Diary of an unborn writer #27

She gave me peace, you said, and it shocked the listener accustomed to tales of love and emotion coursing through breastplates and armour sworn to protect suddenly melting away. This way, you said, I have no feeling for her, only knowing - a devil to detect.

Silence.

And a barrage of projections aimed to make your situation clear. This was the disaster clarity that sweeps all event s aside and makes plain the world dies on its axis each day. Breathes a cacophony, then dies. We the breathtakers cough, laugh and dance and get destroyed. Blessing to rise again if we'd only be granted the gift. Tight times rhyme and ride and you're passing like thick spaghetti through a cheese grater - the edges getting worn (see 16.09.09) and humanity found laughing at your sides even I pass beyond its reach.

The whole time the mad man kept quiet until silence popped, Earth breathed a tremendous exhale and he flew a precision dart through the gap, the trap that man had made. Damn near didn't make it but the song he sang came out in purple wisps and some stopped to listen and admire the haircut.

Tepid fools.

The picture basked and sang with him. It was a Balinese woman with lips and headress of an African, Orange and supposedly reflecting sun. It was a dry day but a tidy one and the mirror mentioned in passing that he wasn't looking too formulaic. Rather like a tree, but Guided Man said his way was unknown to even him so he'd better put up with the lesions on his face. He simply had no choice and Grace, darling, would surely show the way.

It just might be that this coffee time conversation ran a little wild. He was glad to write like this. It gave him the impression that in the ordered mass of efficient things some edges were still a little woolly, he wouldn't bandy in the shallows of the explainable but could express the inexpressible depths the ordered failed to trespass.

Damn Few, he thought

Damn few of us and the others so ready to lay blame.

Diary of an unborn writer #16.09.09

He called it "the essential typology of life".

"It came to me while I was studying Chaos theory and came across the idea of phase spaces. A phase space is when you combine variables on a graph to depict wider trends in behavior. So you can combine in a single portrait speed, position and time. The pictures come out quite beautiful and that the depiction of a straw circling down a plughole can in certain phase spaces to be seen exactly like a cube. They show another truth of the event, one you wouldn't otherwise see, but no less valid.

"It occurred to me that there was an ultimate phase space - one in which all events occur and this gave me some comfort relating the musings of science with ultimate reality. At some point they connect. At some point everything connects and it's nice to know science is not excluded from that."

Once you start seeing the world as shapes, patterns become evident. I don't mean the geometrical breakdown of a sunflower or even fractalising it to perfect its infinitely repeated pattern. What I'm interested in is some kind of inner geometry - the soul of the thing. Numbers too. Once you see dates as a swirling combination of shapes patterns, as I say, become evident. The connections between Barack Obama, the date 12/09/09 and an old lady doubled in rags bringing a Mercedes Benz to a screeching halt on your bicycle journey to work become clear if you just looked at the shapes involved. We're all just flows, frankly. Looking deeper, the shapes are not representations of the thing being witnessed. They are that thing. And sometimes I think a truer expression of what is there than at point blank."

You're a little stunned and ask him for an example. You're grasping at the corners of his possible psychosis, grappling for a foothold as the phrase "the space in which all things occur" ripples through your mind. The profundity and inanity of it equally tortuous your head's spiralling up so you lay the concern aside. He's still speaking and you've missed most of the last bit so you ask him to illustrate. On a napkin, pocked with traces of grease and salt he draws:

"September 2009 was a powerful month. 09/09 is enough to ring alarm bells if you're not British and don't see the ninth day as code for the emergency services. It was a very urgent day the 9th. Urgent in a way that folk were on their way to something. I spoke to a man desperately seeking new employers with a Finance degree. Myself I was calling all the international high schools in town looking for a new job. There was a lot of running, not to get somewhere, just make sure we're on the right way."

He draws the shape 1-16.09.09 and somehow it's obvious. The laser beam, the womb and the projectile. It was a trumpet of a little over a fortnight sending us on our way. "Things had to change in those days" he exclaims "and it's been like that ever since Pope Gregory said the calender had to be a certain way.

1-16.09.09

"You see here how 16 brings it all to harmony".



It's a relief to hear and you ease into coffee conversations and the mill of politics. The shape of things just done merging into talk of disappointed girlfriends, news of home and the racket the people make in the appartment under you on a Thursday when for another week, the dole cheque did not come through.

there's a day when you're so delicate

a sentence could break

into something you hadn't seen for a while

"you look wrecked" came the American Voice

Lady sledgehammer transparency

shot through

help shake out the dew

dreamy afternoon

word spilling

black coffee

lisa hannigan

avoiding any excuse to work

lyric for a song

We can go all ways

Always

My dying

Lady with the Blonde sparkly, catlike eyes.

I'm not speaking to you yet. There's a game to play a foot to follow. You're too intriguing to brashly ask out for walks or wine. I need to live up to your easy mystery that's still startling me days hence. Keep me in mind, though, I'm communicating softly.

The Golden Door

The golden doorway leads to a room with lavish coaches and a blonde with a cigarette holder blowing a soft stream of smoke upwards at 45 degrees. Her left hand hangs over the couch with an absinthe at an expensive tilt. Knee bent, foot resting just next to a bald black man with corduroys and a waistcoat - no shirt. He's looking down at his shoes.

A lady with expensive perfume takes your hand and leads you to a corner, introduces you to artists and performing types, illustrators and magazine writers. Creatively employed but right now in pursuit of the art of nothing.

The room is green and you have arrived.

Diary of an unborn writer #26

If you ask a mathematician how he sees number - he will be unable to describe the wonder and imagination a linear row or matrix can fulfil in him.

What looks like a humble number line to you and I, speaks to him of nothing less than the rhythm and mystery of the universe.

So too with spirituality for me. Compassion, love, Truth and infinity rub up againist and codify each other, unlocking in an endless pattern until finally each is undone. There is nothing unmagical about this endless embrace and the more we see it in one area of life, the more we see it in all aspects of the cosmic surprise.