america spoke with forked tongue
differences lying agitated in the shadows between
closets filling back up with their dangerous secrets
the celebrations are almost over
people are slipping back into sleep
tracking is back on track
the war continues strategically masked well
and the whole world is winding down again
The way is one of subtle change. It is a struggle to see clear. A silent mind can feel its way thru the turmoil of a day. Masked people walking everywhere. No definite evidence supports this way or another. The middle way sometimes has difficulty to exist.
The day was slow when the presence against the calm appeared. You could feel the tension, the stress, the compliance forming. There were those that were convinced with a main street media persuasion. There were those that were not. There were those that attempted to be open to the many possibilities that arose, investigated alternatives. Many got caught polarized by the magnetic pull of their own desires/beliefs. There were those that didn’t give a damn. There were the many that just follow the many. The masked were winning in the short run but truth moves slow in the sludge of the road. The war of the post modern man is an illusion and extremely real but no one wins. Possibly we’re all being played, set up one against the other, it’s anybody’s guess. Ununited we fall. No one to trust.
A crow walks by the table outside the cafe looking for a treat. Pretty dogs walk their masters along the boulevard. A pleasant woman smiles from behind her mask to a passing stranger. The day is grey. Winter is coming. The beauty surrounding is slipping under the skin. Another moment, for the moment, is moving free. There is no end in sight.
images and writing by patrick wey
Many years have torn and twisted thru city streets since i saw you here tearing down Juarez in a Mexico City paragraph. You were nothing more than a kid, a young man on the loose in a foreign land with dreams laying across the heavens like leaves floating around some boulevard tar. Times have changed, times have gone tight like night on a slim script. When i was young and you were me like some sort of character from a dylan rhyme, half hidden behind a loose freedom and scorns of possibilities dimming the road with tricks. I hid behind you without knowing what i was getting into; the road never lets all its iron claws out at once. There are dead ends down every street and paths way out of control from every alleyway. You took as many as you could, lived life deep into the rut of it all, highs for the sake of it, lows taken as a gift for the ride. Millions of moments have passed this way while i waited. I knew you would arrive like a destiny written in the stars, in the earth, in the apache cells of this brain.
Here i sit, alone, alone again. I have always been alone, no matter how many wander across my path. I sit writing to you. I remember it all somewhere inside, somewhere inside i can see every move you’ve ever made. The days in the bush, on the streets, in the bars, in the sweats. It all is cataloged in the books of the mystery spread out, floating across the universe in segments of dreams like fate. They fall into minds everywhere, become more and less and move continuously for as far as forever can go, that’s just the way it is, nothing is for sure but it is forever, as far as forever goes.
Undisciplined Thoughts On A Mysterious Virus
one soft sunny afternoon after Uncle Albert finished off playing his electric violin down around desolation row he stated after much despair over a few treacherous turns that ‘the fourth world war will be fought with bows and arrows’………vision 20-20 vision
the cold gone silent
the colds gone silent and the order is twisting tight
the day light is turning dark, just like night
what was real will lie dead in the streets
this transfer of dreams is meant for keeps
broken, divided, mixed up, bound to die
“All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie’ dylan
no matter where you are or what you think
all the conclusions and evidence stinks
the intricate decisions placed all around
will tear your family and friends from solid ground
to enemies disciples of unimaginable schemes
and nothing will be as the way it seems
the winds will blow harsh on the rigid minds
to divide decide conquer and curse
but the open flexible ones may endure
this on-going forever-changing cure
Wet Winds Whirl
wet winds whirl around multi coloured leaves
sun splashed october blood fills the trees
masked cheeks walk worried in the streets
well hidden behind their desperate dreams
the day cursed by decisions from afar
confused, hung up by their conclusions
one pitted against the other hang on tight
everyone believing they’re the ones that got it right
don’t walk too far from centre
you’ll be in fire-site of enemy lines
no matter how well you investigate
the half broken truths will escape
by the time citizens wake up their starry eyes
the blood stained schemes will have disappeared
hidden and planned the opportunity will have gone
the mega-power will stamp us out like a fire in the sun
how many ears does it take to hear the faint voice of truth
when will the people come and gather as one
science is just a method directed by philosophies
as the truth sits silently in the sun
I don’t really know anything for certain. Concerning the world and the covidX9 situation. I find myself with far too many questions and not the appropriate time to investigate. I am not the detailed critical thinker with the disciplines needed to unwrap the data correctly enough to make an accurate conclusion. I will probably be forced to wear a mask and more and than likely be vaccinated whether i agree or not. This situation i believe is far more serious than being forced to wear a seatbelt or follow other society rules. Of course that is an opinion based on inconclusive data and the heart felt unscientific conclusions of a mistrust for the super rich, multi-glomerates, establishment and their puppets of governments and control world-wide. So therefore i am more and more locked into gut heart felt decisions as i move thru-out this world and totally preferred over hazy herd-like comfortable belief systems.
I do find the discontent, disagreements, name-calling, debates and argumentative situation somewhat disturbing in moments. I have not found one person, one website, one source of information ultimately satisfying and to my discontent at this point no accurate believable non-manipulated truth and i very much doubt that i will.
I see most with their hard evidence conclusions as lost sheep, desperately determined to hang on to their secure realities. Eventually it may be a matter of life and death with these firm believers from all sides, left right, up down, inside and out. There are many practical thinkers that realize that there are many possibilities of how this may unfold. It does appear to me that the rulers that are determined to impose lock-downs or the likes seem to have another agenda, it would be nice if i am wrong. I do find that the sincere scientists and lay people alike are much more open to alternative possibilities and often it is not their job but they do have expertise to different degrees in these areas, which i find more sincere and believable. But as anyone i can be fooled by statistics conclusions that have been manipulated in one way or another.
With all this being said i do hope and wish that things can turn out for humanity but there are so many issues and it does really seem that without some form of higher order intervention that the world as we may have known it will disappear. It has been prophesied in one way or another and if one is determined to have something to believe in, there is endless scriptures, philosophies, and sciences to stake your life upon.
I will continue to attempt to be open and scrape off any reminiscence of undying structures from my mind. I believe in the inconceivable attempt to live in the mystery that is no doubt the only true certainty, an oxymoron i know.
At this point unless there appears incredible factual evidence in support of wearing a mask or i am forced too, i will go mask-less when possible.
its a cold afternoon, blood’s runnin high
the truths gone silent into a darker sky
a war’s abrewing in the eyes of the masked
the no-masked are already being harassed
the colds gone quiet and the clock’s stuck low noon
in the streets in the homes in the virtual realm
you can feel the tension rise, war coming soon
the war of man, the war for more land
the war on the ground and the war of two hands
the battle between the insane and the sound
the masked and the unmasked
the believers in this and the worshippers of that
one against the other in a game from a far
all on this lonely planet flying around an unconcerned star
masked or unmasked
war or discussion
evidence or believe
science or business
control or freedom
sanity or stupidity
certainty or manipulation
fight or understanding
intelligence or desire
sheep or wolfs
black or white
accident or planned
deceit or honesty
conspiracy or ignorance
order or chaos
gray or grey
the mask that divides the known
from the long distance to the self
to the soul
possibly there is not one
no spirit no self
an illusion, a frabrication of thought
you can fool your mind and just believe
every body does, it’s convenient, safe, and it’s easy
perhaps it is simply a myth
a mass masked conclusion
you decide but you must decide alone
images and writing by patrick wey
Reflections of my life pass before me in mounts of turmoil and deceit from the very ones that caressed my wounds while i was asleep. In the corridors of deep hidden revenge executions of the horsemen were carried out for little rewards. The temptations from the crowds discovered me here sneaking my way back to love, such a long road that leads nowhere if you’re careless. Memories scatter before me with quick warmth turning cold. This is the day death strung its web out like a knife, a trap and i fell. My friends left me here to crawl beneath the tracks, to hide to escape alone and find my soul shattered by my own imagination and light came in slow but left me here worn and old and tender in the heart for a few last breaths then left again. I don’t know if i ever came back, death stole my mind, took my heart and left my spirit floating about somewhere in an ancient glimpse of nothingness…….
There was light flickering thru the swaying leaves, the street was dangling off the mountain hills like a snake and i was ready. There was moon light waiting on the crescent and the feeling of success was handy by the door. I walked out into the open air and thought, ‘yea, i can do this’.
My whole life flashed by in a few seconds, age had grabbed me by the edge of night and dreams left for the coast for another and left me dying slow alone without a memory to hang on to. I took a deep breath, scared with sunken eyes i screamed to the heavens below, ‘what the hell is going on’ and got up on my knees and cried for help to be true, real.
The day broke the silence and the moment held its position into the night. I got it right this time; love came tumbling down, sprinkled high energy all over me, the spirit of life tore my past to shreds and i was back on the track again. What a trail, terrible low valleys, trecherous mountain cliffs, non-ordinary realities twisting my mind from one end of the galaxy to the edges of the universe and then some. But i’m back in the saddle again, roaming the country side, slippin down the city side walks watching the masked men follow in line to the injection booth and the pretty dogs walking their owners for a shit. I got it all, sun spewing across my forehead and my black pants melting in the light, i couldn’t ask for more. Thanks god, thanks for the trip, thanks for the weird world you threw me into, thanks for my friends and thanks for my enemies too.
In the morning air i watch the birds flicker by, the humming birds in for a drink, the sounds of song all around and the green summer turning into amber autumn rust. I love the way the quiet settles in on the mind and how quick things can turn on a spec of time. There are moments i swear last forever, the soft sun melting my heart to the light. I love life this moment, this eternal moment, she owns me.
death sets us apart, it brings currents and waves of uncertainties. it has its way of taking you down and around and up and out of site. death is my friend, tho harsh at times it ends things, keeps the universe in order. i hurt at times when i travel down the paths of forgotten loves knowing they can never return. i long for some memories to never end and to take me back to where they arose for ever. i cry at the thought of never seeing you again, never holding you tender in my heart, never hearing your little whispers from behind your eyes, never being able to feel those moments again. i love you death but isn’t there a way to move through this sadness with dignity and to honour you, your past, your life, your ways, without tears tearing up my delicate mind. i am strong and i can withhold the tests of time most of the time but there are moments where it all seems so cruel, almost demonic the way we are forced to hold on, then forced to let go. oh death, what is your motive, what is the nature of your life.
i am going to keep moving i suppose, nothing has ever stayed long enough to be certain forever, so i succumb to your ways and i will continue ending and playing the game of building with the architecture of thought that must believe in what it thinks, that it will never end. I love life and i have many doubts of ever loving you, death.
