elves;


the3rdelf@lesvisible.com
the4thelf@lesvisible.com


Thanks for reading! Now please get over to Smoking Mirrors and give Vis some comment love.


The Elves

3 goats, Sun Tzu and the emperors concubines

Cracking the whip and prodding at the wild beasts with an upturned chair. Thrusting and parrying and moving towards them even as they growl and foam and bare their razor sharp teeth. Eventually they will tire and calm a little and return to their corner of the great cage. I have encountered few humans such as these, but it is known that a great many live in this feral state. They live in their own separate world and outsiders are recommended not to stray there. If they have strayed there, then it is recommended watch on them closely without venturing too near. Ultimately, some of these beasts have proven to be tamable. Able to plod in line in line on the masters orders, or even to march to an even beat. To be fed safely by hand and even wander free of chains and ropes for short periods of time. But can they be left to roam freely without bringing harm on themselves and all around them? Such is the view when seeing them from another paddock.

The weeks of feral communion go by, lurching between sunlit days with hot blooded humour with the occasional storm of darkness lashing. So it is when you find yourself surrounded by the pack. And the pack itself seems to be bound by the beastly law of the dominator. The dominant member gets up on his hind legs and urinates everywhere, bares his teeth and bites at anything that gets close, and stakes his claim in the universe. The underlings for their part say yes and follow, occasionally biting to the side to check their position in the hierarchy.

Traveling as one group and as one body. A pack that travels from place to place,  brazenly laying to waste everything that it encounters. At the helm is a burly brute called Big Richard. We just call him Big Dick. Apart from his ability to dominate others his one distinct feature is to always take things further than his peers. Where any normal beast would step back having had enough, he will bare his teeth and step forward for more.

Around him and around them all the mountains grow deep creases and shadows that shade the day. Rocks break-off from their places at the top and roll down bringing others with them in a flurry. The wind becomes cooler and the damp becomes more cold. The light is sucked out from good things and the plants and trees all go black and die. The stars disappear behind heavy clouds and the sun and moon try to hide behind each other.

Such is the day of the leader of the pack. A similar day it is for those that follow. Always pushing against the boundaries of what is acceptable and proper until they falter and madness prevails and the sun and stars surrender and jump from the sky. The largest star falls into our midst and bitter is its name.

Landing in this world with a thud. Turning on the spot to see their comings and goings through our own great mirror. Each member of the pack carries their own burden of illness and suffering. Each member appearing dressed my own clothes. Following my manner, even wearing my own face. Turning around on the point of resistance. Resistance to life and the harsh hand of suffering. Flailing as it nails us to the spot. Nails us to whatever we wish to escape from. There with a clear connection to the resistance, watching the comings and goings through our own web of our own world. The reluctant resistor holds tightly to all that damages and dismays. Biting, and with a grimace falling harder that way. Thinking of them and that their way offers little hope of escape or relief.

The sea of waves and of discord upsets our idle and ideal dreamy view of life. It upends our vision of how we would like things to be. Wavy and rough is the nature of the surface events. Holding-on for dear life, and yet to fear not the proximity of death. The disruptor fallen, foiled and failed. For too long the breath and blood of devils. Now he is a patient in lifes hospital ward. Held with the arms tied to each other in a room of soft surroundings. It is imperative that we find the right doctor, who can nurse away this madness. For a dark afternoon this is how it is, but at the first moment returning to the known rythmn of life.

The pack moves as a tight band driven about by waves of the moment. The active part of whatever moment appears. They might be from the moon. Or was it Mars or from yet further still. In one direction anger bursts and great sparks crackle and flame. Then suddenly for no apparent reason there is an eruption of humour. Ha ha ha. HA HA HA. Then yet again a shift in to a dark mood of foreboding. And then a moment of earnest sobriety. It comes to refresh us like a cool wind in spring. Reminds us of what it is in life that really matters.

They frizzle and frazzle and move off in random directions, bouncing off everything that they encounter. One minute a gang of hoodlums out looking for trouble and struggle. The wind shifts slightly and they become just a group of naughty boys out looking for some jolly old fun.

The gamekeeper must herd them together and move them on their way. He walks in circles muttering to himself. A cloud of steam emanates from his head. His hair went grey and then white, and then started falling out. Anything that didn't fall out by itself he pulled out in frustration. Such is the effect of the pack. Eventually he will open the gates and let the beasts wander free. The weak must learn to be wary, and the strong to stand by their side. Of the beastly ones - it is our hope that they will grow thin, finding only the prey that they need. Perhaps they might learn to live off vegetables, or better yet on light and air and water and on a life that is attuned the right way.

The gates have been opened and the gamekeeper will chase the brutes out into the empty sky. Push against that I say ! Drown in the measureless air if you must. Fly around and bump into whatever you encounter until you find yourself bouncing off only images of yourself. Eventually they will tire and begin to move powered by strong economical movements.

The great hand of fate might gather them together and hurl them into the great emptiness beyond the sky. Beyond the boundaries of all places and into empty realm of space itself. That they might eventually see the grist of life, and their faces amongst it all. To travel together from constellation to constellation until they have visited every single place that unhappiness resides. In every single thing. To look closely at them all and take note. When enough is seen to turn and take the path home.

The path to return home is always a straight one. When leaving it was a little bent perhaps, choosing a route that takes in all of the sites to visit and experiences to be had. Taking the odd diversion and tangential detour. But eventually when enough is seen, turning about wherever one happens and beginning the journey home. And everybody knows where home is. Knowing home going home. A straight line to the heart. The  very shortest route. Walking that way step by step by every step.

These four walls

It's just me here. Me, the earth and sky, and these here four walls. I have grown to know them all very well. To know every scratch and dent of their features. It brings me a great deal of pleasure to know them so intimately. Ever present they are – through the dark night, the morning light, the sun so bright, the evening twilight and again the dark night. The sun, the moon and stars in the sky - and these four walls, which I take wherever I go. Boundaries to my world, limits beyond which I rarely go. Stepping beyond the known, I will fall off the edge and into the abyss. So it might seem.

When moving the walls become thinner. As they become thinner one might take the opportunity to look through them. Look out and beyond our own cosy little circle of familiarity. Looking beyond our area of activity and out into the world and its endless multitude of things. But we must be be quick, for as we slow our movement and stop, those four walls will appear once again. They appear around us and grow dense so that nothing else can be seen. Nothing but this life reflected as all things around us. A reflection of a reflection of a reflection of life. Reflected onto these four walls.

We could tilt our head back and see the everyday Fatima sun. Look at the world beyond our own petty concerns. But alas there are not many who would make the effort to look that way, or even think of it. Instead it is so easy to let the head sag and see only the ground directly in front of the feet. With diminishing effort taking in a view of the stomach, the gravelly ground, the feet and everything that happens to be directly ahead. The small bit of path before us. That and the great earth that holds us up and catches us when we fall.

Those who didn't feel the calling to see the twirling Fatima sun might just hold their heads level of their own accord. Eyes horizontal and nose vertical – that alone is adequate and quite enough for the truest of true views. The clear face of life before us. Eyes horizontal and the back straight. As straight as straight can be. It will suffice and is in fact preferable. To be precise it is the recommended way for the clearest view of life. The wholly recommended way. The turning sun will shine out from all and any things. Even from these four walls.

If it is not the case already, one might consider ways of lessening the impact of the appearance of these four walls. Lessening the belief that they are solid and unyielding.

Lessening the belief of their being complete and unchanging. An investigation, of sorts, to  reveal our response to them and any beneficial or deleterious effects that they might have on us.

These four walls, this magic circle, this ball and chain. To notice how they become lighter, more transparent, more clear as we move the most, but also when most still. To notice that there are other ways of making them transparent. Noticing how habitual patterns make them thick and dense and impenetrable. So too the how habitual moments make life less comfortable than it seems.

