INDIAN SUNRISE

On Saturday, July 4, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Sharing some painterly details of an

‘Indian Sunrise.’ Painted in August 2003, completely from imagination and wholly without reservation.

 

The scene took on form by the same process as when feeling clothes itself in words that fit, and emerges incrementally as a poem.

Actually it emerged out of total destruction of an underlying painting that failed. So while you may take it to be representation, it’s really revelation, because it revealed itself.

I was living in a dark dungeon of a place, with no direct daylight and no window view but for high concrete walls. Heavy oil tankers, diggers, and noisy dump trucks would grind slowly up a narrow steep lane, passing within three feet of the window, more than filling the view, dominating the whole room.

Not knowing that when i took the place on, i’d set myself up for a ‘long dark night of the soul,’ and got stuck there for ten years of gloom, claustrophobia, and isolation without privacy.

We do unknowingly set ourselves tests sometimes, and in retrospect they could be seen as initiations. Despite the circumstance and conditions, i continued to paint, and meditate the whole way through.

Even did those pure brightly coloured sacred geometry paintings, some of which you can find here. Had exhibitions, even sold some, one large one for the highest price ever, and painstakingly illustrated a book of castles which was published.

Played ten years of improvised grand-piano music in a stately home, in public for free, with no repertoire or musical training. ( See you-tube videos, Martin Law in Bantry House.)

Yet, no words can convey experience itself, it was a labyrinthine experience. Fortunately, labyrinths have an exit, when the timing is appropriate. A redeeming feature of ‘the past’ is, that it’s not present anywhere.

So in 2003, an abstract painting i was trying to resolve, on the floor by a bare light bulb wasn’t going anywhere either.

It was to be called ‘A Source of Love’, having just successfully completed one called ‘Source of Light,’ always 13 letter titles.

You could say, the ‘i’ was feeling ‘blue’ and ‘browned off’, (colloquial terms). So the ‘i’ mixed those two colours together, knowing they’d express a deep darkness only short of black.

Proceeding to wreak a hopeless, wilful destruction on the image. As the ‘i’ didn’t want to just cease painting, and so, was painting without specific intent.

Sharp, dark pyramid shapes were what was occurring, so there was no sense that they might not be pyramids, and one eye was constantly on them.

So that as it slowly dawned they were tipis, the brown ground around them warmed, redolent of that rust colour so prominent in early paintings by European artists who lived and worked among the ‘Indians.’ As with when the sun is rising, there is no choice but to surrender to the process.

With that as the new found focus, and just as ‘the angel is in the detail’, and reveals itself as each portion is blended and attended to for its appropriate atmospheric authenticity and spatial cohesion.

The blue-grey naturally suggested itself as being the elemental counterbalance to the earthiness of brown, and infused its characteristic mutual relationship, evoking both air and water, with the sun’s warmth still to rise.

And still, the bold brush strokes piled layer upon layer, defining a grounded foundation. A marshy hillside slope of bracken, grass, and rushes.

A few figures commune to rekindle the embers of an early morning fire, as mist drifts and clears across the grey lake.

Brown is a colour suggestive of elemental age, being fundamental and low on the spectral level, as the timeless earth is to sky. The rust colour illuminates as the warmth touches rough tufted hummocks and bushy contours of trees in antiquity.

Broad swathes of morning mist still shroud the far forested horizon of distant mountain ranges on the furthest brink of rising light.

Hallucinatory details serendipitously suggested by the brush lightly crossing textures of the already dried painting layers underneath.

Distant magical places in there, changing as the focus is gently coaxed into clarity.

Pre-Whitmanesque vistas unfolding, the land long before Sitting Bull, before Teshunka Weet’ko,(Crazy Horse), before Hiawatha and Deganawidah.

As yet untouched by the prophesied approach of the people from the east, and ‘manifest destiny.’ With the land still populous with vast roving wild Buffalo herds.

You never know what might happen if you try to obliterate a source of love.

So take heed, with your eyes on those pyramids. You might find, as i did, that it transforms itself into an Indian Sunrise. 
 

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MARTIN RAINBOWMAKER

(Written, July 4^th. 2015.)

MY HAND WRITING.

On Saturday, July 4, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Whereby we lose touch with latent

artistic skills and seem not to care.