In the background of my mind i see you there hanging on to dreams that just can’t let go. You in your love and your laugh that you sent out to us as a gift. I see the beauty that you carried thru the storms and the way that you laid down your wife to rest. I remember the early days when we stumbled our ways thru the jungle of the psychedelic sixties and the absurdity of its future filled with blasphemous trite. As we walked on thru the ending of the century we filled our homes with the best we could find; nature, flower gardens, friends and acceptance of what ever the world would toss our way. We did the best we could with what we had with what the earth would offer but in the end it all ended as it is. As long as i still have breath to breathe i hope to remember you, moments when we laughed, when we shared our differences and kept the embrace of our love intact. I will remember what you can not, for you, for me, for the the earth, for the way it is.
Whom will be next is anybody’s guess. Some have come prepared, pondered on death more than others. Some are totally freaked out by just the thought of their world ending, some just don’t think about it much and maybe that’s best. Some have intricate conclusions of what’s next once the body gives itself up. We’ve heard it all. Stan would not have any of that. He walked this earth knowing it for what it was, ‘a mystery’, right to the end and most-likely beyond and as he would say when asked ‘what’s after’, ‘nothing much probably’. I got to know Stan more than the others, simply because i saw him more; circumstance. I’ll miss him of course, but he was ready for it. His body was well worn, abuse in areas for sure, but he accepted it for what it was, quite well.
Now, as others, I’ll just carry on. More than likely others will take the dive within the next few years. We are all getting on and death is always close at hand. They say you can get a glimpse of it if you turn your head extremely quick to the left. I think I’ve seen it a few times but it’s unclear, a mystery and that’s the way it will stay, at least in this mind and as an old friend used to say in times as these, ‘i know nothing, i say no more’.
Eternity engulfs wisdom love across the all encompassing great mystery as the sacred arms of death beholds us from the illusion of time. That’s just the way i think about it.
I do understand the undeniable visions that cross all intellectual understanding with a certainty that appears one could never doubt. But as one mind can endure and experience many such encounters with the other-side, the land of spirit, the unquestionable knowing telepathically inserted into ones brain still ends up in the winds of mystery. It is the gift of vision itself that would lead a mind onto the ledge of doubt that can free the mind of this uncertain knowing. This leaves all rituals, ceremony towards discovery ultimately in the dark. There is no longer a need to search for what is always present. The only task may be to stop the wheel of certainty, absolute knowing, critical analysis dead in it’s tracks, with pure observation exempt from answers. The mind can move free with the intelligence of the mystery without the need for ultimate answers. Questions and answers remain in the field of the relative forever evolving, moving, adapting, changing.
This is good enough for me and until death will i part. This means nothing. The wind of time is ‘the mind’ and it shall end as i recede to whence it came. Thanks Stan, for the journey with you, i shall do my best to Stand with the wind within, till time disintegrates.
yyyyyy
yyyyyy
Many slow and long and lonely memories pass along the way
trees sway sad in the evening breeze
the whole realm of past days encircles my mind
oh how i wish i was there now for all time
everyone of us has those moments, when remembered
‘the best that could ever be’
all of us certainly wish they could last forever
cept for the ones that lived in misery
one thing is for certain, i suppose
is that we have no choice, really, along the trail
no matter how many dreams you caress along the way
they all end, memories fade, it’s the same for every tale
so be careful as you walk your way thru life
be extra kind to the ones that need a hand
take the time to be true at every turn
love is all you need to understand
yyyyyyyy
listening to some old dylan rolling stoned along the mid sixties when things were opening up sleepy brains like falling into a bucket of morning coffee, an ice-cold river dip, a line of crystal off-white powder head on into the acid insight streaming flashes of electric waves, multi-coloured spaces everywhere along the black tarred streets all-thru-out cities of america, the world, blues wound up into overdrive, electric ladies, the revolution of love for loves sake. freedom spreading out into places where it could never survive, love condemned to death for being simple real right and true. that’s the way of the world; killers, it will end too and it can’t be soon enough; death is coming, coming for them and coming for you, there’s nothing we can do.
it’s time to let you go, let things move free. there’ll be others. i don’t think you get used to death, maybe numb, but death is death and dying gets you there and there are many ways of dying. some people are half dead all there lives, some brag about there dying everyday, some die with dignity and some never learn how to die at all. a part of dying is the loss of ego and possibly it would help if more people would loose there ego occasionally thru life to prepare themselves; to observe without the anatomy of thought presuming everything it sees. the art of dying is in the beauty of living free and freedom can only occur without the shackles of thought-based-knowing keeping you stuck inside the ground.
yyyyyyy
many, if not all indigenous peoples had ways of eliminating, calming the ego for moments, thru dance, substances, forms of vision quests, ceremonies. it was traditional to bring young men into manhood with ceremonies that melted the ego into the unknown where the mystery became present and dominant as the true nature of everything. one would develop trust and faith in patterns that constantly move, evolve, change. our society has become numb, afraid, robotized with facts about everything, disconnected from the free movement of the universe. people are afraid to die without some belief induced concepts to keep them safe, calm, certain, but that will die also. death, come and get me. i am ready to fade whenever you are.
writing and images by patrick wey
We traveled a long way together. Stan was the sort of guy that was usually of a good nature. Most always had a way of making one feel respected, wanted. I knew Stan since 1963. We traveled thru the sixties with our youth bending to whatever was. He loved Dylan, as most of my friends did, he had great taste for music and found himself a wonderful woman for life, Cathy.
Stan survived, he never took on crippled beliefs for the benefit of comfort. He stayed true to the void to his last days. He never attempted to convince anyone of anything. I’ll miss you Stan, your laugh and all your ways.
Stan passed a few days ago. He turned 72 in mid august. That was the last time we spoke. See ya Stan and as you would say, ‘probably not’, then we’d laugh.
She moves in beauty with her love wrapped carefully within. Like a tender woman she touches your soul with her most intimate glance and you melt inside her wounds like a martyr.
In the dim city where people travel tight, little room for long-time and pressure on the skull to get it right. A young woman walks by inside a tee shirt with her philosophy spelled out across her chest like a scripture, ‘sleep less, dream more’; i’m thinking’s it’s backwards; too many dreams, too many worthless homes; a crow caws from the side-lines, hidden in the streets.
The moka house cafe on cook st. Pretty girls stroll by, at least that is what i see but at another glance i see a whole lota people so deep-dreamin by they hardly notice what is developing within their skulls.
A little boy in a real big body revs and roars his harley as he speeds away, the pot-bellied-guys standing by with their coffees held loose like a beer, look at the kid in the street and boast about something to each other while bicycles quietly skim by down around the cafe, the hot spot this covid-afternoon.
I see the coffee attendant handing straws to clients but he won’t touch my travel mug, says it’s the law. I pursue it then stop, force him to pour my coffee from his handled paper cup to my thermos, which he at first refuses than i encourage him and he does. There is a lot of crazy rules unsupported by the by-law officers just yet, but they’re getting there. Soon we’ll be in order; but harleys will continue to agitate our numb nerve cells with their concealed muscle. It’s a beautiful sunny cool afternoon and the tattoos keep walking by like human bill-boards advertising messages somewhat too deep for this mind of mine that sits nicely disturbed behind these eyes wandering.
With her facebook smile hanging in the screens with her ripped jeans and tattooed cartoons and her pierced soul she glides thru hell like a heaven. From a new section of town, cafaid in the midst of the jungle i sit pondering stuff.
I realize i have been un-encouraged to write for a future when i am no longer here watching, looking. I, somewhere inside have assumptions, presumptions that we’re all going sooner than we’d like to believe, an apocalypse of sorts. I catch myself on this and begin a new chapter addressed to the ones not here just yet. No more threats of stabbing-echos from friends, enemies, aquintances and family. Not that they had much to do with words that find me but they’re around and that’s on me. I realize once again that death is just around this long last bend. Age is painting more texture on this canvas-face, sculptured rusting bones are being chiselled out by the winds of time, cells are getting lazy in the night. I know in the sphere of things time is expanding and slowing down, an outwards spiral to the heavens of the unknown. I’m scared in moments of such magnitude but most of the time i just let silence guide me to the slow calmness of pure perception. This is where it all began and so will it end.
The loves that have brushed up against my heart i have remembered and they also will fade. There are things that needed to be said that had not been, not found in moments to exist. I know it is a common belief that there will be moments after the body ceases to exist to say things that had been misplaced, to do things that had not been done, to live again in a new way. There are those that believe we have been here before and shall return. There are books, scriptures, ceremonies and perceptions and visions that have told some so. Others believe what others have experienced and live their life with someone else’s presumed knowing. I have been one of those with definite visions telling me things as if from another level, a higher plane, a truth, the truth. Possibly if it had stopped at a few, i would still be a strong believer in simple synchronicity but i have had too many non-ordinary moments and with vision herself honouring me to question the validity of the very tool itself that had produced these visioned-belief systems. So now i feel i know that i know nothing for certain and the closer one may get to the great-mystery the more mysterious it all becomes and belief is just a wind in the night, cherish it for the moment but keep it moving, let it breathe. I am not saying that life is absurd, or meaningless or too dreadfull to continue. I think that we have all been conditioned so thoroughly as a must to know why, when, how and what it is all about with a tool that finds it extremely difficult to accept that it simply is not capable of ultimate knowing. The search itself has destroyed the simplicity of love that man could and can and does to some extent experience.
I may have loved others more or deeper than my present love, but it is becoming apparent that this love now is more valuable and more sincere as it moves thru the twists and turns of these last years. I never expected to end up here as most people in this life, and infact i never really expected to end up anywhere in-particular. Tho i do think that i had expected i would be more financially secure with the arts and entrepreneurial projects that i had pursued. Not so, at least of late, but the game is still in motion.
From this balcony, now, in down town Victoria i could imagine i was in just about any city on this planet. Recent apartment buildings scatter the view and if one doesn’t look too close at the decorations and furniture of the balconies, i could be anywhere. In my mind, i am everywhere i’ve been and more. Life is like a long branch on the big tree, many tributaries not taken but remembered and many a folk gone off up and down dead ends, out of site, simply ended along the trail, but you alone must walk, crawl, run to your end, with or without dignity, with or without the belief of knowing, in torment, in calm but the end is inevitable, quick or slow.
