remember the colours

What I saw:

I sawe the grey spaces intervene and many clever people think themselves clever. Dull men in hats expounding fabulous theories, professors of Philosophies with their grand airs; and learned men of science tightening the noose around Mysteries. A buffoon Preacher with grotesque hands so puffed up at the sound of his own braying. All and one claimed to know what could be known. And yet, to my way of being, there was to be found no light in their words, no delight to be had in their companie.

To be the wind, not a statement about it.

I have become a question to myself.

Who said what? Analyse it, dissect it. Point to the passage in the book..and wouldn't you just die without Mahler? What does it matter if you cannot live it?


Alone. Together.
alone, together
alone together

Distinctness, singleness. togetherness. uniqueness. gem-like separation of our being. love is not a goal; it is only a traveling. only.

blossoming means the establishing of a pure new relationship with all the cosmos..this mysterious other reality of things in a perfected relationship. it is into this perfected relationship that every straight line curves, as if to some core, passing out of the time-space dimension...

creation proceeds from the ever inscrutable quicks of living beings, men, women, animals, plants. the actual living quick itself is alone the creative reality. once you abstract from this, once you generalize and postulate Universals, you have departed from creative reality and entered the realm of static fixity..you can't make an idea of the living self...

the great lesson is to learn to break all the fixed ideals, to allow the soul's own deep desires to come direct, spontaneous into consciousness.

Education as a guard against falling into mechanical thinking..a proper approach to the past and the future, memory and desire. To keep open, free from "rust" ..the spontaneous, free-wheeling self that spins away from dead material reality, mechanizations, the satanic mills of thought.

there must be no fixed activity, no fixed direction.

---D.H.L.

May I run, run, and never find.

---Shah Latif.

The slow, circling descent through time. like the gentle curvature of the hand that encloses itself. a return to silence, a deep welcoming silence. you hear the profoundly familiar creaking wooden floorboards under your feet, the sighs of the white doors. the radio with its steel dial like a compass, pointing north, true north. when dust settles and you can see clearly. you are attentive, child-like in your wakefulness. the return of music and silence. they turn to their books. everyone lovingly in their own world. you sit in the conservatory ("the conservative") and allow yourself to fall and fall...a dizzying stillness. the hand learns not to reach out. all the colours were here. home.