The Qualities of Jasper

Within the stream of thoughts which

flows like water over stones,

A pattern can be discerned that

forms

a

poem.


Look down through it's sparkling clarity,

Find the rhythm

That speaks its form.






Jasper


an aggregate

of micro granular quartz and

or chalcedony,

A cryptocrystalline form

Of silica

and other mineral phases,

an opaque,

     impure

variety of silica,

usually red,

            yellow,

            brown

or        green

and     rarely blue.



The common red colour is due

to iron (III) inclusions





When I

found two polished pieces of Jasper,

I was

Unaware of their nature and properties,

Except their aggregate being apparent,

In their brecciations, tumbled smooth,

One,

Poppy red breaking through

In tiny bursts out

Of its deep,

Dark base,

A thread of silvery blue shimmering

Only in the light.

The Other,

Brick red,

Crossed with silver striations and

Opaque earthy tones,

The first, slightly larger,

Both an almost perfect almond fits

Perfectly in the saddle of my hand,

And when I held them,

One in each palm,

I felt pleasure

In their polished perfection,

And the way their shape

Found a natural home

In the volar of each hand.



I'd heard it can lift a

Heavy heart,

And clear the head,

And held it lightly,

Closed in folded fingers,

Until I forgot the weight,

Of the world,

And the clear blue of a bright sky,

Broke through.


         -

Interpreting signs

There are 4 fixed lines,

For the time being,

3 only are visible,

When I try,

To incorporate the sky.

Manifesto

Gathering Influences



" I cannot call myself a scholar. I have always been and still am a seeker but I no longer do my

seeking among the stars or in books. I am beginning to hear the lessons which whisper in my blood.

Like the lives of all men who have given up trying to deceive themselves, it is a mixture of nonsense

and chaos, madness and dreams.

The life of every man is a way to himself, an attempt at a way, the suggestion of a path. No man has

ever been utterly himself, yet every man strives to be so, the dull, the intelligent, each one as best he

can. Each man to the end of his days carries round with him vestiges of his birth - the slime and egg-

shells of the primeval world. "


From the Prologue to Demian by Hermann Hesse




More from the body of the book ;


For us, humanity was a distant goal towards which we were marching, whose image no-one yet knew,

whose laws were nowhere written down.



I wanted to become more myself



Love must not entreat nor demand.
Love must have the power to find its own way to certainty, then it ceases merely to be attracted and begins to attract.



                                                                         -



And ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.


From the opening chapter of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran in which Almustafa, the prophet, is about to leave Orphalese on the ship that has come to carry him back to the place of his birth. As he makes towards his ship, the people entreat him not to leave them, but Almitra, the seeress, his friend since his arrival, says he must leave because he needs to, but entreats him to leave them with some words of wisdom upon the most important subjects which concern us.

The first subject is love and so Almustafa begins to speak out loud his thoughts ;


When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.


                                                                       -

Also ;


It is certain that there are few people in the world today who are unaware of and unaffected by the transitional crisis gripping the heart of all Earth Life in a state of bewildering chaos. What had appeared as an orderly system based on irrefutable logic and ' hard facts ' has now suddenly slipped apart like a  Chinese puzzle into a collection of strange pieces whose relationship to each other now seems lost forever. " Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again. " At this moment this cracked egg of a world is a swarm with " all the King's horses and all the King's men " trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again: many many means to supposedly the same end product.

From the Introduction to On Magick; An Introduction to the High Art by Aleister Crowley.


It is unclear who is writing the introduction as there is no credit. It's implied that it's written by the editor of the Level Press who produced the booklet. His introduction leaves us with the impression that the booklet was being produced because it was the correct point in time for the essays within it, on Magick, written by Aleister Crowley to become freely available.
He suggests that Magick is a potential system for mending the broken pieces we perceive. He points out ;

Its concept of the Universe and the individual human being's place in it is, on the one hand, so radical that it frightens many people while, on the other, it of all the systems comes closest to reconciling the realms of the spiritual and the scientific into a harmonious and compatible family.

I like the phrase " the broken world egg " that he uses to refer to the problems that humanity faces it refers me back to the egg which occurs in Demian, painted by Emil Sinclair. It's a deceptively simple symbol, providing a good focus for meditating on our life in this universe.


The introduction aptly ends with the peaceful and wise instruction that all followers of a true path understand and aspire to though struggle with on a daily basis ;


                                                      Do what thou wilt
                                                 Is the whole of the law
                                                     Loving is the law
                                                There is no will but loving



It's a deceptively simple adage, a direction easily remembered and accepted, but not so easily interpreted or incorporated into our daily actions.  It's basis is the concept of freedom and how we act in a way in response to it. We have been given free will. In the full realisation of this, we can act destructively or constructively and it is sometimes hard, once all other parameters have been removed, to determine which way we have chosen and what the outcome will be. Of course, we can never know until it happens, what the outcome will be, however,

if we keep readjusting our motives and try to decipher honestly whether or not we are complying with the whole of the law, that is, that we love and our actions stem from love, we can then trust that the path we taking is the correct one at the point we are currently.

Portrait : A Mirror

                                them,
It's not the concrete you,
                                me,

          their
More your disparate parts,
          my

Their              
Your mouth and its assumptions,
My                     my

Their
Your nose and the way it lies,
My

( the years take their toll on our peripheries),

                           their
The triangles of your shoulder girdle and our
                          my

suprasternal notch,

Points of vulnerabilities,

Their
Your
Our internal structures emerging through our skin

which stretches over them to

form a padded suit to hold us all together,

Delicate in its own receptiveness,

Telling the tale of our times

on its transmutable surface.



    my
Is the  ear lobe visible,
    your

Is it pierced and decorated with a stud,

Or ring or some dangling

                                         t
h
i
n
g


Your                                      our
My listening gathered in by the auricle,
Their                                     their

Which can be imagined twitching imperceptibly,

Responding hair-like to the undulations of the waves,

As they sweep by en-route to anywhere and everywhere.


                my
Where is your hair ?

           
Is it tucked behind the pinna,

                                 your
Bound tight behind my head

with something pulling,

To expose our temples,

With their worrisome veins ?

      you
Do I want to see it waving,
      we

Florid, tumbling downward,

                            our
Undulating over my naked shoulders ?
                           your

An eye is guided by the beholder.

There is;


Sensuality in the direction of the gaze,

The way the light,

The line of form,

The suggestion of texture.


Look at the surfaces,


       your
Let our looking wander,
      my

Until,


The eyes are met at last.


And lock.





Then we may think

about hands,

If they're hidden.

Where do they rest.

Quietly folded

Upon the lap ?

Maybe hanging loose,

Or holding some material,

Trying not to fidget,

Or brush away an invisible hair,

Or scratch the nose.

Our digits sometimes dance,

Well mine do anyway,

They fly through the memory of a piece of music

learned a lifetime ago.


I play air piano.

This can't be captured,

Only reproduced in motion,

I could make a film,

First with my hands hanging to my side,

My fingers playing the tune,

As they do,

Then rattling upon some hard

Unresponsive surface like wood,

To make a dull hammer,

Only the rhythm denoted,

The piano disconnected from its strings.

How would it sound

On a different surface,

My teeth perhaps,

I've seen it done,

Or,

Perhaps I'll open the lid

and touch the keys gently,

Listen to that childish melody again.