The observed life becomes lighter than the lighest hour of the day, and darker than the darkest hour of the night. One might let the mind withdraw its daily pattern for a minute. To fill the eyes with novel things, and to forget for a while ones cares and concerns. To look at so many of the other things that can be seen in life. Things that we might usually not notice. To take our usual way of not noticing things and hurl it far into the churning sea of life. To look and see everything even if it has been hidden by one wall or four.

When that is done, wandering without aim for a while and letting the walls languish. Wandering to and fro and filling onesself with the simple beauty of life. Letting life speak with no interference. The ponds and the weeds and the ducks and the sky. All quietly playing their part in the drama of life. When one has had enough of wandering then stopping. Gathering at a single unified point. The four walls might buckle and melt away at any time. With only the most gentle of coaxing. Indeed without being acted upon in any way.

Adding to this life a few ingredients as if a magical recipe. Mixed together like a stew, or any of the ingredients on their own will suffice. They appear as the stage on which life appears to play itself out, in its many scenes. Go and visit the blue dragons cave. Spend a season or two there. Get to know it well. After doing that, go and visit hell. Have a good look around while you are there. Meet its residents and watch how they operate and what motivates them. Look from outside and spend some time considering why it has always been so popular. You might even see your own shadow there. Catch it, hold it close and get to know it well. Meet its friends and enemies, for everybody is represented there, and usually they arrive together. Have pity on their ways and your own ways and mine. Meet the intent of life. Ride it life a horse and get to know your part. Then go out and meet time. Not merely the tales from the past or fables from the future. Meet the speed of life. The speed of lifes many players. The speed of the grass growing and the wind blowing and the stars that wander across the sky. Most of all, meet time as it is happening now. In everything encountered in the field of life at any given moment. If that is not enough, step outside of the flow of time. Find a spot beyond times domain. Or create a situation where you can grab a big lump of it, and let it pass by as slowly as you like.

While doing that listen for the voice of truth calling out from within. The voice of truth and all the other voices whose imperative is to call out their case. Brace yourself and, of the many voices calling out, start with the loudest. Let it call out as much as it likes. Give it as much time as is necessary to exhaust itself. One day it will fade, and when it fades follow it. Don't lose sight of it because it will lead you to a place that is not hell. Take a good look so that you know what it is like. It is not hell and there there are no four walls to be found anywhere. Follow the others as they arise and follow those that seem to come from someone else. Follow them until there are none left. Follow them and notice the ease with which you might stride across the universe and the equal ease with which you might stride back.

Walking on the swamp monsters back

It is a difficult way to travel, tromping through the swamp. Probing the ground ahead with a long pole. Like looking for the truth amongst patches of unnecessary filling. Probing the ideas that might be found in the marshy depths. It is a precarious enterprise. But it is there to be found. Found by anybody who is prepared relinquish any and every thing to find it.


Hidden amid the marshiness and boggyness are patches of quicksand where you can sink and disappear before you know what is happening. Equally dangerous are the legends of scary things. Reported to be there, even though you can't see them. Even if no-one has ever seen them. Legends of monsters that will take your leg and pull you in, and colonies of poisonous bugs and slime that will eat you from the outside in. The legends create a pall of fear which causes misfortune from which few will escape. A sick idea that catches and infects its host. There are as many legends as there are places that the imagination may travel to. Shrugging off the legends as soon as we hear them. Shrugging them off and moving on. The search for truth is a serious undertaking and requires a constant vigilance. Unnecessary distractions are to be quickly and efficiently discarded. It is indeed a demanding task – and we must devote the best of our time and effort to its completion if we are to be successful at it.

Poking our probe into the slushy mush. What will we find here ? A sac of foul gas that erupts through the hole ? Perhaps it will be something semi-solid and unknown that we pierce ? On the path to truth we will have many opportunities to be surprised with what we find. Poking with our pokey stick, finding a path that traverses the densest matter and the thinnest and most vacant nebulae. Not knowing what we have found, knowing only that it is not what we thought that we were looking for. Eventually we will understand that we might never find what we thought that we were looking for. We will always find something different.

Prodding away at the ground before us. What thoughts and ideas dwell here. What ideas are this place made of. What ideas create this scene. What ideas make the trees and plants grow,  and what ideas give off that foul gas that makes us wheeze. What ideas create the water of life and bring it to good use.

Prodding away at the earth, seeing what ideas it might yield. But there are those that extend beyond the earths realm. There are those that dwell in the sky. They travel lightly and lean on people as they pass. They are so light that their presence is often missed. There are others – finer still. They dwell beyond our regular sky, out in the depths of the distant night. In the depths of the galaxy. In the depths of beingness, where time has never intruded.

Poking and prodding amongst the ideas as they lay in terra and the firmament. Probing as we make our way through them. So many of them just don't hold the right consistency. Too hard - too hard, they become like rock and will not flex to fit with life. Will not flex to fit the reality as it presents itself. Too soft - too soft, like jelly they are flabby and falter when tested. Will not take the shape of anything unless they are poured into a container of some sort. Instead of holding firm they collapse when most needed.

If that weren't enough, there are other oddities by which we may be inconvenienced. So many of them are things that we would prefer not to encounter. Things that are oddly shaped and fit only for some perverse use. Flaccid, crisp or brittle, or otherwise of no use. Repellant and/or cloying. Lumpy as though filled with nails. Perhaps leading to harm and away from the truth. With so many faulty ideas, it becomes apparent how few of them are actually of any use. Even the good ones can bring harm if not well tempered.

Indeed how few of these ideas can match the simplicity and sure vision of the heart. The direct penetration of the source. How it is that the heart guides with certainty and the utmost skill, even in the most complex of situations. With the heart there is no random probing. No poking about here and there, looking to see what one finds. When probing with the heart just one look is enough. Right into the centre of it all. All of reality is pierced. Right into the crux of it all.

One can be sure that blood and tears will well up. As if rupturing an artery of it. As if pumping seeming endless amounts of fluid from deep within the earths bowels. Blood and tears squirting up and out, covering everything, there for all to see. Blood and tears and the truth behind everything that we have ever done. All that we have experienced. The truth behind everything that ever happened. The gritty grist of the mill of life. The truth behind all of the convenient explanations that the mind has ever produced. The truth behind the endless misinterpretations that have caused life to become a struggle. That have created pain and drama from otherwise innocuous events. The truth behind the moments moment, and the feeling that holds it all together and causes it all to eventually dissolve.

Belching forth like toxic gases, like flames leaping up and enveloping the self. Belching forth the ideas that we hold so dearly. Staying the course, holding firm the heart. Being steady and still, despite the urge to run. For there is nowhere to run to. Running would only lead to more time spent navigating the swampy marshes, and we have had enough of that. Oh how the heart desires to have solid earth beneath the feet, and yet to be surrounded by space. Never more than when knee deep in the gloop and goo of some boggy swamp. Never more than when surrounded by the ill conceived and unconsidered words of the world. Of all things informed by fear and unrequited pain and all of their various offspring.

Indeed to feel the solid earth beneath ones feet and be surrounded by space. To forget the earth and feel the space above and below, within and without, with no differentiation. On that day the swamp and all of its contents becomes but a memory. Consigned to the realm of the undifferentiated. Something that we once were concerned with, but now seems to strike no resonance.

Off to Asuraland where the locals will put up a good fight

Following footprints over hill and dale. Wandering in every direction, like doodled arrows drawn on a page. Where the earth is soft there are clear footprints. Bigger than those of a human footprint, but with only three toes. Occasionally a bit of claw breaks off, and will continue growing by itself, even when detached. Through streams and across beaches the footprints go. Where there is concrete and hard ground one can only follow the trail of damage left behind. Uprooted trees, smashed buildings, litter and rubbish strewn about. Wasted and broken humans too. Slaves, pawns and peons, all crushed in the pursuit of the beasts single goal – whatever it is.

Something dreadful has happened. A monster is on the loose. Rampaging and rollicking. How far its destruction will go nobody knows. I have a grand plan, however. I can do something about this. I will do what I can to stop this horror. If I find the monster I shall block its path, slow it down, terminate its progress. Bring to an end this dire episode here on planet earth. I will lead it away from everything that could be harmed by it. Whack it on the head with a wok, and run, dodging and turning suddenly to let it trip and fall into a ravine. It will fly unimpeded for a few moments before joining with the jagged rocks, the roaring torrent and hungry beasts below.

If that plan fails, there will be no choice but to bow and let him tear me apart. Offer my head and my sacrum. Allow the brute to bite through my face, chew off my flesh and crunch on my bones. Let it slurp as it eats my guts and organs. When it is finished it can lick my blood off the ground. May he sate his hunger, and therein follow a peaceful path.

But alas would this sacrifice of mine be enough, or be of any value at all. With me inside his stomach and he not stopped in the least little bit. What indeed of the parts of me that it cannot eat or devour or reach in any way. All I could do is watch as it devours the fleshy corpse, missing out on what is the most important part of me. The invisible parts. The beast devouring me and me watching, as if a king on a throne holding court with a slobbering monster. It is a strange world indeed. I could feed my flesh to this beast, and yet it will remain, free to maraud others. Others whom I wish to spare this type of bother. For it is my desire that they might live in peace, and see out their days in the way that nature intended.

Out on the trail the signs of the beasts passing become fresher and fresher. Perhaps I am imagining things but there seems to be the smell of brute in the air. A faint sulfurous perfume. Or is it some other awful thing. As the signs become fresher, I might pause to remember the shape of things before birth and after death. The background in which this blip of human life appears. Reacquaint myself with the feeling, lest I should find myself in that place in a more permanent way.

I might reacquaint myself with it so that fear may no longer arise in my heart. Perhaps this will be my last event in my foray into the field of form and folly. Perhaps I chose this event a long time ago. Perhaps not.

Finally it appears before us – the great slathering beast. It dominates the scenery and seems to fill the sky. Its unbridled aggression causes everything around it to wilt. But there should really only be sadness for it. It devours one thing after another, its appetite increasing with each one. With each one becoming all the more insatiable and more embedded in the monster form. Further and further from the gentle and yet more difficult course of following the true and gentle way. More and more becoming bound to more and more of the same.

Perhaps I can change the plan. Could I offer it a portal to step through. Guide it to learn to live in peace with all and itself. Perhaps I might go equipped with a reflective mind. To let monster see monster and be cured of monsterness. To let myself see the source of monsters in the monstrous minds imagination. Be cured of that and be cured of the afflictions of I and I-ness. Be cured of it and it be cured of me.

I might lunge forth and act – do something that will alter the course of life, the universe and everything. For the better. Perhaps I might turn my back or retreat out of range. Let the scene unfold in its own way without any interference from me. In its own way, in its own time and with its own results, and accept the result as if I chose it. I did.

If I were to battle with it it might merely create more chaos and havoc in the world, for mirroring the monsters monstrousness is the worst folly of them all. So it is that a decision has been reached. I will turn my back on the monster, although it might easily smite me down. Maybe we will be one step closer to that not happening to other inhabitants of this planet. But maybe not. Let it do as it will, although it might be to the detriment of all.

With a firm and clear mind turning away from the beast. A decision has been made, a course of action determined. Then just taking a peek over the shoulder to see what is happening. But the monster seems to have vanished. The smell of brute is now faint in the air and growing fainter. Before long it is but a memory. One may even wonder whether it ever existed, and how it was that it elicited such strong feelings. A mere memory, a figment of the imagination of the world. A reflection of the individual that sees it, a facet in the mind of minds.

An illness it was – an illness begging for a cure. An illness and a cure, mixed into each other. A cure for my own illnesses. It is gone and we would have to work hard to find another illness of equivalent magnitude. That challenge has arisen and moved on, and it might not arise again. We might never again have such a clear view of what it represented. We might have to wait a long while until that particular face of ourselves is revealed again.

