Reflections on the Changing of the Year

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There is absolutely no reason anyone would want to read this dreamy little rhymey New Year timely train of thought of mine! It comes as a stream of consciousness outpouring torrent from a tiny speck of dust (called “me”) in a thermodynamically-doomed imperfect universe [one could say “DeathStar” too, you see, though that must be understood aright, and not be confused with flights of fancy from a moving film]. That speck of dust is always bursting into flames, has nothing left to lose (or gain), has wept more than a stream will know (for, as the poem goes, “I’m never far from tears”), has conquered fears — its fuel has peaked at overflow and laughing all the way to fullness through the tank. But that speck of dust cannot help but move its mind and write; and if some eyes (just two or none will do) should happen to alight upon this written page (some eyes, that is, which gave up living in a cage [or long to do]), that speck of dust will take delight in meeting minds {I hope it will be you!}.

During the year that’s passing now, that speck of dust [and here I mix my metaphors] has burst its banks, been blown to places never seen before, sussed out the warful nature of the soul when manifesting in this tarnished hole [and wrote a book to tell it all, whose pages have been graced by five, which is ten eyes more than none], while being endless thankful here to have this role of… no one knows the fun that speck of dust enjoys [though opposition’s ready to destroy and sometimes takes its toll].

First, some personal reflections. That speck of dust completed all its resolutions from this year — including finishing a music disc with dozens on its credit list [all credit goes their way for manifesting dreams (into this hole-of-a-place) with art which I regard as sacred for the role it plays in mending broken hearts to make them whole]. And while I’m on this subject, let me share with you a light which I have seen, which is that sending art into this world (if created from a human heart which loves to dream) can change the scheme of everything, whether writing, painting, sculpting, music stuff or sing. Aesthetics (the manifestation of light in base matter) one day will be seen to be the goal of art — the pinnacle of human creativity — far more than mere beauty or the ornament of order (cosmos) in this cold chaotic realm. Even how we dress or carry ourselves when walking in the street or how we greet another’s face or how we will conduct ourselves (for many lead their lives as if it was a race instead of courting mellowness, eschewing shallowness) or substitute our shallowness for depth {and now you know, my friends, why Jesus wept}.

That speck of dust (my name), I venture here to say, has learned in recent years to live in loneness with itself, though I must add it never *feels* alone. [Flashing sidenote: Only if one has learned to live with oneself, with no need of another, can one then be ready to be another’s lover]. Once one has had a glimpseful vision of this strange biglittle universe and seen it as an inside-out peninsular from a wordless “mainland” (let the reader understand), you somehow “share a little joke with the world” (to quote a quirky Marty Balin song). After that, there is no nagging need for anyone else or anything else — and definitely no need for drugs (for the highs will come from life and love and music from above) while sex and rock ‘n roll are merely optional extras 😉 .

Related to this being “alone” is the question: Will 2017 be the year in which this restless speck of dust called “me” will “settle down” in one place for more than merely months or less? You see, my kindsome sister is concerned about the whereabouts of me. She thinks I need to put me down some roots. So is she right? I’ve said it more than once before: There are only two reasons that this little speck of cosmic dust would linger longer than a little while — these two are love and/or music (now I smile). I follow the wind in music terms for as long as I have to be in any one particular place. My music only appeals to the small minority today who wish to go beyond what can be seen or venture further down than Jules Verne ever intended 🙂 . As for love, what eligible woman would be remotely interested in a man of my length of years who has no wealth, no great income, no assets, no property, no celebrity, no worth on paper whatsoever (other than a few guitars [plus a capo to die for], a head of hair, some electronic gadgets, a box of crystals, a food steamer, a bunch of clothes and the best pillow that money can buy). I am every gold-digger’s nightmare (and the world is full of those today, who judge a man by what he has rather than who he is). I am a misfit anachronism in a sea of superficiality and stupefaction. Gold and silver have I none; but what I do have (if of any worth at all) I offer freely to she who is at least my equal (or even more so) in terms of abandoned baggage and emotional or spiritual maturity. [Twin-souls only need apply; but I gave up long ago, no longer even try].

