Showing posts with label Collage Journalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Collage Journalism. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

Into The Thunderbolt Land (Part 2)

"Whatever arises - know and recognize it to be the wisdom-play of your primordial mind -  Do not become involved in it - do not struggle against it -  simply let it play out and a clearer light still shall shine through -
Rest in this light of non-conceptual original awareness -  Whatever then happens - let it wash over or through you - it doesn-t matter - simply rest within the purity of the light -
Whatever manifestations might occur - they are simply illusions woven of light - woven of the same clear light that radiates knowing consciousness - begins nowhere -  has no end - no middle - no physical existence whatsoever and is as insubstantial as a puff of yak-s breath -
This radiant - non-physical - luminous - timeless entity of knowingness is fundamentally good through and through -  it shines powerful rays of loving-kindness into the ten directions and three times and has actually always been thus - pure - good and radiant - since any beginning you care to posit -  This formless -  glowing - knowing - loving entity has a continuity that runs through and beyond conceptual time and measurable space - since ultimately it occupies neither - being not made of physical substance nor compounded of parts or elements it is immune to the power of the world and resides in a primordial "space" of pure luminosity and knowing -  the original stronghold of the Tathaghatagharba - "

When the Red Guards first started showing up in the rural districts and terrorising and interrogating the locals Lobsang was extremely worried lest anyone found out that he had been in possession of "counter-revolutionary propaganda" as religious materials and almost all foreign forms of journalism and literature were strictly banned by the Party and people who were found in possession of such things were reputedly meeting very grisly fates at the hands of these blood-crazed and insanely zealous youths whose average age was 15 -
These young people had been trained to be utterly ruthless - indoctrinated into a cult of violence and let loose -  to torment and distress the simple peasant population who had virtually no grasp of Marxist-Leninist Social Theory and were much more interested in tending their flocks as they had always done -
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"5th September 1904 - Tong Pa Nyi Gompa - North Central Tibet -  During our crossing of the Tsangpo River one of the yak-hide coracles carrying the gear started taking in water and unfortunately one of my note-books was ruined -  Particularly frustrating as it contained the notes I-d taken at Tashi Gompa where I-d studied with the local Lama for several weeks -  He covered a great variety of topics and seemed eager to educate a foreigner like me -  That region of the country is more lush than most of Tibet - with rich forests and canyons in the foothills -  I took many atmospheric walks among the rhododendrons that climbed up into the mist-dripping heights where silver apes could sometimes be glimpsed playing among the trees -
As I recall - Lama Dorje started by stressing the famous Buddhist principle of Impermanence -  the dissolution of all compounded things - objects - personalities - even worlds -
He had a very numerical style of teaching and it is largely down to this that I can recall as much as I can - The Two Truths - (Relative and Absolute)  -  The Three Kayas (Nirmanakaya - Sambhogakaya and Dharmakaya) and the Triple Refuge (Buddha - Dharma and Sangha) -  The Four Noble Truths -  The Five Skhandhas or Aggregates - The Six Realms of Conditioned Existence or Lokas - (Devas - Asuras - Humans - Animals - Pretas - Hell-beings)  -  The Seven Line Prayer (A Tantric Hymn) -  The Ten Bhummis of the Boddhisatva Path -  The Twelve Links of the Causal Chain -
On each of these topics the Lama would give most erudite talks - using the theme as a starting-point from which to dive into an ocean of profound learning - skillfully weaving the various points together so that - even to a foreigner and a beginner like me - the whole elaborate synthesis started to gradually become clear in my mind -  I have to stress how it was not a mere intellectual or academic lecture but rather his whole being was lit with enthusiasm and wisdom as he talked and he seemed to convey meaning beyond mere words -  In fact - as he pointed out to me - in their tradition - they believe it is possible to transmit wisdom from an accomplished yogi to a suitably prepared student rather in the manner of a telegraph transmission (but without the wires!)
The Tibetans are great believers in the psychic life and take it as a given that thoughts can be passed from person to person without the encumbrance of words being necessary -
If I remember rightly he used the analogy of a light that will shine wherever it is unimpeded - Therefore when the monk or practicing yogi has removed enough "clouds of obscuring ideas" from their mind and achieved a tranquil stability through long meditation - the light of wisdom will naturally be seen as there is nothing left to obscure it -
He spoke often of compassion and how that was our inherent nature"


Dukha is a Pali word meaning suffering – as Lama Dorje informed me – not merely the ordinary suffering of everyday life but also the much deeper suffering that comes from being lost in the Samsaric state of unknowing and ignorance that is conditioned-existence -  Because beings fail to recognize their true nature – their original nature – they constantly blunder around piling up more and more wrongful actions which further obscure their minds to the continuous splendour of their own inherent Buddha-nature –
Of all the sufferings within the six realms of unenlightened existence there is no worse form of suffering than being separated from residing in your true nature – the original nature of mind -  

