MOUNTAINS MOVE.

On Mon, November 24, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

‘Unless your heart be the size of a grain of mustard seed, mountains are moving.’~

It may be true to say that mountains move. At least, whenever i look i find them to be moving. Better still than moving mountains is to be able to be moved by them. Though many may remain unmoved, and move along lacking a loving look.

It may be true to say that mountains rise up from the earth, and equally true to say they fall down to the sea. They are even seen to be rising from the deep. Diving like leviathans down to the ocean floor, only to arise again as a distant shore.

Peaks are often seen in passing, half hidden by a range of hoary hills. Like diving dolphin fins, or starkly surreal as spectral ships with sombre silhouetted sails.

 

Vanishing behind rising ridges like humpback whales with scaly skin, brooding dark against a sinking twilight sky.

While, on a still and distant gulling cry of day, a blue limpid liquid mirror laps. Fringed by froth and foam of lulling fronds, the slow rise and fall seeps back between singing stones, a line erased to sink in silted sand. The swish and pull of the swaying sea.

Low window view between backyard walls, of a distant peak. A constant kitchen companion, weather warning from the west. When opaque grey approaching rain, blanks the mountain long before a downpour pelts the glass.

A quiet inner affection pervades all such small familiar facets and details of the day. The worldly world of war regards as mundane facts, void of innate significance. Insulating ego from feeling, present poetic beauty in the ordinary.

Naturally, noting such as being signs and promptings for projects of imaginative creation, the mountain called forth an intent, the seed of peak experience. Through days of late November rains.

A new day dawned though i woke late, to a pure blue oasis of a day. Down to the round curved strand and jutting headland. Flat low tide around the promontory point, to see what the sea had to say.

Zooms fall short of the pyramid-peak, rugged ridged with rounded shoulders down, and the island’s tail bearing small green fields below.

Boulders backed by a cleft cliff face, scattering the rock strewn place. Black stones green stained dragged down to where the tide turns.

Spreading outward across a smooth expanse of unprecedented cloud-free cobalt sky and sea, such that adequate words fail me.

The focus of original intent ‘literally’ moved by circumstance or chance, to ‘pan out’ (could that be a pagan term?) the context all inclusive and there may be a lesson there.

Being but an exploratory trawl, casting about for artistic inspiration and netting a good catch, twenty seven shots in all. Many other possible focusses reflected on along the way in coming round to the point.

But what a calm and tranquil sea. Cloud-free sky as blue as blue can be.

A wish of peace in late November.

Images of beauty to remember. ~

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Martin Rainbowmaker.

THE OTHER WORLD.

On Thursday, August 14, 2014 at 1:13 PM, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Before the Dawn. (A song.)

You say it's been this way for a few thousand years. We've grown accustomed to a valley of tears. We close our eyes to the trouble and strife, and philosophize it's the nature of life.

I dream of a new world that's always been here, but i couldn't define it to make it seem clear. In imagination it's easily found. I pray that someday it'll be all around.

(Repeat verse.)

Guide us through the night, lead us to a new daylight. Battlefields and shattered fright, there must be another way. Guide us to the dawn, through these times that are tattered and torn. May the love within be born, to a new day.

A change in the wind and a change in the heart. A long way to go and a long time to start. A mighty mountain that is so hard to climb. A rolling river to the end of time.~

RBM. 1978.

The Other World.

The preceding verses are the words of a song i wrote, played, and sang, in 1978. It just now resurfaced while contemplating the same perennial theme: 'How do you express the seemingly inexpressable ?'

That was just one attempt among many from back then, and back further before that. It's the same theme that has always been the connecting thread running through all my art.

Well, that was thirty-six years ago as the crow flies. I'm still experimenting, improvising, artistically and poetically around that underlying theme. It's like a zen conundrum, though it does bear fruit, and evolve perception and being. To put it another way, i'm living it.

So what am i getting at (or not getting at), and why 'The Other World' ? What other world ?

'The world' is apparent just as you perceive it to be, but has everything to do with far more than what we call 'the senses.' Nothing is fixed or immutable and we are, in essence, quite other than machines. An understanding we must never reliquish.

Machines might be a bit like us, (we invent them). That does not mean we are as they are. They are just manifestations of our current ideas, from one out of an infinity of possible viewpoints.

It's very dangerous and deviating to liken ourselves to our toys and tools. A digger is like a hand but a hand is most certainly not a digger. We are living organisms, and infinitely more besides.

Our actual essence is invisible. Integral with a boundless field of mutable interdependent relationships, which science hasn't even been able to locate. So forget machines.

You don't have to look beyond where you are, to see we have been deviated by a subtle intrusion of a false analogy, increasingly alien to our essence.

Next time you're in a plane, look down on urban infrastructure. It's identical with an electronic circuitboard. That's exactly what it is. If you break the circuit you are served with a penalty and possibly put in contact with a circuit court.

The other world, is none other than the one in which we live, and breathe, and have, well, some of our being, but are in no sense actually unplugged from the mainframe.

The other world is this world, seen through the eyes of innocence and experience combined. A mature innocence, wholly in the present.

The world of nature, the biosphere, which we are inseparably one with, is a miraculously beautiful and indivisible living network of magically sentient cyclic fibonacci fractals in organically self sustaining balance and intra-communication, and we are embedded in, and are, it.

Yet it's plain to see, we are infected with an alien virus based on rectilinear grid systems. The grid is a net, superimposed, and held in place by coercion and aquiescence. Restricting the freely self organizing flow of life energy.

Do a double take at surrounding infrastructure, and observe it from above. Easy to do with Google Earth. Alien grids everywhere. We are entrained to not think outside the box.

Whereas, when you are attuned to the other world, you're home and in actual fact never left. So much for modern cities. Rigid alien tombstones branded onto the nurturing body of Mother Earth.

The real alien invasion happened long ago. We let our guard down and were tricked by our own vanity. Falling into a feverish sleep, dreaming turgid dreams of 'progress' and vain glory. Forgetting sacred earth and life, worshipping the artificial.

We are microcosmic bugs embedded in a magical carpet, one with the weave. Not intrinsically parasites. The only scum, being that which rises to the top (so called) when the spirit-body-politic is polluted.

The planetary body herself, sounds out a resounding primal clarion call, (Gaia Sophia's correction). Activating antibodies on all levels in ever expanding concentric waves.

While, obscene, unthinkable cruelty unleashed rains down on innocence, with no remorse.

The stark peak of original 'war in error' unchecked.

Yet beyond all words, human innocence still radiates the one and only true strength of spirit.

The other world is not some other place.

Love, or you will surely lose the race.

Live together in a state of grace.~

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

Makes Rainbows.