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B10 … Belarus – Observations & Ramblings…

Click on any image and create a slide show of mostly people images from this trip to Belarus….Autumn 2019
People Images
Puddle Images

Minsk

The streets are big in Minsk, clean, the side walks wide, the buildings grand and people well dressed. There is not the typical noice you hear in many other huge cities of the world, less horn honking and repetitious music blasting and speed is not as urgent from the vehicles surfacing the black tar along the avenues. There are many beautiful women, thin and nicely decorated unlike the america’s new over-weight sloppy tattooed pierced trend, a refreshing glimpse into a past where bodies were still pure skin and healthy without the sometimes blasphemous over abundance of cartooned ink upon toxic fat skin and metal driven thru flesh and fluorescent post modern painted hair. The men are very short haired, also thin and congenially dressed. Even the older folk dress modest and simple compared to the holly-world western space .

A feel of dignity still prevails though i notice often an endless stare into your eyes unless you stare back until one or the other breaks, i don’t break usually but look with a soft stare into the often deep disturbed eyes.

Since there is a prohibition on drugs of any sort, by default alcohol is the intoxicant. In a world where people are investigating alternative realities, in this respect Belarus is left in some dark age and yet with the toy of the future, the internet and its social addictive apps. You can smell the disgusting scent of cigarette smoke in many locations, restaurants, outside cafes, in the streets; ten years behind the west. Kids still play outside, the games of the virtual world has not got them by the balls nearly as much as in the west, but it’s on its way. There is good there is bad, the world moves on. The country is flat, poor, segregated from the west under a democratic communist facist form; minds confined. A lot of bureaucracy everywhere, foolish laws to keep the system in order and the people under thumbs.

The poor from the smaller towns and villages live well if they work their fingers to the bones, they eat organic food, slightly tainted with western chemicals, they spend time talking at the kitchen table, Jesus is on their walls. The country folk as everywhere have people that care from the heart.

There is a sense of rudeness in the city streets by many, a touch of disrespect for the other, for the different, for the wild west. They do what they know but the window of the internet is spilling into their every move. It has got the world on its knees. It is changing things daily, by the hour, the second, it is everywhere, the big brothers of business are loving us, connecting us, controlling us.

Now, at the moment, i am in a small country cabin, no electricity, no running water, an out house toilet, a wood oven stove. A river on the other side of a short walk thru a magical pine and birch forest, the swimming hole, the shower, the beauty and life from a vein of mother earth. A distance from the madness in the streets, the glamour, the dreams, i write slow, with silence.

The world over, people are lost, from the privileged in the west, the east, the poor in the streets, the saved in the cults, the craftsmen in the art scene, the musicians lost in their groove, politicians, business people, families and scientists ‘working on a future’, alternative intelligence sneaking their views into the brains of humanity. It’s all a part of gods plan, many are determined to believe. 

The autumn night is cool and the air is awake with no answers floating easy thru my mind. I am fine with this uncertainty, this refreshing breath of calm spirit holding me close to its heart. I have no desire to bother you, to invite you into my mind, to convince you of anything. Love is nothing but a shelter from the storm for most, hate is completely insane for the few, beauty is all that matters and it is everywhere, in the arguments at the table, the sliver of moon thru the pines, the tea as it soothes my throat and the whole world is at my mercy and i have nothing that needs to be done. I care about nothing, the future luring itself to me with a ‘now’, life is glorious in moments and treacherous at times but beauty is always there presenting itself for nothing but a whisper of faith; what is and will be just is, take it as it comes and honour your mind with its presence. That is all, so easy and yet so incredibly difficult to perform, this act of life, as it is.

I am in a little village as some of the greatest writers we know had lived, the Russian people, their hard walk thru the blizzards of life, Dostoevsky, my first read, the Brothers and Notes from an Underground, Mayakovsky’s poems that kept me alive, ‘past one o’clock’, Yevtushenko’s ‘monologue’ walked my youth into the world and Malevich with his warning paints against a future canvas, a sage, the great uncle of a few of my closest friends……….how did it all shape itself into this ; and now Sasha, my Belarusian wife, here with me in her homeland with family i write of the world, the people, their things that i can not do justice to, my words fail miserably admits such giants of the mind.

Unlucky I suppose, I never reaped the benefits of these great men in cloth but they taught me of things money often shrouds in hollow homes; there is no understanding in misunderstood and expensive love. Blood-awards are not the cure for love but there are no rules where money lives.

I walked thru this world watching the desperate, the weak, the crippled rule while we few slid between the cracks, life like a highway leading to the shore where nothing escapes, we all come we all go and nothing really matters at all, cept the honour of your own walk. Thanks to you ‘russian writers and artists’ that painted light thru the hard dark days, somehow it reverberated in my mind and here i am writing to you with russian-air blowing thru my words like earth and the plow, the rivers, the pure and the blind.

mayakovsky….’in hours as these i write words to the heavens, i have no reason to wake you and as they say the ships of love have smashed into the daily grind. There is no sense in attempting to balance mutual pains, sorrows, or straighten out the crooked lines of fate. When i look up as stars stream across the milky way i can see there is no time left to ask another thing, this day is closed and you and i are quits, so leave yourself from questions of our worth, there is nothing important here, go on your way thru the misery and joys of this world with the knowing that we did exist and leave it at that’.