Which reminds me… whatever happened to spontaneity? I do not refer to mere impulsiveness, which is confused by many as if it was the real thing. For spontaneity is infinitely more than just a fling with someone for a night, or doing something harmful to oneself, or saying yes to anyone who makes us feel as if we’ve not been left abandoned on the seeming lonely bare proverbial shelf. But so many now are so controlled (and controlling), like folding bedsheets after ironing has made them smooth; and if one flirts (as even babies do) one will be sued for harassment or malintent. Whatever happened to spontaneity? When eye meets eye and knows it’s here to stay — how many dare to be that way? To let an arrow find its mark (preferably right in the centre of your heart). To let go of the apple cart and follow where the lovelight leads. Either they’re too busy preening themselves in the mirror of their self-obsessive minds or find that they are caught up meeting other people’s goals and needs as slaves at work because they have some mouths to feed [and greed has long decreed that minions’ days should stolen be, while bosses shirk in golf-course clubs and play the tee].

Never has this little speck of dust been filled so full of life — so ready, too, to die. It reaches out into the void (that seeming nothingness which people fear — that space or unspace black hole matter [wish that I had some of that in here!]) with glee in search of family (that sacred tribe) who know from where they come and know there is no other place to run, for soon from whence we came will be the place to which we go; and then we’ll know and wonder why we feared so much and placed our temporary selves in such a space that out of touch we were with soul and merely played a stupid role and called it “life”, while staggering from one fool crisis to another (never knowing that our real mother wasn’t one with human flesh and so by consanguinity we were enmeshed, believing blood is thicker than the spirit that we truly are).

This speck of dust (which goes by name of “I” or “me”) eschews what most on Earth believe to be “reality”. [I think by now there will be many people call me “mad”; but that’s okay. I’ll gladly take on board insanity’s sharp and trusty sword committing hara-kiri in my soul 😉 ]. My cells are playful atoms on a spree which know that matter’s just a plastic force from which one cannot here obtain a clean divorce; yet those cells have never really felt at home but more at sea upon this heaving living globe of greenblue blightfulness (that is, until we find The Key). This speck of dust called “me” (like you) is from another place; but has (like you) been sent here to fulfil a task — complete a mission, taking “orders” from a panoply of light, so God forbid that I should fight against the flow or stupidly refuse to go. Now please tell me this: how is this speck of dust (or shaft of light) supposed to live within a world in which one has to pay vast sums for things like death? (Thus, please don’t give your thousands to some ghoulish gink to put my stinking corpse in a brass-handled box; but please just dump that former shell of who I was into a shallow forest-hole where worms and bugs can then fulfil their role in dissipating atoms round the world for free!).

A further serious question on my heart at this changing of the year: How is a speck of dust (or shaft of light) supposed to live within a world in which one has to pay vast sums for healing and/or “spirituality”? That’s not a world in which I want to be. At one time these were administered freely with kindness and selfless generosity by wise, respected elders in a close-knit community. But not today. Where greed like sheep behind some wolfish clothes pretends it is a hippy smelling like a rose (essential oils only please!). Where even the word “alternative” doesn’t mean a system based on a different moral code but chose instead with compromised hypocrisy to shuffle like a leper down another road. Otherwise why would UNprocessed natural healthy food cost so much more than shit-stuff made at great cost in some hi-tech facilities? Somewhere dirtified along the line we’ve lost the plot and more than what we bargained for is what we got. Alternative? My ass! Gurus, coaches and New Age cash-in writers (second-hand ideas people — all of them) driving round in flashy cars, imagining they’re groovy stars, adored by millions of mindless minions living on second-hand opinions without an original thought in their heads (I wonder, in that case, what is the point of getting out of bed?).