Life is beautiful and many of us know this. That must be why we continue on, with the luggage of belief, the torment of relations, the treachery of doubt, it is this , this love that carries us on. We know somehow, that it exists, that it alone makes us walk, in heaven thru hells along the canals of ignorance, the arrogance of knowing, the surrender, the almighty surrender that gives us faith that it is just the way it is and that is just good enough, beautiful mysterious life, beautiful eternal love; call it what you will.
Images and Writing by Patrick Wey
All Blog Images For Sale…..follow the path….contact me direct if you wish.
Death is coming for us all, even the comic book people will have to go, none of the dreams will keep them here; here or there, this dream dreamin will fade to black like the nothingness in it all. The tattoos are meeting and melting later this evening amidst the flesh and bones of the dreamers, the ones with purpose and the ones with none at all. The philosopers, the predictors, the smooth slick thinkers to nowhere and all the ink-ones are gathering for the great celebration; the rock and rollers too, the classical dressed, the know-it-alls foaming from the heart and everyone whom is someone will be there, death is picking a few for the door prize and love will be spread upon the cake.
I was thinking my pen was alive and i was just a machine typing as fast as the ink would flow. I could hardly keep up with the stream and many times lost site of the shore-line as i flowed fast past with hardly a thought to remember. Writers do that sometimes, doesn’t make sense somehow but from another plane it fits like abstracts expressed in moments of creation and disintegration. Writing with shapes of things like a painters brush disguised as a pen.
A price you pay for living long and before you know it the only friend you have left is the pen. The laws of the streets can’t be beat but you can twist them and turn them like you can anything else, either to flow with the current or against it, like life or death. Ink is so much like the wind, you can tangle it around the trees with any form you make, but you can’t stop it. A writer writes. (period)
Images and Writing by Patrick Wey
When i first laid eyes upon this scene, i knew it didn’t fit, outa time, outa space, a completely new world, a woman in a time that was not quite there. She leaned against the past like it was hers, a place close to her heart, a world not quite done with, one that needed a little more time to evolve smooth. I could have sworn i knew her from the way she smiled thru the air, the way she gleamed thru that space and time sitting still like that, made things surreal, real, unreal. There, with her leopard skin jacket flowing in the ages like a piece of a puzzle perfect in the right place at the wrong time. Yes, she held my glare, i couldn’t let go, i forced myself to capture the moment like a person does when seeing something so unusual, tempting, it must be right. There you have it, the look the space the time, all wrapped up into one unique scene while time fades like it does for a generation or two….
She came like many others of the fare complexion looking for the new land, a place of adventure, something different, security; possibly secret dreams unfolding in some distant horizon of her mind. Things change, little people become historic symbols, wall-scape murals depicting fiction disguised for the pleasure of the common folk, or something like that.
She could have been a queen in another life time, a peasant, a gypsy or an early settler, even an indian, a crow; anything is possible when you believe in that sort of stuff. Times and murals, fantasies made out of brick and paper, paint and illusions in the minds of the perceiver and in the words of the writer, ‘everything is twisted when you’re winding around the trail like a dream of a scene that doesn’t exist’. Yea that’s life on the coast, fairy tales hanging off the walls and no one seems to notice, the street is strange, desolate but in perfect tune with the deserted pavement and the magic just keeps pouring in like a mystery in a smile. That’s her, the one, the perfect one, almost real amidst the world; smooth, delicate, the new woman.
Writing and Images by Patrick Wey
it’s the rain that has me mellow
its washing effect that cleans my soul clear
has me wandering undisciplined
watching in new eyes
thinking thru the heart
i love the way old memories dance about
concealing their faces
sliding back and forth
between the furniture of the streets
the squish and slap off the black jungle trails
against my ears
in tune like a long day
slowly fading into an evening air
the rain scrubbing the tears off the buildings brick
off the dark deep tar to the horizon
and trees gasping for breath
relieved and speaking soft again
it’s the rain
it has its glorious way
embracing breath as water
gelatin floors warping up against melting walls of tangerine wind blowing words of multi-coloured cellophane into thick tunnels of mind. the strained history of man wrapped up into little packets floating memories deep across crevices of inner lobes. i demand an explanation, and many come then no sooner slip down some other crack into forgotten terrains of brain.
a wall appears fast moving abasing the cliffs of my lonely love and drowns in a sea of pointlessness. what is this all about asks a desk of dust thirsty dictionaries and worn umbrellas fly by in torrential rain of bulky thought; the whole universe is in chaos and i believe in answers.
doomed and forsaken i leave for a surreal cafe on a nearby shore, the roads smother me with hope and the people in the know direct me to well-welded sides. finally i feel almost whole again, complete, possibly pure when you enter wearing a silver cloak draped over some-thing uncertain and with a dark dagger hanging from your inner ear, you ask for a light; it’s a big joint and you offer me a toke and i say, ‘no thanks, i’m stoned on life’ but i take one anyways.
things change, everything is normal again, boring, purpose everywhere. i move thru walls dangling off my sight, books and books with faces, manipulations, lies being promoted like sermons and poems made of delicate strings of weak memories and real distant love fading fading thru-out the virtual dreams of mistaken heavens. i escape. i don’t look back. i can feel the trail on my heals; i slow down breathe deep, keep hidden as best i can, knowing it may all blow over but ready to take it as it comes or doesn’t; broken fences lying dead against the horizon.
Images and writing by Patrick Wey …. Images for sale
from the banks i watch
quietly i stop nothing
the noice of the world
the arrogance along the trails
the deception carefully packaged
in love tainted with the absurd
all things moving within the grid
the mesh of power and control
my simple love drowning slow
there is no way out for this
no way to extract the simplicity
and lay it on the road
the streets are filled with fear
beliefs blooming from the curse of time
people becoming saints and scholars
with a magnitude of madness hidden
like a cancer does when it conceals itself
as love dying to live within
i walk on thru these lies on the walls
the blatant clasping for the likes that makes me sick
out to the forest where the truth is simple
nothing much more than a moment at a time
to remind you that infinity is eternally present
the smell of summer pollen in the sweet air
the vastness in a view
the taste of fresh huckleberries full of life
birds sneaking thru the forest
activity always moving perfectly
like a dream, my dream
writing and images by patrickwey
i’m a rat according to the chinese calendar. there is some truth to all that i suppose, whatever truth is? a few days back i turned around 72 times across the path of the sun whipping thru space at speeds we’ll never know. what speed is the universe travelling, a parallel verse, a dylan verse? what is speed anyways? a concept of relativity useful for keeping things’n perspective but where deep-science is concerned things get very dice-c. anyways i want to thank all the folk that hurled happiness my way for a day that comes but once a year if your lucky, i suppose that’s what we can call it, luck.
i had a wonderful time travelling around the main land of bc with my remarkable significant other. we roamed around the highlands of the okanagan and had a few very cool dips into its lake. All in all life is what you make it, and we made those days just fine, really fine, extraordinary; we caressed rain sun wind , we had it all and the spirit of gratefulness followed us around like a magnet, a scent of purity in oh so many breaths of true-life and we inhaled it all, a trip well done……..happy birthday, yes it was, thanks once again this earth, this beauty, these moments that fly by so quick..thanks friends, foe, relatives, sometimes life is just so good, almost a sin to mention it.
I lost a year of writing. Laying words on a page is not like other arts; photography, painting, carving, music. It is more vunerable, exposing naked your heart, leaking your soul into the air of thought, into the space of feelings. You can intellectualize your position and be exposed for what you are not. You can cry for mercy for the guilt hidden behind your verbs. You can paint love with dashes of adjectives that transcend time, with continuity that erupts emotions into a frenzy. You can hide behind the phrases common for the times, slip out of the torture of your soul with a well manicured paragraph or two.
Writing is hard, a dance between the intellect and the heart, the poet and the philosopher, the scientist and the craftsman, the wordsmith with nothing really to say. One can lay camouflaged with leaves from an old oak, clouds from a gray damp day. What ever writing is, it is personal no matter how things are said; if you’ve learned how to read between the lines, that’s where the juice is, the energy that runs the show. But all in all nothing is really revealed for certain, every word can ramble down eternity road and every sound will echo endlessly whether you let it or not.
I lost a year of writings, as these, thru incompetence and stupidity between myself and a mac repair shop here in Duncan. I almost lost hundreds of hours of image editing as well as tons of other important computer related content. All was eventually retrieved accept almost a year of writing. I had to remind myself of others that have lost all in fires or floods or have nothing at all to loose. None the less it did disrupt my mind and had me face death once again as in the hundreds of times that other circumstances have had me do. Eventually i’ll have to leave it all behind and the consolation of leaving a legacy often does nothing much for my weary mind. I am a traveller, an adventurer in the cells of this brain i call home. It will all die and i refuse to accept common after-life believes simply because it makes me feel well and alive with some truth to call my own. Bullshit, we made it all up, mankind is a living lie. Memory as thought changes, bends, attaches, dismembers, but it is as unstable as the wind. It is not necessary to know what you can not know. It is alright to realize reason is not the ultimate tool of knowing and knowing as eternity, just keeps flowing on. There is nothing to hang onto, no ultimate security, no dream that sits perfectly still but all is pure that way, all is just what it is, nothing more and nothing less. We need not embellish perception simply to fit it into our molds, break the sentence with a hammer of love………..stop, start, meaning will find its silly claws, it is the nature of thought, memory, words. I love and hate writing, it frees my mind and cripples my soul. It resurrects me when i’m low and soothes my heart when the existential pain of love leaves me.
I will miss the words that suffered upon the pages now erased into the virtual space of trash. At moments they fly by tempting me to struggle for their existence, but i won’t, new words can never replace all the moments my fingers needed the serenity of the keypad, but that my dear mind is the way it is. Goodbye to those rooms where realities once stood and now nothing more than a few disintegrated fragments faintly falling across the screen of my mind with ease and occasional hesitation.
I own nothing not even these words, death is coming for all of them soon but until then my fingers will stumble across the table of thought and scribble more sense where ultimately nothing really matters.
Words are like water dunes upon the surface of the mighty seas, they weave in and out of existence like meaning does.
i’m down around the end
there is no word to please me
no wound deep enough to hide within
i have nothing left to be
the people are all away from here
there is no one to see me
the trains have all died
the flowers are crying as rain does
there are a few smells remaining
and a cluster of thought by the bridge
but other than that everything else is gone
just some resemblance of me
and an empty suitcase of dreams
quiet by the long stairway
this is where it all begins to end
not with some enormous gathering
but with a few drops of rain and a forgotten caress
this is the way things end sometimes
almost silent almost invisible
like it never was
like meaning fading slow
across a terrain of scattered memory
into a horizon
of pure beauty
images and writing by patrick wey
The path to evil is camouflaged with the flowering aroma of sacred words….to fake it is to make virtual roots in sacred soil.