Another Day….Cobrin

In the smaller towns many older folk still ride bicycles, not the newer multi-speed bikes but the ones from sixty years ago; one speed, a carriage for groceries, a rat trap for stuff in the trunk. The yards are fenced in with ornate precast lengths of concrete designed and painted uniquely from house to house and town to town. There are gardens in every yard with vegetables, fruit trees and flowers everywhere. The people work hard for less than they’re worth. The system scrapes more than their share for the insiders—the cops to the clergy, but only a special few perched at the very top really reap the majority of the wealth. In that respect the twain of the west and east do really meet. I would say in general that people here are less happy, fake or not, depression hidden close to their heart, a beaten past, a tough perspective difficult to hold, a curse very slowly lifting. The youth want more, as everywhere, and the internet feels like a road to freedom, but it comes with a price. Much of the good of the old will vanish, new trends will appear, tattoos, piercings, fat, sloppiness, arrogance, freedom and toxic chemicals from the kool west is creeping in and the best of the worst is dying out. Here no one smiles at a first glance, and in the west far too many smile from a condition of ‘fake it till you make it’ or as John Lennon said in ‘Working Class Hero’, “first you must learn how to smile as you kill”——his point is clear. Nothing is black and white, there is grey everywhere.

It takes a lot of effort to get someone to smile. Often, even kids suspect something wrong if you attempt to smile for the encouragement for them to smile back. Older people are very suspect and you need to be careful at times not to offend them into looking back at you with troubled hate in their eyes. The best i can do is smile with gentle eyes and if they look long enough sometimes they feel the sincerity and the possibility that it may be safe enough to give a gentle glance back before quickly looking away. It’s complicated and you have to understand the culture, the government, the past, the hard work for little, the internet, the cell phone, the condition of the conditioning. I don’t understand enough, i’m careful, sympathetic. I’m not looking for anything or expecting miracles, suspecting the worst, the best or anything at all, just observing for nothing better to do.

Sasha manages to get thru to some of the people to make them talk and laugh but still unlike the west with the sometimes frenzy of undue emotion for the sake of proof that one does in fact possess happiness and security, it is a challenge, but she has the language on her lips and the culture engrained in her brain.

Everywhere you go the majority of people have in common the tremendous desire to belong, to feel safe, to be comfortable in their beliefs and to act accordingly in some form of freedom, real or not. It is the awareness that this does not exist quite the way one would hope for, and that fact alone makes them react in odd ways with repression and aggression but with a little luck a true simple act of love, an observation of their beauty often opens up the laced curtains to their melting windows of love where all is connected and then things sometimes change in the most peculiar modest manner.

After sitting in the same cafe for a few days you get to notice familiar faces, the one gypsy family, a crippled man, his wife, a grandmother and a 12 year old boy. A number of old ladies with their bikes and a few sexy young chicks. There must be a 6 to 1 ratio of woman to men. I suppose the baby boomers last stance with many of the men dead; gone from rough times. I could be wrong about many of my observations but one thing for certain is this, ‘it is a depressed repressed flat country with a modest dignity’. 

When it comes to the world of man, nothing is close to perfect, no country, no civilization, only aspects of individual lives with the right amount of moderation for this, and for that, then and only then does a human survive in contentment. One that can be mostly satisfied with ones life no matter what condition, changing what one can and accepting what one cannot change and of course the key attribute, the intelligence to know that difference; some anonymous character said that, “be what you are, be what you are not, and own that”, and i said that.

I watch the people hustle about, the same in South Africa, Argentina, the Duncan Garage Cafe, the world over people are so complicated they have lost the ability to be simple. Simple like living for no reason, being with no purpose, giving for no expectation, receiving for no compliment.

It is mid afternoon, there are more men in the streets, the sun is high, the traffic is steady and quiet, the horn is rarely used, people are orderly, law abiding, conditioned that way. People are tired, it’s mid week, hard life, difficult future; entrepreneuring is not supported, not respected, it’s difficult times but there have been worse, much, much worse. There are no wheel chairs, no motorized wheel chairs, no walkers. People walk, even if they have cars, gas can be expensive. The cane is still the best bet for an aching joint. Over all people here are definitely more healthy, but weary, a contradiction, but true.

Words fall from the ages with syllables of sorrow and joy. Time has come to end all time with but a flinch of an eye. For nothing needs to be said of the pain, all the misery in the world, all the circumstances and all their meaning; the blood, the desperation for love, the beauty of it all. The last night has come, the day is done, no sense in a final attempt to understand, the mystery will prevail, the only certainty we can understand and it will fade also. So know that i did try to find you, to love you, to understand love, to see the beauty in it all. Now, time has come to a slow walk, a crawl and we must depart from this last shore, the infinite sands where the waters will own us, take us, disintegrate us, give us  back to the eternal source, the everlasting reflections of mystery. This is the end my friend, no time left to begin…..

In a morning moment from a cafe in Brest

Jokerman hasn’t made his mind up yet, but the streets of hell are over flowing, the great artists have been striving to reach out, give what they can to the ditch of deceit, the river is moving on, the prophets are drowning in their words, love is on the edge. The basement tapes have been digitized into zeros and ones, the kings of the jungle own everything now, right down to the last sip of water, the moon is just another franchise for crazy concepts, the hip are moving in down along the boulevard, prices are skyrocketing; Brest is just another city transforming into a scene of just another holly-world, Belarusian pride is flourishing. 

I walk along the streets looking for an image to say it right, everybody is a camera man everywhere in this era of fame for all, there is no moment to hold it all together, the way will have its way, time will just escape along the streets as it always does, with or without me. I see a figure approaching, a cane holding a worn pile of bones, an old lady with dignity moving along in her cage like a saint. My camera clicks in black and white, a flash of a second and she is immortalized, the world is stopped and the street is dead. Her lover in torn war worn clothes enters her simple room on the second floor of a shattered structure in the centre of town, here she walks so many years ahead in a dream she never owned. She lives in and out of this space in solitude and a beautiful sorrow. War tears the winds apart. How could i have known it would happen like this, this street in all its memories moving in and out of time across from the cafe, the new hip K-lab Cafe along a park avenue in Brest. I could be anywhere, war is everywhere, the coffee is smooth and i move out again onto the path and walk with the saints, phantoms, and the modern.

Epilogue
I can see it ain’t what we suppose. It is all beyond our conclusions. What is, is not what is in our minds. For most, life is a series of uncompleted strategies, unfulfilled dreams, rational and acceptable illusions we believe are true. We strive and desire, we want and we lie, we know we are all made up of dreams and for a few of us this is exactly what we love, the fantasy, the unreality of it all, a way to live our lives in harmony with the mystery. This understanding is the knowing that life is much more than what we could possibly think. Thought is just not the utmost tool in the box, the best meal on the menu, the favourite in gods hope chest. Thought has got humanity by the balls. Let it ride. Breathe faith along the trail, the process is love.

This ends my tour of Belarus for this time.

Excerpts and short conclusions and images by Patrick Wey

B9 … From the Shores of the Mind

There is so much to say about the secrets hiding in the shadows, the truth so invisible to the herd, the simple understandings that have been manufactured into honest lies. Whom will step out into the dark so bright from the false hopes half empty in this mirrored glass of life.

Few attempt, few survive….

There have been but few to see beyond the false walls of deceit and illusions and even those few had often fallen within the thickets of thought. It is thought that is the map; the ideals, the concepts, the direction, and utilized properly it would always find its way towards the edge of certainty and fall into the abyss of loves knowing, god, the creator, the great mystery. Thought is the tool to save us but it must always see its limit so it may not entrap itself in secure beliefs that ultimately will torture one into yet but another form of mans luring insanities, rigid religions, dangerous sciences, AGI, fake blues everywhere, but in it’s very nature, thought it appears, walks in crippled knowledge.

He saw the world of man as predominately insane, clasping unto the abstracts of words, ideas, maps as truth in themselves. Thoughts belief is not the undivided truth and never can be, relative at best. In its very nature of ‘memory the past’ it is flawed against the absolute but it is a gift to understand; but not to worship. Worship the unknown, the creator, the mystery but never claim a path that leads to its knowing. Understanding that one can never truly know is the pure path of the critical thinker, the real man, the true super mind. The relationship between thought and knowing is paramount to the harmony and sanity of the mind. Thought is always standing on the outside looking in, never on the inside looking out.

‘The only way out of this mess is in’, but thought can not take you there. Thought can enhance your understanding of what it can not do and that in itself can lead you to its shore, possibly.

He stood on the shore and saw the sheep – lost, roaming in the mountains, children crying – dying in the streets of dreams, authority conspiring behind pretty plastic walls, and answers disintegrating in ditches like poems barely alive, perfect words falling from a paradise unheard.

His lips were tight walking thru the night, hearing the news of the latest fight, seeing the screen of the masses murdered, tasting the air of desolation. He had to walk away from the turmoil, lay low for awhile, catch his breath, look again deep within to see there is no answer fit to keep it together to know anything other than to let go, take it to the mystery, lay it on the altar, gather feathers and stones and weep into the darkness for humanity. That was the way to survive, cry for the people, feel their pain, feel the insanity of it all and breathe, breathe deep slow and walk on. Man has made his bed and but a few watch it squirm in its hidden agony sheltered by its crippled hope and do nothing but help the dying die with the last few fragments of dignity that sits quietly alone like a lost angel in their broken hearts.

From the Shores of Mind

From the shore the salted air waved along his skin like silk in magic. The sound of the sea rushed onto the coast whispering the sacred straight thru his mind and composed itself soft onto his heart. There were no answers from this mist, truth clung onto nothing, the smell of kelp, the sand as poems upon his feet, the earth alive and breathing simple and true.

So there he stood upon the shore to nothingness where dreams weave in and out of existence like wind in beauty where one can see without looking. That is the way of knowing nothing, for it alone will hold you forever where life and death are one and the same and things just are for no reason. Love sits everywhere, sometimes you can feel it when the mind is quiet but it is but a reflection, its source unknown, a mystery, a god; perhaps, at least, an intelligence, which reason trudges thru and appears to understand somehow.

The people walk by and he sees them but they don’t see him. They carry on with their well worn dreams and their half constructed beliefs and their struggle well concealed but they know somewhere hidden deep within their being that they also, ‘know nothing that lasts’; lost children hoping for a saviour that never comes, only shallow blind dreams sliding down the tubes of their myth of mind. That is their existence, their truth and they defend it with a pride to die for and they do, supporting, killing, hoping and lying, doing what they do in their desperate world of faith in knowing. Few could travel along side with him, but some did attempt to walk the pathless trail, especially in their later years when dreams fell wounded and death came calling but the patterns of the mind are tough and long and deep and it takes more than most can bare to break the mold of myth straight clear into the end.

He walked on thru the world in and out of the hard jungle, the mountains, the valleys, the minds of man with one eye on beauty and the other emerged and conditioned with thought. That was the best he could do to survive in a brain twisted of this world. He was no saint, no leader, no fool, just a man observing what he could of this mystery of being. In this state no will was necessary to find anything, everything just all was. Love, energy, dark matter, god, the intelligent process, mystery, truth all melted into an eternity of possible oneness that was always beyond, always elusive, always safe and distant from mind and there he died once again leaving behind disintegrating memories fading in the dying of time.

Images and Literature by patrickwey

B8 … This is the beauty of love …. ‘love letters from a cafe’

‘what does it matter in the end or in the beginning. sadness is just another way for not understanding the process of it all which one never can and one never will. life just is and the mechanics of the human mind makes it what it isn’t and that is what makes it all matter. death will come upon all the living. love is just a concept to glue it all together, but nothing matters where love is.’

She walked through the door like she was floating thru the air. Her sweet smile was a miracle from space, a symbol written in wind, a breeze made of love. She was heavenly beyond belief, a magnet of purity, a simple walk across the floor she glided in like a dream within a dream.

He loved her like no other, how could he know this truth with the noise inside the room, the confusion in the streets, the disasters in the mind but he felt it deep within and believed it so.

The illusion of shape, the mirage of wind, the absurdity of distance, the uncertainty of belief. This is the beauty of love.

I want so much to be able to say the things that i cannot. To speak with words that could never die, to feel the love of her touch, the smell of her skin, the caress of her heart. I want these things that move about in my mind. These things with tenderness that stops time, that ends thought, that never dies. I want these things that can never exist but for a moment so slight, so minute, so vague. I want eternity forever. I want love.

as Love moves quietly thru the noise of desire…..

 

‘this was inspired over the knowledge of a close friend facing death’

Images and Literature by Patrick Wey

B7 … ‘the only thing that is the same’

Audio reciting ‘the only thing that is the same’, by Patrick Wey

the only thing that is the same in this universe is zero and even that is debatable when you’re on one side or the other side of the law

I moved away from the familiar past into a world where friends were few and loneliness was often found in the silence hidden aside the walkways across the avenues. I almost found solitude if it weren’t for the e social networks, nonetheless there were many moments of calm creations; when there is nothing left to prove things happen in a different way. Streets open up with unimaginable events, people surprise you, animals speak out loud silently, birds fly for no reason, insects have some strange purpose one will never know. Dreams keep surrounding you with images that don’t have to make sense, the disease of man seems bearable and things just are.

Out west the air is clear once you travel beyond the atmosphere, nothing is perfect in the mind, mirrors just appear and the road unravels like a rug finely woven with magic and mystery like a heaven sometimes rejected for hell.

I love the smell of success as well as anyone, whether it be in the mind or in the pocket, it just seems simpler with out the travesty of catching money for your thoughts, it seems the toil of labour for jewels is degrading, a useless waste of life if you don’t even have a family to sit with for dinner. It’s hard times on the road, being human, forced to find an identity that doesn’t exist, a purpose where there is no meaning unless you deliver one for your self, create a home for your phantom soul to relax within.

I am me, the creation of numerous years searching to not search, moving to find nothing, a life completely vacant of hope for humanity, hope to cope, a path to end all paths, but i am stuck here, in a mind forced to believe in stuff this world is made of, a victim of conditional love, a surviver thru many a storm, a man growing old in body and simpler in mind. There is no escape but death and i love it, the times twisted bend out of and into shape, i love this life, most of the time.