*** *** * *** ***

The pen is mightier than you might imagine, in a press button world full of clackety-clack. While “in the beginning was the word”, but it was without a word processer. Whereby we lose touch with fundamental skills and seem not to care.

Handwriting is an art whichever way you look at it, and if you rotate it clockwise it gets even more interesting. Yet you don’t have to be Chinese to comprehend what i mean to say.

Just as one showing is worth a thousand chattering monkey-minded blabbermouths, therefore one simple image will suffice to illustrate my point.

Distinctly and elegantly calligraphic, ideographic hieroglyphics morphing in free fall down the paper tea house screen door, like cascading cherry blossom shadows in Spring, that sort of thing.

On the other hand, keyboard typing is to handwriting, what classical piano playing is to free form line drawing, ask any Zen hermit. Taoist Monks texting, high in misty mountain retreats with the tip of a bamboo brush.

Far removed from clattering archaic industrial print press workshops being exponentially mutated down to a sub-digital fractal flicker of hand-held holographic megabytes.

Just like every public convenience is a double-edged sword and any instant expedience can compromise or monopolize a naturally maturing spontaneous unity of eye and refined fluid dexterity of the hand. Which would otherwise give total immunity to neuro-linguistic anomalies and sub-lingual parasitic alphabetics.

Or simply: An eye for the informal nuances of graphology will protect you from turning into a robot.

Rotated clockwise, my natural scrawl and script appears more evenly aligned when vertical. Perhaps because we’ve spent eternity being good at not falling over when standing, without having to even think about it.

Furthermore, the more you zoom in on these now unfamiliar ideograms the more distinctly Chinese they get. As of old, with the much favoured informal seeming, uncontrived and flawless childlike excellence of unpremeditated naturalness.

It’s in the marks themselves, decisively fluid and unhesitant, dancing with cellular memory of a thousand generations and more. Out of hoary eternities and flowering afresh in the ever present continuum. Just for the joy in forming information, but the hand knows more than the eye sees.

So the assumption that all this is being written in the English language, is only true when read horizontally. When viewed from another angle, this left-brain logic no longer applies.

It is now a right-brain body language of coded gesture and flow, which, just as in music and dance, refers to no meaning other than itself. Therefore, uncontrived artistry is what is apparent.

This is what’s happening regardless of what language it may be called, or whether it’s read conventionally or not. It could be called body language without a head. That’s a significant shift, to read without a head that continually refers to itself.

The hand, writing, is forming and following a fluid flow of familiar shapes, as if by unthinking instinct which is its own magic. Because it’s just happening, by itself, which is actually true of everything.

In a way, there is more direct participation in that, than just pressing a button and expecting a standard result. Which is what a button system is designed for.

Like on ‘in your Face-book’, where it may be assumed you can ‘friend’ somebody, by simply pressing the appropriate button. That’s quite an assumption, depending on how real, friendship has to be, before it can be said to exist.

If intimate contact is the point, perhaps it would be better, just to write a letter. The one who receives, to turn it on its side, and enjoy all the intimacies of body language, where the true unspoken character and intent of the hand that writes, is fully revealed, and both can say they are equally in touch. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

PETALS AND RAIN.

On Saturday, June 27, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Wet grey gusts through the sally willow, westerly off the bay. In a lush green high-hedged sanctuary garden, drenched and dripping drops scattering and pattering on a sea of large leaves.

Salty grey veils wash through dark dusted ivy overgrown on stone and driftwood, fluttering the fuchsia droplets under low cloud and the body of the buddleia blooms and bends with waves of wind.

The soft grey light makes the lush green vivid, cascading passionate petals scattered like summer snowflakes.

Under a canopy of wild wet willow, rustling and glistening, listening in the nautilus spiralled continuum of natural sound.

It’s all that lush green of water waves and blossom blustering June that washes and lifts a living heart for sure. Contemplating in the fertile side of solitude, and in creating, being one with all creation.

Gazing through double glazing and into a softly soaked serene green scene, in wonder at the devotion people put into their gardens, like lavishing lack-love on a surrogate substitute.

Imagine them all expanded beyond boundaries, and not just locking your love in the back yard, but simply assisting with mending and minding mother earth’s mantle.

And just by looking, when you love what lives, you can easily be blown away by abundance but don’t quote me.

For nascent noetic gnostics with half a pineal gland intact and uncalcified, petals and rain leave an ancient stain or touch a chord, like a westerly wind from the Atlantic, and rain-soaked flowers being a most reassuring sign of life.

