form of communication
the formless
suffering order as in silence
it grows.
Each general rotation through All Ways is an always searching to access creativity. 

To access creativity is to match our ability to generate with antecedent “towarding;” creative is the rushing out to meet that which is “going before.” This becomes potent. 

A field of potentiality, a set of the possible within a rotation, the churning frames of our imagination. It is yet impossible to calculate beyond the range of our faculties. The rotating set approaches our faculties while, even so, it can never be fully apprehended.

This lack of utter apprehension must be so or the potential of potentiality can not be present in itself.

To be presently aligned toward the possibility of apprehending the creative root. 

Alignment is barely noticed, impossible to catch, and it is all we can ask to be.
The escapist holds onto their journey, begets a travelling littered with trinkets. A true escaping is not something we possess, and nor can we be possessed by it.
If we are not to be silent, even for a moment, then we are to be busy. To be busy as cause and conclusion, with this we can neither find cause nor ever conclude.  
If our busy minds make of Truth and Beauty and Goodness busy things to be done with in their doing, they shall not be here.
For gifts to be gifts they must be given. Who amongst us can truly give The True; who in pure goodness hands over The Good; who allows Beauty without expecting the company of “want”?

Gifts if taken are made over as possession, and they at once become banal. Possession is not gift for now it cannot be received.
Gift is a time-less receiving, and in this inherently is the whole relationship. Truth always present is received. Beauty always present is recognised. Goodness always present is welcomed. 

The potent rotation
aligning silence to silence, 
overstepping obscurity in the obscure.
See in this moment,

we begin


B’ereshit. In being begin. 

Being the letter “bet” there is a house, the housing of a divine embrace.  

In that embrace there is fire a-weaving its bright breath. 

A fire comes up from your belly, the first churning of this withdrawal from eternity. 

The generative action of time, withdrawing always; the is from is, the is is from is, the isiness isng issues from is.

Still, within the eternal beginning, still.

Is from is always moves toward eternity and there is its stillness.

Moved by the connective silence of “et”, aleph and tav (alpha and omega), the infinite action we term “towards” begins. As there was no time before “towards”, this action has always begun: The loving, the creating, the going, and all towarding. The infinitely created resides in eternity and by and by, in time, we recognise Heavens and our Earth.

Bara; created. 

Who is, who was, and will be Always created, the generative fire is, belonging by right and in glory here, in the beginning. All other creation is but remembrance, a making of form.

Always is a name for the nameless; Always created. Is Always and Always Is. 
In All Ways you shall find, should you seek, and in All Ways you are sought.

Remember to make form.

An elongated forgetfulness, perhaps as a decorative tin twinkle of an idol. Remembering is not stopped in form, it is instead the return to the body, re-member, a making form of an aspect or type that speaks of and is the speaking of the Always. 

In the Beginning was the Word.
There is only this Word, Always, yet in time our towarding makes many words. 
Our sentences as a dusting. Our dust as a form of infinity. Our forms in infinity move toward the eternal. Our language need only breathe, and in breathing there, here, Always. Our Towarding language.

Our language is a play of shadows fallen from the flame of Word. 

Spoken light of Beginning

Listen to this welcome. 
Silence silently full, a taste.

What is the weight of this tumescent absence?
Silence sometimes, it hums around the edges.

A creak? Groaning. Labours in the chest, buzzing between ears. 
Or (      ) sheeting wholly through to clouds and fields and the fullest stretch of this tiny body.
A lack which is a necessary balm in our chronically over-stimulated world. 
A lack which is.

Lacking, loosening, absenting; a means of releasing. Releasing or reseeding our busy verbal pressures that build and swarm and insist and press and yet can never be spoken properly into relationship.
Bold verbal pressure, quivering as if naked.

Nudity is infinite as we enter and re-enter every pore. Mere infinity is fascinating yet never satisfied. If satisfaction found then desire ends. The infinite without desire is finite, finished. 

How does a conversation go on and on without ever saying what needs to be said? 

clever little pauses, 
in inflexed presumption of a pause; a wording noise disguised as quiet.  