This Pipe that i have carried has travelled to many spaces since this ceremony mentioned in 1996 and it has passed many prayers back and forth thru the space we call spirit. Auschwitz, Poland, Tower of London, Ireland’s pagan sites denigrated by the saint of patrick, America south to north, wounded cities, injured land, crowded prisons, ceremonies of sweats, vision quests, rain and sun dancing; it has been busy. It has carried thought focused in reverent ways, selfish ways, desperate ways, asking, telling, demanding, praising, crying, honouring, many ways and possibly the answers of our ancestors prayers are the realities we are now living. I feel that after many journeys thru the fields of grace that the most beneficial prayer is one of no prayer at all. To honour the life we carry with listening to the great mystery with no intervention, no human thought creation attempting to get what we feel we need, want, deserve……………simply listening without intention.
This is my opinion, feel free to criticize or compliment, it has no lasting difference to the scheme of the mystery. This is what the Pipe has conveyed as i have interpreted, there is no path to truth, to love, to the great mystery. My prayer is the prayer of the coyote, the crow, the birch tree, the waters, my prayer is beyond me, we are irrelevant in the winds of the silent forest. I am you as you are me, thought and prayer separates us, listen to the drum of heart, the wordless knowing in the space between. Your walk is your prayer, your breath is your gratitude, your doing is a blessing or a curse, it is up to you ….
Images and writing by patrick wey
Falling into sketched hands down a canvas wall
i have no answer to these actions
my dreams are beyond myself
i am not in control
i am not the i i knew
things have changed
the horizon is a wall
painted with fragile clouds
stilts hang my head in shame
across a cold cold landscape
and is erased unwound as a ribbon
to the solemn wind of words
scattered across the valley
syllables desperately forming
into long sentences of meaninglessness
then tearing themselves apart one by one
into lonely letters disintegrating across a universe
Images and writing by patrick wey
Years ago I recall reading in one of the many books, album covers or some interview, but somewhere, that Dylan was asked if he was the President of the US what he might do. He said, “the first thing i’d do is have every one memorize ‘Desolation Row’ and”…. that is all i remember. And now that we all have a little more time than usual, you might want to give it a listen. It’s not too late to feel a little desolate. I often felt like yelling out the last verse and occasionally i did.
‘Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can’t read too good, don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row’
The complete lyrics to ‘Desolation Row’ by Bob Dylan
They’re selling postcards of the hanging, they’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors, the circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner, they’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker, the other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless, they need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight, from Desolation Row
Cinderella, she seems so easy, “It takes one to know one, ” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning. “You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place, my friend, you’d better leave”
And the only sound that’s left after the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row
Now the moon is almost hidden, the stars are beginning to hide
The fortune telling lady has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel and the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing, he’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight on Desolation Row
Ophelia, she’s ‘neath the window for her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday she already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic she wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion, her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row
Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood with his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago with his friend, a jealous monk
Now he looked so immaculately frightful as he bummed a cigarette
And he when off sniffing drainpipes and reciting the alphabet
You would not think to look at him, but he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin on Desolation Row
Dr. Filth, he keeps his world inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients, they’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser, she’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read, “Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on the penny whistles, you can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough from Desolation Row
Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains, they’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera in a perfect image of a priest
They are spoon feeding Casanova to get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence after poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls, “Get outta here if you don’t know”
Casanova is just being punished for going to Desolation Row”
At midnight all the agents and the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone that knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders and then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles by insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping to Desolation Row
Praise be to Nero’s Neptune, the Titanic sails at dawn
Everybody’s shouting, “Which side are you on?!”
And Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them and fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much about Desolation Row
Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can’t read too good, don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Desolation Row lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Songtrust Ave, Audiam, Inc
Images by patrick wey
Healthy cooperative life generates itself with life-energy, when the environment becomes unbalanced the insurgence of the enemy towards life invades, death-energy life forms, the virus is believed to be one of those, there are others but this one is swift, under the radar, and can be deadly dangerous. That is its job, presumably.
This planet of smooth skinned apes has turned what was a plentiful regenerative balanced accumulative system of life forms in war with itself. In the name of nature life moves evolves becomes more specific, complex with time.
Man has manipulated the very structure of the molecules with an energy force that nature solely uses for death, explosive dissipating energy, the movement of water and matter in an outwards direction. When this explosive, death-giving energy is in abundance, healthy life begins to die. Life and death is the cycle of existence, but there is a natural unequal balance in which this process occurs. Organic planet earth-life is accumulated thru the over abundance of implosive energies created by the natural inwards vortexing of water and air, thru forms as veins of animals, the sap of trees, the whirling and twirling of water and air over land and sea.
Water, the carrier of memory, the consciousness of mother earth, moves to enhance its energy in an inwards vortical direction. This pacifies oxygen, increases velocity, moves towards the anomaly point of plus four degrees celsius of water. This inwards vortical direction is the temperature regulator of the earth.
Man has attempted to straighten out this direction with barriers along rivers, creeks, damns obstructing the natural flow of water and generating in all aqua-life stagnant environments for pathogens which increases the risk of unhealthy life to every living cell on earth.
The outwards direction of our explosive technology is in constant need of fuel to continue its energy output. The minerals, fossil fuels, nuclear substances is the toil of mans dilemma creating wealth and control for a few of the many.
The virus today is an example of the detriment our unnatural energy systems has created from the processes of producing foods, fertilizers, drugs, all utilizing a heat explosive outwards motion process of creation which is not the way of the cool whirling motion of natures medicines, foods in abundance of life enhancing energies.
There is something very sinister about this world lock down. I have a gut feeling that what we are being told is not what really is happening. That our inside fears, precautions, suspicions are not unjustified. There are many possibilities that the super wealthy are up to something that will ultimately gave them superior control and in the process the elimination of the weak, useless, unnecessary crowds of people that are of no further use to the machine that the peoples blood and sweat have build.
We and our ancestors built the factories, the machines and the machines that are now building the machines that are now thinking the thoughts, doing the deeds. There are too many of us. They are not willing to support us. There is a lack of work, more unemployed everyday, we have become outdated, a commodity to be eliminated. This must be done in a very strategic way not to allow us to unite and take back what is ours, our ancestors, our right. They have the money the time the expert intelligence to strategically eliminate many of us with out our proof. Load vaccines, make it impossible to move freely without one, control the movement of each person on this planet. People have become numb, entertained, comfortable in their beliefs. There is little that a few can do.
Divide and conquer, separate us, make us desperate, have a disease in place, one that is not easily detectable of its source or nature and bombard areas of earth with unhealthy wave technologies that disturb the very cells of life strategically and can be directed to specific areas at will. These technologies have been in place for decades in top secret files and most of us know that. G5 is well on the way, an ultimate explosive system of control and destruction in the view of progress.
Lock the population down, make it a crime to be in public, no groups, screen and filter the detrimental communications via the internet and eventually disconnect it, possibly knock out the hydro in pockets, create a civil war, eliminate masses of people.
Possibly this is not real, not true, who knows, and what does it really matter, or does it? Possibly it is time for the earth to wipe off the parasite that has killed many species thru the antagonistic ways of man. There are natural ways of energy systems that do not depend on the refuelling and raping of the lands, veins and arteries of fuels and minerals and therefor the unneccessary control of a few over the many.
I don’t know for certain, anything, i just think thoughts and write them out, possibly they will be discovered and eliminated, possibly they may entertain a few, insert a few more questions. I understand that this world is addicted to statistics, formulas, wars and is controlled by fear and loves the answers involving angels, gods, demons and facts. I offer little. Think for yourself, answers are lying everywhere. An unhealthy planet is bound to end up dying unnaturally. That is just simple common sense.
The few at the top of the chain are so greedy they’re willing to deceive and sacrifice the many for a a few more links, knowing they may be discovered and mass massacres could evolve into an ending that death has never seen. The self fulfilling dream secretly evolving in the minds of man. From the red man to the saints of world religions the legacy is awaiting patiently to be fulfilled.
A few of us watch the wheels burn while saviours scramble across the global micro waves like heroes from a burnt-out book. We don’t know, they don’t know but they can make things happen just the same. Truth lies still in the gutter and on the alters of earths hells. The poor the sheep the masses caught in the struggle to survive while the mighty kings of the digital madness waiver in an absurd glory only a madman could entertain.
This is the way of the world, the way of man. we watch, we listen, we move when we must, we do the best to survive. Prophesies have been waiting, time is moving in our hearts like a knife. Be observant and walk on.
Images and Writing by patrick wey
The human race has one thing in common now, the virus, virtual and real, that is so apparent, but it makes us realize that we have a lot more in common and we have been mistaken, misunderstood, even dangerous to ourselves and others. They say in order to love others you need to love yourself. This time of being more alone physically is giving humanity an opportunity to learn this difficult task of loving ourselves and possibly truly loving others. It’s a symbiotic relationship, this love stuff. It is difficult to stick to your hearts intentions while many criticize your every move but that is the nature of the game, to weave in and out of the push and pull of others and keep on straight thru the pathless road. Now is the time to face death, that one space we all must enter, that dark and light terrain that no living creature truly knows. To exit from here is the one job no one can avoid. Help your neighbour, your brother, your sister, the four legged, winged ones, everyone you come in contact with to move with grace, in dignity. Life is short and in times as these one must realize we are all delicate and deserve what little love we may find to allow to pass freely about. No sense in any other ritual, simple caring from the heart is all that is necessary, stand your ground and give that sacred energy its home; your silent heart.
Images and Writing by patrick wey
I should have left yesterday but it was more than i could do. Your tenderness and sweet lure, your soft words wrapped up in delicate promises; the walls could wait, let some other man be the martyr. I stayed, but much too long, days turned to years and now freedom by the door lies smothered in mould, wasted in tears, dead.
That was yesteryear. Times have changed, things whirled down a different tube. I lived thru the blues of the thirties, the rock of the fifties, dylan in the sixties, i lived thru the scattered jazz rollin across the rebellion, across the oneness dreams, across the distortion of the molecules, the plastic era, the one way, the christ consciousness, the darma minds, the whole lot of it all rusting rushing down the avenues of the modern day, LSD, 5G and what have you.
I come here without mind, my heart flattened out like an ancient stone. Stretched out along some creek waiting for the truth to find its light, waiting for the night to awaken, waiting for the hard rains to dry, for time to find its space here amidst eternity.
I’m not so unique, just like you, some of you that travelled the quiet road full of noice and nonsense and twisted decoys. We made it thru so we thought but here we are structured in a world messed up and impossible to read and here we are surviving, heading down towards the last train.
I love you i suppose with your miracles and angels and gods and demons. I’m gonna walk right on like nothing has happened, keep my head on straight, stand up to the last dream, no curse can keep me from meeting the end, open.
I’m gonna keep my promise no matter how much hate hits my guts, i’m gonna keep true to the roots of my veins, let my heart tell my story no matter what.
I’m not black, red or olive and most of the time i don’t feel white, german, italian, british, mexican, just human, the last of the wanderers, a true seed, the mistaken, a dot stretched off the page…………………….
Images and writing by patrick wey
Stained souls walking thru the streets of hell
feeling fine and doing well
winter visiting montreal in the 80’s
photographs attempting to capture time in all its mysteries
there are those that demand nothing but the air of happiness
that would live in illusion to satisfy this desire
defend it to the gods, the creations of creation
there are those that see only destruction
the despair of life and the absurdity of destiny
there are those that are too weak to be
and those that move between the limits of ecstasy
like a reflection from a drop of a passing rain
there are those that want what they can never obtain
that can never accept the wounds of reality
that act out a love as if they own it
project images onto well designed walls
live on the outside of the inside of it all
these are the people of the world
these are the movements along the avenues
the virus gone viral down the halls of the surreal
a world ending just beyond its birth
time slowing down inside the mind of man
like an autumn maple leaf falling
blowing across the endless forests floor
thru the uncertainly of shadows
Image and writing by patrick wey
angels of mercy hiding in the wounds
masters leading walking behind
the one and only goddess falling
with the hope of life dying in the ruins
this is america worn and deceived
this is the way to the heavens
this is the way of the lord
the simple dream the simple way
thru the forests and the plains
man and her inventions
from saints and shadows, time in space
the maya moves slow behind
along patterns in the mind
the raw beauty of your melting eyes
scriptures written all over your skin
as silhouettes of truth caresses the sands
of your miraculous body
i surrender within
here i make my stand and demand
a few smells of lilac, a taste of peach
from your delicate hands
and entering your heart
i see the angel is you
america
the land of illusion
the promise to be free
images and writing by patrick wey
she builds rooms for nitemares
constructs them out of spelling mistakes
ruffled feathers and worn-out nouns
cars have feet in her dreams
death is feeling guilty for ignoring her
she lives on hiding in the wind
writing and image by patrickwey
Click HERE and start a slide-show of many Sierra pictures – up in the top right corner.
Today on the 29th of Dec. 2019, Sierra would be 29, she has been gone 4/1/2 years. Time is irrelevant where tragedy lives, she knew that, i know that, many understand.
These are some of the many photographs i took of her in her first seven years. Then we were seperated for 17 years. This disturbed her, molded her, confused her, devastated her being. She struggled, wiggled in and out of this world. I entered back into her life six months before she left for good. We connected patched up what we could but in the end it was the medical world that took her breath away. She told me all, her life, the way she saw it – on video.
This story is much more than i could ever present here, too complicated, sensitive and needs delicate time.I hope to create a documentary as she would have wanted.
She mentioned, ‘anything that could help others not to have to go thru what I went thru’.
I loved her like no one else in my life, i lost her twice. She was a miracle, so many amazing moments being with her.
below – written by Sierra
I wish I were a bird,
So I could fly away.
Wish I had wings made of glass, blow my problems away.
Etched into stone, I’m grounded.
My broken wings won’t let me fly.
All my body in wanting, chasing that sky high.
All she wants is to be free,
No warning will she heed,
‘Unleash this beast!’
‘In my soul,
It’s making me ill
It’s getting hard to breathe, I’m feeling unwell.’
Redemption at it’s finest,
Credentials of a ciminalist,
‘Exorcise this demon with-in my chest!”
I have a hunger like an unfed wolf, eating at my soul. Emaciated, starving, hunting the high. Like a demon in my chest, it cries out in demand on satisfaction. “Feed me!!!” It cries. “Feed my desires. Fuel my pleasure. Take my hand, I’ll make everything better.” But high is a four letter lie. Once is never enough. Once, twice, thrice, only quells the beast in a temporary fashion. Just as quickly as it’s quieted, it’s demanding attention again with a ferocity only seen in the depths of hell.
Sierra Kachina
More writing about Sierra from my past….patrickwey
309 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/29 of-by patrick wey https://blog.patrickwey.com/category/image-content-of-the-day
Sierra Kachina left at 24, would have been 28 today…born into a world almost to the minutes of 100 years after the last massacre of the NA Indian at Wounded Knee ……here is wiki-info of that event…….https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wounded_Knee_Massacre
Words about Sierra since she had gone: no one can feel the pain of loss of another, it can tear one to the depths of the soul and lift one higher than life, death.
Writing words you will never see
editing pictures you never saw
killing dreams we never met
living around lies tangled up around us yet
crying alone into fading memories
a busy numbness surrounding often
and you and me ending again
this time forever ending within
i see this thru vague scenes
that crumble into one another
drenched in pain and love
as they move along the trail
with a crippled weakness into the day
and words to you i will never say
i write to no one but the stream
of endless dreams across the purple sky
the universe that comes in clear
the universe that closes when the dream ends
Without You Sierra
sometimes it tears tenderly to my heart
sadness where it has never gone, goes.
years passing without you
your little heart and mine
twisted into each other like time
i gaze across the highway to the grassy fields beyond
the silent wind bends around invisible canyons
straight into my mind
your essence emanates soft and deep into me
with dry tears i caress the moments slipping by
there will never be anyone so true to me as you
our bond was woven by the mystery of love
no one can alter what was so clear
that alone gives a graceful comfort
this pure sadness against my path
your delicate sense breathes life into death
i need no promises, commitments, no proof
we knew we were special
a love so rare so true so threatening
we lived thru this with the most fragile of hearts
now thru this fading silence
with nothing but the humble caring of the wind
i love you with your tears upon me
nothing can harm you now
you are safe from this world
and all its misery
i am seeing this with my hidden pain
as i walk on without you….
There are few words left to say
i know in my heart there are no ears of yours to hear
what can never be said to you ever
you’re gone and love feels so empty without you
i have learned that this world is even more cruel than imagined
fake everything lures everybody into so much of little worth
they have little room for real tears
no time for true sadness
only shallow laughter and smiles against the rain
ultimately they are afraid to face their own mortality
they need to blanked it with tender wit, swift gestures
hidden desires leading secure beliefs to selfish love
They are the lost children of the american dream
stretching across every continent
desperately hanging onto every note from the popular song
caressing comfort with their broken bodies
falling alone down into cancerous heavens
to worlds they could never be
They are my brothers, my sisters, my friends and my foe
they are the celebrities cared for more than neighbours
more than the blood across the land
more than the mother in the land
the father of the other hand
the truth scattered into words
blasted against the walls of your brains
and in this context everyone is to blame
the dilemma of the human insane
In this beauty one must weep. The overwhelming understanding of pain from loss is so sad it is beyond comprehension. It goes so deep one can only cry tears from memories dying and the letting go of its truth, its reality. Admitting that it is hard to live life one must let go of the dearest feelings; all the tangled ones and all the gentle and soft ones. It is hard to see this in the air, all the clusters of memories contained in one soul and spread out across the minds of the people. The close ones the distant ones the collective ones, all of different quantities and depth, moving in and around as a dream does.
When one dies and the entanglement of thought-energy floats thru the atmosphere as a spirit would, the visions of these holographic scenes may be more real than a normal reality appears. This is pure vision with no interpretation from a past, a future, just the endless flow from one scene to the next. The magnitude of this impression is life altering.
You can feel the waves of peoples thoughts and dreams, with their spirits creating intricate delicate holographs of varied scenes floating thru the forests along creeks veins like an epiphany from ‘nature’, the creator of all known. I cried, knowing i had to let go to live. It will come in small doses, not as to destroy me, little by little till i carry on alone. This may never happen. This is the dream, the dream will change, the observer will be altered, vast death is the nature of all this. It will come regardless of what one does. It is this movement in life that sees this death and the illusions of dreams as necessary branches to this tree, as life is a dilemma.
————————————————————————————————————————————————————
the days go by and you fade beyond my will
every step another distance without you
memories slip in and out of the air surrounding here
some are peaceful and serene and others are dark and deep
when the pains you felt, lived through and died with
punctures my heart like a knife with tears
the road curves up ahead and your presence is near
there in the pale afternoon where your love lies
and the sunset full of your colour
there are the photographs and your remnants scattered about
there are memories hanging on the walls without you
you meant everything to a few left behind
and they struggle down the path alone
and there is no answer fit
to why you left the way you did
no conclusions can soothe this heart
it is what it is and love and you are one
there is nothing along the cove
to replace this shore on eternity
memories will continue their journey across the universe
and fade into the void beyond
but for now there is nothing left
just you caressing this heart
and a spirit feeling this
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
my heart aches for you
your simple smile your delicate wit
your ways and your life living
i miss you terribly so
i am so sorry i did not do enough to save you
to help you in any way i could
to share everything i have with you
i never expected it would end so quick
what a fool i was in moments i could have done more
could have poured my heart unto you
given my every touch of love
i am so sorry, forgive me
nothing i can do now for you
i am lost at moments crushed with pain
devastated to my very being
like a boat without water
and a soul with out life
i am alone lost and numb
i see the road the way and the things to be done
i walk with one foot in the desert and the other on unknown land
i am a man stranded with no home no future no dream
i remember your breath searching for air and your heart for warmth
i walk i walk i keep walking
there are moments joy slips by and noise ceases
there are those that say too much and those that can’t listen
the ones with ideals overloaded and the ones crawling down the avenue
i miss your presence, the weight in your eyes
the truth your lips concealed
i miss you, your simple love
i miss you
i can never be free from you
you are a part of me
some of you is inside of me
and i shall die like that
you and me are a memory
that will be as long as forever is
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little angel up-against the tomb
on a road red as heart
spirit fallen from the sky
with no clear answer why
and with tombstone tears
a wounded kachina cries
“for simple love i live and die”.