(Read the lyrics as you listen)
Most of the time, by Bob Dylan…. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oq7EM8jjNUs

Lyrics
Most of the time
I’m clear focused all around
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground
I can follow the path
I can read the signs
Stay right with it
When the road unwinds
I can handle whatever
I stumble upon
I don’t even notice
She’s gone
Most of the time
Most of the time
It’s well understood
Most of the time
I wouldn’t change it if I could
I can’t make it all match up
I can hold my own
I can deal with the situation
Right down to the bone
I can survive,
And I can endure
And I don’t even think
About her
Most of the time
Most of the time
My head is on straight
Most of the time
I’m strong enough not to hate
I don’t build up illusion
’till it makes me sick
I ain’t afraid of confusion
No matter how thick
I can smile in the face
Of mankind
Don’t even remember
What her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time
Most of the time
She ain’t even in my mind
I wouldn’t know her if I saw her
She’s that far behind
Most of the time
I can’t even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was ever with her
Most of the time
I’m halfway content
Most of the time
I know exactly where it all went
I don’t cheat on myself
I don’t run and hide
Hide from the feelings
That are buried inside
I don’t compromise
And I don’t pretend
I don’t even care
If I ever see her again
Most of the time

Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Most of the Time (alternate version #2) lyrics © Audiam, Inc

B6 … The judge, he holds a grudge

 

 

The judge, he holds a grudge
He’s gonna call on you
But he’s badly built
And he walks on stilts
Watch out he don’t fall on you…..b dylan

 

 

 

Believe in nothing to believe, but if you must, then master the system and then let it disintegrate and walk on.

The man with the brain slowly edged himself up upon thru to the ruins of definiteness and held a glimpse or two of the wavering minds lounging in the cafes along the avenues. He was weathered by the storms of the twisted perspectives attached to the paint upon the canvases of the ancients to the post moderns and otherwise dangling off the limbs as dreams, possibilities, awakenings of white on white on white – canvas.

He had a coffee as usual and glued together a few words as they swung by like intruders off the modern capes flowing in the winds. He was done, left for the highway.

Crippled roads searching for a language to heal their weary words he rode the obscure train lines headed for the coast and sang endlessly from one tune to another songs never sung, beliefs never believed, then disregarded it all and sailed off into the night sea backwards. That was me just the other day and now i am someone else again, back on the streets and watching the new people dressed in old clothes and talking with worn out words saying ban that and take this and do this and stop that, same old, new language. The forest is calling the silence is here; gone again.

There is a better way than being right or wrong, it involves the focus between the ear and the heart.

Here, take this poem and smash it against the wall. Let the dreams fall off your branches, let the dying die and kiss that delicious sky just one more time again. Tear up the roads, crush the path of truth beneath your fingers and walk out there one more time alone, be that there, just exactly what you need, what you are, coming along into the morning light. Here you can see the sailors streaming across the space of time and the jokers the thieves the saints all floating by with their treasures all wrapped up secure and tight across their backs like a disease. Hey, come on now, you don’t have to stay down here worried about what can never be, get to the edge of time and drown there….

#B5 … Birthday Wishes Answered

Hey hey, gettin closer to the final curtain but not there yet, so put away the shovels and open up that birthday treat you’re holding in your hand and get on with the day, you and me and all those weary fathers away from you’re loved ones….thanks ya all for your wishes; may they come true…?

Birthday wishes answered……….
Thanks to you all that mentioned me on this birthday celebration thing. Some of you are black, native, christian, moslem, white, pink, nieces, nephews, great, great great and not, siblings, great friends true and false, even almost enemies at times, some are serious trump lovers, some definite haters of that kind; some poor, middle class, wealthy, arrogant, humble, racist, modest, philosophers, musicians, welders, just about every archetype of human on this weary forsaken planet; but it keeps changing and it’s never correct for long, if ever. Some have lost their way, some caring, some in it for the hype, some unsure, some way too certain, yup that’s my facebook, some question everything and some have the answers for it all; got to love it, but one thing for certain is that you all like something about me, but maybe i got that wrong too.
Hey anyways, thanks right from the edges of my heart to the eternal memories floating within the waters of my cells; just knowing that there is some sort of forgiveness, caring, love in the air between us means a ton of ‘belonging’ to this restless soul of mine. We’re all restless, uncertain, in the core of our hearts and it’s nice to let it all go once in a while and just feel that we are cared for in one way or another.
It’s a long life for some of us and the longer you live the more loved ones we watch leave for that treacherous swim across those great waters. So many struggles along the trail, so many conclusions that get in the way of love, love, that forever changing space that one must surrender into, just in order to cross with dignity. We are all one there presumably, but so divided here and it just is what it is, no more, no less and that’s reality; at least, close enough for now.
So this is my thanks for all the comments, likes, etc., this social media is really somethin ain’t it. Somehow maybe that is what celebration is all about, to show we care, and that it is worth, we are worth, without the weight of conclusions, we just are, alive and moving, worthy of love.
Well, that’s the way i see it at the moment. Chocolate’s almost gone, sun’s settin, i see nothin much on the horizon, cept more walkin, so i best be on my way, wey.
Thanks friends….

#B4 … I just returned from numerous years travelling

I just returned from a cluster of years travelling down and up avenues, across highways of success and despair, thru patrickwey.complains of serenity, stupidity, galmour, inner power,  crippled minds and all for what? some formulations embedded into my head about what it’s all about….i suppose.

Dreams broken floating in pieces along canals of my brain and definite ideals standing tall rusted in silhouettes against my mind and a heart being pumped with emotions from some distant scene fading into a future that will never exist. That’s the life dying every moment living full like an empty glass.

I love this place and all its peculiar shapes, plastic boats and time ships made of pure imagination travelling thru space from one certainty to another in obvious conflict along a desperate way. I #patrickweylove the way things melt into one another leaving hardly a trace of the reasons for being here. I love this investigation and all its strange conclusions about things that can never be known, like who invented me and why would it and what does it matter anyhow. I love it all and i love love and the way it hates to be fooled and then hugs me again in the end.

 

Streets are filling with celebrities, clowns, sailors, virtual warriors, tattoo queens, shamanists, sacred chocolate patrickwey.comgurus, image experts, musical authorities and velvet dreamers; avenues are taking turns winding bending heading direct towards highways of perfect thought, pure serenity, dangerous times and happy afternoons.

And just one more thing…..whoopse, it’s nothing much, forget it.

#B3 … many minds in one love

When man got stuck in his spiritual pursuits, she looked and saw her expectations, he is her and she is he and we are all quite the same in this regard. If you believe in jesus, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in buddha, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in the spirit, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in money, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in family, dreams, water, science, war, the written word, you’ve got expectations; belief and expectations are two sides of the same coin. If you are stuck and feel some dark matter curtain hanging over your soul, look and watch your expectations, you may find yourself, the self that is made of this coin. This coin is you and it is always rolling, just like a rolling stone, you can flip it and attempt to honour the flip, or twist it around, deny your promises till the opportunity fades and leaves you with the wounds of your unfulfilled expectations. The wound is the feeling of being stuck. It’s a circle and if you’re sharp you can see it coming round before it comes around but all this is futile, there is no circle, a vortex at best,  appearing with meaning to the end. In the end the coin disintegrates, but nothing ends, things fade, dissolve into nothingness. After life, in death the glue melts away, some spirits hang around longer than others like cache from an app hidden in the program, the process like magnetism slowly spreading its power, disintegrating, love moving on, changing its energy developing new form.

If you believe in science, if you believe in religion, if you believe in love, if you believe in expectations, if you believe you must believe you are expecting something to fulfil this belief and yet all is incomplete simply because the mind is time, is concepts, is abstract, is always a broken piece of the puzzle and the puzzle is infinite and moving always changing, the mystery. This is the dilemma of man, of human thought. We get stuck because we see continuity and we feel we can know how things work perfectly, absolutely, infinitely and it is obvious some things can be made from concepts and shift into forms created by this understanding such as guns, chesterfields, space craft, rice pudding but our problem is we attempt to know it all, to develop philosophies, belief systems, laws that disregard eternity and the humble understanding that there is a process we must surrender to; to be free from the coin of mind. Our relative knowledge is irrelevant in matters of the dark, the light simply shines in the silence, the thoughtless truth beyond mind.

So what can one do in this system of getting stuck, being, feeling, searching. I have no ultimate answer, how could i have and for the ones that are so certain that so and so has the answer from mohammad to einstein to a hitler, to yourself to whoever, you are mistaken; the answer is blowing in the wind, beyond the word, beyond the mind, beyond any system that the mind can imagine, mind is myth.


This understanding is the paradox, so continue on your road alone and do your best to help where you can with honesty that is clothed in silence.
Often when one is stuck it is because of this unconscious, collective conscious, genetics, constant search that man and his thought began when we stepped out of eden, ate the apple, began to think. Thought is limited and that is our condition, it feels it needs a higher power, a guru, a belief, an ultimate truth worth fighting, killing, dying for and that is mans reality…but, “let me take you down, where nothing is real and nothing to get hung about” j.lennon, “sometimes i think there are no words but these to tell what is true, but there are no truths outside the gates of eden” b.dylan

I am sure as only idiots are sure that there was a movement in the sixties that alluded towards the unseen truth, silence, nothingness that psychedelics assisted the mind to the understanding that ‘all you need is love, love is all you need’ j.lennon and a few years later from much more of a cynic, ‘love is all there is, it makes the world go around, love and only love, it can’t be denied, no matter what you think about it, you just won’t be able to do without it, take a tip from one whose tried’ b.dylan

One has to surrender to the universe but first to the earth, our mother, to come upon this knowing that thought itself stands directly in the way. All of its clear concepts so certain and conditional beliefs that destroy this understanding, this love, this one love, ‘one love, one heart’ b.marley.