At the end of this adventure turning to return to wherever it is that we came from. Following our own footprints over hill and dale. Through beach and forest, farm and vale. The time eventually comes when we can no longer see our own footprints. Mixed with the monsters and fading before disappearing altogether. It is hard to discern one from the other. Eventually coming to the conclusion that maybe they are one and the same.

Looking also for the path that we were treading before this whole episode began. That too has disappeared. Wherever we were going has disappeared, and been replaced with a new version of itself. Whatever we were doing is gone to. Gone gone gone. Wherever we came from has disappeared too. With everything all gone, stepping out to face the new day.

Living with the unbelievable

Falling asleep at the end of a long day. Weary and worn, dusty, musty and tired. Time seems to fall away, and in sleep there is no-one present to watch its passing. Then a miracle occurs - waking to a fresh new day. Every day is a fresh new day, but sometimes the freshness isn't noticed. Every day is a fresh new day, but sometimes we miss it. Every day is a fresh new day, but some days are fresher than others. Sometimes there are parts of the previous day left-over, which create a drag on it. For some there are things that are more important than the now of being alive. All of the things that we believed were important, and all of the things that were important to believe. The yearnings of the future and the disappointments of the past, not to mention all of the unresolved confusions and dramas that we drag around. Together they conspire to make the day a bit grey, and create an unease that hides in the background of all things.

Waking to a fresh new day. It is slightly cool, and that adds to the freshness. It is the type of freshness that seems to stave off stuffyness of the head and eliminate restlessness and discomfort. The type of freshness that brings with it alertness. The type of freshness that one would find on the beach on a cold winters day, or by a lake, or in the mountains at any time of the year. The freshness of a forest, that stretches as far as the eye can see. The freshness that comes after a true pause in time. A pause from the bubbling and babbling listlessness that accompanies the pall of unease that is the burdensome cargo of mind. The freshness that comes after having passed beyond the realm of the mundane.

Whether the restlessness is prominent or the freshness is prominent, stopping whatever one is doing, wherever one is. Gathering ones-self and turning ones-self to face whatever it is before you. Whatever it is that most needs to be seen and done.

On the freshest of fresh days the things that need to be attended-to gather together in a queue, and come forward one by one. But on restless days they buzz around the room like flies - the necessary things mixed liberally with the irrelevant and irreverent. They all buzz with a similar volume, and the sound of each one drowns out the sound of the other, and the sound of the other drowns out the sound of the one. But of all of the things that need to be done, there is always one that most needs to be done, and a few subsequent ones. Identifying and isolating its voice in the crowd, and becoming close to it. Listening to its needs and requirements and attending to them, one at a time, each individually as they arise.

Taking them one by one, the freshness is maintained. So too the swarm of tasks is lessened, and with practice, those that most need to be done are addressed and disposed-of. Open all of the doors and windows and let in the fresh cool air. With all of the doors and windows open, those things that serve only to be irritants are easily blown away. The irritants, along with the frivolous and unnecessary - gone. Only those that are of genuine concern remain.

It is a fresh new day on planet earth, and yet so many of the brightest and most brilliant beings are distracted, detained or otherwise occupied. They are unable to attend to the days activities, being arrested by their distractions. With these beings diverted, disassociated and disempowered, there is a form of dizziness that prevails and spreads to all others. A communal headache. Such is life in the cave that is the world of form.

On the walls of the cave shadows appear in the dim light. They seem to reveal a depth of existence, a link to otherwise unknown places and parts. They goad and menace anyone who is unfortunate enough to find themselves in their world.

The shadows on the caves walls harass and irritate all of the other beings until the time comes that something really must be done about them. Even though they are only shadows on the wall, they give rise to a malaise in the imagination and the mind. In frustration and desperation one might swat and flail at the air and space around them. But air and space, light and shadows are not particularly bothered by being swatted at. Then one might spray various substances and things into the atmosphere. It is the fragrance of flowers and fruity things that they least like, and that causes them to run and hide. The shadows find them frightening and repellent, and of them it is the lavender that they are most frightened of. It causes them to lose their tension and ability to adhere. They cannot bear its fragrance, and the way that it lets light pass freely. Nice as it is, a spray of lavender might help to rid the caves walls of annoying and debilitating shadows for a but a while, but this is only a temporary solution, and something more permanent is required to have them not come back.