Wind-blown pink petals apart, the grey and glazed green day still spattering and blustery, heaves into evening and more scowlish skies, grass grows greener, and leaves petals speckled with silvery pearls, and sounds like the sea not far away.

While it’s good to witness everything being washed in waves of whatever without worry of the wastage of one-ness, while touching the willow, with a clattering ‘pok pok’ of tangled wooden wind chimes in the rain.

If i seem to suggest we are all a bit like flowers in the rain, you could imagine that any way you like, depending on your internal weather, or really know the two go together and each is the other.

It’s about being the eye that sees with a twenty-four hour attention span and not just glancing off, not just listening literally, oblivious to the presence of poetry.

 

Just looking and thinking apart, art is the eye of the heart. Where there’s an eye for an i, there’s a truth for a truth and it’s already in your face, but for a brief delay in getting out of your way.

The map is not the living land itself whichever way you google it, and there’s more to what you think you see than what you think.

The living land has expressions of moods and modes, way above and beyond the houses, back yards, and wild coastlines in the night, with a late light and a lulling in the waves of wind and a faint clock’s tick.

Content to sit long and leisurely on a bare wooden chair, periodically picking up a pencil, just listening in the singing silence, at ease leaning on an elbow, absent all agenda or haste.

Quietly contemplating canvases,

whatever forms or falls in mind,

sound of soft night wind. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

FLOWER SIGNALS

On Saturday, June 6, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Out of a blue sky, compass curves, their pinpoint consistent circularity deftly deflecting geometric frozen icons.

Simple systems of circles overlapping, their intersections colour coded to the finest pitch of mutual total tonal optimum and fine tune harmony complement.

Being a burst of benevolent flower signals, colour coded to cut through cognitive dissonance in rounded radiant radials and spring forth like a fleet of blown bubbles, shimmering blueprints of harmonic unified fields.

Picture a slim painted drum, a magical feathered flower shield perhaps. Spiral arms of a central sun, in the vast continuum.

 

Echoes of the crop fields and the true power of water. Catalyst in the corn and the deep spacious blue showing through. Friendly fractal flower signals taking the sting out of the storm and vapourizing the virus.

Centripetal solar sequences freeze frame frozen and posing as patterned pictures. Charging the chakras with the juice of calculated and calibrated concentrated codes of loaded colour.

Red of the radical radish root, grounded and grown in gravity. Blends and bathes in parallel with the warm radiant flavour of orange. Golden yellow leaking into liquid light to white.

Looms of loops and trompe l’oeil twists, spheres shape shifting into torsion field cocoons, where we see through, suspended in a safe sea of timelessly serene etheric blue.

A decade ago, these bright medicine shields and more, led me out of a long labyrinth. Like in the dream of walking through a long hall of rooms, each getting progressively lighter, thereby swiftly under each arched portal, guided out beyond the exit door, free of an inner labyrinth.

That being so, in a dumbed down world of clones and drones, drills and bones, and the racy pace of cyberspace. I create a circle place, a medicine sun-wise face, on a canvas base. Seeds fine-tuned and sown in paradigms of paint. Shields, like flowers out of the blue, like flower signals. *

*** *** *** ***

Martin Rainbowmaker

 

Nominate Blog Awards Ireland 2015

  

Martinrainbowmaker.blogspot.ie 
is a two person co-operative project based in West Cork and Kerry respectively.

The blog is updated with new posts each month continuously since January 2012.

The material consists of an informal presentation of my artwork and painting in progress, photography, writing, and music.  With the help of my friend in Kerry and his computer skills, and aesthetic appreciation of layout and colour especially, which is a main feature of the blog.  The text is colour coded in harmony with the content.

The purpose is to share the process of artistic creation as it happens, and to make it accessible to anyone who may need guidance or encouragement.  To inspire and to share intimately the nature of inspiration, and the importance of imaginative vision as being a natural aspect of daily life.

The style and subject matter of the written articles come from the same source as the artwork, therefore not separate.  All-inclusive wholeness being the nature of a creatively focussed life, expressed personally and playfully, coming from a whole lifetime in art.

Since there are no separate subjects and all is interconnected, inspiration to create can come from any area of life, depending on the current mode of focus, the seasons, or whatever i happen to be thinking about.  The blogposts follow the changes in the cycle of seasons, like a nature journal.

