Some Days I feel Things Almost too Much
Some days I feel things almost too much — as if I am on the brink of breaking apart into a zillion fragments, like one of those exploded diagrams of an engine in a repair manual so the reader can see all the parts. Everything seems more intense and colourful — deeply darker yet somehow lighter too. Everyone I see on those days becomes a part of this process. Today is one of those days. I saw anelderly man in the street playing Bach’s solo Sonatas and Partitas on his viola (though they are really for violin). Apart from the beauty of the music (and he dances while playing them — twirling around and swooping and jumping), there is a light in his eyes as if he shares a little joke with the world somehow. There is a sadness in him too, as if he has known deep tragedy and loss; but though it has left its scar it has also deepened his insight and grown his humanity. Throwing some money in his instrument case, I told him I was in the mood for Bach’s epic Chaconne from the Partita no.2 and he said “You want it. You’ll get it” and he launched into it. When he’d finished he looked at me triumphantly with that sparkle. I said “Nathan Milstein would be proud”. He replied “You look like him!” I said: “But he’s dead”. He leaned towards me with an increased twinkle and said conspiratorially “We’re all dead” and we both burst into laughter. A smartly-dressed woman standing nearby with her Dalmatian dog stared at us in disbelief. But he and I know what death is. One can only know it from the inside. It cannot be explained. I went on my way and wept with melancholic joy as I watched the leaves falling from the trees alongside the river. I was on my way to meet two beautiful women for lunch. Fortunately, when I got there, my sunglasses hid the redness of my eyes until they had cleared. Later that day, I was in the crowded u-bahn (metro, underground train) and it suddenly came to a standstill in the tunnel and switched off its engine. We were packed like sardines in a tin. A couple of minutes went by. Then a woman near me caught my eye. She was starting to panic. I could see it in her face, which was frozen like that of a deer in approaching headlights. With every atom of my being I beamed comfort and security to her. My eyes spoke to her of open mountain scenes in which music plays across green valleys. I saw the fear melt from her face and she smiled at me with a thank you face. No words passed between us. (I would never speak to a woman who I don’t know on a train unless she first spoke to me. For I would only want her to feel safe and secure). But no words were necessary. I love incidents like that. They seem to happen more readily and frequently on my “feel things almost too much days”. It was not a coincidence that I was placed next to that frightened woman. The syncronicitous significance of these events — the viola player, the frightened woman — are not lost on me. So far, I have never felt things “too much”, only “almost” too much. If it was “too much” then my whole being would disintegrate and never reintegrate! But it seems to be controlled from somewhere, ensuring that it is never more than I can take (though sometimes almost so) and that it will always be ultimately fruitful. This is the nectar of life. Don’t you love it?
Cosmic Transmitter
COSMIC TRANSMITTER, washed, charged and now in place. Broadcasting loud and clear. Been waiting for my friends to arrive for weeks out of the darkness of their storage. Now I’m not alone. [Our view of what constitutes a “conscious being” needs to go much further than we currently believe 
😉 ].
The Bitter Pill of Here [poem]
Exhilarated by the earthy essence
of signpost tendril dreams,
along the seamless presence of
architecturally potent desert seas,
I ride the storm I manufactured
from the ragged engrams of my former lives
and formatively secret whys of early years
(which made the y into an f —
a reference to a phallic amputation)
where, with no real genealogy, I never grew
until excalibur at my own prompting
slew the monstrous form called me,
bringing into question my supposed insanity.