Quiet now; for most of our communication is not verbal at all. This noisy body, gesture, stance, breath, eye contact… Eye disconnect… We crackle, we hum, we sizzle, we drip, cascade, and squirt. 

Technology is censorship of these complex details which ride in pheromone and musculature, and this narrowed language is hurried after as a preference

The stripped bare sense of fragmentation 
a minefield, 
a dismemberment 
of misunderstanding, which builds to sudden criminality. 
It was said it was said, and no matter how it was said.

From the deep shores

of the abysmal trench; from the sea’s depths, we dredge our ignorance and name the mountains of our unknowing. Here comes the unclassifiable.

Imagine a rowing boat, a gently gripped coracle drifting before the wind. Now see that this scoop of the possible holds you, and there are supplies for the day, there is water to drink, and you are warm and dry. Imagine there is no problem, you are utterly exposed to the elements, yet this was always the intention. You imagine an unlimited horizon, although the horizon knows you full well.

If you linger and allow the drift to go beyond dusk, the immeasurable heavens appear. The aurora has been burning all year, etching spirals over sea and land.

Below you there are mountains that have no name.

The all-rush of not knowing grants access to a steady realm. Great reams of elucidating constellation and scientific dreams run through an educated heart; silence is spooling like an aurora over the rich intuitive darkness of a body. This body closes into bright compartments, stacked and ordered, with the aid of objective knowing.

It is to open up the boxes that we float above unnamed mountains

and drift against deeper shores, moved by a surf which does not crash into sand but scatters the granular flesh of knowledge. 

Kingdom, carelessly given
Just thinking about the circumstances of this poem’s writing and I look back at the journal from which it arises: This poem was written three years ago, to the day – on the 22nd – and this is the day you asked about it. 

I was in the middle of a depressive illness and had taken myself off to a monastery in search of silence and a hope of healing. My counsellor was off sick so I was ploughing through the options! I figured a monastery would provide order, regularity, generosity, and peace. There is another story herein of how a person can easily evade all these qualities in all circumstances.

On the feast of Mary of Magdela (22nd) a little piece of nature grabbed me and pulled me into its mystery. The poem comes from my poor attempt to try and whittle some sense from that moment of being overwhelmed in a generosity of beauty, nature, silence and song, and in particular, it seems to me now, the balance which was given.

Given in the sense of seeing how such qualities are always available and yet the aptness of a moment for receiving is not always allowed.

Allowing or not allowing is the yea and nay wrangling of ones own persona, most of the time. The persona gets constructed in relation to others, in relationships, and in history, but then the present relationship to the present moment always belongs only to ones own being in that moment.

To be depressed, it seems to me, is to be very out of kilter with the responsibility of how one stands within that balance between the built persona and the present moment. It is never a stable stance, even in the so-called healthy. Doubtless there is a good argument for the positive imbalance and turbulence of the present moment stance. One flows with flow, which is never stable, and yet is an actualisation of balance.

So that line you asked about: fine combed par.

I did not arrive at it after long intellectualising. I write very much from sounds. But to me now the sound of the line is the beating of wing, the feather combing the air, the parting and parity flexing so the bird flows in its flight, balanced between elements.

A quote from the journal:

Man must give back spirit to the stones, reveal the living nature of stones, in order to free himself from their stony oppressive power. There is a heavy layer of dead stone in man, and there is no other way of escaping from it than by liberating the stone itself.

I had found a book about Nicholas Berdyaev …

I wrote in the journal:

God’s freedom enters directly into the not-free, God unites Beingless Being, before time, into our temporal being. This is incarnation: freedom moving through every prison and trap so as to set those antithetical poles in direct and dynamic relationship. The result is always liberation and at each moment a greater liberation until the word “liberation” becomes meaningless for there is a new heaven and a new earth.


A line from the Nicolas Berdyaev book made me get off the bench and wander around the garden muttering “Fuck!”

The new man must accept his vocation and assume his creative responsibility.

I wrote the poem shortly after this incident. In the beauty of the surrounds, in the presence of the doubtlessly alive and not doubting birds. And yet even so, in the “is” of nature, its unfazed given being still manages to present consciousness with anagrams, clues, callings, jokes, and rumours of yet greater song.
They tickle and turn and ripple and yearn

a love tussle of freedom.

There is also a sexual abandonment going on. Seeds disperse excessively. Some birds literally fly over whole continents in order to mate.
… and run their wild kingdom

on wind
leaves, seeds, wings.

This flying and floating is both wilful surrender and reckless abandonment;
treasured daring.

The love making;

come into russet love
a great earthen moan…

begins to build to something greater than any individual creature. Even the species survival is subordinated to an entirety of movement. The love making is someone waking up and realising they are not depressed, it is the fertility of the planet which will fecundate in every given possibility and will of its rich fecundity continue to give every possibility, despite all the ugly and crazy enacted in the midst of our stone dead trauma.

Kingdom, carelessly given
They tickle and turn and ripple and yearn
a love tussle of freedom.
To be bound, to fly… Shhh:
Suspiration and gyration to
flee from limb and run their wild kingdom
on wind
leaves, seeds, wings.
The goldfinches flow between trees.
A ruby drop, treasured daring.
A raven’s firm downbeat: Swish.
Feather combing fine par, curling a sigh
come into russet love
a great earthen moan, so grand as to seem
carelessly given.

Receive breathing deus, your help from the centre.
Receive community and put back into the body every good and every praise ever offered.
May each sacrifiece and every suffering be translated

to produce fruit from a cognitive heart, in resonant accord with the real.
Allow this to become an expression of unity
with gifts and strivings marked for wholeness.

Let us enjoy this delight, together
share our witness, an engraced song
given and received, deus breathing.

[Psalm 20]

I look out of the window and try to mentally shrink all that I see. Meadows, trees, cattle, sky with rain heavy westerly clouds; I try to pull all of this into itself. The glass also, and the desk, and myself sitting behind the desk; reduce all to its pre-nothingness. Make the unmade trackless waste, tohu and bohu, reduce the worlds all to formless void and then squeeze this featureless potential further unto from whence it came. The from whence it came is now present.

Less than a dot. I conceive and preceive all as less than a dot and then reduce it further. I then approach this and inspect it. Can I know it? Can I know my knowing of it? For I am in it as who I am and who I will be and as all that I was; can this twist of knowing become known?

The can knowing in known now. This known totality. All hovering probability. No more questions, except; could this be now returned? Returned to trees, ramped plant life in verdant hot rain fervour, returned to the slow glimmer of water pressed against glass, returned to a rainbow balancing on the pine plantation.

Then terrible heralds, shattering mountains.
Then a most intimate speaking, gentle breeze.

A shattering intimacy which at last manages the direct challenge: what are you doing here?

I am left holding a dot which grows at an ominous speed. And I am the dot, held below a universe that grows at incredible speed. And I cannot put all the leaves back in place, and yet every leaf and every cow and the clouds all appear to know in the exactitude of their being just where they should be.

Where should I be?

I am not exempt from the habits of persona. Persona is not to be distinguished from its flatness. Flatness comes from settling below the weight of a cosmos as dot, suddenly growing in your lap. 

This skinny slip of a shadow; poor thing! And like the universe it may easily be inflated, but this is not the end.

One dresses up in worldliness in order to to camouflage one’s being. It hardly ever works.

Each letter

of each word has a map of energetic point cascading over its form.

Each expression

of each face 
is a terrain of energetic connection cast out among cadent networks.

Clash and mesh of expression

in each letter written on network;
the word whittled into mesh, falling ever through the net yet linked 

so as to never fall utterly.
The dust is still the net. 

The microscopic is full of scampering energy, the curlicue and shaving of letters. The loose broken bits, the crumbs of expression, all this still charged with a breath of expression.

Each connection of each word 
of each expression, a cadenza. 

The soloist is held coherently. They are held in coherence by the breath of another.

One does not seek to banish another breath and imagine that this will allow your solo to be heard or your beauty more justly recognized. If one banishes another breather their breathless absence becomes the acceleration of your own fall.