There are many lyrics form the time of man that insist that there is an underlying energy that is loosely called love, a mystery, something that ‘all’ is made of, and thought attempts to separate itself from this oneness, timeless reality, with its insistence upon ‘knowing’, but even thought, tho it seems to come alive and create worlds out of thin air, is also under the process of the great mystery.

‘The world is a stage and all of us actors’ shakespear,  as far as thought is concerned.’ All belief is make belief and all personas exist in virtual realities and that is the mind of mankind.

I have attempted to rid myself, the self build upon fantasy of this shield from nature with psychedelics, floatation tank sessions, fasts for days with out food and water alone in the bush, sweat lodge ceremonies, native ceremonies, the sacred pipe and numerous other  investigations, experiences to get beyond the mind. If anything i am now trying to not try, to let it be, kill the dreams as they evolve, help life live, be alive, breathe well, eat well, exercise body mind and spirit well and work diligently towards my own salvation; stop the process and the continuity of mind. Is it possible, i don’t know, it is what i believe to be the most honourable path to no path, the paradox, the dilemma. Today is a good day. I have written my thoughts about thought and love as an impossible feat. Now i leave to walk on. I am not important. My words may lead one to an understanding that ‘it is up to you’ and when people say there is a reason for everything, that is only one of the infinite traps within the mind, the collective mind, the mind of man.

The brain is where the mystery begins. It never ends. Life is good, life is hard, life is what it is, a mystery. You can’t stop the mind from living, thinking, but you can watch it as it creates its worlds with a stillness as a coyote gazing across the desserts of love for moments in eternity.

So if you find yourself along a path of promises, send it on its way, it is of no use to you or anyone, just walk, throw your goals to the wind and your dreams to the silence and dive into the abyss of change, the death of mind and maybe just possibly a dream will come true, but you may never know and that is just the way it works.

Imagine peace walking quietly into the mystery for real. Imagine peace without imagination, so may it be, the dying of the time mind.

This is not an answer, possibly a question. There are many ways to leave your mind, to use your mind, to believe, but they are all limited and the certainty you might feel at the moment will also fade. That is the nature of nature, so possibly honesty is one of the few noble endeavours that the mind may attempt and it is also vague but caring.

This short essay was inspired by a past lover and dear friend whom discussed her feelings of being stuck and not able to see the search clear. I am no guru, i don’t trust gurus, leaders, masters, and all their self fulfilling alluring techniques, as honourable as they may seem. I trust in a deep silent faith in ‘the process’, nature, the unseen intelligence, the smell of a blossom, the tears of dew, the sounds of silence, not unlike being perfectly aware with and for no reason.

One of my all time favourite Rolling Stones Tunes…Used to listen to this endlessly and it brings to mind one of my favourite best friends whom also ended up similar to Brian Jones….Don Tucker used to love playing this song…..No Expectations …versions –  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONymOaZ-IQ8
– https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FbTCbsSuUpA
– https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WouSssjG9wQ

B2a … The West Coast is calling you…

Visit us …..

We’re wondering if we have any quests slipping by this summer for a few days to visit with us. Well we hope so, we’re lonely for our Ontario and worldly friends sometimes and it would be nice to entertain a freind or two and show you the wonders of the Island…trails, beaches, big old grandparent trees, exotic vegetation, ships, boats, cool cafes, mountain tops, windy roads, valleys and much much more…….

We are also looking for people to rent our beautiful place while we are off the continent in late August to late September……….here is the ad i wrote, soon to be posted elsewhere but thought we’d give our friends the first look:

House short term rental – Aug. 28 to Sept 22….$1500
Vancouver Island 5K north of Duncan.
Looking for mature couple or individual wanting a retreat for three weeks.
Beautiful very private location overlooking valley and mountains. Two bedrooms, large kitchen, one washroom, living room, study room and 2 decks. One hour to beautiful Victoria in the south, 45 minutes to Nanaimo to the north, 2 1/2 hours to Tofino, 25 minutes to Nanaimo airport. There are many trails and costal towns in the area.

Wood stove with lots of wood, super high speed internet, large screen with access to youtube, netflix and the internet. House comes with two lovely cats, Misty and Hunter, and they have access to the outdoors 24/7. They just need to be fed daily but can be left alone for a few days. The place is very quiet, the air is mountain fresh, the home is calm.

 

#B2 … Being Placed

Being placed in a world that is difficult, demanding. Grew up somewhere else and ended up here this grey day downtown Chicago numerous years ago. Her story is private, complicated, untold….sad with flights of spring.

When i was a young girl i often had an empty stomach and now i have an empty dream. I knew i would get there, the avenues of america, the streets of heaven, the walls of gold. I was well on my way, rising when he left, money gone, alone, attempting to walk with no sun in my soul, night time all day, clouds grey i walked on, i never gave in, for long. You wouldn’t know it this day but i strived beyond and found some tender times here and there till that invisible darkness slipped in beside me and back in the streets i was lookin at nothin for awhile once again.