The finest spiritual teacher here on Earth I ever knew had a tobacconist shop in Mumbai (Bombay). “How utterly uncool!” the trendy New Age bobos would think today! “How come he isn’t on an “ashram” with a Rolls Royce in the park?”, they’d ask. But this guy wasn’t in that dark and curséd mould. He entertained thousands of enquiring minds inside his home behind the shop and never asked them for a cent. That’s how you know if spiritual teachers are for real or bent. They ask for nothing (though if you freely give them a token of your thanks they will accept it humbly as a love-gift from your heart) unlike the wheeler-dealers of today, who charge you extortionately to tell you what they learned from someone else (the stench of robbers — plagiarists I smelt). You pay your hundreds and your thousands for their “workshops”, though they’re nothing more than prostitutes who do not even sell the body of their own but what they stole from many others so to build themselves a little golden throne. At least two of the popular New Age writers of today have stolen their ideas from that teacher in Bombay (after wrapping them in sugar-coated darkness shit for mass appeal [such as how to get rich quick, manifest your dreams and live in wealth and luxury — the perfect pitch to cast their spell — those are the “secrets” they profess to sell]) but I guarantee their source they won’t reveal. Hypocrites! Whitewashed tombstones! Pedlars of darkness! Playing on the fears and needs of others for their gain. They smell just like the sewage running down inside your drain. Their karmic fate, I guarantee, has long been foreordained.

This speck of dust (for I am tiny in this universe of doors) has spent the past year reviewing those things for which there is no need (yet for which it is widely assumed that there is [a product of the archon devil’s seed]). Worthless neediness has overtaken the world. As a wise man once said “the things we think to be best for ourselves are often worst for our souls”. I think we need to adjust our long-term hoped-for goals. First, there is no need to be highly thought of. There is no one that we have to please. But yet, so much of what we do is done so that we may impress some other one, some self-professing soul. A spouse, a boss, a parent or a friend — all so that they may condescend to give us their approval. That’s a trap — a loathsome hole. If you live your life like that, you may as well dissolve all sense of responsibility. So be your own touchstone. Create your own litmus test from out your heart — from what you know is good and right (you’ve known that from the start, though if you’ve been conned by relativity you’ll claim “there’s no such thing as right or wrong or truth or falsehood, good or bad or dark or light, ’cause we’re all one, man” and then you’ll write a song and think it’s cool to apply tenth-dimension thinking to our three-dimension world as if it was a rule [you fool for following the herd!]).

Second, there’s no need to compete for anything (for winning is a loser’s game). Competition’s just a war dressed in disguise, in which we seek to win at someone else’s loss. It happens ’cause we see ourselves as isolated blobs of flesh (big fail) and cannot empathise or stand in one another’s shoes; and so we casually bruise each other in the conflicts we create, imagining there’s such a thing as win and lose (but ultimately all it does is generate resentment, fight and hate). Why can’t we pledge to help our fellow men and women in this world into which we’re hurled together, just like them, Amen?

Third, there is no need to be anything (other than what one naturally is) — no need at all for fame or fortune, success or “making it” (mostly always faking it), no need to achieve anything other than lovely lovelight lovingness, out of which all things worthwhile grow. So be whatever lovely thing you naturally are and then you will go far in building up the future aeon’s wealth (which will be based on who you inly are rather than what you outly have — a perfect sign of health).

Fourth, there’s no need, either, to seek to obtain a thing (for what do we have that we have not received?) save one thing only: Wisdom. This is the principal thing. There comes a time in every soul’s cycle to simply shut up and get wise. No more strutting. No more folly. No more lies. Shutting up and getting wisdom will definitely be the most important action any soul can do to aid its destiny and set itself and others wholly free (that’s me and you and every other bozo too).

Fifth, there’s no need for a meltdown if the person (thing, etc.) that we voted for is not the first one past the post. So when I saw the BrexitTrump reactions here on Facebook, Twitter and the rest — the crazy wailing acts of grief — then symptoms showing BPD was what I quickly diagnosed! Neither Brexit nor Trump will change a thing (for neither has the power to go beyond what the real ruling power-brokers want). Neither will they manifest the way you think they will (for smoke and mirrors, games and plots all make a bitter pill). They are both non-events designed to rattle the feeble minds and wind them up until they break and almost everything is fake today on planet Earth and things of genuine worth are overlooked in our rush to big ourselves up; but who gives a fuck about your breakfast, your weirdly pouting lips, your feline friends, your misplaced emotions, your magical potions, your blind devotions, your achievements, your new toy, your friend’s friend’s bereavement, your stating the obvious, your life-force’s wonkiness, your victim-stance breakdowns, your woe-is-me failures, your political rants and your garden’s expanse, your OMG meltdowns for some petty circumstance?

