Sunday, December 24, 2006

Happy Christmas

There is more to Life than Man
methinks

There was something formless and perfect
before the universe was born.
It is serene.
Empty. Solitary. Unchanging. Infinite.
Eternally present.
It is the mother of the universe.
For lack of a better name, I call it the Tao.

It flows through all things,
inside and outside,
and returns to the origin of all things.

The Tao is great.
The universe is great.
Earth is great.
Man is great.
These are the four great powers.

Man follows the earth.
Earth follows the universe.
The universe follows the Tao.
The Tao follows only itself.

Posted by Patrick at 10:12 AM | | Comments

Saturday, December 23, 2006

Poetry in Motion

Cloudy - The sky is gray and white and cloudy - Sometimes I think it's hanging down on me - And it's a hitchhike a hundred miles - I'm a rag-a-muffin child - Pointed finger-painted smile - I left my shadow waiting down the road for me a while - Cloudy - My thoughts are scattered and they're cloudy - They have no borders, no boundaries - They echo and they swell - From Tolstoi to Tinker Bell - Down from Berkeley to Carmel - Got some pictures in my pocket and a lot of time to kill - Hey sunshine - I haven't seen you in a long time - Why don't you show your face and bend my mind? - These clouds stick to the sky - Like floating questions, why? - And they linger there to die - They don't know where they are going - and - my friend - neither do I - Cloudy
(Paul Simon, 1966)
Lyrics are great, helps though if you know the tune, if not they're poetry. Poetry is great too.
Granny used to write poetry, it was a bit flowery, she'd throw in unfamiliar words that one ought to know. 'Nacreous shells of rainbow hues'. She used to paint flowers, really well. She now pretends to herself, and to others, including me, that she still does. She leaves her painting stuff on the table in the dining room. She moves it around from time to time but it's been there for a couple of years and she hasn't touched it for at least six months. It's a shame because she's still better at it than you or me. Still, it makes her happy that she thinks she does it.
She got up in the night because she's freaked out that the cat is able to get out of the catflap and she won't know where it is. I came downstairs this morning to find all sorts of bits and pieces in front it's exit: a pot full of kitchen knives, a tea towel, the cheese grater and a couple of dishcloths.
The cat had pushed them aside to get out. Unfortunately they had blocked the little door from opening the other way so her good intentions had locked the cat out for the night. She can't remember that there are a couple of little sliders to open and lock the door, a note stuck there gets removed because she reads it, remembers it (she thinks), and then throws it away.
The cat came back about ten, Granny was distraught in the meantime. Cloudy, my thoughts are scattered, and they're cloudy. So are hers.
and the poet said:
He who stands on tiptoe doesn't stand firm.
He who rushes ahead doesn't go far.
He who tries to shine dims his own light.
He who defines himself can't know who he really is.
He who has power over others can't empower himself.
He who clings to his work will create nothing that endures.
If you want to accord with the Tao,
just do your job,
then let go.

Posted by Patrick at 6:53 PM | | Comments

Reluctance by Robert Frost

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

Posted by Patrick at 3:04 PM | | Comments

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Something's gotta change

I'm going to try again today - To say whats in my heart - And pray for a better tomorrow - Make a brand new start - I'm telling everybody to turn it up again - Something's gotta change - Good bye yesterday - Try again today - Something's gotta change
(Try Again Today, The Charlatans, Up At The Lake 2004)
Dementia is a blanket term, it used to be known as senility, old people with such a condition were generally referred to as being geriatric. You don't hear those terms used so much any more.
The symbiosis of living with dementia I can no longer deny: it's a kind of waking dream and I'm dreaming it, floating somewhere in my imagination as I write this, what day is it? It doesn't matter. What needs to be done? Not much. Do the most important things and then go back to sleep, watch the weeks pass, do the usual chores (I never liked that word), ignore the problems, watch a bit of tv, listen to the radio, wait, wait, waiting for what? For it to end, somehow.
Now where was I?
I said it before and I'm saying it again: don't live with dementia. It fucks with your head. I need a real break, it's been three years. That's a long time, unless you are a stone or you have dementia.
A lady from the pensions service came yesterday to assess how much Granny has to pay for her respite care. Granny was muttering to herself in the other room, it's something she does a lot when she has something on her mind, 'Is this about me? If so I want to know what is going on', she wasn't happy. I had to tell her it was about me, a few times, I lied to her, otherwise she'd have never have stopped insisting she is perfectly alright. I had to listen to that after the woman had left, had to explain to her a number of times that it was about pensions and nothing to do with putting her away into a home.
'I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, and I can always call on one of the neighbours if I need anything, I keep the house tidy, look after my pusscat, I get myself dressed in the morning and take myself off to bed.'
She said that a lot to me yesterday. I had to go out in the end, took my friend's dog up onto the moor.
Today she's forgotten that we ever had the discussion (and it wasn't the first time, it happens whenever the social worker visits or anyone else on official business). She always insists she is perfectly alright yet I know she isn't: she needs someone when things get too much for her, when she gets confused, when she cannot make sense of what is happening. Most of the time it is me.
Somethings gotta change.
As the poet said...