The intent is something other than art as crafted commercial objects.  Educational in that i wish to stimulate and encourage people to evolve imaginatively, true to their own vision of a more harmonious world.

So the work as a whole encompasses insights of spiritual experience, in its broadest, non-denominational sense.  Specifically to nurture a sense of wonder, a refined sensitivity to the beauty of nature and beyond the limitations of popular sentiment.

Also in that sense therapeutic, to celebrate the actual poetic experience of nature in all its smallest details, and deconstruct the consensus notion that anything is commonplace or ordinary.

Basically to affirm creativity as being a benevolent and healing force.  As well as an essential faculty for continuity of re-enchantment, reawakening the magic of innocent experience we may remember from childhood.

A simple sense of wonder and curiosity as an antidote to all forms of indoctrination to the contrary.  To counter the influence of a world in turbulent transition, filled with fearful stories presented as news.

Giving back to society all that has served and guided me well, in service to others.  By always nurturing and doing what i love most and learning to discern what exactly it consists of.  Nurturing and evolving it, not letting what comes naturally go to waste.  Thereby maturing to a vision of positive affirmation which wishes to share itself.  While learning and refining in the process of doing so.

Also learning about language, and how to communicate in ways that will be received on many levels.  It is about communication.  Consequently i am more comfortable writing in a spontaneously invented poetic prose.  Though meticulously edited and revised, it brings colour and vivid images back into language.  It has been said that i write like a painter, which is true, evoking images and feeling.

Typically, i never know what i may create next, hopefully something new, but if it brings enchantment, then i'm happy to have a channel by which to contribute to the larger re-enchantment.  There's a labour of love in the archives.

Martin Law.  West Cork. July 2015. ~
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SHOT IN THE BARK

On Monday, June 1, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

I took thirty shots of bark for a background, or is it a barkground? The bark of trees is as diverse as the bark of dogs, but much easier on the ears.

I find myself with a surplus of (not to be wasted) very visually interesting images of varieties of local bark. For seven days and nights since then (which felt like three weeks), wondering in earnest what could be said by way of relevance in presenting them that would be more than just superfluous words.

“What do you say about bark? Speak now!” The question takes on the force of a Zen koan, (a spiritual test question unanswerable on its own terms) where rational contrivance is not acceptable as an authentic answer. It has to be demonstrated, and without even a hair’s breadth of hesitation.

Well, we all know what a dog would say when asked about bark. Never failing to hit the mark, spontaneously instantaneous, authentic, unequivocal, succinct, with nothing one could add. You ask about bark, i show you. “Bark!”

In the same spirit, the images speak for themselves. They are the answer. I show you. Yet, humans are a little different, dualistically speaking. We intellectualize, compulsively.

We talk about, which is to say, around, and dive straight into a tangle of related concepts, constructs, ideas, opinions, other than the immediate unmediated reality in question. You ask about bark? I give you bark.

Furthermore i give you what is not bark, or Zen for that matter. Being nothing but a string of images and clashing symbols, the sort that make a lot of noise but mostly in your head, while thinking it’s called thinking.

I suppose relatively few people ever think about bark anyway. Except those who love and respect the life of trees.

Their intrinsic beauty as much as their multi-faceted usefulness, which is one and the same.

Other than just chopping, burning, clearing, and constructing, with more regard for quantity than quality and nature. When even the cork of the wine bottle you just popped comes from bark.

People who call themselves civilized have an outstanding talent for deforestation which they call progress. Depending on which way you’re heading when you can’t see the wood for the trees.

The way generally being, that which the wood is in the way of. When questioned about 

 ‘where is your habit at’,

 the excuse is,  

“i’m trying to cut them down.”

By stark contrast, take a shame faced look, or a leaf out of the book, (book, a word originating from the Germanic term for beech, and birch.) A look at the wisdom of the peoples we are pleased to call un-civilized.

A good example being the Indians of Turtle Island, (WE-dah pah-T’KAH-sha-nah), which we were told to call america.

The eek-CHAY-we-CHOSH-tah don’t like to be called native americans, understandably. Being,’ The People’ (with the added language equivalent of which people.) For example: Arapahoe (Mahpiyato), the Blue Sky People. Or Chippewa, (HaHAtonwon), the People from the Waterfalls.