Sometimes the sound of a falling solo is exhilarating, the 
onomatopoeia which provides 
                                     an omniscient delusion 
and this can delight
until hitting the  ground


But such is typical of the flagrant misuse of a musical metaphor.


is not silence; we are only listening slightly.

A facilitator in the most exacting sense of being present and yet free; to be committed and yet not demand ownership, this is the catalytic work. 

The catalyst works because the surrounding reactive elements are present to their own potential. These elements react in and of their own potency but only via the “passing through” that becomes available in the catalytic gift, in question, and in imagination.

This element of living is that soundless passing through which is not consumed. That which is most alive in us is not a flame burning only to be consumed. The liveable is endlessly available to be given. All other life is able to pass through and it is vivified in the passing. Your catalytic quality transforms me; you are transformed within a moment, shared with me. The moment may objectively be called “mine” and yet that which is lived in the moment, and that which is liveable, divests itself of itself. Subjectively the moment becomes another, and in an instant it has yet returned wholly to “mine” and me.

Change cannot happen without the catalyst but equally once the catalyst is present then the change must happen. Therefore, be present. A catalyst is not consumed but may take part in multiple reactions. The change must happen; there is the fructifying availability. It is silent.

Life never spent and always available to the moment’s forthcoming resonance. 

To listen is to be catalytic. The world moves through us, flooding stillness.

From the spillage of stillness, returning silence, so the soundless surges up from deep. Depth is met. It is met in our foot fall. This washing infinite from infinite rolls ashore and forms a beach beneath each step.

And so let us say that I walk below me, soundlessly, and above me my mirror angel, communicant of the catalytic possible, walks perfectly in time; and we together walking, hearing this rich silence, peddle the planet onward. In my triple footfall not mine, and entirely belonging to me, so does the earth rotate. Properly round, and slight spread across the middle, the world moves soundlessly.

Even so

the consumer response to lack remains an ever retreating mirage. 

Lack in awareness and lacking awareness of lack yet aware of something lacking in our awareness.

An entering into the weight of absence.

How is it that this universal force acts locally? And indeed, the universal force of this force is to create the local.


One cannot buy into this, nor spend one’s way out of it.

With this in mind, and absent from mind, to be absent of mind. […] For to absent mindedly go forth mindfully; the real work with lack is toward a positive consciousness of lack.

Even so, there was invented a form of cultural activity specifically set against a sense of lack, specifically formed as a boost to counter gravity.

It is rocket science; the view from space. The view to deliver weapons, to deliver television, and now it will deliver telepathy and utter transparency. To utter the word “transparent” is to be seen.

Emptiness and the lunar landings have become bonded to a promise of fullness and, if not exactly transcendence, let us a say a form of “over striding.”

Over striding fullness is the product we want and we want this so seriously that huge amounts may legitimately be spent in order to possess. 

The coffers can be emptied in order to perfect the un-possession which is over striding fullness. The impossible product that would be sufficient to a life replete. The war and the sublimated war may be fought, balanced on that which is lacking.

Even so, lacking the balance, there is velocity. In the clash of speeding objects one finds a mummery of desire. Theory can fit this description as well as a handbag as well as the continent sized aquifer; all these wants brought about by lack of knowledge, by lack of grace, by thirst. 

Even the wants become lacks, being lacking, the wanting of wants. Satisfy me always, so it said.

There is the running, the running into turns. The turns turning, and returns. 

A paradoxical entering into lack that speaks of completion whilst never denying essential absence.

Absence at the level of essence does not automatically denote the absent essential.

The compulsive turning, returning, going toward, empting the hoard; this movement pulls a skein of presence. A web of holding even so we are falling

the local is insistently pulling


The ecstatic ecstasy is outside the ecstatic; this is inside. The ecstatic ecstasy is enstatic. Enstatic enstasy becomes ecstatic.

The skein is rope to pull us along and yet it is also the geese flying their V of communion, their communication of shared flight and purpose.

Even so, the ongoing seductive folly of thing; even so, the fantastic chains we are caught in; even so, we are to dragged down to annihilation.

Where is your meaning? 

The meaning-full as intentional awareness fully aligned in the meaning-less. The quality and the fruit of this relating is reply to the question of meaning.