For a moment, in a fit of frustration and emotion, one might curse at the first thing that one sees – the moon in the daytime sky. Vomit some vile invective in that direction. Alas such displays of impotence and futility really do not help. All they do is wear one out and annoy the moon. The shadows smirk and gloat and get fatter and fatter.

Although they have been a big problem for a very long time, there is only one reason that the shadows have not been swept away and removed from this earthly field. The one reason is that they weren't popularly perceived as being a problem. Because of that no-one has seen the need to devise an effective way of removing them and their influence from this matrix and paradigm.

No-one ever asked them to go away and be a pestilence elsewhere. To go away and find somewhere else to live. No-one ever asked them whether they need help. No-one ever showed them another way of being. No-one ever delved into the source of their unfortunate condition, to find out what was wrong with them, and how to fix them. When they are fixed, to sever their source of sustenance and carefully arrange conditions and circumstances so that they do not return.

We might gather together and build a hospital for them. Make it a tall hospital lit with pastel lighting, and filled with soft music. Put the worst of them in sealed compartments from where they cannot escape until they have mellowed somewhat. With the shadows safely ensconced there we might quickly assess our world and do whatever is required to make it uninhabitable to them. Populate all places everywhere with finely tuned sensibilities and high minded ideas, all ruled by love and gentleness. It is these that frightens them the most.

Then to give our own population the skills needed to navigate their ills. To completely eradicate the condition that is distress without insight, pain without resolution and power without compassion. To spray every nook and cranny with lavender, and fill them with gentleness, beauty and peace. But the most important and most difficult thing is to arrange the conditions of clear and unflinchingly attentive presence in all people. If that can be done then the other tasks will not be difficult.

If not, then things will most likely remain as they have always been. There are always days when the weather is fresh, but not everyone can partake in that freshness. As it is, there are some who can experience the freshest of fresh. Those who are lucky can do it automatically, for it is in their nature. Those who don't experience it naturally might need to discover the keys to freshness for themselves. They might find them by accident, they might be given them as if by chance. They might go out and look for them, find them, adopt and absorb them. Some unfortunates might be led to the way of freshness and still not be able to truly make it their own , or they might just not care– a most sad situation.

Whether anyone cares or not, each day arises as a fresh new day, ready for its freshness to be seized and taken advantage of. It is a strange world, where two people might stand next to each other, and yet have a very different experience of the same moment. But that is how things are. If they can meet in freshness, then they might find themselves to be closer together. Closer together, closer to themselves, closer to everything.

Mostly stationary

They have traveled across star systems and whole galaxies to visit us here. Traveled through every imaginable dream scene, every astro-physical feature, and every quirk and quark of inner and outer space. They have passed through all of the realms of what the imagination has to offer. Although it is a most beautiful place, it is not for the scenery that they have come.

It is not for the coffee, the chocolate or the cream cakes. Nor is it for the snazzy paintings or the exquisite gardens. It is not for the creative flair or the breadth of the emotional response of the earthlings that live here. It is not even for Beethoven, Bach or Stravinsky that they have come. They have come because they want to see for themselves the strange things that are happening here on planet earth. They want to understand us, the human species, and how we function. They want to know about the scenery of our hearts and the voices in our heads. They want to know what motivates us and why we make the choices that we do.

They have seen this planet of ours moving unevenly in the sky. It seems to be taking a strange course. Rolling on its axis, shuddering and wobbling. There appears to be a bit of a smudge around it and a groaning sound can be heard emanating from it – if not from its inhabitants then from the planet itself.