Express yourself completely, then keep quiet.
Be like the forces of nature:
when it blows, there is only wind;
when it rains, there is only rain;
when the clouds pass, the sun shines through.
If you open yourself to the Tao,
you are at one with the Tao
and you can embody it completely.
If you open yourself to insight,
you are at one with insight
and you can use it completely.
If you open yourself to loss,
you are at one with loss
and you can accept it completely.
Open yourself to the Tao,
then trust your natural responses;
and everything will fall into place.

Posted by Patrick at 4:18 PM | | Comments

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Hound of The Baskervilles

Woof
Granny is upset. She isn't getting on with new cat. Padgett 1 (The Fellowship of The Ring) spent so long in her company that it knew no other life than doing what she did. Bed at 10, in all night, up around 8, sit around most of the day, lie in the sun if it's shining. A fairly passive existence.
I stayed with Granny once, years ago, and saw Padgett with something bright blue at the end of the lawn. 'Granny, I think your cat has got a bird', (Den down the road kept them in an aviary in his garden), 'Oh no darling, she couldn't possibly have something like that'. Padgett was feline perfection, she could do no wrong.
Padgett 2 was similar to Padgett, though she bit Granny quite a lot (deep full-on crunching bites), in her state of mind Granny simply replaced her affection for Padgett with Padgett 2 (who was officially called Stephanie).
Now she's telling me that Padgett 3, The Return of The King (who incidentally and confusingly she refers to as Padgett 2 - Stephanie appears to have been airbrushed from history), Fudge as she should be known is not the same as her other cat: she is not as loving.
Poor Granny. Cats should all be alike: attention on demand, sleep on her bed, in all night, fed by magic and never have to change a litter tray. She can't get used to it. The nature of her illness is she can't get used to anything new.

If you want to become whole, let yourself be partial.
If you want to become straight, let yourself be crooked.
If you want to become full, let yourself be empty.
If you want to be reborn, let yourself die.
If you want to be given everything, give everything up.
The Master, by residing in the Tao, sets an example for all beings.
Because he doesn't display himself, people can see his light.
Because he has nothing to prove, people can trust his words.
Because he doesn't know who he is, people recognize themselves in him.
Because he has no goal in mind, everything he does succeeds.
When the ancient Masters said,
"If you want to be given everything, give everything up,"
they weren't using empty phrases.
Only in being lived by the Tao can you be truly yourself.

Posted by Patrick at 7:22 PM | | Comments

Monday, December 18, 2006

Daylight Robbery

She can vaguely remember Padgett 2, it was a couple of weeks ago now that she died. I showed her the vet's bill today, for her to write the cheque.

"£164.91, that's daylight robbery. No, that's wicked, what's this 'out of hours' visit? Oh darling, I suppose I have to pay it but that is just preying on people."

She wasn't impressed, she still isn't. Shocking things stick for a while.

"Have I got enough in my account though? Where is my statement."

I explain to her that there is always enough in her account, that we keep above a certain amount to avoid charges. She asks again, and again, and again. She leafs through her cheque stubs and looks at her statement. She does a few sums on the back of it to satisfy herself of the fact that she has enough then puts it all down. A little while later she picks it up again. Goes through the same motions, the same questions.

Right now she's looking through to see who to send christmas cards to. We did that last week. I remind her. "Oh, good-ie", she says with a look that is at once relieved at not having to do it all and unsure because she cannot remember doing it.

Time to cook some food, I'll get her to help, put her concentration elsewhere.