To arrive alongside lack without an illusion of being able to either complete or fill or be complete or be full. 

To enter lack lacking, shorn from the possessive and the against (for one must struggle against these ropes of illusion that nonetheless really strangle, these fantastical chains that really do break bone and spirit); even so, replete.

Let us say 

that consciousness is larger than awareness as eternity is larger than infinity.

How so that infinity is not synonymous with eternity?

Infinity can be located in a materiality. Located if not exactly caught or counted. The grains of sand, an infinite number; this quality of presence must be held in the possibility of material.

That which holds the material, the possibility of material, and infinity; this is eternity.

This state of is holding can be named eternal. The name is not sufficient, the is holding will always escape.

If the infinite is not held, so that its materiality may be considered its own, a boot strapped reality, then that nothing (not holding) through which infinity falls is eternal.

This state of is not holding can be named eternal. The name is not sufficient, the is not holding will always escape.

Presence and nothingness; the infinite partakes of, inhabits, grows within.

The eternal, which will always escape and cannot be held to any material substratum, moves through and in and across the infinite.

In this sense is the eternal greater than the infinite, even when it is apprehended within an infinite series. 

One cannot end an infinite number. One cannot locate eternity. Outside of locality, therefore, the fullest possibility of presence is in each present moment.

So let us say that, by this probable relational scale of interaction, it becomes possible to transfer the paradigm:

Consciousness sits 

yet outside of awareness.

                         Awareness always has some level of material requirement.

Consciousness is of the collective array which holds the material substratum yet it is also that which moves with awareness over awareness (through awareness, under, and inside awareness).

Awareness can be aware of […] but to be aware of one’s awareness belongs to the realm of consciousness. A realm continually escaping direct, material apprehension.

Awareness is to rend and it is the rendering.
To rend, rent asunder, 
ass under the towering nervous system’s self sustaining glory
can you tear yourself away ?

Rendering, to cover, to present
or submit
an act
an instance of performing

to portray, the extract removed by melting is rendered.

Prendere, to grasp, to give back; that is awareness, both the holding and the releasing. Aware to rendering, as fat out of meat, as an alchemical sublimation of heat and pressure, and so the juices flow

so where do they flow?

To give back, rendering life unto life, so is consciousness experienced.
Consciousness is never fully experience as always there is the allusive over-seeing, consciousness saying this is not yet it. No loss of freedom, this othering from awareness, 

a loss of identity

The rendered surface dissolves. The fat of ego is melted out of an equation written as “fleshy participation”.

Within consciousness but without awareness, the flesh equation perpetuates; “we” participate, but from where?

There the asking, where the responding?

The axe is already laid to the root.

To be oppressed (or repressed, which is the more economical way of doing things,) by a giant bag of marshmallows is more permanent and economical than a regime of boot and steel.
To be oppressed by (or repressed in) a calculating combination of the two is a most dangerous prospect, very often fatal for those who lack the combination of a sweet tooth and the banality of a well turned surface.
But let us be positive about this: it is very difficult for to combine, with any degree of success, for any length of time, these two wildly incompatible substances. Not without an odour of the ridiculous staining the system.

Candyfloss and steel are bound together in a fearsomely functional system of decay inspiring stickiness, however. Luckily, again, we know how a sudden downpour will reduce any delusion of fun and freedom to a glutinous mess. You will be left in need of a bath and clutching a stick full of splinters to be promptly discarded in the mud.

Variegated leaves are wasteful. They provide surface area in excess, beyond use value. This is sometimes the result of a virus: horticulturists deliberately cultivate a disease in order to provide certain house plants with their charm.
To contemplate nature is to be alone. To commune with Nature is think this is not so. The Loner has made a myth of their status (or accepted it, piecemeal, from elsewhere).The lonely are beings left bewildered by a sense of hurt which seems tacked into every nook and cranny of their existence.
Which is all well and good but if you can’t hear it why bother?
Genius is always for other to decide and they are always wrong.
“The night has a thousand eyes
and a thousand eyes

will see me true.”

Original first published in Inventory: losing, finding, collecting. Vol.1 No.1 1995