These visitors have come such a long way, to find themselves arriving at a convoluted and deluded world. Every imaginable illness afflicts the inhabitants. There are many who are relatively well, but those most affected by madness seem to set the course for the society and culture. They turn their ailments and mind discharges into rigidly held beliefs, each inverted, perverted and converted into anything but the simple truth of life. The same rigid beliefs that are imposed on the populace and enforced by the most cruel and brutal perpetrators of belief systems who present themselves. A trap is created, from which few of those who are caught in it would break free. So thus the course is set, that all in the planet must follow. It is a very strange place, this planet earth.

Great edifices have been constructed, dedicated to confabulation and discombobulation, with whole populations led away from any genuine and worthwhile purpose. Even those who stand quite thoroughly for good have been tricked and confused. In being led the opposite way they also take many others with them.

The worst thing is that it all seems acceptable – okay and alright. Even as the rebellious members awaken from their slumber of souls, they find that each and every person is actively holding and maintaining the whole edifice that holds them captive on whatever spot it is that they stand. The rebels are trapped as much as any other. Together as a group they hold their great tangled prison together, and have refined it to the point where it appears as being so natural and normal that no obvious alternative way of organising their lives is known.

Our interstellar anthropologists might be tempted to pack-up their notebooks and kinship charts and find another lonely planet to observe. They needn't go far, for there are others in the vicinity that would suit an idle academic purpose. But they have a special calling for this earth, this lump of rock and its captive population.

They could hide in the clouds, or further up in the sky, and watch from there. They could set up their living quarters within the earth. They could even dress like the natives and walk unnoticed among the crowds. Apart from the difficulties in being immersed in an atmosphere of flummoxedness, this close view is the best of them all. It is the view that we would choose if we were to undertake such a study.

In the crowd, the flummoxedness becomes much exaggerated, to the detriment of all. Everyone is so nice and so harmless, and yet the planet shudders from the combined effect of their presence. All are so beautiful and seem so good, and yet ill winds blow and troubles prevail. The lowest result is gained from the highest potential.

Flummoxedness has, it would seem, become the primary way of being. The natives all busily toil away, not seeming to make much progress in life. For the passage of every one or two thousand years, and for all of the endless effort and activity, things still seem to remain more or less the same. The surroundings and styles shift and change, but the whole purpose of everything remains somewhat skewed towards a vision of individual hopelessness set against a backdrop of permanent collective decline.

Perhaps we could all learn to fly. Perhaps just flying a bit at first, then increasing the length of our voyages, eventually flying beyond the day and beyond the night. Through the milky way and into the dark rift. We could search and search to find where it is that we came from. Searching the many places and searching empty space too. To find where we truly come from. Finding tribes and civilisations where hundreds and thousands of years have passed in undisturbed calm. Where balance and harmony were found aeons ago, and where peace and  sanity have been allowed to flourish.

Out there in the furtherest reaches of the sky, the ailments that ill the heart remain the same. After having departed the home planet and leapt across vast reaches of space and time, the heart isn't helped one bit in curing its afflictions. So it should be addressed during its transit across the sky, if not before. Even when passing through bumps and turbulence it can be tended-to and returned to its state of wholesomeness once more. So too of those who traveled so far to visit us here. Both they and we not wishing to arrive nor depart in anything but prime condition.

Here on this earth, the people look up into the sky with all of the strength that they can gather. Stars and planets and moons for as far and as long as the eye can see. Seeing all of the phenomena that there is to see, it appears that no-one is home, and that it is home to none. That is what the eyes see, and what the scene seems to say. A big vacant space until the end of eternity. That and us. Us and only us. How strange it is that such a thing would be.

That being so, the visitors will eventually pack-up their things and return to their place in the sky. They have seen all that they need to see here, and all that they want to. They have seen more than they wanted to. They have reminded themselves of how things can be, and that is all that is needed. Back to their world they go, with their kinship charts, their lists of objects, and their renderings of complex cultural conventions. They have seen our world, what is done by the human species, and why and how it is done. They have seen all of the subsequent results of everything that is done too. It is a priceless education to them, for they can see it all without having to partake in it. They can confidently say to their young ones – 'if you do that, then this is how things will be'. Having seen the evidence, who amongst their young would feel compelled to try for themselves.