Story

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.

Love is ..........

A well,

A furnace,

A fountain,

An ocean,

A pile of stones,

A cake,

A candle,

A pair of baby's bootees wrapped in tissue paper,

A ring of fire,

A fence of barbed wire,

A race to the sea,

An everlasting embrace,

An invisible hand on your shoulder,

A set of recipes scribbled out for the future,

A pair of polished shoes,

Carefully ironed sheets, or shirt or trousers,

That photograph,

Music,

The way you play,

The way you listen or look,

All those dirty dishes,

Notes left in books,

A cliche,

Your heart,

A pile of kept postcards,

Kept appointments,

Some music you wrote,

A poem,

It's always a poem of sorts,

Even the broken promises

Because,

Although it certainly is not

never having to say sorry,

where there is love,

there is always an at attempt at understanding,

hope,

forgiveness,

and acceptance,

For

You have to see it's whole

through all the loops of loneliness

and anger and regret and

then return full circle

to what love really is,

Which is,

The beginning and the end of all things.

This brainstorm came about because I've been thinking about posters which were
popular in my teens, some of them broadly inspirational e.g. the one that declared " the more I know, the more I realise I don't know ", or something along those lines, printed above or below some apparently apt image like a chimpanzee. Others were religious, like the one showing footprints in the sand with some words implying they belonged to Jesus. There was another type on the theme of Love is...... I can't remember them exactly, but I thought they were kitsch and tacky and these last ones on love I recalled in particular recently because I've also been thinking about love and its nature. I was thinking how love is something we can imagine is a given in some places and is often taken for granted, yet, we seem to question it's authenticity alot. Love's nature defines all human activity in some way, in it's absence or presence. I believe we come from it and return to it. I dare to risk sloppy romanticism when I say, in all sincerity; if you are born, you are loved and even this doesn't cover it, because I believe the unborn are loved in some way. I dare to leave it at that, I am so sure.

A Portrait Of

For You

There you are,

In pieces,

Scattered to the four winds,

Comfortable between cracks,

Lying hidden amongst treasure

and the buried bones

of the animals you loved.

You're resting awhile,

Leaning against lamposts,

Their sodium glow reflecting off

the peak of your cap,

Not waiting until it turns white,

Because you're off,

You're busy,

Now you're with your chickens,

Head turned towards us,

Unsmiling, your tired, bloodshot,

I don't care I'm wasting myself on my world eyes

dismissing our gaze;

Haven't we better things

to do.,

Like you,

Or more like what you want

to be doing yourself,

Like;

Peeking out from the crowd

that's waiting to hear you

and cheer you though

you don't listen,

because you're sound,

You're Aeolian,

And as the wind blows

through you,

And across the vast tract

of water between us,

The feathers and bottles

and skull and crossbones

and gulls and the albatross

carry you across,

In instalments.

And we love each part of you.

How to press a rose

Everything has a beginning and another and another beginning. The connections between things are endless.

-

I cut two roses to press.

I have four rose bushes.

They all arrived as gifts in baskets,

One basket remains;

I threw the others out, along with other baskets.

Baskets tend to rot if you put plants in them.

I quite like rotting things,

I don't like throwing things out.

I like to preserve things,

Or give them away.

Rarely, I throw things out in despair,

Then mourn their absence.

I don't know why they kept sending the same roses.

I know flowers can be expensive to send from abroad

and this can limit your choice.

The cream roses are beautiful.

I think I did show them how I'd planted them out last time they came across.

I'm not sure they'll understand how much pleasure they bring as they bloom

against the grey/green fence,

Especially in the rain.

There's something about cream,

And roses,

And the way rain deepens the tone of things.

I tried preserving flowers before.

Long ago;

Heating up some silver sand,

Putting it in a cardboard box,

Laying the flowers in the middle.

I can't remember which kind of flowers.

I can't even remember if it worked.

All things dry out eventually anyway,

If you leave an orange it will preserve itself,

Sometimes, if by chance the conditions are correct.