The Master keeps her mind always at one with the Tao;
that is what gives her her radiance.
The Tao is ungraspable.
How can her mind be at one with it?
Because she doesn't cling to ideas.
The Tao is dark and unfathomable.
How can it make her radiant?
Because she lets it.
Since before time and space were, the Tao is.
It is beyond is and is not.
How do I know this is true?
I look inside myself and see.

Posted by Patrick at 6:13 PM | | Comments

Saturday, December 16, 2006

We Love Our Animals

The cat has gone again, now it's dark and I'm faced with a grandmother who cannot understand that anything might behave in a way different from how she perceives it should.

Perhaps her worry for the cat is a kind of foil for thinking of herself. She is clinging on to being able to take care of something, the cat reciprocates her attention (up to a point) and she takes a great deal of comfort and self-satisfaction from that. The cat gives her a sense of purpose, even though she doesn't actually do any more for the cat than think about it and stroke it when it allows her to do so.

I like cats but I don't subscribe to the common English view that all creatures are cute furry bundles of flesh that exist for our enjoyment and sentimental satisfaction. Cats like to kill for pleasure. We humans mollycoddle them and keep them in our homes in a state of perpetual kittenhood, never allowing them to grow up, projecting our feelings of sentiment on them and conveniently ignoring that wen we let them out they'll take a piss to mark their territory, have a shit in someone else's garden before further decimating the local bird and small mammal population. I do like cats, honestly, I just don't like all the cutesy-cutesy bullshit that gets put about.

It's tough for Granny. The neighbours were acting for the best, as they thought, in replacing Padgett 2 so quickly, but only acting in the best way for themselves: they were getting a lot of phonecalls from her when she was alone and working herself up into a state and they couldn't handle it. They didn't call me or anyone else responsible for her, just sorted themselves out by relieving the immediacy of Granny's anguish and left it for me to come back and take over.

They didn't get her an older cat. They had to 'pull strings' to get one so quickly (as if to say, 'Patrick you should be grateful for us helping so much'). Now I have a senile grandmother who wants a lap cat but instead has a young cat with a mind for getting out into the world, making it's mark, doing a bit of hunting and exploring and spending as little time as possible being locked into a small suburban house, and she can't understand it, over and over again. Fuckwits.

and the poet said...


Stop thinking, and end your problems.
What difference between yes and no?
What difference between success and failure?
Must you value what others value, avoid what others avoid?
How ridiculous!
Other people are excited,
as though they were at a parade.
I alone don't care,
I alone am expressionless,
like an infant before it can smile.
Other people have what they need;
I alone possess nothing.
I alone drift about, like someone without a home.
I am like an idiot, my mind is so empty.
Other people are bright; I alone am dark.
Other people are sharper; I alone am dull.
Other people have a purpose; I alone don't know.
I drift like a wave on the ocean, I blow as aimless as the wind.
I am different from ordinary people.
I drink from the Great Mother's breasts.

Posted by Patrick at 6:15 PM | | Comments

New Life and Old


All that you touch All that you see All that you taste All you feel. All that you love All that you hate All you distrust All you save. All that you give All that you deal All that you buy, beg, borrow or steal. All you create All you destroy All that you do All that you say. All that you eat And everyone you meet All that you slight And everyone you fight. All that is now All that is gone All that's to come and everything under the sun is in tune but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.


The carer came this morning. 'Is that a new cat?', 'Oh no, that's Padgett, isn't she a darling.'

J and Millie had a baby girl yesterday.

the poet wrote
Throw away holiness and wisdom,
and people will be a hundred times happier.
Throw away morality and justice,
and people will do the right thing.
Throw away industry and profit,
and there won't be any thieves.
If these three aren't enough,
just stay at the centre of the circle
and let all things take their course.

Posted by Patrick at 10:09 AM | | Comments

Friday, December 15, 2006

Spirit In The Sky

One Instant is eternity;
eternity is the now.
When you see through this one instant,
you see through the one who sees
so the poet wrote
When the great Tao is forgotten,
goodness and piety appear.
When the body's intelligence declines,
cleverness and knowledge step forth.
When there is no peace in the family,
filial piety begins.
When the country falls into chaos,
patriotism is born.