First nations people anyway, originally 555 distinct yet interrelated nations. That is, until the second, third, and fourth etc. people barged in, ironically talking of 666. Easy to comprehend not wishing to be called ‘native americans’, and with a shrug, temporarily settling for Indians, and who in their right heart would dare or deign to blame them?

So, continuing to bark up the right tree: The Indians in California used pitch of the

PINYON PINE for, skin problems, digestive problems, colds, flu, tuberculosis, venereal disease, sore muscles, rheumatism, fevers, parasites, sunburn, bark as ingredient in emergency foods, tea, burns, earache, dyes, glue (for arrows etc.), waterproofing, nuts for cakes, puddings, butter, beetle-proofing, looms, saddle parts, cradles, tools, toys.

JUNIPER, for: Kidney problems, heart troubles, haemorrhages, stomach-aches, head-aches, menstrual and other cramps, colds, fevers, smallpox, flu, pneumonia, venereal, diabetes, cholera, tuberculosis, chickenpox, worms, swellings, burns, sore throats, hives, sores, horse-ticks, torch for tinder, smoke bath to calm children, protection from witches or bears.

ASPEN, to prevent premature birth, bark as sweet treat for children, purification, whistles, stings, abscesses, urinary problems, canoes, cups, cords, deodorant, antiperspirant.

FIR and PINE, to heal cuts, boils, bones, throats, colds, kidneys, fevers, and for gum, sugar, bows, poles, beds, floors, fish-hooks, flavouring, nets, sealing water jugs, antiseptic, anti-bleeding. In fact, food, shelter, clothing, tools, medicine, the list is endless, and that’s only four trees.

So i’ll stop yapping, but if you think my bark is worse than my bite, i can assure you, with my dental situation, the reverse

is true. ‘WOOF-WOOF’! <

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~ Martin Rainbowmaker ~ 



 

A RAINBOW REALM

On Saturday, May 16, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

Planet’s presently plopping like a pan of porridge at its peak, and who in the right hemisphere of their brain would blame her?

Forty volcanoes around the globe erupting in unison, thirty-four of them around the Pacific (a word meaning ‘peaceful’) Rim. Not called ‘the ring of fire’ for nothing.

With the Hawaiian Islands dotted in the centre, Kilauea Peak exploding forth in fire, molten lava lake levels loom larger, licking and lapping the crater’s rim.

Leaden lava flows forge through fertile forest, mowing down tall scorched conifers, turning charred timber to solidified hot grey cinder cement, undersea eruptions offshore Oregon.

Whole islands rise from the deep, some submerge. Intercontinental shakes and quakes, a tinkering and tampering with postulated particles, headlong and heedless of lessons of Atlantis.

To puncture the living fabric at vast expense, devoid of concern, even of sanity and sacred common sense or a time window wide enough for wisdom.

Hole-ism fanatic and extreme, pushing beyond limits, diabolical, deceitful, desperate as a trapped rat and, ‘only seeking but a minutest postulated particle of god.’ Really?! By looking through the wrong end of a telescope?

Being of course, in stark cold contrast, merely the tip of a metaphorical iceberg, and a cool sobering stern-face reminder to ‘chill out’. Enquire within. Just be humbly thankful for what is.

Just as Hawai’i could well be the tip of Lemuria rising, and who do you think will try to lay claim to that? A tectonic proverbial plate we will have to step up to. Relinquishing being a fan of oil-fed flames and all forms of explosion forever.

Thereby too the ‘natural or manmade disaster dichotomy’ and even the doctrinal primordial ‘big bang’ mantra. We do not consent to explosions.

Retrospectively, receptive of echoes out of the blue silence of May, almost a year ago to the day. Solitary experimental photo-shoot meditation, creative spring- time celebration invocation, A GLOBAL SPRING, (see archives, May 2014.)

Receiving seasonal echoes out of the blue as promptings. Equipped only with aspiration to evolutionary potential of intuitive aesthetic refinement and a blank slate. To dive deeper into those rainbow energy fields, so did just that.

Worship of explosions being the old model we will have to let go of as unresolved childhood trauma temper tantrums posing as power. All they left us with is a lot of holes, in the ground, in communities of families, individual lives and souls.

Whoreship itself, being a dualistic subservience promoting hierarchy, obviously, if you stand-under. Masochistic self-putdown, false humility.