The precise conditions are particular to each thing.

We can try to apply the same method to a different

flower or fruit and it may not work in the same way.

Each time is different.

Repetition is an illusion of sorts,

Even the smallest acts require some kind of improvisation;

Therein lies expertise;

The doing,

The observing,

The repetition, with it's slight adjustments.

A painful memory for me is of being given

my dearest friend's wedding bouquet

and not applying myself sufficiently adroitly

to its preservation.

It felt too precious for me to touch,

So I left it to fade.

I hope she thought,

As I did,

that it was also beautiful

dried and faded,

A paler, more delicate version of,

Its original self.

Like a tinted photo,

Haloed in its nest of white tissue.

She did say she liked it and,

We have been truthful to each other,

She and I,

In our own way,

As good friends are.

But she may have been comforting me,

In the way that we have,

Through our continued closeness.

So it was with care,

I cut two roses recently,

Thinking I would apply myself properly now,

To this task in hand.

I dried their delicate petals carefully,

Using soft paper napkins

bought a long time ago though

never used; they were too cheap

in their flimsiness,

But perfect blotting paper.

Then;

I opened The World of Wonder,

Somewhere at its middle;

Pages 1208 and 1209,

Marvelling at The Double-Decker Railway Train,

On the left,

And Our Dependence on Reflected Light,

On the right.

Inside one of the coaches of The Double-Decker Railway Train,

Two ladies lean slightly in towards the centre of the carriage,

Which seems to extend almost into infinity behind them,

Except for the intervention of two silhouettes,

Somewhere in the distance,

Allowing some proper perspective to enter the illusion.

The ladies are sporting nearly identical cream hats,

Their cream blouses too are very similar,

( black and white photography denies the eye

the distinction of colours in the real world ).

Their faces imply a family connection,

As they sit on either side of the carriage,

Imperfectly mirroring each other.

Beneath and a little behind the lady on the right,

Peeps a younger lady,

Startling from her position

on the lower deck, her head,

Arising, as it were, through the floor.

She gazes into the camera,

One eye gleaming; perhaps in the knowledge

she has been captured

for posterity.

Her male counterpart leans across from

his seat on the opposite side,

His left arm resting on the floor of the

Upper carriage.

It's a strange sight once you see it,

And your eye is drawn all along the aisle,

Until you see more arms and another face

under her white beret, as she too looks,

Down the aisle,

Into the lens.

A moment in history,

Preserved for me,

To perceive from this end of eternity.

Our Dependence On Reflected Light,

A Marvel of Chemistry and Physics,

Over on the opposite page,

Is illustrated with a funny photo' in its centre;

A man in a smart pair of trousers and

sports jacket,

Probably tweed,

His flanneled legs slightly bent,

His trilby cocked,

Maybe it's a Homburg,

( I'm not au fait with hats),

Laughing infront of a mirror with,

A slightly uneven surface.

His legs and torso are shortened

in the mirror.

The reason for the distortion is,

That the rays of light,

Instead of being reflected regularly,

As they are from a level mirror, instead,

Are thrown off at various angles,

And so we get an abnormal image.

Or so the caption beneath says.

I see his alter ego.

I see someone he might have been,

With shorter legs and a head large

in proportion to his body,

Like an adult child.

We could all have been somebody else.

Yet maybe not.

We are as we are.

The World of Wonder also tells us that;

" If it were not for the fact that light is reflected,

that is, when it strikes a surface it is thrown back in the same way

as a ball is bounced off a wall,

we should be unable to see anything except

what is shone by its own light. "

Well I know that there are creatures under the sea,

Who emanate,

Their own light.

I also think some beings above water do too.

( The buddhist told us that we all golden within.

I perceive our core as a cut diamond.

Some people have opened themselves a chink

inorder that light may be refracted from their centre.)

There is already too much in this book,

On these two pages,

For me to contemplate in one day.