The light was even and the air thin, buildings growing up all around, a melancholy breeze squeezed up against the glass and brick while i held my camera low….. waiting, waiting for someone just like her; lost, woman lost in america.

#B1 … Timeless Consciousness Everywhere

Words have fallen away, chains broke, syllables floating about weaving in and out and around wrecked concepts and a grateful sun rising up over the mountain slopes to make the day. Feels free to watch meaning dangle off tree limbs and slide across open air belonging to nothing and break away, deteriorate and die. Time isn’t still it’s just melting folding bending upon itself, yesterday streaming into tomorrow and ancient space present along side future worlds. Time is fluid in and around this bent space like dreams dreamt tomorrow for yesterday. Time is out of mind free of form and living.

I walk alone with beliefs crumbling around me, only my

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undying thoughtless faith caresses my alert and weary heart.

Everyone i know is hanging onto something, someone, some faith in thoughts entangled web deep inside their head.

The soft landscape folds over me, the trees caress me, the wind slight and tender kisses me, birds sing for me and then just like the night me is gone, erased from the swamp of time and i stand with no one nothing but the breath breathed and the raw awareness of all with one and nothing and it swims around from head to toe this timeless consciousness everywhere, i’m gone.



Images and Text by Patrick Wey
Link on Images – for sale.

 

 

365 … i kept my promise

365 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/23 of-by patrick wey
https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
ONE YEAR OF ‘IMAGES AND CONTENT OF THE DAY’….I’M DONE
I committed myself to this and kept my promise. Never missed a day. There are so many more but i have another life. At 70 i study 5 to 8 hours a day in a new career. This image/content project took an hour or so a day. I would prefer to do this all the time, ‘images and writing’, books, novels, prose-verse, new image creations but the highway of life has got me behind the wheel once again in search of more fuel driving me down into new territory. Possibly in a few years if i live long enough I will get back to this full time.
I hope you enjoyed some of my work or learnt something about me, the universe, yourself. Nothing is complete cept nothing itself and we’ve thought ourselves out of there. So until later, goodbye for now. I plan on adding an image here and there and focusing on my blog for maybe weekly entries; we shall see.
If Not For You – written by Bob Dylan sung by George Harrison says it best about my feelings for this woman, Sasha…..https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tR21ui1MAQQ
Please, if you enjoyed even one of this years collection, let me know.
Full Collection here: https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
Image circa last year in the mountains of BC with my Cuban hat and the woman in my dreams.
#patrickwey #imagecontent, #photography, #portrait, #selfie

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Patrick Wey

364 … spent my whole life travelling into the mind

364 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/22 of-by patrick wey
https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
spent my whole life travelling into the mind
with drugs meditations sweats float-tanks and reason
and i can honestly say that there is no absolute answer
there is no one moment that is always present
understanding comes and goes like the seasons
i have nothing to offer anyone
and no one holds the truth
it weaves in and out of mind like love
the mystery that can be nothing other
than change moving endlessly everywhere all the time

thank you my friends that had faith in me
the ones that care when i’m a mess
the ones that keep in touch thru hard rains
the few that never slam love against the walls
and thanks for the ones that think i am something that i am not
that can’t see my sincerity and judge my every move
the ones that attempt to make their problems mine
thanks for this life to be here with you
it is what it is no matter what
we cannot change what has been
cover up our simple jealousy our envy and deceit
none of us our perfect, all of us are defected, affected and blessed

it will be time enough for me to move on
to disintegrate into the waters
i won’t try to hang on to this world
here or after in body or spirit
we’ve made up so much
with our crying desire for immortality
our desperate imaginary territories
we are so afraid to see that nothing is but mystery
without one definite absolute conclusion about anything
a knowing that is unaware, dead, nonexistent
we know not that or this
or whether we are here or whether we exist
truly nothing really matters
just do what ever you must do

i loved you all like brothers and sisters
somehow, within those moments of truth
with an eternal blessing
nothing needed to be rearranged
reality was real and the air alive
everything was exactly the way it was
acceptance serenity knowing as love
all, the same below as above
Image beyond time beyond mind – self portrait, writing yesterday
#patrickwey #literature ##photoart #surealism #poetry

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Patrick Wey

363 … because i must

363 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/21 of-by patrick wey    https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
I walk through the low shallow winds of the highways because i must, they cut across my life. I live in the mountains in body and mind where my spirit is safe from western skies. I travel here and there as time permits for most of my past is missing or dead. There was Billy gone long and there was Shiela whom forgot about me; Irene, Phil, Gary, and so many others and lovers, many dead and the rest sailing in and out of sea. That’s the way time travels when you’re young in an old body. The mist still lays across the valley where hope used to live and the alder trees still talk quietly along old faith ridge and occasionally sun glistens over the wild streams of my heart, but time turns regardless and to the ocean it must flow.
Image circa 90’s the Highlands of middle Ireland – writing today
#patrickwey #Ireland, #Oldman, #portrait,

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Patrick Wey