Posted by Patrick at 7:58 PM | | Comments

Thursday, December 14, 2006

my little town

In my little town
I grew up believing
God keeps his eye on us all
And he used to lean upon me
As I pledged allegiance to the wall
Lord I recall
My little town
Coming home after school
Flying my bike past the gates
Of the factories
My mom doing the laundry
Hanging our shirts
In the dirty breeze
And after it rains
Theres a rainbow
And all of the colors are black
Its not that the colors arent there
Its just imagination they lack
Everythings the same
Back in my little town
Nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
Nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town
In my little town
I never meant nothin
I was just my fathers son
Saving my money
Dreaming of glory
Twitching like a finger
On the trigger of a gun
Leaving nothing but the dead and dying
Back in my little town

- Words & music by paul simon 1975 Posted by Picasa

Posted by Patrick at 9:13 PM | | Comments

Padgett 3, The Return of The King

Back to normal. And Granny forgets she was ever gone.




When the Master governs,
the people are hardly aware that he exists.
Next best is a leader who is loved.
Next, one who is feared.
The worst is one who is despised.
If you don't trust the people, you make them untrustworthy.
The Master doesn't talk, he acts.
When his work is done,
the people say, "Amazing: we did it, all by ourselves!"

Posted by Patrick at 10:03 AM | | Comments

Fudge


While I was away for a while Granny's cat, Padgett 2 died (Granny couldn't get to grips with a new name so she was a sequel, a bit like The Two Towers in the Lord of The Rings). Padgett, the first cat, The Fellowship of The Ring so to speak, died back in May. Padgett 2 was a rescue cat, she was old, she got ill one day and died the next. Granny was distraught.

She rang the vet's clinic every ten minutes because she didn't remember what she had been told the last time she had rung. Her mind being fragile, her emotions are immediate and intense. Without a proper memory she gets into a confused state, is comforted by another, forgets the comfort and returns to the pain. And it continues, sometimes for a long time.

Two neighbours, kind-hearted yet short of patience and somewhat lacking in the ability to communicate thought it would be best to immediately replace her and Fudge arrived via the good ladies of the cats' protection league. Except Fudge has now disappeared, she slipped out of the back door while I was sorting out her litter tray and headed through the hedge towards the houses beyond.

Granny is distraught. I'm off out to try to find her, Granny is at the front door calling 'Padgett, Padgett, here puss' to Fudge (The Return of The King). She is crying and she is upset.

There's a photo above, give me a shout if you see her.

Posted by Patrick at 9:11 AM | | Comments

Love

December rose, it knows that no bee is coming to pollinate it
So it opens because it can, for no purpose other than to show the world
That it is beautiful
Like you



Empty your mind of all thoughts.
Let your heart be at peace.
Watch the turmoil of beings,
but contemplate their return.
Each separate being in the universe
returns to the common source.
Returning to the source is serenity.
If you don't realize the source,
you stumble in confusion and sorrow.
When you realize where you come from,
you naturally become tolerant, disinterested, amused,
kindhearted as a grandmother,
dignified as a king.
Immersed in the wonder of the Tao,
you can deal with whatever life brings you,
and when death comes,
you are ready.

Posted by Patrick at 7:42 AM | | Comments

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Bubbles


Imagine your love as a bubble. It kind of glows around you. It doesn't have any physical substance but it is real, it has strength, it comes from you, it is all you have with which to communicate.

We all have our bubble, some are bigger than others, some are more tangible than others, some might be so small that the love does not extend beyond the physical boundary of the body (which is a shame).

When bubbles touch love mingles. Bubbles touch whenever we communicate. Love is the same, unchanging, whoever we are. We choose the way and how much we let our love mingle with that of others, we give it the character we choose, either consciously or subconsciously. It is the mixing that gives it the character that we are able to feel. This depends on our relationships, be it as lovers, as family, as friends, colleagues, strangers, whatever. Love is the same, we feel it for each other in different ways. It is how we choose to communicate our love that determines how we treat one another, we mix it together and it shapes us as we shape it. It is our window on the world. It mixes in as many ways as there are people, each way different, determined by respect. It makes us who we are, not necessarily who we think we are.

That's my little theory anyway.

Chapter fifteen...

The ancient Masters were profound and subtle.
Their wisdom was unfathomable.
There is no way to describe it;
all we can describe is their appearance.

They were careful as someone crossing an iced-over stream.
Alert as a warrior in enemy territory.
Courteous as a guest.
Fluid as melting ice.
Shapable as a block of wood.
Receptive as a valley.
Clear as a glass of water.

Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving until the right action arises by itself?

The Master doesn't seek fulfillment.
Not seeking, not expecting, she is present, and can welcome all things.

Posted by Patrick at 9:55 PM | | Comments