Sixth, there’s no need for an online breakdown about the deaths of people you don’t know who indulged in drugs and alcohol for a living (and happened to have a paltry stab at music as well) or pretended to be other people in movies. What the hell is wrong with us? Why has empty glamour mesmerised the masses so much? The sickening sight of celebrity today is the tragedy of bathos. But if the bodies of these “celebrities” should deign to live no more, what folly it would be to whore out our emoting to the world for someone who we know not, apart from a stage presence honed for us to make themselves rich. It’s easy to see why all this should be. The fear of death fuels all the grief-porn, thus causing the masses to meltdown and mourn. Now here is the thing: Such death is the norm in this world so we’d better get used to it. That’s why we’re here! To live a little life… then die! The equivalent of the entire population of greater London died in the world during 2016. We’re born in a pool of blood and shit and most of us will die a grisly death on earth. It’s normal. It’s natural. Birth – death. Birth – death. Birth – death. Okay, if it is our lover, kid or parent or friend, then we are justified in feeling loss and mourning (though if we took the time to understand the nature and meaning of death instead of fearing it and brushing it under the carpet, we would cope much better with its sting). But completely breaking down over so-called “celebrities” (who we do not know at all other than a phony stage-presence) who’ve lived corrupt, profligate, unexemplary lives is actually insane. It’s almost as if it’s admirable today to be unscrupulous, unprincipled, amoral, depraved, degenerate, debauched and impure. How far we have fallen! There are many genuinely wonderful but relatively unknown people who have ceased to exist this year. No one makes a fuss about them. Yet the so-called celebrities have never really done anything except made loadsamoney and led dissolute lives. Seduced by hollow glamour, we kowtow to corruption like sycophantic parasites. On social media, this is painfully plain for all to see.

Seventh, there is no need to give ourselves a hard time over what we eat (for fads and fashions come and go and what’s important is to sense the flow of everything — then all will find its place and we (in spite of what we chew) will still interiorly grow (at least, that is my view). Forgive me if you think I’m being crude but what’s the point in being OCD about what passes down our throat if we can’t even keep our sanity afloat? Too many panic if, for instance, there is gluten or some other faddy faux-pas in their food, yet, avoiding it, still have no health, exhibit stress, are often angry, cold, unstable, strange and rude — but I digress…

If this dusty speck has something like a resolution for the newsome year to come it is to never write again an article which speaks of the state of the world or what is soon to come to pass on this Earth. In future, all that hallowed information goes into my book, “Reluctant Angels”, where Nathan, Paul, Karelija, et al can speak my mind into the pages’ smoky ink then melt, like rings blown from a playboy’s mouth while gaming on the blackjack table’s green and lonely felt. A pimp of pure propriety stands aimlessly and loud while leaning on the grand casino’s door, welcoming the one or twoly punters who are thirsty to know more. If one or two click into me (and I in thee) I’ll happy as a sandboy be.

THIS: I can guarantee that the coming year will shake you up. But will it *wake* you up? THAT is the question…

I know I’m preaching to the choir in this space; but at least I’m doing it with fire in my soul, with which I love you deep upon this now imagined New Year day (for in a way the new year has begun more than a week before when solstice came and went away) and now, today, I hope you will accept this fecund flower bouquet — this nosegay from my heart to start the year with joy and dreams and multifacet themes (I travel time and long to be united once again with what I lost {the cost of falling into flesh — afresh}).

There’s nowhere left for specks of dust to go.

Just so you know, I take my ragged cells to walk the moors, with laughter; and I’m happy everafter like the fairybooks and myths of old, when people still sought gold at rainbow’s end and found a four-leaved clover every time they strode the glens and put a knotted cloth full of their goods upon a stick upon their shoulder as they troubadoured and wingly soared and music made; and when their time was done they smiled amidst the pain and knew they’d done what they’d been sent to do and gladly would again.

So, to those few I tip my hat and bow my head and quaff my life and, grateful for my daily bread, I sharpen up my metaphoric knife and sword and laugh aloud and shed a tear and wish you one and all, my friends, a meteoric deep and great New Year!

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© Alan Morrison, 2016

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