“i’ was much, much too young to die”
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I wish i could say what can’t be said
and do what can’t be done
i wish i could do magic
and bring back what’s gone
i am loosing the words to say much or anything at all
now is not the time to
we all want to know what can’t be known
it is the nature of thought
we all want things we can’t get
we all want teachings that can’t be taught
there is no easy way
to heal a wounded heart
you can fly high and dig low
you can tell yourself sweet little lies
you can tear yourself apart
with things you wish you’d done
but there is only one thing that can really help
hidden deep within the heart
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A wave of pain struck on edges of dreams formed long ago
I know i have to write this experience out sometime soon. It is too bizarre and hideous in areas that must be written in detail to fully understand the depth and shallowness of the situation. I venture to say that Sierra died at the hands of relatives and friends and doctors that made decisions to act or not act with self imposed desires emanating from their conditioned minds without much depth to see the outcome of this simple and sincere life of Sierra Kachina. No one is to blame and yet we all are. I don’t know where to start. The beginning they say but there is no beginning.
Raw reality stripped from all its glory
naked truth condemned to hide beneath the rugs
the way it was the way it is
the way it is going to be
silence against the noise of mind
love hidden in the shadows
nothing is as nothing was
everything comes everything goes
imaginary waves upon the shores
where something ends something begins
Sierra Kachina
i think of you often in so many ways
i wish i wish i wish but to no avail
if only this and if only that
you would be alive and i know it’s true
you questioned so many times
of what you would be like if only
we had not been separated at your little girls age of seven
if only we could have continued to be as father and daughter
what confused decisions tore us apart
what guilt hidden in minds separated us
why did that have to be so
what did we do to deserve such fate
is the truth worth anything now
will the prosecutors suffer as i
can anyone hurt so much
so deep for so long, my little mind
never really mature, stuck in your arms
safe and warm from the dangers of life forever
i missed you so much my father and friend
and no one could understand
and now i am gone forever
cept the memories in the minds of who’s left
twisted and torn and true and soft
some will feel the pain of abandonment as i
some will continue to ignore the facts
and continue to lie with their crafted smiles
and embrace the illusions they’ve made
for me i have gone and now you my friend write my legacy
i forgave everyone, it was in my nature
but i felt the pains of their decisions that tore my brain apart
from street and legal abuse i walked thru hell alone
tormented people are made of this
this guilt and anger hidden beneath
in minds not willing to see
i loved you all regardless; my mother, my husband, my aunts
my dear sister, my fathers and uncles
all my friends that couldn’t really understand
what i myself could only feel but not comprehend
why, why, why were you taken from me
it doesn’t make sense…..
how simple is love
this love severed but never dead
i am grateful it had found it’s way home
after so many years and for such a short time
and now i leave once again to let you walk on alone again
to face every breath without me
cept for what little is left in memory
but i am gone
gone forever with dreams
never shone
Driving home along the highway
yellow moon hanging in the sky
sounds so romantic but it’s true
everywhere i look i find you
I walk along the beach and see you in the sand
i pick up a purple stone and find you in my hand
high in the sky you fly within the clouds
trees are made of your likeness all across the land
such a sacred child in the body of a woman
you were just like me, a melancholy man
For hidden guilt and shame of things they couldn’t face
And unaware to me i’d been accused and convicted of things i never did
It was simple and easy to hide the evidence, me, and live a lie into eternity
but to their surprise and your demise, little sierra died
and now they have this tragic reality hanging from their neck
they can’t escape the truth of what’s been done
and only an apology might shine some healing light
but until then they will feel that deep darkness in their skull
how long will it take, time can’t even tell
i am not counting the days, i hardly care anymore
my little girl is gone and i don’t give a damn what people say
nothing is going to change anything anyway
people can hide but they still have to pay
that’s the nature of this way
you can fill your brain with whatever you want
fool yourself and fool the world
but in the end karma will knock you down
where ever you hide
where ever you lay
get your self a good alibi
a judgement day is on its way
we would have had such a lovely birthday time today…..always thinking about you.
Image circa 1996……writing, last 3 1/2 years
She walks in beauty, her skirt dancing, flirting high with the wind. Her love spread out in the evening breeze, her skin pure and delicate like fine mist, hair flowing entangled in the sky, her smile warm and true like earth and water. Yes that is her, safe inside all women, waiting for an escape into a perfect embrace for an endless moment or two. Waiting, walking along the waterways, searching thru the storms, holding love like a luring vase for a flower to her heart, a breath of purple to encompass her soul. She dances thru life like a knife, cutting thru dreams unworthy. She is the golden goddess inside every woman, flowing thru the machine, kissing all with tenderness, loving life like the sun with an amber side of the moon. This is the way she walks along the cove, through dreams, down avenues, her skin smooth as the evening light of the night, softness in the turmoil of the wounded, delicate in the mind serene. Her words silent speak in a future, dangle off memories of the past, holding safe in her heart the way through the mountains on her chest. The forsaken goddess in modern times, her love endless, veiled from the world of dying dreams.
She was right, on a dead end street, wrong on a road to love. She was a goddess hollow, confused along the avenues of hell. Her spell entangled around the towers of expectations. Her beauty was apparent, everybody tried to get to her, but not one could pierce her shield. She left towards the lonely boulevards, stranded, self contained in her ideals, her trauma, her canyon-ways through the storms with reason. Her love a statue upon a petestal, her beauty tormented by a path, her story fading with the pages of her truth. She lived with the word of love as her guide, her salvation, her facade, her tragedy, her beauty in a misinformed paradise, a seed on a dry earth.
Words and Images by pat wey
Out in the dim lit streets, down the alleyways of the mind, the eye was set on the jewels of the ditch, the misery of time.. Hollow dreams brown walls slim and slender thought wavering around the edge of the town, he left. Worn from the ways in the canyon and dead in the light of time, age took him towards the grave with a deep psychopathic sadness spread across his pages like a glove. Hands mangled bones reaching for a few aged breaths of meaningful air but there was nothing there, a couple of recurring memories of solid endless fantasies swimming around his scull from somewhere up above. He died a long time ago but his body kept moving thru the day like a used ford. Right from the beginning he was doomed to end demented, the world threw him round like a toy, like a bottle of beer, a cigarette butt, a scattered dream meaningless and feared.
That was the life of a man, a man somewhat like you and i, groomed into accepting the dirt in his blood, acts hidden beneath, decisions forced by the very allusions of love. He was thin in the head, with a heart of solid silver, a mind of shallow space, clear, no colour to his skin. He was a 20th century man, almost dead.
Back in the streets of the mind you can feel the souls weave thru the night air, hope wilting in the hearts, long crescendoes of despair slowly penetrating the cells of life. The end is beginning again, the 21st century is in full swing. Love is at the door, faith is emanating from the walls, paint is bright and thick.
Literature and Images by patrick wey
You with your honest lies, facts formed for from the privileged ones. My history with your polished shoes, your razor blade manners, your quest for power, a fools day on the golden screen.
I hit the streets in the rain, wind brushing up against my coat, slivers of light beaming across the sky, dim views rolling across the road. Miracles lifting off the floor, turbulence humming from the brain, a whole fleet of merchants pasting their wars in advertisements for the blind and truth hiding within the crevices as usual. This is where i was born free of commitment free of germs free of life and there you entered like a saviour like a saint like a fool. I laid across your hallways and forced walls inside my veins, i loved your bricks and toothpaste and i gave out your embraces to the midgets in the ward just like you asked but one thing i just couldn’t do was to eat your jet-planes and drive your convenience stores torn into the new world. I refused, i would rather die than kill myself like that. You, you big fucking idiot to think i could fall so easy, death wasn’t that sacred and you knew it, you too were hiding here inside somewhere close by. I could feel it, i could sense the desperation from afar, i could tell you were me right from the start.
The candle burnt to the end, the bridges lifted down to the core and the whole universe scrambled inside out and the end kept beginning over and over again like a lost snail but there was more and more that came and went and then it turned over and started all over again, repeated this endlessly. I stood on the edge alone watching, there was no one i could recognize, no one to put my finger to. The walk to the highlands was low and mean. I didn’t know if i was coming or going most of the time and when i heard that last bell ringing from across the heavens i knew it was time. I shut up watched and listened but there was nothing but darkness, no sound, no nothing just blank, a blank everything and some remnant of me. That was it, i turned , i suppose i did and then the music began, bad obnoxious pounding rap metal crashing in my ears……..what the fuck, what is this place, where is the eternity you promised, the love dangling across your eyes like an iron fist. God, you were something, looking out at the world like you owned it.
It was still raining hard across the streets, wind brushing up against my face, there was nothing left to do but to walk on and that i did.
Poems falling into broken ears, breaking ears, weary tears thru the years, and trying so desperately to own me.
Images and writing by patrick wey
let there be me
for i am
as water
consciousness
i flow
there is no other
i am all
in silence
i need nothing
i am full
alive
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Water has taken me to places where truth exists, where it reveals itself in many ways. There is a knowing that does not rely on thought born of the senses, a direct relation with reality, a complete unity of mind.
One day as i was out walking i stumbled upon a mountain creek where i sat for what appeared to be a few minutes which i later learned was a few hours. I remember a handful of thoughts about the spirit of the water; a misty shape in the form of an old woman flowing thru the atmosphere like a goddess. She took my mind along. I didn’t question anything, to think appeared to be absolutely sacrilegious. A gentle awareness, a sacred observation, a meditative seeing was all i observed. In that time span whereas i remember little that can be conveyed in words there was another seemingly knowing that had filled my being with something much more powerful and real and true that ‘just is’, and is now a part of my being and can be called upon simply with being in silence. It doesn’t resolve issues as reason tends to do but more of an understanding beyond, above, a higher octave of comprehension. That in itself resolves so much trite, so many issues that lure us into the domain of logic, whereas endlessly attempting to entrap us, to falsely convince certainty without a doubt. This is different, a freedom from the known, a road with no path, an answer to all questions, a serenity, an acceptance of the nature of everything. Nothing is so serious as to be simple with oneself and to truly acknowledge that nothing can be truly known in the domain of thought, for it is finite in an eternal universe. A beautiful tool that should emanate and conclude from the silence, not impose itself upon it. Reason is a crippled warrior in the fields of silence, a broken wing in the sky of eternity, judgement, a melting candle in the mind. Silence is where silence lives.