Since the possibility for confusion is almost infinite in scope – when one meets the Buddha-Dharma in this life it is incredibly fortunate and one should not waste such a rare opportunity to progress along the path of liberation as it may not come again for kotis of kalpas or myriad millennia –
For those of us who through great good fortune have entered the path – the constant sight of the teeming multitudes who wander adrift in the fog of confusion becomes a spontaneous and natural starting-point for the generation of universal-compassion –
Without such compassion for all other beings we could not progress a single inch along the path"


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After some hesitation Lobsang Tawa herded up his scattered ideas and realized that if he was going to replace the papers he had found some years ago he had better hurry as the Red Guards could appear at any moment -  This meant interrupting some important tasks on his little farm but he knew it must be done -  Packing a bag of tsampa (parched barley flour) - some yak-cheese and a leather drinking gourd of chang - a weak beer made from fermented barley - he awoke before dawn and headed for the mountain region where he anticipated his rendezvous with a deep-frozen Englishman - "such is life" he mused as his feet crunched the snow under the star-scattered ice-mountains -
To be walking in the Tibetan highlands with a full-moon illuminating the snow-world just before the sun rises is an experience of vast pure and primal space -  a natural capsule to nourish an understanding of the Buddha-Dharma - a place where the raw power of nature dwarfs the human sense of concepts and ideas - where pure nature rules supreme -
Glorious purple cloaks and rags of cloud dappled the immense sky as the earth rolled round to meet the sun again - His family had been in these mountains for millennia and the pastoralist felt an awakening sense of familiarity rising in his breast as he slowly ascended into the moon-like terrain of the plateau -
After a couple of hours he passed a small and ancient-looking gompa or monastery on a ridge and heard the distant chant of sacred mantras and tantric hymns - punctuated with the pounding of drums and bells - and the bizarre and darkly powerful roar and wail of the shawms large and small - sending out their message of transcendental wisdom to the pure skies and snowy peaks that loomed all around 
The seemingly cacophonous shawm and drum music of the Tibetan monasteries is said to be an attempt to imitate the sounds of the nadis during the death-process -  This primal and energetic music prepares the acolyte for the natural sounds encountered during the dissolution-process which is entered into with clear yogic awareness -
Yes - even humble herdsmen and agriculturalist nomads knew of such things in this part of the world -  Many centuries of exposure to the wisdom-culture of the Lamas and Yogis who thronged the country had allowed such ideas to permeate into the culture and scraps of mystical knowledge were common currency here -  The harsh environment had conditioned the people to a tough existence that was never far-removed from the reality of death -  This was also a great source of the compassion and understanding that permeated the philosophy of the people -
Lobsang took inspiration and murmured his own mantras for some time - clearing his mind and focusing on his aspirations as he slowly but constantly gained altitude and the sun rose to greet him in a blaze of golden glory -
After another three hours Lobsang drew close to the area of the cave -  He had prepared himself and told himself that a dead man can-t hurt anyone -  Being forewarned he was not really expecting to be particularly fearful of the corpse he was heading towards -

He vividly remembered the previous time he had seen the frozen body - curled up in a fetal position and partially buried under a drift of fine snow -  The image seemed to become clearer in his mind as he approached the cave - as if it had been suppressed all this time and was now being released -
The final couple of miles were quite hard-going - even for one as acclimatized as he was -  He stopped for a brief break and washed some tsampa down with a few mouthfuls of chang -  Sweeping his gaze around him he took in a wonderful collection of snowy peaks spread before him in all directions -  The sky showed a variety of beautiful colours -  At this altitude there was very little dust in the air and this gives a purity of vision and clarity of view -  At one point he saw a string of geese flying over - heading to one of the mountain-lakes hereabouts - Their lonesome cries in the brittle air resounded and echoed - bouncing off the ice-mountainsides and reverberating through the valleys for miles around -  The only other sound was the occasional rumble of a minor avalanche -  They were fairly constant in the region at that season and Lobsang knew enough about the mountains to usually manage to stay out of their path -  Once in a while he had had to run to one side to get out of their way but as they were fairly small this was easy enough -  He replaced the stopple in his drinking-gourd and got to his feet - ready to finish his business with the past and get back to his village before anyone noticed his absence -  Once more his felt-clad feet crunched virgin snow -
Rounding the last hunched ridge of ground he suddenly glimpsed the cave - high up in the side of a rocky cliff-face -  He started climbing -  At one point an eagle soared overhead - its shadow speeding across the ground - black on white -  wingtips flexed -
Reaching the cave at last Lobsang stepped inside - only to recoil in deep shock -  The body of the dead Englishman that he had last seen ten odd years before - huddled against the wall and looking very corpse-like and rigid - was now sitting upright in the Lotus posture - hands resting on knees -  eyes open and turned upwards as if in deep trance - for all the world looking just like a meditating yogi! 

