Tag Archives: esoteric

Harvest of Wyrms…

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‘The Witch’, they called her but she minded not, tending to her herbs and the animals and birds which nature’s highest intelligence brought to the garden of her single roomed house knowing her abilities to hold and to heal…

It started slowly.

A black stain on the stone and the gentle glooping of mud or oil disturbed by rising vapours.

But by noon the single roomed house had begun to rise through the air…

She peered from a window of the house, now tower, at the receding garden, far below, and smiled.

Unfurling her wings she hopped from the window…

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Unspeakable Beauty

strangegoingsonintheshed

june-wong-641420-unsplash June Wong at Unsplash

“To be fully alive is to have an aesthetic perception of life because a major part of the world’s goodness lies in its often unspeakable beauty.”

Yukitaka Yamamoto

96th generation High Priest (Guji) of the Tsubaki Grand Shrine in Mie Prefecture, Japan (Shinto shrine).

masaaki-komori-601598-unsplash Masaaki Komori at Unsplash

I keep Yukitaka Yamamoto’s quote in an accessible place, to often remind of life’s purpose. Why? My recent posts have been infused with hints of regret, pain, and vulnerability. Not something I’ve wanted to disclose, but when the spirit wants to be heard, you give it space.

linus-nylund-465861-unsplash Linus Nylund at Unsplash

My unavoidable sojourn at home has been an illuminating experience. It’s guided me out of the stillness of the inner temple into the tranquil spirituality of the garden outside. What the eyes have been blind to, the Soul has joyously acknowledged. That is, the world’s goodness lying…

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Encryption…

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Now they had unleashed the hounds the outcome of the chase was inevitable.

One shard of memory alone held hope…

Slipping into the museum without paying could only encourage capture…

The dark arches spoke of deep secrets too arcane to delineate…

Out of the shadowy recesses a thin form materialised.

Did that wan smile ever waver?

I stuffed the loose package between clammy fingers and turned to leave…

“Clavis!” she hissed, and disappeared.

Already the concierge was blocking my exit with his bulk…

Outside the wild yelps and bays rose in anticipation…

Was that laughter I heard amid the fury?

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The Rotating Blade of Meaning (5)

The Silent Eye

Arthur Young part 5 Banner sm

So far, we have examined how Arthur M. Young, inventor of the Bell helicopter, engineer and astrologer/philosopher, used his skills and insight into how our minds determine meaning. Within this, he began to discover that there was a graphical symmetry to this process; a set of shapes that explained many of the ancient symbols that mankind has come to view as sacred. These will shortly be unveiled in more detail, but, first, we need to complete our tour of the foundations of how he approached it, for the symmetry emerges from those foundations and how we represent them.

In the last post, we looked at how Isaac Newton investigated the motion of things that move, discovering that – for example in the motion of a cannon ball – there were different aspects, faces, of that motion; and that although they were often hidden, they were tightly related to each…

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Sayings…

France & Vincent

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‘Those that work get bread.’

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A simple, straightforward enough equation,

yet, in the outer world, where the idler often has ‘bread’

in far greater abundance than the worker,

it is far from true…

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In the outer world,

subject as it is

to the laws of indifference and imperfection,

the ‘Jinni of the lamp’ obeys only the one who siezes it!

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Not so, the inner world.

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Here, only those who know travail can find rest,

and only one who ‘wields the knife’ is graced Isaac.

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It is only here that the worker gives birth to his father.

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Peripheral Views…

France & Vincent

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…Without ‘supernatural elements’ this type of conditioning would be unhealthy

and is the one most beloved of insecure, manipulative minds

intent on turning their victims into ‘Apes of Faith’.

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Which is, perhaps, one of the reasons why the ‘supernatural’

is here so heavily stressed.

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A radiant visage and countenance

is such a mainstay of supernatural narrative

that it must have some basis in real experience…

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…As is telepathy.

There are though, also, some people who are very good at this.

In which context, ‘reading one’s mind’

is not the same as, ‘hearing one’s thoughts’.

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The praeternaturally lengthy life-spans in this

and other biblical stories

probably have more to do with an editorial attempt

to ‘square’ original myth with historical time-frames

than with history, which is not to say

that people a very long time ago

were not a lot bigger and/or lived a lot longer…

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A Trigonometry of Seeming…

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The gnomon holds a special position

in the annals of architecture:

It is to time what the fulcrum is to movement.

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Would, then, movement be anything without time?

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And yet, for the gnomon

to tell us anything,

we have to move around it…

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Continuously

shifting our perspective,

before the position

is finally shadowed forth…

 

…not as we know it.

secret

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…Moments later the bars of blue light shimmered into three tightly clad figures.

Kirk, glanced expectantly around the room and sighed.

Spock arched a well manicured eye-brow skyward.

“An empty writing room,” pronounced Sulu, somewhat redundantly.

Kirk’s hand held communication unit twittered into life.

“Better check the co-ordinates on that one Scottie, I asked for ‘enterprising room’, dammit!”

Meantime, Spock had slithered over to the window and was peering through the white-blue light.

“Captain, no, wait…”

“What is it Spock?” asked Kirk moving toward the window.

“Well, it’s life Jim, but…” smiled Sulu, who was already there.

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Scryer of Time…

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Scryer of Time.

On sky weathered stone

our accidental tourist  has stepped

through long horned, shaggy coated, cattle

to glean and ponder

the sun in rippled grain:

no shadow cast

from this bright interior’s sheen

the mountain top of yonder earth

beckons…

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Should an eagle become an egg

all fracture

I’ll fly!

I’ll fly!

beyond that outer maelstrom

of troubled cloud

and return heather dusted

 head space full

of truth’s sweet, fragrant lie

lipped to life’s cold scrutiny

in a fluid bowl of vision.

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May moss-fleck

reflections

trickle…

to ground and save us one and all:

Scryer of Time.

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