I remember that i must remember to not forget to remember to forget. I hardly give a damn about the lost souls that have been extinguished into heroes for being forced to carry a weapon to kill for god, country, freedom, oil and peace. The ones that died in vain for war, for the masters of ships and wealth beyond the dignity of a common man. I don’t give a fuck for your poppies all in a row, your graves set up like little boxes of poisoned foods on super-market shelves. I remember the guns that raped my sisters and the fuckers that tortured my mothers and inflicted trauma that killed our fathers. I remember the dreams dying in the red stained mud flowing free down past the ditches of your mansions. I remember your tear drenched words begging by the side of the curb for a little food as no one remembered your heroic feats with their closed eyes as they walked by to their homes in the free-world. Yes i remember how discussed you were when someone pointed out to you your hypocrisy and how shy you became when the beggars came tugging at your sleeve. Yes i remember your brave wars, your religious wars, your land theft wars, chemical dust wars and your knew fantasy fighting ultimate wars to claim your bubbles in outer and virtual space. You chiefs of war forcing my children to fight your wars or flee the country or consequently get thrown in jail, well fuck you, you should be slaughtered for forcing us to be your heroes or die ashamed afraid.
Yes i remember that you’ll never forget that foreign jealous sonofabitch that cursed your freshly mowed lawn, your two car garage and your big screen movie den. Yea i remember you, you make me sick with your guns and your guns and your guns fighting for dreams that are nothing more than well thought out propaganda ropes. I remember the soft touch of my mothers hand as she sent me out to the war-trenches for oil and freedom with the hidden facades of wealthy power for a few. I remember my brother dying in my arms with one last breath whispering out the horror of it all. I remember the immense pain, the endless stretching out for one last hit from your poppies drugs in your war torn junky alleyways. I remember when war made sense and killing was rewarded with metals and champagne, yes i remember when things had to be this way or you would die along side your brothers and mothers and sisters and friends. I recall remembrance day when the people deceived themselves into believing we fought for freedom, the freedom to buy stuff, kill the earth with toxic chemistry, entertain ourselves to the grave and brag about our grandchildren as we sent them off to the front lines. I remember that i must forget to forgive and live free until the next gun is shoved up my ass. I remember how you used to say lest we forget it may happen again and yet it has never stopped and is happening with my next door neighbour, my family, my politician, my heroes, humanity. War is at the very centre of our remembrance, we just can’t forget.
To truly forgive is to put your life in the line of fire, i remember that. I love you enough to put my person on the track but i won’t kill my brother for you. fuck you, masters and participants of war. You deceptors of reality, creators of fake history and dead brains. I feel so sorry for the ones that suffer because of you, that are suffering now and so many that still want to believe in you and you keep sending them off into the nightmare of the horror of war. You lied to us, everyday forgets us, it should be renamed to ‘forget-us day’. You bastards, you fuck heads. I hope you die and you die soon. Yes i remember you, everyday, you dealers of death.
REMEMBRANCE DAY
(for the warriors whose strength is not to fight….b dylan)
where are the ceremonies for the soldiers of the mind
the disabled and crippled whose wounds can never heal
and the psychedelic martyrs condemned for being real
the cool dudes with misplaced freedom in minds surreal
where are the monuments for the poets of the soul
the singers on the road to freedom lying in the ditch
who are these ones that remember guns and blood
why are we immersed in memory that condemns
where are the statues for the wrecked and abused
the cursed and simple brains detached and confused
for the ones conditioned and wrongfully accused
while killers go free and simple love is refused
where is the testament to surpass this remembrance
when will we pass this curse of memory misused
Images and Writing by patrickwey
He’s five-foot-two and he’s six-feet-four
He fights with missiles and with spears
He’s all of thirty-one and he’s only seventeen
He’s been a soldier for a thousand yearsHe’s a catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jane
A Buddhist and a Baptist and Jew
And he knows he shouldn’t kill
And he knows he always will kill
You’ll for me my friend and me for youAnd he’s fighting for Canada, he’s fighting for France
He’s fighting for the USA
And he’s fighting for the Russians and he’s fighting for Japan
And he thinks we’ll put an end to war this wayAnd he’s fighting for democracy, he’s fighting for the reds
He says it’s for the peace of all
He’s the one who must decide who’s to live and who’s to die
And he never sees the writing on the wallBut without him how would Hitler have condemned him at Dachau
Without him Caesar would’ve stood alone
He’s the one who gives his body as the weapon of the war
And without him, all this killing can’t go onHe’s the universal soldier and he really is to blame
His orders come from far away no more
They come from him and you and me
And brothers, can’t you see
This is not the way we put an end to war?
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Buffy Sainte-Marie
The Universal Soldier lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today… Aha-ah…
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace… You…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world… You…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one
People convinced of what they think they know. They carry their knapsack of scattered dreams smothered of routine entertainment rolled down a choked throat of opinion like a badge. What’s in it for me the dead end schemes, where’s a ditch to get sick in.
………………
The young kid excited to know, truth sitting on finger tips, love twisted between their eyes. It’s a sunny late winter afternoon weekend in the streets, people going nowhere relaxed and sure. I’m sittin here observing my mind bend around the day, struggling smooth along the streets, curving through possibilities, stuck on nothing for time being as it is, holding loose, flowing as water does.
When you said, “I and I, one said to the other, no man sees my face and lives”, I was dying along the side of the road, crows hovering over me like the wind. Jesus walked up to me right then and there, lit a cigarette and passed it my way, “That for me”, I questioned with my eye. “Sure is”, I saw it in his grin.
‘So you think you can get there from here’, I questioned once again. “I don’t know, there ain’t no one here from there’, the other I answered, and then forgot again.
‘So this is what it’s all about, right here in this’, some knowing crashed upon me like a wave of heavy light, flashed the truth, sure and sure and was gone.
I walked on sitting here and there with words, ‘nothing to get hung about’, saturday afternoon forever.
Jesus looked back on the way out, ” that’s natural tobacco, rolled it, grew it myself; used light”, he said.
Took his word as truth, smoked it right down. A winged one emanating gratitude flew across my mind. I gently placed the tobacco butt on the living earth, and out of the edge of the sky an Owl silently glided by and that was it. I walked on.
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Words and Images by patrick wey
Written around the winter of 2001 sittin in a 2nd cup cafe on universtity ave on a sunny saturday snow flurried afternoon in waterloo on.
He didn’t give a damn at all whether he was liked or not walking down past the walls of half confused murals of splintered dreams dangling off minds like dying tulips in a vacant vase. Sometimes the walls just look that way, well that’s what he thought, he thought a lot of things. He travelled inside and outside throughout his long uneven life; been loved, criticized, cursed and respected but mostly he’d been fooled into thinking things were the way they weren’t. The patterns hadn’t changed, people strived, people survived, people died. He was like most in most ways. If there was a difference at all it was in the way he attempted to understand. He had to know the foundation, the basic pattern, the way things moved. With that he could navigate thru the storms, the difficult moments when it all seemed to fall apart and when it didn’t make sense any longer, he could hang onto the last remaining threads to possibly put it back together, mend the wounds.
That was the plan and it worked often but not often enough. The end was doomed for the world as it was and he knew it. There was no turning back, it was too late, the turning point was gone, best to just go with the flow, the end was just down around the bend, but there is no ultimate end, but definitely, without a doubt, what you think, ends.
So the day was spectacular, sun gleaming across the avenues, love seemed to be everywhere. There was a happiness that just emanated from his soul, his heart was full of light, warm soft caressing light, the kind you find when you’re flying high in ecstasy, the kind you can’t quite hang onto, but its there, everywhere and your whole being is in it. The air the ground the sky the trees, buildings glowing with feelings from everywhere, illuminated love that flew thru the veins of the rusted brick from ancient times to future fantasies and then some. Yes this was his day. He had a bunch of names, jim, pat, doug, al, joe, all of them useless to the spirits, they knew his real names, his strength, his weaknesses, his truth, his sins.
Jazz playing low across the cafe floor, humanity walking by from every rock on this earth, nothing holding nothing for nothing, thought just winding around every concept thrown his way. It was on the free trail, the path that dies, the roads that end, the streets of heaven changing with every breath; yea that is where he was lost not lost, found not found, in this perfect space that has no time, owns no moments, nothing for anything.
And then as if out of nowhere it all changed. He saw her, a replica, a clone, a perfect image of a love gone astray that his brain cells just kept passing around and rearranging thru time. “It all is so strange this mind of mine, as if i own it, won it, stole it, created it. Memories fold into the air, bend around time without my say”. The day continued on as if nothing had happened. People kept coming and going. All the things of the times were present again as if they had never left. The news, the old folk with their papers, the young in their cells, the world from the middle east to argentina, poverty to riches, rape to love. “I don’t care about the ‘likes’, most of the time”.
Writing and Images by patrick wey
I’m out here wandering between the branches thru the open air in the nigh-time of your early dawn. I miss your soft voice against the kitchen cabinets and your sweet smell when you brush up against my will. I love those moments when the air is perfect, memories soft, pure. I want to be there, i want to be there always, i believe in the impossible, the totally unlikely time that lays still between the leaves. The young, with dreams for no purpose but to exist to be as it is to care for nothing, for nothing is in need. Yes this life has taken too much of me, my soul, pieces scattered into data office machines, factories scheming dreams lying across futures that have already tattooed a bar code across my forehead. I want out, suicide this mess, i want beauty, the heart of these trees, the seed of freedom in my eyes.
In the afternoon the streets are quiet, the hill side is fading towards the night, the people are wavering in and out of the hazy uncertain horizon. I can see clear across the globe, the sky, into the heavens where a creator is looking thru me. I see as it is.
All things, fields of forests of ancestors with their yarn woven within the mind, truth exposed everywhere like mist hovering between timeless branches. My being within everything, my time all time, dissolved as water does, her love kissed upon the soil in rain, her ambers of life eternally me. This is the place i long for, this here where the streets lie still and the song of the forest is forever sung.
Images and writing by patrick wey ….
I created this image for a waternature.org graphic project about ten years ago. It appears that most have taken little time in attempting to understand the one living substance that governs all earthly existence, water. It is not enough to memorize green facts, write songs, protest, and carry on as if this problem is understood by science or god and will disappear. It won’t and it is getting much more urgent and probably beyond the point of complete reversal if mankind cares enough to care.