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Feathery Crept Krogens In Gelatinous Meniscus

And feathery crept krogens under the sea as gelatinous swirled the meniscus-slop -  Brine drip and sluice round the planet in a bulge of starfish - spicules and suckers - rippling the lip of the shore and spindrift circling above -  A great carrack rock stuck up out of the ocean and the krogens slithered onto it and started the infinitely slow process of evolution - from mollusc to man - 





Monday, November 12, 2018

In Moonlight

The scribe-s house was deep in the high moorland country which dominates the very tip of Britain-s most westerly shyre -  The lane which led to it twisted its way between high Cornish hedges - some of which contained massive block-work redolent of the mystic Bronze Age -  The scribe walked this lane one moonlightful night alone in the bright radiance that glazed the countryside all about -
  The lane snaked along the side of a valley - its high hedges following the natural contours as if it was originally built to defend the valley -   After some time and a brief glimpse of a fox out hunting he finally caught sight of his house bathed and dappled in moonlight -
  It was a large - rather Gothic and curiously ancient house - set alone and aloof in its isolated enys - its patch of rugged and empty moorland -  He had bought it for its solitude - its considerable distance from any other habitation -   For a writer needs a certain amount of solitude and here he could truly write -  What-s more the conditions on that particular night were perfect as there was nothing that stirred his imagination more than a full moon -  like the one that at that moment was shining in through the many windows off his ancient abode -   After taking a moment to brew tea he proceeded to the centre of his kingdom - the large mahogany table in front of the window through which he could view the spacious lawns and topiaries of the rather formal but deeply enchanting garden -
  A slight mist shrouded the shrubs and anointed them in glistening jewels of moisture - Whisps of atmospheric fog drifted over the lawns looking sometimes like clouds - sometimes like figures or fauns -  He picked up his pen to write - moved by the scene in front of him and its haunting atmosphere but even as he did so he seemed to swoon and spin into a blissful trance - a reverie or species of dream-vision or seeing -
  The crystal-glass paper-weight before him gleamed with untold and unusual clarity and it seemed the glare and glister was enmeshed somehow with his own mind and self and he himself was becoming crystalline and clear in feel and mind - as if the clarity of the crystal in the moonlight was transferred to his own perception thereby clarifying it and making it pure as clean water -
  He stopped - drew breath - stared in wonder - the pen dropping from his hand and clattering quietly to the table -  He let go and felt no need to fathom the cause of the feeling or seek explanation but rather merely he kept to a quiet stillness and rapturous flowed the time around him -
  The moments as mere pebbles in a stream or fluttering birds of the air - glazed and joyous he sat rapt and rapturous in a symphony of curious happiness -  And if such was so strong and real and true he mused it must have been there all along -  This he did not so much think as wordlessly intuit and know in his heart - 
  A cathedral of moonbeams illuminated the room and bounced and glittered from a thousand and one shiny glints hither and thither -  The still beauty of the moon had crept stealthily into his domain and wafted him into a deep samadhi state -  Joy and wonder are one really -  They brimmed over in him and he gazed before him as the seer of a new world --
  Knowing this to be the nature of beings he was content -


Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Old Fish In A New Kind Of Water

DREAM ALL ABOUT IT - LATEST FROM THE OTHER SIDE - THE CATERPILLAR DUB - AN ANTIDOTE TO CONCEPTUAL JOURNALISM - AVAILABLE EVERYWHERE SIMULTANEOUSLY - THE ONLY PAPER THAT TRULY TELLS IT LIKE IT IS - 
Written in light in the space between the atoms of solid conditioned quotidian reality - A yelp from the forest at the edge of town where the wilderness begins -  The drip of rain on the back of a fish - An echo of the explosion that gave birth to the sun and stars - The primordial rush - a pocketful of stardust - a rustle - a hustle and bustle - It-s the Dub!  It-s the Caterpillar Dub and it-s available everywhere now!