And so, I place my two roses,

One just an opened bud,

The other, a full blown rose,

Upon the cheap napkins,

Upon the pieces of baking parchment,

Then upon the page describing our

Dependence on Reflected Light,

Covering them over with a mirror layer;

Cheap paper napkins,

Cut piece of baking parchment,

And close it carefully shut

With a little prayer.

I love these roses,

This process.

These kind of things we do

Are a ritual in loving.

I'm sentimental,

It gets worse with age.

The closed book upon the carpet,

I place a pile of others on it;

My large heavy Textbook of Human Anatomy,

Edited by the even then late J Hamilton,

Relic of long ago study, now without dustcover,

The denim blue linen texture of it's binding

Slightly scuffed and fading along its spine

to a dusty grey.

I heave the heavy Post-Impressionism

From Van Gogh to Gaugin,

Its 1 1/2" depth perfectly equivalent

to Hamilton's anatomy,

And what that comparison has

to tell us about the similarities between

the two subjects

might itself be a large enough subject

for a different long description.

Next comes the shiny black box, . transposed to another place

My container of objects, .

One of a myriad waiting to be understood, .

If you opened up its lid you would find; .

1
.

A square of rag paper, .

Folded in four, .

Red symbol of a heart painted on its centre, .

the four chambers delineated in silver. .

2

A loose-leaved booklet of scraps bearing scribblings .

about the beating heart, .

the centre of life, .

Its four chambers, .

The heart of stone, .

Burden, .

And in the centre-fold; .

an instruction to; .

draw a heart make a heart .

cut it in 2 embalm each half in material .

3

A tri-folded page of words associated with digging things up and inspecting them closely; .

Skeletal Remains .

archaeological discoveries that lead to part understanding .

perhaps a mis-understanding .

Archaeological discoveries . .

Digging .

Dissection .

4 .

a scrap of an idea in the form of a piece of A4 paper cut .

into 3 equal strips and glued at one end .

holding them together; .

Digging .

printed in my anxious print writing on the front strip; . .

Burying .

on the next; .

Uncovering .

on the last. .

5 .

A collection of papers, enfolded in one A4 piece. .

Open at its centre and you will find; .

A piece of Japanese Kodi rag paper folded in 4. .

Each square with a red heart painted in deep crimson. .

One full red heart mirrored by one empty outline, .

The pattern repeated and reversed on the opposite side. .

Behind that, a piece of hand-made rice paper, inset with leaves, .

A4, folded in half, .

On which I painted the heart symbol, .

Divided by the crease, .

Each half individual, .

Like two petals joined at some fulcrum, .

Arching away from each other. .

I'd been thinking about tattoos. .

And symbols. .

And that is probably why the next piece of paper is also .

A heart shape, .

Pink really; .

I let the watercolour wash drip .

into a single drop of deep red, .

Which gathers at the base where, .

The two halves meet. .

It seems I got a bit obsessed with hearts........ .

for a while;

The sentimentality of the symbol, .

Both distressing and compelling. .

The half a piece of A3 underneath,.......... .

Marks my departure into circles. .

I'm quite impressed by my ability to paint them. .

Here, I've painted two pink circles joining, .

At the crease of the paper; .

The pink paint blending perfectly so .

That you can barely see the overlap. .

I couldn't repeat that I don't think, .

Although I might try. .

I like the thinness of the red rim, .

As it delineates their bottoms. .

The page cradling that image .

Is scrawled with my writing .

in pencil which reads: .

I've been imagining the heart as 2 parts for a long time. I know it has four chambers physically, but it always feels divided in 2 to me. It's a sad image isn't it. The heart's our central muscle + it can be robust, but it's subject to such alot of onslaught over a life time and it can feel awfully fragile at times.

Love is a well. We can all draw from it at any time, whether you're alone or not. .

I struck out the word "you're" and wrote "here" over the top which makes no sense. .
Perhaps it is actually "we're", or .
perhaps the no sense is the sense of it. .

I don't like dictating to people. .

Perhaps I should replace it with the word I, .