Alternatively, energy fields is a better metaphor. They are demonstrably omnipresent and experiential. That way, you are not an anomaly among anomalies standing out in the field. Devoid of self-worth, doomed to disintegrate in a never present future.

Not a thing among things, separated by nothingness, which is just non-sense. As if something and nothing could exist independently. When you return to your senses that’s self-evident anyway.

This way, we don’t end up with a load of holes, or even obsession with controls, as when all is seen as separate and therefore other. As energy fields, we don’t end up.

Being already one-with the whole. If you were not, you wouldn’t last more than a few seconds, neither would anything ‘else.’

Energy fields can be and are photographed by the way. In particular by a very unassuming man called Harry Oldfield. You’ll find him easily on the internet.

While, i’m focussed on the aesthetics of everything, by natural preference. The rainbow spectrum an iconic overarching palette pertaining to and reigning over lush living diversity within the visible field of light.

Even though a finer frequency than interacts within the optical eye pervades and bathes everything and we are one with all as that.

The spectrum as a whole is most likely infinite beyond present perception. I like to express with what’s at hand. Imagine being bathed within these flowing fields and folds of benevolent colour frequencies of feeling as being our birth right in these realms. Rainbow fields forever. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker

A LOVE OF LEAVES

On Saturday, April 25, 2015, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

If you don’t love leaves, then love, leaves.

~ ~ ~

What i mean to say is, without leaves we are lost. Absent without leaves. Leaves love life, and feed us through the sun, lavishing in abundance gifts of food and oxygen.

Lacking love of leaves we languish, backs turned on a convenient backdrop of out of focus foliage, forgetful of photosynthesis. Focus on a photo shoot, to frame faces full of faked frivolity. Forgetting, fruits, flowers, and faces are also absent without leaves.

Freeze frame photographic physiognomy apart, anyone may well wonder as to what exact unequivocal elucidation such obliquely slantwise allusive alliteration may be leaning or leading towards, being, as it is, apparently so literally elusive to legible literacy.

Ah, there’s the rub, with or without an eraser and despite irrevocable rewrite. Never mind what webs we weave, following a tenuous thread out on a limb, and just about to spit out subtle insight on the tip of the tongue when the bubble pops, blown away, irretrievable as a dandelion clock, as often is the way, with what would have been a worthwhile word to say. 

 

Save to say, beyond service to self, it serves well to ‘spell out’ the societal significance stemming from a love of leaves. Put plainly, the paradigm pertains to peoples’ priorities.

Are you bored yet? Or just skipping over stepping stones unmindful of the depth that forever flows in midstream? In abandoning shady banks, investing in the natural world order is a better bet for sure.

Thankfully, ‘money doesn’t grow on trees,’ or the world would be even more of a mayhem of mad axe men. However here’s a hint, ‘look after the leaves and the fruits will follow by themselves.’ To tell the truth it’s much bigger than that. The nature of abundance has a tendency to be huge, wanting only in interest and collective imagination.

True progress will be when we remember how to feed ourselves, free of regulators and middle-men, the politics of the poison pen, and but for them the earth would return to her natural bounty, stemming from our love of leaves, superseding and supplanting our need for greed, growing green without envy.

To imagine, is to make magic manifest. Growing from its fertile soil, imagination without limitation, and food grows by itself without technology. Dream large and in abundance naturally. A viable human future will be, not power plants and technology, but plant powers gently tended and free. Therefore without illusion of ownership, limitation, coercion, not to mention industry.

It’s easy to imagine what we wish to see, to cultivate what comes and grows naturally. A wild garden world without artifice of intrusive technology, earthfelt imagination flowing free, a haven on earth where it’s meant to be.

Meanwhile, inwardly forming these and similar paragraphs in mind, i go into the garden. Respectfully selecting a few cabbage leaves, illumined green-gold by evening sun, and leisurely take a string of photos of them too.

On checking back to see the latest shot, the camera freezes, jammed and refusing to function, recharge, or even switch off. The third one to need replacement in the same number of years or less.

Well, if such is the power of thought and mind to so interact electrically, with inorganic technology, and who can say it could not be? Then imagine what powers of manifestation are collectively held in every nation. Despite the drive to mind control with thorny briars to bind the soul, all cease to grip when we are whole.

Though we’re not likely to forget, where you focus is what you get. ~

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

Martin Rainbowmaker.