Rippling through the aether - - -

Monday, November 5, 2018

A Turbid Colourless Viscous Solution

Back in the wilderness at last - when a raven circles round and round overhead cawing you know you-re in the right place - Where else is there to be but nature ~








Saturday, November 3, 2018

Glorious Tewlwolow Vision

Ten luminous Earth-years rumbled by as the transmissions continued to emanate from the abstracted whirling antennae of the larval and carapaced entity known to me only by the nomenklatura of The Caterpillar and these atom-rippling mysteries did indeed sparkle bright and glitter ever before me - enticing me on to realms of glittering light - of shining harmonies and districts of molten energy that lurk in those unimaginably vast and unfathomable gulphs between the atoms of structural matter - 
On other and many another divers voyage across the watery globe in pursuit of the shining waters and the shimmering seas and all that they hid and held hasped in their samfire-grasp I wandered forth distracted and dreamy-footed I stumbled out upon the Spanish Main to chew cactus-buds with vultures for my companions and spit the golden pips at the bones of the bleached buffaloes wallowing in the dust of nothing on a blistering day of droning flies and rippling glistening heat - As such I followed my feckless feet and set pen to ink and paper to fire in a frenzied attempt to warm my gelatinous skeletal frame - I clutched at a spy-glass with grizzled hand and spun it out towards the land - the land I saw was golden dust with glimmering hedge-rows of autumn-s rust - I rattled on in country-clogs and ate the miles up under me - 
I thought I could make out the Caterpillar scuttling on ahead - always ahead - and ever disappearing round the next corner or behind the next tree - 
I-d been on the trail of that glorious beast for many a year now and had had only but the fleetingest and most ephemeral of encounters with this great abstract being - this conduit of cosmological diamond-dust - I was determined to catch up with the rattling crustaceous body of him and find out what the blazes it was all about and all!  
Well way back in 1911 The Caterpillar transcribed the journal of Elias Gillpington which in turn mutated into the Gothic novel The Kramvil which is itself the root-cause of The Buxtereide Prize For Literature - one of the most far-reaching - successful and well-known literary prizes in the entire world of West-Cornish Surrealist Collage-Journalism - 
Well - with a track-record like that it only now remains for me to introduce yous to The Caterpillar himself - but that-s just the thing you see - I can-t - because he-s flittered off again - doing a runner on his innumerable scuttling rattling clod-hopping gutter-jumping square-toed diamond-buckled rhythm -n- blues (that-s shoes to you) so I-ll be off after the vanishing glistening footprints of carapaced sparkling mirth and see if he-s gone back to the phone-box - there-s just a chance he-ll remanifest out of the ephemeral archaic aether there in his aerie eyrie atop the midnight classical kiosk where many a jar of nature-nectar necked and knocked gnashing and dashing it to the floor as the visions spun in - 
A desert road - a leafy lane - a watery meadow - a dusty summer road through the slumberous country - eagles over the mountains and rivers spilling down into the rich plains where gypsy fiddles sing and pungent woodsmoke swirls subtle but sweet - moon sets and dawn grey paints dew glistening with diamonds on the cobwebs and the chattering of the first wren coming through the mist of a silvery day rising - 

Dizzy spins the Milky Way -




Stardust and jelly -

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

Ahead Of Thoughts

A baglamas and a travelling guitar balanced on a menhir - a fallen and ravaged menhir - tewlwolow dusk on Halloween -   just an everyday scene in the Shyre where the ancient past is right there with you to help you along your way - 

Ο ψαράς - O Psaras - The Fisherman -








and awareness is right there in your hands - - -

Sunday, June 19, 2016

An Gath Vlewek Kledhek

Sometimes it's hard to see your left from your right.  That's where The Caterpillar comes in.  Sometimes it's hard to see your up from your down or your hot from your cold.  That's where The Caterpillar comes in.  If it's getting hard to see your fixed from your spontaneous, your ridge from your flow, your anvil from your feather, you obviously need to spend more time reading The Caterpillar.  World got you mixed up, screwed down, strung up, held back, kept in, turned down, turned off, turned sour, down on ya luck, down on ya dough, sour, sick, busted, down-hearted, heavy hollow and mistrusted?  Buddy, get yaself a Caterpillar quick!  World got ya licked?  Kicked?  Feeling sick?  Feeling like a whole heap o' dung?  Like ya been flung from a car?  Kicked outta ya favourite bar?  Mashed to pulp, hurled into a sump and dumped by ya favourite girlfriend?  Buddy, ya better set right down, dust yerself off and git ahold of a nice juicy ol' Caterpillar, 'cause Brother, there ain't not'in' else gonna save ya. 







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a e i o u and sometimes y

Friday, November 29, 2013

Pool of Vision

Rolling nostalgic melodies from Konstantinopoulos across the silken sea, the breeze grazes on the Keltek cliffs, murmuring through the grass, spreading blessings of Nature’s radiance and visionary clarity to the teeming Beings. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 And through the tracery of twigs, the loamy damp green fields roll down the Combe to the silver river.  Gwyhd Idhiowek, and ivy-clustered grow the trees – branches bleak and bare against ragged curtains of dark, slate-grey scudding clouds.  Druids in flight – starlings darkling nebulous in glooms of Ingelonde’s dusky twighlight nightfall.  In the Valley of the Universe lies a cottage warmed by a crackling fire.  Flow of time-stars echoes there.  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *


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