Inorder that it reads more like a meditation. .

The four folded pieces make a sort of book. .

6

Open underneath lies a scan of a heart that I painted a long time ago before .

I became obsessed with the drawing of their anatomy. .

At this time, .

I was thinking of their structure because, .

I did study anatomy a long time ago, .

Before I studied sculpture. .

This very pale sketch is part of a series, .

Very tentative, .

Half - hearted ( the analogy runs deep and far ) , .

Something I laid out before me in tandem with, .

Making a structure from long twigs, which .

Resembled a cage, which .

I hung in the garden, .

At the top of our large, rambling, .

Lovely garden. .

I have a photograph which relates to it. .

Somehow, one day, the trees' bare branches formed .

a blue heart .

from the space delineated by .

them, touching, tenuously, .

In the optical illusion of the camera lens's gaze, .

As I captured them branching towards each other, .

The ailing Ash and the struggling Sycamore, .

As I stood staring from the bottom to the top, .

Of the steep and lovely garden. .

The view, captured. .

It had resonance and meaning, .

Changing over time, .

From the initial tacky Valentine, .

To the evolving idea of connection, .

As I considered more and more, .

Roots and messages. .

7

I've always had a penchant for the number seven. .

The seventh item is a piece of crumpled white tissue paper. .

I think I can remember where it came from; .

A present. .

I could make the memory up. .

8

Under the tissue are scattered some disparate objects. .

A tin which has the word Fossil written on it. .

It's interesting because the lid has a picture of wood grain .

printed on it. .

It makes no attempt to .

pass for wood, .

Content to be a facsimile of its original. .

Inside upon the velvet lined shell, .

I've placed a fossil, .

A perisphinctes ammonite, .

From the Late Jurassic epoch, .

An extinct Cephalopod, .

Claimed by stone. .

Replace the lid. .

Next to the box, .

Another stone with a hole right through it; .

Hagstone, .

Lying in tandem, .

Close in proximity to; .

Emrys's stone; .

Touchstone. .

Take the Hagstone, .

Look through it, .

Put it in my left hand, .

Measure its weight. .

Light. .

Take the Touchstone, .

Feel its density, .

In my right palm,

Weigh the two against, .

And re - place them tandem. .

I'm at the bottom now. .

The key and the broken shell necklace, which .

Slide around the bottom of the box, beside .

The stones are disparate things, .

The significance of their presence here forgotten. .

I could make it up. .

The base of the box is perfectly lined with .

A brown A4 envelope and, .

I know if I open it, .

The crux of all the thinking .

That went into this box, .

May become apparent. .

For the time being, .

I resist, .

Remantle the box, .

Replace its lid, .

Balance it carefully upon,

My World of Wonder,

Hamilton's Textbook of Human Anatomy,

With its faded spine,

And,

The heavy T- IMPRESSIONISM from

Van Gogh to Gauguin.

( It's ripped jacket lending it a rebellious look ).

Choose another book.

I spy a book on Gaudi,

The Complete Buildings,

Hard backed and strong,

Big; it's the same length,

And a tad wider than

The Hamilton,

Thinner, but the spread of it

will help distribute the weight

Across the roses I think,

As I take it from the shelf,

Marvelling at the azure blue

of the sky,

The holy firmament behind the

Delicate cones of the church;

The inner wall of the East Front,

According to the note.

Sagrada Familia.

Perch it on the box.

It looks good,

The right size,

Beautiful image.

Scan the shelves once more.

Of course!

Neil MacGregor's A

History of the World

In 100 Objects,

Perfect,

A favourite book,

None better to sit atop

and press its weight of

stories and significance,

Down upon the other,

Precious ones.

I grab one more for fun;

Alice's Adventures

in Wonderland and

Through the Looking Glass,

Tatty and torn with use and enjoyment,

Then,

There they sit,

My pile of books pressing

down upon my two roses,

Hopefully helping

to preserve their beauty,

In some form.

I wait.

I wonder how the process will work

This time.