In my quest for knowing i stumbled upon Viktor Schauberger 25 years ago when i was living in Ireland. I devoured what i could and 20 years later got frustrated with the lack of interest, support and funding so i side-stepped off into other terrains. It hounds me often to my soul because i know that i had found no better answers to understanding and comprehending nature. Our newtonian/einsteinian science based explosive-styled technology monopoly is in direct opposition to life, killing it. Viktor explains in detail and people like Callum Coats, Viktor’s son Walter and numerous others carry on this Implosive Biotechnology knowledge that in my view is the only true direction for a healthy existence for mankind and all species. And of course we are becoming more and more aware that the hour is getting late, very late. Don’t trust me, listen to me or take my word for anything….check it out for yourself but please keep your lips sealed about so called green issues until you have at least spent some serious time attempting to understand Implosive biotechnology as Viktor Schauberger had partially understood and explained and exposed for humanity. That was his gift to the earth and yet he died a saddened man…..here is a starter link. and another. There is lots on the internet about Viktor and Implosive Technology, and here also is a site i produced 20 years ago that needs some updating and love – waternature.
Graphics and Writing by patrickwey
Viktor Schauberger Quotes
“Whoever accelerates the media of earth, water and air centrifugally perishes unconditionally, for in so doing they reduce the Blood of the Earth (water) to a pathogenic state and make it the most dangerous enemy of all living and growing things.”
“They call me deranged. The hope is that they are right! It is of no greater or lesser import for yet another fool to wander this Earth. But if I am right and science is wrong, then may the Lord God have mercy on mankind!”
mirrored 28.3.2007
Viktor Schauberger (30th June 1885 – 25th September 1958) was an Austrian forester, inventor, engineer, philosopher, writer and artist.
Woke up into a bizarre world. I knew i was in my bed and on the same planet i was in when i fell into sleep space but today when i awoke i just was overwhelmed with how ridiculous this world of man sometimes can be. Everybody i’ve met in my life or had come to know thru the medium of media, books to talk shows to movies to gossip, everybody, everyone of us believes in the thoughts that harvest our minds. We can’t stop it. I know people that believe we are descendants from particular aliens from particular star systems. I know people that believe Trump was sent by god, the big God, the one and only. I know folk that believe we’ll all meet up again in some heaven or some kind of karma will keep us going thru eons of lives. I know people that believe in walt disney truth, in fantasies and strange dark side evil characters beyond my imagination, way beyond my comprehension. I know women that believe all men are liars and they could do without completely. I’ve met men that absolutely hate women and despise their nature. I know men that love only men and women that love only women. I know scientists that truly believe man is superior to nature and that reason is the utmost truth in the universe. I know dear people that believe in love, in truth, in family, in all kinds of ideals and truly believe it is all just as they believe it is. I know people that don’t have a clue in what they believe and ones that never question their beliefs ever.
Everybody believes, even the non-believers believe. It’s a strange world. Somedays you just wake up and wonder wtf and want to roll over and fall back into dream time, but you don’t.
Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense anymore, you got to laugh, there is nothing left to do, smile and laugh, entertain yourself with the absurdity of it all, believe when you believe and tear it all apart when you can. It just amazes me how serious we all are about what ever it is we are, we do, we think. That is what we do. We live our lives believing in what we do, what we are but some of it is all just so insane, crazy, hypocritical, pious, hollow. People with a vision small and large or some epiphany spend their whole lives gathering facts to prove what they experienced is correct, perfect, the truth, real. They bring in texts from the ancient scholars, bibles, geometric analysis, philosophical conclusions, gathering facts and supporters where ever they can and then they attempt to convince the world they got it, they have the evidence, or at least most of it to prove their conclusions are valid, absolute and then far too many attempt to ram it down our throats in one way or another, sometimes easy at first, sometimes not. I know, i’ve been there, done that just like so many others. There are those that are much more modest with their conclusions and usually are not quite as certain about what went on in and outside of their minds and realize it is much too distant to hold so tight.
I know people that believe in things that are simply ridiculous, people that conceal what they believe out of embarrassment. I have friends that believe in all kinds of weird stuff. I have friends, relatives that avoid talking to me because i can’t believe in what they believe. Belief turned rigid is at the root of most all disagreements, arguments, fights, wars, killing. Whereas flexible belief changes, adapts, moves on, evolves, ends, kills itself, often as gentle as a breath of fresh air but it is rare and possibly thought can never be completely fluid.
It is bizarre, when in the end, none of it really matters but none the less, you must do it, that is the world of man, thought, life. One must live with conviction. Most humans i have met are not very clear about what the process of thought really does to their way of life, their convictions. For most ‘thought’ is a given, understood, self evident and i suppose most of the time it is but i see that many get caught in the trap of building it into a system structure of belief that is doomed to failure or simply ‘just not so’, an illusion, a life long deception for the simple pleasure of being in a comfortable bubble. Unfortunately that little box often falls apart just when you had thought it was almost a steady dream. It is possible to ignore the real questions of life and take on former belief systems from outdated religions, dangerous rituals, dead philosophies, rigid science disciplines and ‘that’ is the right of every mind, i suppose. At least, that is just the way it is.
I prefer to question ‘the serous stuff’, but i am uncertain whether it was worth it. I don’t know if it really matters. I do tend to believe that questioning all belief does make for a more peaceful mind, a mind much more unconcerned with the typical useless arguments over gods and demons and absolutes whether philosophical, scientific of simply street nonsense. Certainly i’ll never be around to exist in a world where these useless arguments are forever forgotten. So one moves on into what ever world one is placed within, or possibly, some mornings an attempt to fall back into the uncontrollable moments of sleep-time where thought tends to bend easy.
Hope is irrelevant, rather useless, an excuse to do nothing, a paralysis. I think faith is all one truly needs and it is a given, a physical knowing, body truth. I think faith is beyond thought, is something that exists within the nature of the process of creation itself, a string theory, a mystery, thee mystery, the great mystery, but of course i don’t know, just something i choose to ‘believe in’, for now. The movement to question every belief allows one to attempt to be as open as possible in every inquiry in every moment. That alone opens the doors to a much more healthy approach to every issue as it becomes an investigation for the most appropriate solution for the moment…………knowing it will change as time inhales our mind. A constitution for freedom from the known. In thought nothing is perfect but one must walk on, that is life as we know it ….. till death when we shall part our ways, ‘you and i’ and ‘i and i’.
WakeUp
The train lines have turned to dust, your hair all tangled from the night time hollows. Love wavering in the ruins of time, your sweet smile kissing the graves of the poets down by the rivers edge. The world beaten by its dreams lying in a future dying in the streets; you’re all that the midnight needs, a few blood stained sketches of perfect form and a sip of love in vain. Out of the trembling skies, out of the harrowing feats, out of the historic events into your heart beat you’re born down into the city waves. That’s the way it is, stoned, cursed by the blues, tough as steel, soft as moon. Time turns tight dark and red alone by the cobble stones and neon lights. Things come to you unseen deep, smooth like a pure path to somewhere and you take it, questions falling off like autumn leaves, answers smothered in delight. This is the way to the other side, down below, over there, the distance that never ends, the end of love, the end silently moving still.
I wanted you, i wanted the touch of your heart, your lips touching me, your being mingling in mine as one. The air without you dying forsaken whispering in agony. I want you like water needs breath. I need this life to live.
Woven threads of love tingle themselves around the heavens. I can see this is not real. I can see this is all there is. The walk thru the foreign forest feels dangerous and true, real and beautiful. Thoughts tangle themselves around the roots, dreams drip like dew embraced by morning light. I am forced to the centre of it all by strings of beauty and i can see that you are no where near. That is when the road unfolds and memory dies and overtaken by its weight the trail sweeps itself thru you and i and we’re gone, done.
History picks up the pieces and fresh minds unravel the bits of truths scattered across the paths. Monuments emerge, elegies are written, sacred poems sprout out across the desert sands but nothing lasts. A sad lonely coyote howls across the moon lit desert into the cool night air lifting high into the atmosphere and at that exact moment silent love is envisioned within my heart, my mind, my life then disappears.
Click on any image and create a slide show
In the underground below the surface things are different, walls bend, structures twist around realities and the liquid skies flow in and out of space in magic. After a sound rain the other side comes into being, alive and opens up like love does when it flashes itself pure for a moment. I stumbled into this secret world by accident, as if anything really is by chance, and since then i could never find solitude in the streets of man again with its dull rigid forms. Every slight shift another shape presents itself out of melting molecules of curved space and bent time. The connected lines curl inside my mind to the mirrors outside, inside the painted water-colours from the goddess of earth herself. She is the artist without ideals in silence she speaks in moving shades of colours upon the surface of her life, the water, the gift, life blending into one another in warmth and beauty. This is why i live here, the underwater world of mystery, beneath the surface, my love.
These images are not simply reflections as most would prefer to believe, they are curved realities of a parallel source that comes in and out of existence just as truth emanates from the myth of mind than hides. They are shape shifting thru the galaxies, wonders as unique as faith. Everything is a reflection, even the eternal source, the underworld, the romance of the mind, the puddle in all its glory and force to take you where you need to go, the stories in your mind.
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I saw you walk thru the sky with buildings dissolving around you. You stoped by the heavens of light for a glance into my eyes. Our minds evaporated together in a single length for a moment and the soft presence of reality slipped upon us in shades of silvery hues only you could produce, the woman of life, earth mother, the goddess of love, the maternal water-colour-painter of earth. Liquid light dancing to the compositions of chance floating around in perfect harmony within the chaos of love.
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In the heat of the day, things change, forms melt dry, whole worlds fade into thin air, the doors to the windows of magic end slowly as the sun spreads itself across the land and the underworld hides itself with time to gather her thoughts and shape itself once again into realities that slide across this secret universe alone. Worlds hide in the dry shadows of the earth and man and beast wait till time is right for the wet life of imagination to form in coves and hollows where spirit weeps its tears in infinite arrays of fantasies. The puddle sees the absent mind and lives for but a moment in the unknown history of the eternal.
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Melted vanished now, I loved you when time was slow, as a statue on a pedestal we kissed along the avenues of forever, the fortunes of favour came to us for nothing but a warm embrace. We had it all, light crawling across your face and glowing like a saint, a DaVinci master piece, an angel of a virgin, a perfect love in a perfect place. You were the dream that tangled up my memories, the love that lasted forever before time turned round and sped up on down the roads of change. You went your way and i went mine; leaves of grass wavering across the plains of time.
Images and literature by patrickwey
Click on any image and create a slide show of mostly people images from this trip to Belarus….Autumn 2019
People Images
Puddle Images
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
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.
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 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