The Noble Work of Generosity
WHY ARE WE HERE IN THIS DIMENSION, on this planet Earth, at this point in space, time and history? One may never be able to answer that question satisfactorily enough, in verbal terms, so long as we are limited in our thoughts and ideation by the boundary of words (even though that boundary can be stretched the more we reach it). But we can say that we are all involved — whether we know it or not — in an increasingly expanding growth of understanding in mind and heart which takes us further into the unknown (thereby revealing its knownness) and deeper into the twilight zone of consciousness, beyond any perceived limitations. This is the evolution of the soul — joyfully harrowing, vitally necessary and deliciously inevitable.
I will not wear a poppy on that celebrated day;
though many others then will feel obliged,
as if by some strange law, to wear that flower
commemorating war. Each year it is revived.
Then one who claims to be offended by the
lack of paper flower pinned upon my clothes
and thinks that all should be like him or her
will be red-faced and full of rage and sternly say:
“How could you scorn the freedoms won by
those who fought so you could see another day?”
Then will I swift reply: What freedoms do you mean?
The “freedom” to be overseen in every little way
and spied on by your disingenuously “democratic”,
pederast-permitting, plastic, gymnastic government?
The “freedom” to live every day enslaved by
drudgeful work, extorted mortgages and rents
and subsequently have no unspent time to play?
To what freedoms could you possibly refer?
The “freedom” to inscribe your X upon a form,
when several years have passed since last you
X’ed that form before (to no avail, of course)
and take part in another manufactured war they
call “election-time”? (You think this is the norm?)
In which Greta is Recruited and Nathan Learns some Lessons
[Extracted from my book “Reluctant Angels”]
Even in the cosiness of his bed, Nathan could sense a crispness in the air outside. The temperature had dropped sharply overnight from Autumn to Winter. He walked to the window and looked down onto the normally verdant park below. The first frost of the season lay on the grass, on which starlings hopped about, leaving their footprints, like fifties teddy-boys beating the bounds of some new territory. Down the road, to the right, the same van was there as had been for some five days. Its colour was an orangey brown, rather like the hue of diarrhoea after eating at a dubious Indian takeaway. Two men, one in a suit, the other more casually dressed, sat in the front seats, who Nathan presumed to be agents from the Group for Citizen Realignment — euphemistically known in government public liaison circles as “Group R” — a psyop outfit jointly run by the military and police, designed to straighten out dissidents with “re-education” using a mixture of intimidation and wave technology. One can recognise them by the array of electronic gizmos built into the rear windowsill and a tiny antenna-like device on the roof which, appropriately, he always thought resembled a grinning goat’s skull.
“Congratulations, Alan! You’ve reached 2000 friends today!”, Fakebook announced to me. Teehee! [Excuse me while I chuckle]. This bizarre landmark has forced me to meditate on what the meaning is of friendship in this strangesome day and age. So, first, I will write a little piece about this, then, at the conclusion, I will share three poems I have written on the subject of friendship in a “Facets of Friendship” series, entitled “Friendship Lite” (about superficial friendship), “Fairweather Friends” (a sonnet about those friends who only stick around when the going is good or when they can gain something from it) and “True Friends” (about those few friends in life who can truly be called Friends, who will be there for you, whatever the weather, and on whom you can rely unconditionally. But first, social media friendship…
Please click on either the PDF or WORD DOC links here below to read the article:
© Alan Morrison, 2017
Squishly, out from underneath the cover of his mother’s flesh, he flopped into a state of who-am-I-ness, where no safety is the norm and all the creatures who have taken form continually preen themselves throughout the ages of their many turns until the light goes on and finally they see themselves for who and what they really are [and then the plastic smile is gone and me-me-me’s no more their song]. In his particular case, there was no me to sing about that he could see and so, unable to discriminate the bound-a-ries between his ownsome self and anybody else [for by now he had reached 5 years old] and wholly overwhelmed by what he felt, he made himself a special outer shell which meant that he could see the world from inside looking out but no one else could see when looking from the outside in.
Indulging in this new-found pastime
causes an infernal end to many
now no longer worthful stories —
generates incendiary glory —
casting them into a memory-hole
forgettery (or better still déchèterie).
For here I speak of bridges being burned.
“Do not look back!” intoned the voice,
as slowly round I turned my head
but stopped myself instead from
staring at the fiery flameful scene
behind, beyond the chasm of my past,
which now no longer must be brought to
mind, for fire to the rear means ice ahead
which will be melted into something
called the present — an imaginary trick
inside your head which comes up fast
and just as quickly melts into the past.
Here’s a new “living-room” video of a song I just wrote. It’s about how easy it is to be a true friend of mine. Feel free to share! With love from me to you… The lyrics are below: