The Dark Side

 

From The Power of Silence, by Carlos Castaneda

Don Juan asked Tulio uno how they had called intent. Tulio uno explained that the stalkers called intent loudly. Usually intent was called from within a small dark isolated room. A candle was placed on a black table, with a flame just a few inches before the eyes, then the word “intent” was voiced slowly, enunciated clearly and deliberately as many times as one felt was needed. The pitch of the voice rose or fell without any thought. Tulio stressed that the indispensable part of calling intent was a total concentration on what was intended. In their case, the concentration was on their homogeneity and on Tulio’s appearance. After they had been fused by intent it still took them a couple of years to build up the certainty that their homogeneity in Tulio’s appearance would be reality to the onlookers. I asked don Juan what he thought of their way of calling intent, and he said that his benefactor, like the nagual Elias, was a bit more  given to ritual than he himself was, therefore they preferred paraphernalia such as candles, dark closets and black tables.

I casually remarked that I was terribly attracted to ritual behavior myself. Ritual seemed to me essential in focusing one’s attention.
Don Juan took my remark seriously. He said that he had seen that my body, as an energy field, had a feature which he knew that all the sorcerers of ancient times have had and avidly sought in others: a bright area in the lower left side of the luminous cocoon. That brightness was associated with resourcefulness and a bent toward morbidity. The dark sorcerers of ancient times took pleasure in harnessing that coveted feature and attaching it to man’s dark side

– Then there is an evil side to man - I said, jubilantly - You always deny it; you always say that evil doesn’t exist and that only power exists

I surprised myself with this outburst. In one instant all my Catholic background was brought to bear on me and the prince of darkness loomed larger than life. Don Juan laughed until he was coughing.

– Of course, there is a dark side to us - he said - we kill wantonly, don’t we? In the name of God we destroy ourselves, we obliterate life on this planet, we destroy the Earth, and then we dress in robes and the Lord speaks directly to us. And what does the Lord tell us? He says that we should be good boys or he is going to punish us. The Lord has been threatening us for centuries, and it doesn’t make any difference. Not because we are evil, but because we are dumb.

Man has a dark side, yes, and it’s called stupidity.

Basic personality types

From "The Power of Silence" by Carlos Castaneda

- Within the art of stalking there is a technique which sorcerers use a great deal: controlled folly. Sorcerers claim that controlled folly is the only way they have of dealing with themselves in their state of expanded awareness and perception, and with everybody and everything in the world of daily affairs. 

Don Juan had explained controlled folly as the art of controlled deception, or the art of pretending to be thoroughly immersed in the action at hand, pretending so well, no one could tell it from the real thing. Controlled folly is not an outright deception, he had told me, but a sophisticated, artistic way of being separated from everything, while remaining an integral part of everything.

- Controlled folly is an art - Don Juan continued - a very bothersome art and a difficult one to learn. Many sorcerers don't have the stomach for it... not because there is anything inherently wrong with the art, but because it takes a lot of energy to exercise it.

Don Juan admitted that he practiced it conscientiously although he wasn't particularly fond of doing so, perhaps because his benefactor had been so adept at it. Or perhaps it was because his personality, which he said was basically devious and petty, and simply didn't have the agility needed to practice controlled folly.

I looked at him with surprise. He stopped talking and fixed me with his mischievous eyes

- By the time we come to sorcery our personality is already formed - he said, and shrugged his shoulders to signify resignation 

- and all we can do is practice controlled folly and laugh at ourselves

I had a surge of empathy and assured him that to me he was not in any way petty or devious.

- But that's my basic personality, - he insisted, and I insisted that it was not

- Stalkers who practice controlled folly believe that in matters of personality the entire human race falls into three categories, he said and smiled, the way he always did when he was setting me up.

- That's absurd - I protested - human behavior is too complex to be categorized so simply.

- Stalkers say that we are not so complex as we think we are - he said - and that we all belong to one of three categories.

I laughed out of nervousness. Ordinarily I would have taken such a statement as a joke, but this time, because my mind was extremely clear and my thoughts were poignant, I felt he was indeed serious.

- Are you serious? - I asked, as politely as I could.

- Completely serious, - he replied, and began to laugh.

His laughter relaxed me a little, and he continued explaining the stalkers' system of classification. He said that people in the first class are the perfect secretaries, assistants, companions. They have a very fluid personality but their fluidity is not nourishing. They are however serviceable, concerned, totally domestic, resourceful within limits, humorous, well-mannered, sweet, delicate... in other words, they are the nicest people one could find, but they have one huge flaw: they can't function alone; they are always in need of someone to direct them. With direction, no matter how strained or antagonistic that direction might be, they are stupendous. By themselves, they perish.
People in the second class are not nice at all. They are petty, vindictive, envious, jealous and self-centred. They talk exclusively about themselves and usually demand that people conform to their standards. They always take the initiative, even though they are not comfortable with it, they are thoroughly ill at ease in every situation and never relax. They are insecure and are never pleased. The more insecure they become, the nastier they are. Their fatal flaw is that they would kill to be leader.
In the third category are people who are neither nice nor nasty. They serve no one , nor do they impose themselves on anyone. Rather, they are indifferent. They have an exalted idea about themselves, derived solely from daydreams and wishful thinking. If they are extraordinary at anything, it is at waiting for things to happen. They are waiting to be discovered and conquered, and have a marvelous facility for creating the illusion that they have great things in abeyance, which they always promise to deliver, but never do because, in fact, they do not have such resources.
Don Juan said that he himself definitely belonged to the second class. He then asked me to classify myself, and I became rattled. Don Juan was practically on the ground, bent over with laughter. He urged me again to classify myself, and reluctantly I suggested that I might be a combination of the three.

- Don't give me that "combination" nonsense, he said, still laughing

- We are simple beings; each of us is one of the three types, and as far as I am concerned you belong to the second class. Stalkers call them "farts".

I began to protest that his scheme of classification was demeaning, but I stopped myself just as I was about to go into a long tirade. Instead, I commented that if it were true that there are only three types of personalities, all of us are trapped in one of those three categories for life, with no hope of change or redemption. He agreed that that was exactly the case, except that one avenue for redemption remained. Sorcerers had long ago learned that only our personal self-reflection fell into one of the categories. 

- The trouble with us is that we take ourselves seriously - he said - whichever category our self image falls into only matters because of our self importance. If we weren't self important it wouldn't matter at all which category we fell into. I'll always be a fart - he continued, his body shaking with laughter - and so will you, but now, I am a fart who doesn't take himself seriously, while you still do

I was indignant. I wanted to argue with him but couldn't muster the energy for it. In the empty plaza the reverberation of his laughter was eerie.

The dinner party

The Eagle's Gift: an excerpt

 

– It's an honour to make your acquaintance - I said, to the woman who greeted me in the hallway.

– I’m Florinda - she said

We looked at each other in silence. I was awestruck. My state of awareness was as keen as it had ever been. Never again have I experienced a comparable sensation.

– That’s a beautiful name - I managed to say, but I meant more than that. Soft and long pronunciation of the Spanish vowels made the name soft and sonorous. Especially the “i” after the “r”.

The name was not rare . I simply had never met anyone until that day who was the essence of that name.

The woman in front of me fit into it as if it had been made for her. Or perhaps as if she herself had made her person fit into it. Physically she looked exactly like Nelida, except she seemed more physical, more powerful. She had the olive skin of mediterranean people. Spanish or perhaps French. She was old and yet she was not feeble or even aged. Her body seemed to be supple and lean. Long legs, angular features, small mouth, a beautifully chiselled nose, dark eyes and braided white hair. No jowls. No sagging skin on her face and neck. She was old as if she had been made up to look old.

– What do we have here - she said - pinching me. Soft. Indulging to the core, no doubt.

Her bluntness reminded me of don Juan’s. So did the inner life of her eyes.
It occurred to me, looking back at my life with don Juan, that his eyes were always in repose. One could see no agitation in them. It was not that don Juan’s eyes were beautiful to look at. I have seen gorgeous eyes, but never have I found them to say anything.
Florinda’s eyes, like don Juan’s, gave me the feeling that they had witnessed all there is to witness. They were calm, but not bland. The excitement had been driven inward and had been turned into something that I could only described as “inner life”.
Florinda took me through the living room and out onto a roofed patio; we sat on some comfortable sofa-like chairs. Her eyes seemed to look for something in my face.

– Do you know who I am, and what I’m supposed to do for you? - she asked

I said that all I know about her and what she was to do to me was what don Juan had sketched out.
In the course of explaining my position, I called her doña Florinda

– Don’t call me doña Florinda - she said, with a childish gesture of annoyance and embarrassment ­- I'm not that old yet, or even that respectable

I asked her what she wanted me to call her

– Just Florinda will do - she said. Insofar as “who” I am, I am a warrior who knows the secrets of stalking And insofar as what I am supposed to do for you, I can tell you that I am going to teach you the first seven principles of stalking., the first three principles of the rules for stalkers, and the first three manoeuvres of stalking.

She added that the normal thing was for every warrior to get what transpires when the interaction is on the left side, and that it would take years for me to come to grips with whatever she was going to teach me. She said that her instruction was merely the beginning, and that someday she would finish teaching me, but under different circumstances.

I asked her if she minded my asking her questions.

– Do as you please - she said - all I need from you is your commitment to practice; after all, you know in one way or another whatever we’re going to discuss, your shortcomings are that you have no self-confidence and are unwilling to claim your knowledge as power. The nagual, being a man, mesmerised you; you cannot act on your own, only a woman can liberate you from that.
I will begin by telling you the story of my life, and in doing so, things will become clear to you; I will have to tell it to you in bits, so you will have to come here quite often.

Her apparent willingness to tell me about her life struck me at odds with the reticence of everyone else to reveal anything personal about themselves. After years with them I had accepted their ways so unquestioningly that her voluntary intent to reveal her personal life was freakish to me. Her statement put me immediately on guard.

– I beg your pardon - I said - did you say that you’re going to reveal your personal life to me?

– Why not? - she answered

I answered her with a long explanation of what don Juan had told me about the encumbering force of personal history, and the need that a warrior has to erase it. I wrapped it up by telling her that he had prohibited me from ever talking about my life.

She laughed in a high falsetto voice. She seemed to be delighted.

– That applies only to men - she said -the not-doing of your personal life is to tell endless stories but not a single one about your real self. You see, being a man means that you have a solid history behind you. You have family, friends, acquaintances, and every one of them has a definite idea of you; being a man means that you are accountable. You cannot disappear that easily. In order to erase yourself you needed a lot of work.
My case is different. I am a woman, and that gives me a splendid advantage. I'm not accountable. Don’t you know that women are not accountable?

– I don’t know what you mean by “accountable” - I said

– I mean that a woman can easily disappear - she replied – a woman can, if nothing else, get married. A woman belongs to the husband. In a family with lots of children the daughters are discarded very early. No one counts on them… chances are that some will vanish without leaving a trace. Their disappearance is easily accepted.

A son, on the other hand, is something one banks on. It’s not that easy for a son to slip off and vanish, and even if he does, he will leave traces behind him. A son feels guilty for disappearing, a daughter does not.
When the nagual told you to be accountable for your personal life, he intended you to overcome the feeling of having done wrong to your family and friends, who have counted on you one way or another. After a lifetime struggle, the male warrior ends up, of course, erasing himself, but that struggle takes its toll on the man: he becomes secretive, forever on guard against himself.
A woman doesn’t have to contend with that hardship. A woman is already prepared to disintegrate into thin air. In fact, it’s expected of her.
Being a woman, I’m not compelled to secrecy. I don’t give a fig about it. Secrecy is the price you men have to pay for being important to society. The struggle is only for the men, because they resent erasing themselves, and would find curious ways to pop up somewhere, somehow. Take yourself, for instance: you go around giving lectures….

Florinda made me nervous in a very peculiar way. I felt strangely restless in her presence. I would admit, without hesitation, that don Juan and Silvio Manuel also made me feel nervous and apprehensive, but it was a different feeling. I was actually afraid of them, especially Silvio Manuel: he terrified me, and yet I had learned to live with my terror.
Florinda did not frighten me. My nervousness was rather the result of being annoyed… threatened by her savoir faire. She didn’t stare at me the way Silvio Manuel and Don Juan used to do: they would always stare at me until I moved my face away in a gesture of submission. Florinda only glanced at me. Her eyes moved continually from thing to thing. She seemed to examine not only my eyes, but every inch of my face my body. As she talked, she would shift in quick glances to my face, to my hands, or to her feet, or to the roof.

– I make you ill at ease, don’t I? - she asked

Her question caught me thoroughly off-guard. I laughed. Her tone was not threatening… at all.

– You do - I said.

– Oh, it’s perfectly understandable - she went on - you are used to being a man. A woman, for you, is something made for your benefit. A woman is stupid, to you, and the fact that you are a man and the nagual makes things even more difficult.

I felt obligated to defend myself. I thought that she was a very opinionated lady and I wanted to tell her so. I started off in great form, but petered out almost immediately, upon hearing her laughter. It was a joyous, youthful laughter.  Don Juan and Don Gennaro used to laugh at me all the time and their laughter was also youthful, but Florinda’s had a different vibration. There was no hurry in her laughter. No pressure.

– I think we’d better go inside - she said - there shouldn’t be any distraction. The nagual don Mathus has already taken you around, showing you the world. That was important for what he had to tell you.
I have other things to talk about, which require another setting.

We sat on a leather couch in a den off the patio. I felt more at ease indoors.
She went right into the story of her life. She said that she had been born in a fairly large Mexican city to a well-to-do family. As she was an only child, her parents spoiled her from the moment she was born. Without a trace of false modesty, Florinda admitted that she had always been aware of being beautiful. She said that beauty is a demon that breeds and proliferates when admired. She assured me that she could say without the shadow of a doubt that that demon is the hardest one to overcome, and that if I would look around to find those who were beautiful, I would find the most wretched beings imaginable.

I did not want to argue with her, yet I had the most intense desire to tell her that she was somehow… dogmatic. She must have caught my feelings - she winked at me.

– They are wretched - you’re better believe it - she continued - try them! Be unwilling to go along with their idea that they are beautiful and because if it, important. You’ll see what I mean.

She said that she could hardly give her parents or herself full blame for her conceit. Everyone around her had conspired from her infancy to make her feel important and unique.

– When I was fifteen - she went on - I thought that I was about the greatest thing that ever came to Earth… everybody said so - especially men.

She confessed that throughout her adolescent years she indulged in the attention and adulation of scores of admirers. At eighteen, she judiciously chose the best possible husband from the ranks of no less than eleven serious suitors.
She married Celestino, a man of means fifteen years her senior.
Florinda described her married life as heaven on earth. To the enormous circle of friends she already had, she added Celestino’s friends. The total effect was that of a perennial holiday. Her bliss, however, lasted only six months, which went by almost unnoticed. It all came to a most abrupt and brutal end when she contracted a mysterious and crippling disease. Her left foot, ankle and calf began to swell. The line of her beautiful leg was ruined. The swelling became so intense that the cutaneous tissues started to blister and burst. Her whole lower leg, from the knee down became the site of scabs and a pestilent secretion. The skin became hard.  The disease was diagnosed as elephantiasis. Doctors’ attempts to cure her condition were clumsy and painful and their final conclusion was that only in Europe were there medical centres advanced enough to possibly attempt a cure.

In a matter of three months, Florinda’s paradise had turned to hell on earth.

From The Eagle's Gift by Carlos Castaneda
(chapter 14)

Black Stone on a White Stone

 

Black stone on a white stone (an excerpt)
César Vallejo

I will die in Paris while it rains
On a day I already remember
I will die in Paris, and I do not run away
Perhaps in the autumn on a Thursday, as it is today

It will be a Thursday, because today,
the Thursday that I write these lines,
My bones feel the turn
And never so much as today, in all my road,
Have I seen myself alone

...

A Party near Guadalupe, AZ

 As soon as I arrived at the Yaqui community the Mexican storekeeper told me that he had rented a record player and twenty records from an outfit in San Juan de Raicedo for the fiesta he was planning to give that night in honour of the Virgin of Guadalupe. He’d already told everybody that he’d made all the necessary arrangements through Julio, the traveling salesman who came to the Yaqui settlement twice a month to collect instalments on a layaway plan for cheap articles of clothing, which he had succeeded in selling to some Yaqui Indians.

Julio brought the record player in the early afternoon, and hooked it up to the dynamo that provided electricity for the store. He made sure that it worked, then he turned up the volume to its maximum, reminded the storekeeper not to touch any knobs, and began to sort the twenty records. 

– I know how many scratches each of them has

Julio said to the storekeeper

– Tell that to my daughter! 

the storekeeper replied

– You’re responsible, not your daughter

– Well just the same, she’s the one who’ll be changing the records

Julio insisted that it didn’t matter to him whether she or anyone else was going to handle the record player, as long as the storekeeper paid for any records that were damaged. The storekeeper began to argue with Julio. Julio’s face became red; he turned from to time to the large group of Yaqui Indians congregated in front of the store, and made signs of despair or frustration by moving his hands or contorting his face in a grimace. Seemingly as a last resort, he demanded a cash deposit.

That precipitated another long argument about what constituted ‘a damaged record’. Julio stated with authority that any broken record must be paid for in full, as if it were new. The storekeeper became angrier and began to pull out his extension cords. He seemed bent on unhooking the record player and cancelling the party. He made it clear to his clients congregated in front of the store that he had tried his best to come to terms with Julio.

For a moment, it seemed that the party was going to fail before it had started.

Blas, the old Yaqui Indian in whose house I was staying made some derogatory comments in a loud voice about the Yaqui’s sad state of affairs, that they couldn’t even celebrate their most revered religious festivity, the day of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

I wanted to intervene and offer my help, but Blas stopped me. He said that if I were to make the cash deposit, the storekeeper himself would smash the records.

– He’s worse than anybody

he said

– Let him pay the deposit; he bleeds us so why shouldn’t he pay?

After a long discussion in which, oddly enough, everyone present was in favour of Julio, the storekeeper hit upon terms which were mutually agreeable.

He didn’t pay a cash deposit, but accepted responsibility for the records and the record player.

Julio’s motorcycle left a trail of dust as he headed for some of the more remote houses in the locality. Blas said that he was trying to get to his customers before they came to the store and spent all their money buying booze; as he was saying this, a group of Indians emerged from behind the store, Blas looked at them and began to laugh, and so did everyone else there. Blas told me that those Indians were Julio’s customers, and had been hiding behind the store, waiting for him to leave.

The party began early. The storekeeper’s daughter put a record on the turntable, and brought the arm down. There was a terrible high screech and a loud buzz, and then the blasting sound of trumpets and some guitars.

The party consisted of playing the records at full volume. There were four young Mexican men who danced with the storekeeper's two daughters and three other Mexican women. The Yaquis didn’t dance. They watched with apparent delight at every movement the dancers made. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, just watching and gulping down cheap tequila.

I bought individual drinks for everybody I knew. I wanted to avoid any feelings of resentment. I circulated among the numerous Indians and talked to them and then offered them drinks.

My pattern of behaviour worked, until they realised that I wasn’t drinking, at all. That seemed to annoy everyone at once. It was as if collectively they had discovered that I didn’t belong there. The Indians became very gruff, and gave me sly looks. The Mexicans, who were as drunk as the Indians, also realised at the same time that I hadn’t danced, and that appeared to offend them even more.

They became very aggressive. One of them forcibly took me by the arm and dragged me closer to the record player. Another served me a full cup of tequila and wanted me to drink it all in one gulp, to prove that I was a macho. I tried to stall them, and laughed idiotically as if I were actually enjoying the situation.

I said that I would like to dance first and then drink. One of the young men called out the name of a song. The girl in charge of the record player began to search in the pile of records. She seemed to be a little tipsy – although none of the women had openly been drinking – and had trouble fitting the record on the turntable. The young man said that the record she had selected wasn’t a twist.

She fumbled with the pile, trying to find a suitable one, and everyone closed in around her and left me.

That gave me time to run behind the store, away from the lighted area, and out of sight.

I stood about thirty yards away, in the darkness behind some bushes, trying to decide what to do.

I was tired; I thought that it was time to get in my car and go back home. I began to walk to Blas’s house, where my car was parked. I figured that if I drove slowly, no one would notice that I was leaving. The people around the record player were apparently still looking for the record: all I could hear was the high-pitched buzzing of the loudspeaker, but then came the blasting sound of a twist. I laughed out loud, thinking that they’d probably turned to where I’d been, but I’d disappeared.

I saw some dark silhouettes of people walking in the opposite direction, going towards the store. We passed each other and they mumbled buenas noches. I recognised them and spoke to them, and told them it was a great party. Before I came to a sharp bend in the road, I encountered two other people who I didn’t recognise but I greeted them anyway. The blasting of the record player was almost as loud there as it was in front of the store. It was a dark starless night, but the glare from the store lights allowed me to have a fairly good visual perception of my surroundings.

Blas’s house was very near, and I accelerated my pace. I noticed then the dark shape of a person, sitting, or perhaps squatting, to my left at the bend on the road. I thought for an instant that it might be one of the people from the party who had left before I had. The person seemed to be defecating on the side of the road. That seemed odd. People in the community went into the thick bushes to perform their bodily functions. I thought that whoever it was in front of me must have been drunk. I came to the person at the bend and said buenas noches. The person answered me with an eery inhuman howl. The hair on my body literally stood on end. For a second, I was paralyzed, then I began to walk fast. I took a backward glance and I saw that the dark silhouette had stood up half way. It was a woman. She was stooped over, leaning forward. She walked in that position for a few yards, and then she hopped. I began to run, while the woman hopped by my side like a bird, keeping up with my speed. By the time I’d arrived at Blas’s house she was cutting in front of me and we had almost touched.

I leaped across a ditch at the front of the house and crashed through the front door. Blas was already in the house and seemed unconcerned with my story.

– They pulled a good one on you.

he said

– The Indians take delight in teasing foreigners.

An excerpt from Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda 

Cave Street

I met Cave street when I met Clair, because she already lived there. Cave street was a terrace of four council houses that had become surrounded by small business lots in the immediate vicinity of Oxford city centre.
 
It was 1973, so Oxford was still just another town. Tourism did occur, but it was scarcely visible. The University Parks were always open for us because we could walk through a river meadow at the end of our street, cross the River Cherwell, and enter the parks avoiding any gates that might be locked at sunset.
The parks were bounded at several points by university buildings, magnificent and self-important in their ancient architectural finesse.

The first house was where Clair lived. The previous tenant - no actual tenancy agreement in the occupants' name because the house was a squat - had moved out, but not before dismantling one wall of his bedroom to use  as fuel for the fireplace. That bedroom became open plan, exposed to the stairs on one side, until someone had the good sense to fit a curtain. The interior walls were made of solid wood panels and each room had a small fireplace for coal or logs. It was a classic two-up two-down with a built-on small kitchen and outside toilet beyond the coal shed. It was a perfectly functional and well-made house, in need of some tlc. Sadly it was later demolished, and I think that decision had already been reached at the time I was there. Oxford was moving with the times and this little corner of folklore was to be removed, since  land was becoming more valuable in the area and the it had been decided that the terrace lacked sufficient architectural credentials to warrant preservation.
There was a back yard that opened onto a different road, and it was delimited by a tall brick wall. There was a communal friendly spirit in the yard, where Clair had built a shed to house her hand-built wood turning lathe. Clair was an extraordinary woman indeed, who somehow ended up with a man who played the conceited fool before the world. There are forces working through the spirit in these matters.

Clair had built a log store against the boundary wall outside the back door.
There was no electricity but we had running water for the kitchen sink.
I installed an upright piano and later Clair transformed the front sitting room into a workshop, but that was when things were getting out of hand and towards the end of my two-year tenure and our ill-fated union.

The house was lit by two big oil lamps of Clair's, very precious. They were brass lanterns with tall glass chimneys with mantles. They burned naturally very brightly with a warm incandescent and pure light. They were not of the type that requires pressurisation to start. They could simply be lit and gradually the mantle would start to glow white. It might take five minutes before the light started to truly shine. They started from a warm glow. 
I have searched for them online but I have never managed to find the same type of lantern.

The second house was the only properly rented one, and was inhabited by council tenants: an elderly and mild mannered lady and her unmarried son, who was  friendly and a bit heavy in the weight department. Clair was very fond of them both and I suppose I came to like them too, but I can't remember any interactions. 
I suppose they had reason to raise their eyebrows from time to time with some of the things they saw, heard, and nosed in the air.

The third house was where Will and Robbie lived, generally also with a northern man named Scot, made of solid granite but very meek and gentle in his manners. He suffered from nerves. I thought they were all capital fellows and I admired them. They were skilled at squatting and cooking, and had created a very pleasant atmosphere in the house. I think they had an extension lead from the house next door, so a little power was available for lights and music.

Will and Robbie found a punt. It was a fibreglass hull craft that had sunk close to the bank, so we hauled it and bailed it out and eventually it was pretty neat. We could take trips up and down the Cherwell and the Thames whenever we wanted, with bottles of wine, sandwiches, and joints, without paying big money to a boat hire operator for an hour or two on the river. 
I suppose it belonged to someone, but perhaps they had forgotten about it, lost it, or plain didn't care. In the summer months you could go up the river, drop in at a pub where they sold duck eggs, and then find some overhanging willows and slide under them in some quiet stretch of water, to watch the world go by and enjoy some smokes and some drinks in a very pleasant setting indeed, especially for young lovers. 

The last house was initially a no-go area because a dangerous individual did live there and we were mainly frightened of him. He was supposedly a brazen felon and a heroin addict, though many years later I realised he was probably just a special branch or drug squad agent.
 
The house became accessible when this man supposedly overdosed and died. It was a shocking thing. Very sobering. Especially since Miranda (Robbie's ex girlfriend) had been living with him for a while. We had no words. No one had liked the man, except Miranda, so we were happy to be rid of him, but we would have preferred a less dramatic end. Death is a powerful spirit when it must be confronted.

No man is an island,  entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main

from Meditation 17, John Donne

All the inside walls and doors of that last taller house were painted black. It was smashed up and loveless, but it was bigger than the other houses because it had an extra story. On the top floor a visitor named Rob, who was later a resident, set up a massive Scalextric circuit and his sound system, so we used to race while listening to music. Scalextric cars were far more fun than my train set, which I had when I was a child. He played the Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers debut album. It sounded amazing to me back then but it was very easy listening. The music had no depth and I struggled to understand my sense of dissatisfaction. It was feel-good music.

Rob was another good candidate for an undercover agent. He was noticeably and comfortably indifferent to social norms. He was forever smoking grass and hashish, and always financially comfortable. I think he had a car (we all had bikes). When he moved into the house I was sharing with Clair in Cave Street I remember he brought in a big box of pornographic magazines as a gift. 

Access to pornography was problematic because it was too embarrassing to go and buy magazines in a corner shop, although some magazines had maintained sufficient editorial content to establish an intellectual than merely libidinous interest in the material. But true hard core porn was never anonymous or concealed.

This created an ethical issue among hippies (we called ourselves "heads") because movies and the general culture were promoting promiscuity and sexual experimentation, and it seemed that open access to pornography was a perfectly healthy and acceptable practice, despite our more traditional upbringings. 

The resistance to this idea was essentially zero, because of the lust of the flesh and the pride of life, but a veneer of prudish morality remained so we feigned indifference to the shocking and arousing images we glimpsed on the top shelves of the local newsagent's.
This was the start of the pornography boom that has reached its logical zenith with the Internet and the relative anonymity it allows. 

To get to grips with the problem would take a different spirit from our lazy conception of love and liberty. We weren't looking in the mirror except for vanity. 
Not in those days. 
We practiced monogamy. I mean that was the idea, but I was, and remain, a self-indulgent libertine.

Grimaldi House

 



I was in London
with Steve, Martin and Chris, mainly. I had gone to live in a squat in a 1930s tenement block called Grimaldi House behind Kings Cross station. 
Grimaldi house was well named, because it was a grim, stern and unbeautiful prison-like brick building with long gloomy corridors and shabby apartments, and it also bore an Italian name (Italy was shortly to become one of the main leitmotivs of my life).
I checked online and found the building was named after Joseph Grimaldi (1779-1837),  "one of England's greatest clowns". How fitting! I thought.
We were playing music and seeking some kind of revelation thereby, I mean that's what I was doing. The plan was to busk in the underground, and we did it a few times but it wasn't to my liking because it was not allowed by London Transport police and generally any official representative of the government or the Queen would look upon the matter quite narrowly. I don't suppose our musical skills alleviated our sorrows much. Virtuoso instrumentalists playing soothing classical music fared better in such social interactions.
I spent several weeks drifting around in London - I had no idea what I was doing but I felt a sense of excitement... there was something afoot.

I went to other squats to visit people there. Once there was a party being held in several adjacent apartments in a big block that was partially squatted, with a PA system and bands. It was quite the occasion with drugs circulating freely. This sort of event was likely to attract complaints and, ultimately, the police. I don't remember whether or not they arrived that time, but it's not unlikely

I always preferred not to interact with the police once I had got to know them a little bit, although it always depends on one's position in the world.

In Oxford I spontaneously went to the police station to ask after my friend Robbie, who had became psychotic from one moment to the next, though I might have missed the warning signs. 

He (Robbie) started speaking strangely and displaying signs of delusion. Nothing would calm him down. He repeated "black is the colour and none is the number", which I found out later is from Dylan's hard rain classic. He then left the house with the express intention of turning himself in to the police. I don't think he had done anything worse than to smoke cannabis resin, which is what we were all doing, but he had become paranoid. 
It wasn't strictly paranoia, because in those days serious criminal charges could be applied to punish possession of even minimal quantities of the plant and its derivatives. We all suffered from paranoia to some extent. In London we feared the vans of the special patrol group or SPG, mentioned in some reggae and punk lyrics from that era.

Robbie was a cultured young man who had dropped out of his mathematics course for philosophical reasons. He appeared shy and retiring but it was a facade  I once saw him overpower a feared Glaswegian villain who was threatening us all:

If ya want guns – said the man, named or monikered Jock – I got guns, if ya want ya winders smashed....
He made a list of things that we really didn't want as though he were leafing through a catalogue of products he was selling door to door.

I don't remember what triggered it, but suddenly Robbie, who was sprawled on nearby sofa, leapt upon him and twisted his arm behind his back so he was face down on the cushions and unable to move and scarcely able to even speak.

The scene had a cinematographic quality about it. Almost like a screenplay.

Apart from his Oxford Uni credentials, Robbie had been the long-term partner of lady Miranda., who was the gone-bad daughter of a wealthy clan up north. Her brother was also among our confederates and I counted him a friend, as I did Robbie.

Jock, on the other hand, was a good candidate for an undercover drug squad officer. These men were generally ex military and a very rough bunch of coves. There was nothing in it for him privately or personally to get involved with a few hippies like us. The motive was a claimed (inexistent) offence perpetrated by Miranda's brother (in hiding) on Jock's acquaintance, also present - a sturdy looking man at least 10 yeas older than my friends and I, tall enough and rugged, but wasted on heroin.

Looking back, Robbie's athletic skilled execution of a classic police tackle and immobilisation manoeuvre seems at odds with the typical skillset of a lethargic drug-addled Oxford undergraduate.

When I reached the central police station to inquire whether Robbie had been "handed in", I was told to speak to a drug squad officer on the second floor.

The headquarters was an historic building with wood panelling and tiled floors. I entered a large office with a single central desk and a few chairs. There seemed to be no one around on that floor and I was alone with this plain clothes officer in the room. After a couple of introductory remarks he made it clear to me that it was in his power to "rough me up" or to arrange the matter, and to detain me in a cell should I failed to answer his questions to his satisfaction. It was intimidating and unwarranted. I had attended voluntarily to inquire after a friend. I was not accused of any crime. He also suggested, apropros of nothing, that I was a sexual deviant and that I had better leave his children alone, or else. I suppose that this would have been a classic jibe because of the hippie's long-hair code to which I adhered faithfully, lacking any originality in the matter of style. 

I saw that I was facing a common or garden bully. I had met these fellows in school and I didn't like them at all. I answered to the best of my ability.
He was convinced that Robbie had been experimenting with some new type of drug that had reached Oxford and he wanted details, but I suppose my truthful account of the matter had the power of persuasion and I was allowed to go unscathed. I felt obliged to lie only when questioned about my own cannabis consumption. I claimed not to use the drug, because I though it pointless to invite a search of my rooms and person by admitting to an illegal albeit private practice.

Robbie was hospitalised for a while, but he did recover and I heard he was running a vegetarian restaurant down in Bristol for a while. He studied Indian cuisine in place of mathematics and was a skilled cook.

I didn't know how to deal with bullies back in the olden days, but now I don't fear them. God has sharpened my wits and placed his Words in my mouth so none may stand against me, except by subtlety, for a season.

The Power of Silence, an excerpt

The sorcerer’s struggle for assuredness is the most dramatic struggle there is – don Juan said – it’s painful and costly. Many many times it has actually cost sorcerers their lives.

He explained that in order for any sorcerer to have complete certainty about his actions or about his position in the sorcerers’ world, or to be capable of utilising intelligently his new continuity, he must invalidate the continuity of his old life; only then can his actions have the necessary assuredness to fortify and balance the tenuousness and instability of his new continuity.

The sorcerer-seers of modern times call this process of invalidation “the ticket to impeccability” or the sorcerer’s symbolic but final death – don Juan said – and in that field at Sinaloa I got my ticket to impeccability. I died there: the tenuousness of my new continuity cost me my life.

But did you die, don Juan, or did you just faint? – I asked, trying not to sound cynical.

I died in that field – he said – I felt my awareness flowing out of me and heading towards the eagle, but as I had impeccably recapitulated my life, the eagle did not swallow my awareness… the eagle spat me out, because my body was dead in the field but the eagle did not let me go through to freedom. It was as if it told me to go back, and try again.

I ascended the heights of blackness and descended again to the light of the earth and then I found myself in a shallow grave at the edge of the field covered with rocks and dirt. 

Don Juan said that he knew instantly what to do. After digging himself out, he rearranged the grave to look as though a body were still there, and slipped away. He felt strong and determined. He knew that he had to return to his benefactor’s house but before he started on his return journey he wanted to see his family and explain to them that he was a sorcerer and for, for that reason, he couldn’t stay with them.

He wanted to explain that his downfall had been not knowing that sorcerers can never make a bridge to join the people of the world but, if people desire to do so, they have to make a bridge to join the sorcerer.

I went home – don Juan continued – but the house was empty. The shocked neighbors told me that farm workers had come earlier with the news that I had dropped dead at work, and my wife and her children had left.

How long were you dead don Juan? – I asked.

A whole day, apparently – he said.

Don Juan’s smile played on his lips. His eyes seemed to be made of shiny obsidian: He was watching my reaction… waiting for my comments.

What became of your family don Juan? – I asked

Aha, the question of a sensible man – he remarked – for a moment I thought you were going to ask me about my death.

I confessed that I had been about to, but that I knew he was seeing my question as I formulated it in my mind, and just to be contrary I asked something else. I didn’t mean it as a joke, but it made him laugh.

My family disappeared that day – he said – my wife was a survivor… she had to be, with the conditions we lived under; since I had been waiting for my death, she believed I had gotten what I wanted. There was nothing for her to do there, so she left. I missed the children, and I consoled myself with the thought that it wasn’t my fate to be with them, however sorcerers have a peculiar bent: they live exclusively in the twilight of a feeling, best described by the words “…and yet”… 

When everything is crumbling down around them, sorcerers accept that the situation is terrible and then immediately escape to the twilight of “…and yet…”. I did that with those feelings for the children and the woman. With great discipline, especially on the part of the oldest boy, they had recapitulated their lives with me: only the spirit could decide the outcome of that affection.

He reminded me that he had taught me how warriors acted in such situations: they did their utmost, and then, without any remorse or regrets, they relaxed and let the spirit decide the outcome.

What was the decision of the spirit don Juan? – I asked.

He scrutinized me without answering. I knew he was completely aware of my motive for asking… I had experienced a similar affection and a similar loss.

The decision of the spirit is another basic core – he said – sorcery stories are built around it. We’ll talk about that specific decision when we get to discussing that basic core. Now, wasn’t there a question about my death you wanted to ask?

If they thought you were dead, why the shallow grave? – I asked – why didn’t they dig a real grave and bury you?

That’s more like you – he said, laughing – I asked the same question myself and I realized that all those farmworkers were pious people. I was a Christian. Christians are not buried just like that, nor are they left to rot like dogs. I think they were waiting for my family to come and collect the body and give it a proper burial, but my family never came.

Did you go and look for them don Juan? – I asked.

No. Sorcerers never look for anyone – he replied – and I was a sorcerer. I had paid with my life for the mistake of not knowing that I was a sorcerer, and that sorcerers never approach anyone. 

From that day on, I have only accepted the company or the care of people or warriors who are dead, as I am.

from "The Power of Silence" by Carlos Castaneda 

British Israele: una descrizione soggettiva

Inanzitutto uno deve capire che i popoli nord europei (circa) sono discesi dagli israeliti. CI sono vari studi al riguardo ma la cosa è intensamente offuscato per motivi spirituali, quindi bisogna procedere con cautela.
I nostri antennati erano a conoscenza della loro identità, e in inghilterra in particolare era questa coscoenza che ha spinto la creazione del impero sul piano spirituale.
Essi capivano di essere discesi da Giaccobe che ebbe il sogno a Bethel, dicendo
"e la tua discendenza sarà come la polvere della terra, e tu ti estenderai a ovest e a est a nord e a sud; e tutte le famiglie della terra saranno benedette in te e nella tua discendenza."
Pare che esistano documenti che confermano che Regina Vittoria (ad esempio) sapeva di essere un israelita seduta sul trono di Davide e tutti i monarchi europei sapevano (e invevitabilmente sanno tutt'ora) di aver una posizione nella genealogia davidica.

La Bibbia ci assicura che il trono di Davide non sarà mai rimoso: 2 Samiele 7:16 La tua casa e il tuo regno saranno resi saldi per sempre davanti a me e il tuo trono sarà reso stabile per sempre Genesi 49:10 Lo scettro non sarà rimosso da Giuda, né il bastone del comando di fra i suoi piedi, finché venga Sciloh'; e a lui ubbidiranno i popoli. Geremia 33:17 Infatti cosí dice l'Eterno: «Non verrà mai meno a Davide chi segga sul trono della casa d'Israele Profeticamente, Zaccaria 13:1
In quel giorno sarà aperta una fonte per la casa di Davide e per gli abitanti di Gerusalemme, per il peccato e per l'impurità. Il trono maggiore della terra è quello Brittanico, e non a caso la Pietra di Scone, considerato il relitto da Genesi 28:13, viene usato per la coronazione di ogni monarca, prima in Scozia e poi in Inghilterra (bisogna andare cauti con questa storia naturalmente, ma la tradizione millenaria è certa).

Le famiglie reali europei sono tutti collegati con la stessa discendenza rispetto agli altri tribù, inghilterra essendo naturalmente associato maggioramente con Giuda a causa del trono. La monarchia, è una forma di governo biblico, per quanto imperfetto, come anticipato da Dio in 1 Samuele 8.. L'autorità dei re è rimarcato a più riprese nei Proverbi e altrove.
Con l'arrivo dei Gesuiti e il popolo menzionao in Apocalisse 3:9 è iniziato nostra distruzione dei nostri popoli, in primis i tedeschi e gli inglesi: i secondi con mostruose menzogne e accuse di pratiche barbariche nella facenda del commercio di schiavi, per distruggere la morale, e i primi con accuse, largamente infondate, di orrori di guerra e di genocidio.

La creazione di guerre poi, mettendo fratello contro fratello, è stato quaso il colpo di grazia. Ma fra i popoli di Dio c'è sempre una rimanenza.

Ecco British Israel, circa. Io non lo seguo particolarmente, mi limito alla Bibbia, ma sono patriota e sono sempre stato impresso dalla monarchia, anche prima di venire alla fede.
Chiaramente, solo perché uno è re non è garanzia alcuna, ci sono tanti re cattivi nella storia e fanno gran danno, ma quando ne arriva uno giusto - uno che si inginnocchia veramente al trono di Dio per chiedere il Suo aiuto nel ufficio, viene liberato il potere di Dio e ogni vittoria è assicurata.

La monarcchia europea, compreso e forse principalmente quella Brittanca, è intriso di pratiche massoniche e sataniche, come i re malefiche nella Bibbia, che si inginnocchiavano nei templi di Baal.
In questa schema l'Italia è una nazione divisa, con differenze entiche antiche e soprattutto l'egemonia di Roma e il Vaticano. Con delle richerche si riesce trovare i tribu che si insediavano maggiorment in italia. I stendardi e stemme delle famiglia reali europei riportano emblemi tribali, confermando le loro provenienze fra gli israeliti per chi ha tempo di studiarli.

I "BI" sono vocali soprattutto nel commonwealth . I fratelle e le sorrelle negli Stati Uniti sono maggiormente diffidenti rispetto al trono per motivi storici (offuscati e contorti come sempre).

Il pensiero BI è essensialmente teonomico e sostanzialmente in attesa di un arrivo vittorioso di Gesù, che deve sedersi su un trono purifcata e santo. Quindi la vittoria ci competa - come con le idee postmillenniali.

 

Come here... go away

We wrote occasionally a few months ago. She agreed to go dancing together but changed her mind.

I proposed a meeting simply to chat; she agreed, but never got back to me.
Then, four or five months later she wrote out of the blue to say that she was now ready for that proposed meeting, in the place agreed, and on the very next day without fail.

I looked forward to chatting. Something, I supposed, must have changed... I wondered what. She told me she was a good listener*, so I thought I might be able to share some of my struggles in the hope that they would be thereby alleviated, which is what friendship can sometimes do.

I put that word in italics to focus attention on what it might mean. I think it must surely imply some kind of relationship based on reciprocity, respect and interest. I mean a two-way process. One cannot establish a friendship with a statue, icon, alter, or mirror, as Narcissus discovered.

When we sat down for our cup of tea she told me that she had come because of her desire to visit the venue rather than to see me. I was an aspect of the experience, but not essential. She assured me that she would have been there without fail even if I had been unable to attend. 

She spent our time together telling me that she had no intention of getting involved with anyone and had no need for any kind of relationship apart from her family ones. Relationships, she said, always turned sour. 

By now I was wondering why she had contacted me and why she thought I might be interested in knowing her reasons for not wishing to get to know me or anyone else.

From a philosophical standpoint, to contact someone with whom one is not in contact with the sole intention of telling them one does not wish to have a relationship with them is a formative contradiction. Summoning someone in order to dismiss them. The notice that says "do not read this notice", and so forth.

From a humanistic standpoint, it was perhaps unfeeling? I had already understood that I was not within her desiderata several months ago and I was fine with it. 
Did I need reminding?
Anyway, inter-alia, I had never actually proposed any kind of relationship other than a dancing partnership (rejected), so she was preempting.

Since she had come all the way over to my house (ultimately) to tell me that she didn't care for my company, perhaps the subtext was that she might potentially care? Perhaps she wanted to elicit some kind of reaction. I could perhaps play the part, but I think an agreement would have to be forged before proceeding. One cannot simply presume to know what people want. It would be abusive.

- Narcissistic people do presume far more, and she was certainly drawn to that personality type, having sustained a long relationship with a narcissist.
I met someone recently who confessed to me that she always chose abusive partners. She was aware of it but continued to do it on the dating scene.
She was effectively choosing these dashing but toxic personalities for sensual reasons, dipping her toes in the water and then fleeing. I suppose that's an option, but the type of men she was getting involved with can be vindictive and obsessive so it is a dangerous game. -

Or was it no more than the fact that having accepted a proposal once (reluctantly?), she now sought to establish her righteousness by keeping the letter of her word, with no interest in her interlocutor, who had a mere walk-on role in the drama?
Who can say!

I sometimes analyse events and scenarios in this manner to help me understand why for example, I am left feeling empty rather than uplifted... or vice versa.


* We should surely be wary of characterising ourselves and rather let others do it. We of course have an opinion of our qualities and faults, but that is often quite distant from the way we are perceived by others (net of the sycophants, who will always validate our greatest conceits).

Shoelaces and Eau Savage

 

In the day, I had a friend and his name was Chris Clark. I met him when we went to Oxford together so I suppose he lived in the Birmingham area.

Chris knew stuff and had connections. He was very confident about most matters, and he had a small van. I think his father looked after him in the area of vans, unlike my dad, who washed his hands of me when I was nine.

The first thing I discovered about Chris is that he had a great interest in fashion and personal cleanliness. He was very critical of me in both of those regards so I made an effort to improve. 

We had Doc Martin boots, which Chris officially "endorsed" (a word he used a lot). But the laces were not to be the ordinary brown or black ones. Chris used to shrink in horror from such an unthinking show of conformity. The laces he had secured were red, and I soon managed to find some (to fit in and because I liked them also). Acquiring such things, in the day, was not a simple matter. Especially for a young man who was standing at the very boundary of taste and pushing hard.
Later, he found some pale blue ones that he absolutely loved. He was very stylish indeed and I tried to copy him in many things.

He was also theatrical, and he would shrink in mock horror and proclaim eugh! with great emphasis if he saw anything or especially a vestiary item/combination that offended his sense of taste. His aesthetic extended into all areas of life: products, ideas, foods, beverages... he was also critical of people if they were resolutely unwashed and unkempt.

He knew about Jim Beam whisky (no one knew about such things in 1975) and so we drank some in the van, which was parked, that first night, in the centre of Reading.
You see, we were on an adventure to find a house to rent and then to live there with the other boys in our band, being Steve (drums), Mike (keyboards), and Dave (bass). I played the guitar and Chris played the flute and saxophone. He disapproved of people who played brass instruments because they were dirty, always spitting into their horns and smoking cigarettes (he said). A lot of his banter was just good humour and studied hyperbole.

We eventually gave up on Reading because it seemed too miserable to be sitting in the carpark at 10 pm with the long night before us so Chris proposed that we go to Oxford where he knew a man who would put us up for the night. 

And so I met Reid later that night. Reid was absolutely fascinating to me: he was Canadian and very handsome, with curly blonde hair and freckles. And he was training as a luthier so there was a workshop in his house where he was making a renaissance lute. I had never seen such fine craftsmanship... and he was young too - about the same age as Chris and I. I felt out of my depth, but Reid was very personable and so was Chris.

So that was the start of my life in Oxford, where I remained for five years.
We found a shared house soon afterwards - just for the winter holidays because the students were vacating their let over Christmas, but we had a stroke of luck and managed to move into the downstairs flat in the same house when our tenancy was up.
One of the many odd but likeable things about Chris was his penchant for Eau Savage. He insisted that men should wear this costly perfume as a statement of style (or perhaps to cover unseemly odours?). Of course I bought a bottle and used to wear it, for a season. I am very easily influenced

.
He also liked to wear voluminous overcoats and he used to name them.
Once, he lent me one called "Muriel" when I was on a difficult mission involving a young lady. He instructed Muriel to keep my body and soul together. I shall always remember that. No one used to say such things in 1975.

Chris was girly in many aspects of his persona, but he used to like many manly things too, although more for theatrical effect than conviction perhaps. He had an Indian girlfriend at a time when no one had relationships with different race persons. She was very pretty and delicate; always hiding from her parents, who could not know or suspect anything. I suppose she wasn't allowed to go out much. Chris was very proud of her delicate and dusky beauty. She was the perfect accessory for such a refined and genteel boy. Perhaps he loved her. He was certainly loyal.

All in all, Chris was one of the most interesting people I have ever known. I was fascinated by his constant attitudes and positioning. His vocabulary also was very consciously chosen and distinctive. He went on to attend a school of fashion in London but it turned out that he was already making his own clothes. It was easy, he explained, showing us some perfectly cut and stitched corduroy jeans he had somehow cobbled together. He was making clothes for men and women even back then when we were still in our teens. His father was a business executive as far as I can recall. I don't think it was a family concern.

The last time I saw him I was in London by chance in a market and I was with my wife. It was only a fleeting encounter. I have often tried to find him online but without success.

On rereading this memoire I discovered that I had  actually written Christ every time (every time) I had intended to write Chris. I think it's significant.

Earwig

While this residents' group is mainly dealing with the important matter of missing cats, where they might be, have they packed their toothbrush, and why they have run away, if indeed they have run away rather than simply minded their own business and gone where they please, I wonder if anyone has seen my earwig? I'm looking after it for a friend so I am concerned that she will return from her holidays to face the devastating news that Henry has run away.

He is a handsome fellow, quite tall, with a burnished brown jacket and trousers. He has a small collar and perhaps a trailing leash, because I cannot find it in the house (though of course it is only a short length of cotton).

Henry told me he was going to Stratford on Avon two days ago (he is a Shakespeare fan) but he has not returned as expected.

He might be carrying a cane and wearing a monocle.

He is not chipped and tagged due to the refusal of the local veterinary authorities to perform the necessary procedures.

TIA

Optimistically

 

I need a door sign (the photo shows my late father, Edgar, wearing my hat and standing at his own door, several years ago).

I have a large ship's bell at the door, but most people continue to simply knock. They are intimidated by the bell. Some people do dare to tinkle it - and it is eminently audible - but no one will actually clang it properly. If the bell is sounded to its full voice, it can be heard quite far afield and certainly in the shed, being a place wherein I sometimes am.

Since a man arrived at my house - and he a martial fellow - knocked meekly on the door and then, when I failed to appear (because I was in my workshop and unable to hear a light knock at such a distance), simply left, causing problems because he was here to fix a leaky radiator, I have decided I need a sign.
The signs outside Owl's house (in A.A. Milne's "Winnie the Pooh") would be almost perfect. 

As far as I can ascertain, the one beside the door reads

"Plez cnoke if an rnsr is not reqid"

While one on the door reads

"Ples rnig if an rnser is reqird"

I am writing "rnig" from memory, although the online text does not contain that misspelling. It may also be that Ernest Shepard's illustration does not precisely match the text, but I have been unable to find a legible image online.
In this sort of exercise the misspellings would have to be retained in honour of the old book. My mother was very fond of it and I - like my sisters - became fond of it too when I was a teenager. It even became fashionable for a short while to quote from it and to imagine ourselves characters in the quaint and innocent scenes depicted, but these were surely vain and fanciful notions. I wonder whether those sorts of books truly are written for children? And do they deserve the honour they receive?

Adults love them. The original Shepard illustrations have changed hands for princely sums at auctions. But it is just nonsense, all of it. A grounding in a life of meaninglessness, adoration of vain imaginings and foolish speaking.

While another book, truly deserving of honour and celebration, lies unopened and despised.

In truth, I think I will make a different and more useful sign:

Please ring the bell.
If I don't appear (garden/shed/out/dead), try "clanging" the bell by pulling the cord vigorously to one side.
Thank you


Of course, if I am out or dead the clanging will not produce me, but it might alert a neighbour, who can then say "he's probably gone on one of his walks", optimistically.
 

The conspiracy of circumstance

Things became difficult. First he fell in love, or so he imagined, with a woman who cared nothing whatsoever for him, although her conduct had deceived him into believing differently.

Disillusioned, his friend who had recommended the unfaithful woman entreated him cruelly, using him to obtain unjust monetary benefit. 
The preacher at the church turned against him, and so he was obliged to leave.

His wife visited after an absence many years and used the occasion to mock him.
A band of gypsies came and attempted to beguile him into parting with a large amount of money, damaging his house to enforce his compliance.
He became fearful that they would return to take his possessions, so he hid his goods and inscribed the eighth commandment on the door of his house. His heart was fearful.
He was abandoned by all. His days became grey and the walls pressed in. His only child informed him that she had resolved to remain childless at the fullness of her age, despite having a willing partner.
His health began to fail, his sleep was troubled, and every attempt to find remedy was thwarted in the bud.
Things had become difficult indeed.
His faith was weak and his spirit was faint. He looked back on his life and reviewed his multiple failures, leading to his utter solitude.
He had reached his sixty-ninth year and he was ready to die because there was nothing to live for.
Perhaps writing the story would somehow clarify the matter.
He had been speaking forcefully for some time against the powers of the Devil. Opposing a witch but succumbing to her charms.
Dear Lord in heaven, have mercy on the soul of thy servant in these darkest of days. I beseech thee to remember thy servant and forgive him his many sins.

Amen

Silhouette

 

To her horror

"She approached the unfamiliar door and nervously took the key from her pocket. She took a deep breath, unlocked the door, paused, then opened it. To her horror she saw numerous bodies sprawled all over a blood-stained floor. The stench filled her nostrils, recoiling in fear Anna slowly looked down at her hands. Ghost white and trembling like a leaf, sweat poured from her every gland and the world began to spin." Why do people write about such vile things? And why do people write so poorly? I hate to read this sort of stuff but I joined the forum and my eyes fell on your offering so here goes (hold tight). There's enough dead wood in here to start a bonfire. "To her horror" is trite and unnecessary, as someone else has pointed out. It's the sort of phrase one uses in polite society when one is about to make or has made a faux pas. The type of scene you are describing is horrific, period. What is the function of "numerous" that the plural "bodies" is unable to fulfil in this context? Is your protagonist counting? It's not "a" floor, it is "the" floor. "The stench filled her nostrils": these kinds of phrases are merely conventions. The word "stench" is strong, but a creative writer can perhaps introduce it without relying on a tired cliché that reduces the power of the image rather than emphasising it. "Recoiling in fear" is another cliché and should anyway be followed by a comma in your sentence. Note also that "recoil" is not commonly associated with fear but rather with feelings such as horror or disgust. Fear is more likely to cause one to freeze, shake, retreat, and so forth. "Recoiling" is at odds with "slowly looking down". The former is an automatic instinctive reaction while the latter is meditative. Is the colour "ghost white" different from "white" in this context? "Trembling like a leaf" is another cliché. Does "like a leaf" add anything useful? "The world began to spin". If you were in my writing class your world would certainly begin to spin if you presented me with this essay. I would be equally critical of most (not all) of the stuff I have read on this forum thus far so you are not in line for any prizes. People might say I should encourage you and your ilk, but if my words serve to encourage you to desist from writing then that would be a reward in itself. If you choose to persist, I trust you will step more carefully and perhaps change your subject matter. The scene you wish to describe is very ambitious indeed for a novice writer. I suggest you start with something far simpler. A shopping list perhaps? I am not entirely joking here. Any words you commit to paper should be studied carefully, and the scope for careful and creative writing in simple matters is largely unexplored because most budding writers seem compelled to jump in at the deep end with the most challenging conceits. Peace out.

Welcome to the New Age

This was quite a gig, no denying it. This is the New Age church: energy and inspiration but no King and so seduced by wickedness and lies.

But the people of Christ are rising up. Let us take the helm at last!,

A talk

 We need to talk, you and I. 

I hear the patter of feet among the trees, but when I turn around all I see is raindrops bouncing off last summer's leaves.

We need to talk, you and I

but perhaps we were just bystanders at some street scene of shouting and recrimination,

I thought we had met, but now I see that we have not.

Excuse me; je suis desolé, mais nous avons cassé le miroi


I think I wrote this, but my memory is hazy. It was proposed on Facebook from 13 years ago

To my learned friends

 I wish to share a few thoughts with my learned friends concerning the situation at Hellier Street Gospel Hall.

I was shocked to find the hall silent when I first came in January and I have been attempting, with my very limited resources, to make up for a singular lack of praise and worship, sporadic teaching, and little to no encouragement although betimes assisted by my brethren. I sometimes wonder whether my regular speaking is resented, for reasons I cannot discern. I have no wish to clamber up to the platform or aggrandise myself in any way. I do enjoy speaking but also listening. 

I had hoped the direction, given indispositions and silencings, would be that of a general return to a more open style assembly in which the role of preacher is removed and all those present take it in turns to share thoughts and expound the Bible (only men for teaching) as they understand it, also from the front of the hall for clarity and for the acoustic comfort of all.

Evangelism also is absent: there is a sign on the church door stating “for believers”, but if we only admit believers how can we teach and share the Scriptures? As a man saved in later life I find that sign very offensive. I would never have come to Christ if there were only Hellier Street to attend because I would not have been admitted. I wonder what Scriptural authority has been jemmied into service to display such a heartless message.

The church is quite clearly on its last legs and has been teetering there since I arrived. It needs renewed vigour so changes must be made. The burden has been borne stoically by mainly one man over the years, which is not to detract from the important role played by all and some in particular, and it is clearly time to move on, so why not share the burden among all rather than calling in visiting preachers (sometimes at a cost)? We must read and praise, every man on his own terms. If there be differences of interpretation (as there must be) these shall not divide us as long as we keep our eyes on the cross. 

I have changed my theological position greatly since I first attended, but I am opposed to falling out over the niceties of doctrine and so I returned after my long hiatus, which I took because I had been tacitly disqualified from mentioning anything pertaining to Biblical cosmology. I still think this was unjust censorship but I hold no animosity. The same silencing has been imposed in most churches.

I have now come to reject the premillennial view of the end times and have instead embraced a more postmillennial or preterist outlook. Essentially I am looking to the future with blessed hope rather than quaking with fear. I know that I am saved by the blood of Christ and I feel very secure in my salvation so I don’t fear war, sword, famine, unjust and overbearing governments, climate change, pandemics, and the new world order. I fear the Lord, not Satan. Even in the very unlikely event that the Apocalypse should occur in our lifetime surely we should present ourselves ready and willing workers, busy building the kingdom of God rather moping and crying.  I would like to share these ideas in church and point to their scriptural support, allowing each to reach their own conclusions in friendship and acceptance, but I feel that I would be fighting against the tide. A rebuke from the platform even among so few is often swift in coming if a man veers even slightly from accepted dogma. Even our hymn writers  are chastised!

The church needs to open its doors to the local community, real flowers in the building, an open day. A welcoming Sunday. We have the truth, we have the Bible. But where is the heart and where the passion?

I have been very disappointed.

The church will not survive without a congregation. I have prayed over this in the assembly and without and more prayer is required. I am personally an unfit church member because of the distance involved, apart from my many personal inadequacies. I want to support a local church in my community, as it should be.

Hellier Street is in desperate need of joy, tuneful singing, flowers, incense, an organ or guitar? Why is the atmosphere always so dour?

There is also spiritual bondage at work in the heart of the church, and this matter must be addressed. Prayed over, and resolved. I am not the only member to have noticed that the body and blood of our saviour are eschewed and offended week after week without redress. Such grave matters must be remedied, and the Bible gives believers authority to act in cases of spiritual bondage and attachment.

Also, why are the women placed under a curse of silence based on a single verse of the Bible? It is unduly harsh to prevent a woman from uttering a prayer before God or from reading a Psalm. Silencing in the Bible is always a curse. Many scholars claim that Paul was speaking to a contingency in Corinth rather than silencing all women worldwide. He was a lawyer and a scribe, he uses language as an advocate, employing hyperbole, ridicule, satire. He requires careful interpretation and this matter is very important. The rise of women pastors and women in places of authority over men is absolutely unscriptural, but to silence them otherwise cannot be justified if the Bible is considered in its entirety, although such a practice will certainly help to keep an empty church empty. What incentive does a young woman have to attend if she is prohibited from open prayer or even so much as speaking a word?  

Now even the teaching she might have received (the sole justification) has been removed, and yet the silencing persists.

There is no animosity in my words. I like you all individually and have become very attached to you. But together, the thing that is being attempted is clearly not working, so the hand of the Lord is not with you. The hall could be let during the week, for example. This might bring non-believers into the church, can constitute a blessing, an occasion for witnessing, and also generate a small income stream.

I know there are practical matters to overcome, but surely they can be resolved. A local man could be paid a retainer to keep an eye on the building during events, thus establishing some kind of economic link with the community. Also the garden could be placed in the care of someone local as can odd jobs around the property, for the same reason: bringing the community into the church rather than standing empty and silent and then hosting eight or nine souls once a week. Of course the quality of workmanship may vary but it is the spirit that matters. What is the point of it? Without local members the church is dead. So surely it is better to simplify the requirements for entering, make the assemblies more appealing – especially for newcomers – e.g. by allowing women to speak, sharing encouraging messages in addition to woeful ones (which of course have their place, but with an empty church  it hardly matters), and so forth. If we still retain the Bible, progress has been made. I am not suggesting a departure from Scripture. Just a more flexible and joyful approach to the freedom we have in Christ. I would contribute more freely from my own limited funds if the monies were used in a more tangible and local manner. The Trinitarian Bible Society  and the Christian Institute have no need of our financial support. They have many wealthy benefactors already. I did object when I first attended, especially since the important statement of faith that appears on the Church website proudly removes the assembly from any interference of the church with state affairs, while this is in clear conflict with the practice of supporting an organisation that exerts pressure on the government to promote Christian values. My objection was heard and acknowledged but the practice continued and the statement has never been adjusted to reflect it, resulting in an act of wilful deception. The first of one of my many experiences at Hellier Street of being ignored.

I expect I shan’t return after having spoken so plainly – certainly not without an invitation. I never felt there was any incentive to share my views in church and every proposal I made was consistently rejected so I am quite sure that this rambling letter will follow the same path, but it seemed right to me to sound the alarm. If anyone cares to reply privately I will read and reply as fitting. My message is intended to goad into action rather than criticise, but it is necessarily critical at the same time, and the matter cannot be avoided. 

I will gladly attend services of course if people will still have me. We have broken bread together and are instructed to practice friendship, but one thing I do like to do with friends is to speak plainly when the time comes. I try to be diplomatic and usually fall at the first hurdle, but my intentions are friendly.