Mercury Retrograde
MERCURY RETROGRADE finishes on Saturday after a three week passage. I’ve never understood the huge fuss about this. It’s almost like a “victim cult” the way that people complain about Mercury going retrograde. People even dread it in advance and continually moan about its alleged effects in their lives, as if they are merely passive creatures being cruelly tortured by heavenly bodies! I’m convinced that the energy created by such dread and superstition can actually make things go wrong in our lives. Crazy! Firstly, the planet doesn’t really go backwards; it only *appears* to do so. “Appears” is the key word here. Even if things are delayed or go awry, that is only how they appear to be. It’s like when we say the sun isn’t shining; but it is… above the clouds. So don’t be fooled by superficial appearances. There is something far more profound behind the way that things appear. Second, so-called “bad” things happen for good reasons: to teach us valuable lessons. So instead of endlessly complaining about Mercury retrogrades, try transforming them into periods when we can take stock of ourselves, learn how to use our time and our minds better and adopt a “more haste less speed” attitude. Then, instead of dreading these periods in advance and whining about them neurotically, we will actually look forward to them with relish. 😉
Exhibit [poem]
When a man who wants to wade into the sea
to rest his weary bones across eternity
discovers he’s where only concrete reigns,
he fashions for himself a mortar coat
and binds himself with lashings to a tree
where, later on, he drowns in bloody stains.
What do you know for Sure? [poem]
The big bang [so-called]
(which I doubt has been the start
of anything or even everything)
exploded inside outwards
neverendingly
and we
(in all our ignorance and savag’ry)
are shards of fleshly meteorite
being flung like dung across a galaxy —
imagining we’re more than what we are.
Born to Serve [poem]
Nothing makes a scrap of sense
unless this man can make himself
of service to the order of the world
(despite the fences and the corners
and disorder and the surly chieftains
wielding crass unpower from behind).
Yet not the dying old world order
(masquerading as the new
by those whose splintered view
distorts a rainbow’s promise
into darksome swordthrust lies)
but what the truly newness harbingers
of lightly goodness show in all their glory
where his hearting gladly flies and where
a blaze of nature’s trove completes the story.
Peter Pan Syndrome!
A well-meaning and humorous friend said to me the other day: “Your problem, Alan, is that you suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome!” My immediate and unequivocal reply was this: “I don’t suffer, it’s not a syndrome and I actually AM Peter Pan!” Forever. End of. 😉
Mixed Metaphors, Part 1 [sonnet]
That sleeping serpent coiled around my core
was startled into pristine wakefulness,
at first by one brief glancing eye unsure
and then another which removed the guess.
Then soon the honeyed knife — whose blade’s so sharp
that one can never know has entered in
till after it has found its purposed mark —
had pierced that scaly flesh, was deep within.
But yet this time I felt it carve right through;
as if a jolly butcher with a smile
and ruddy cheeks had cleared a way to you
and there you stood before me, clear. No guile.
So now that knife must cut a bloodless trail.
The blade of love that footpath will unveil.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
More than Homeless
Just came upon this human being on a main street in Steglitz, Berlin. Hundreds of well-dressed shoppers walking around him. Surreal. I burst into tears with sorrow and outrage. No one should have to live like this. Ever. It will be down to 8C at night next week. Yeah, I know, people have emotional problems, etc. But my first instinct is always to protect and defend the underdog. My tears were also because of a feeling of total helplessness. I wish I could round up every human in the world like this and nurture (love) them better. But we’d probably need our own big country as the number of people would be so huge. (Hmm… come to think of it, I might be joining them in one week if I can’t find somewhere to live when my current abode finishes!). I saw a guy outside Starbucks near Potsdamer Platz in a terrible state. Filthy, deathly pale, skinny as a stick and worn down. He must have been about 20 years old. I said to him “Wait here. Don’t go away”. I dived inside and bought him the kind of lunch I would have liked and gave it to him. He began to cry mournfully. Turns out he’s a junkie. I talk to many homeless people and they all have a story. Life is a bitch and then you die. Without a roof really is the most rock-bottom place to be in life. They aren’t just homeless. It’s more than that. They are without shelter, having lost all hope and living in shit — literally, if you look at the guy’s “blanket” in the photo. Everyone needs some defensible space. Maybe we should try and find that big country to live in (or should it be planet?). Maybe I should organise a benefit concert for the homeless. Now there’s an idea. Anyone care to join me in that?
The Naked Troubadour 