Shiva's and Metta's Mother's Sutra

 Winter Solstice in the shortening of days, their shuddered abbreviations, the way a swing awaits midway - expectantly, the trajectory of its flight, so too the planet sits back - up - on its heels, its sprung haunches, ready to pounce and a-go. as it does, it giggles, like a maiden, or a youth, a care-less turning round of itself, admiring its reflection - a clever trick, pleased to have fooled the sun to ride, for one more cycle, to  stay to me, for yet another year.

You may think that we know very little about space, but actually, we know even less known about the oceans than we do about space. We can gaze million of light years into the past, measure gravitational fields, gaze at the moons of Jupiter, and still we are mostly ignorant about what has the seas have sealed beneath their surface. Beneath the waves things lurk; it is why swimming in the sea always brings a frisson. It is why we head to the water's edge, if we can get to it, to feel free - or the limits of our abilities. It is where we feel the edge between our humanity and immortality.  And yet the oceans are benign. They are home of countless species. It is a hopeless task to attempt to enumerate all of the beings which live there. What would be the point? Count the kinds and numbers of fish, the protozoa, the weeds, the deep sea creatures whose possibilities are infinite? No, far better we write stories and dream about the outlandish and unfeasible. Far better to speculate and co...

It is always either sunset or sunrise in the Harbour. A gentle pearlescent luminosity weaves itself around the whitewashed houses and terraces which are built into the steep side of the hill which leads down to the pier. The waters of the Harbour are protected by a pair of breakwaters that extend their barnacle encrusted limbs to ameliorate the most severe effects of the wind and weather. Once a lifeboat was marooned against the rocks, which was both comical and ironic for the observers. What was less comical was the sinking of the boat.  Nevertheless, it was a safe haven, as they say. The thing about the Habour is that it is on no map. Even though she had been navigating towards it her entire life, she had no idea it was the destination. It was felt and intuited, sometimes, in the dark of nights, along the skins of the lovers or the breath of her children, she could sense its contours. The longing which wasn't quite a longing, the purpose whose aim was impossible to put articulate...

I have to write first to shake out everything from my head. To get rid of all the bits and bobs swirling about from the night before. Things which float and fly. What is my voice though? I have now established I have a million things to say. But what is the genre? Could it be all genres? Fiction and fact? Historical and epistemilogical? Could it be everything? Like a smorgasbord of writing styles. I need to write fiction for a week to see if I can do it, and if I can't then. That is my task, to write fiction for a bit. What is the fiction I will write? There is no fiction in the world is there? Everything which can be imagined has already been thought of. No depravity, no wonder, no beauty, no hurt has ever been surpassed by humanity. CGI means that anything we can imagine is possible. As recently as my own childhood the clumsy pixeallations of stop motion animation never ever made you believe that what was on the screen could ever be surpassed by your own imagination of the thing....

We all stand in the slipstream of time. At each moment we are fingers placed in the waterfall of events. Our consciousness, our observations of things, create them for what they are. I had this list of things I could write about - each of them chapters, novels, volumes in their own right. My library of possibilities, there sitting silent and unopened in my mind... I see them as I walk these silent corridors of dimly lit, unopened, never opened books. Books I will never read because I never wrote them. What a shame. One section of the library is dedicated to Atlantis - a whole section. Atlantis, with a subsection for Lemuria. Another section for Magical Objects, like the Holy Grail, the Ark of the Covenant, the Four Treasures of Ireland, the Prophets and Sybils of  Michelangelo. Yet another section tells you everything about the Elementals, there is a section for children here. In this library you can also find out about the Mythical Origins of Birds. Definitely Mermaids and their K...

She made the fire with ease. This she knew how to do, make a fire. She took the box of matches out of the fire box and lit a match, striking the little stick against the side of the box. The match spluttered and flickered. She hid the flame from any passing breeze, brought both hands to the little firebird's nest and set it alight. The flame caught and spread and soon the fire was ablaze.  That was very satisfying. Very. She set about preparing the meal. Someone must live here, she thought. All these supplies. So well stocked. I have been conjured out of thin air... how did I get here? She placed all the ingredients into the dutch oven and put the lid on it. Then she pushed the fire to the back of the stove, put more wood on it, and placed the heavy cast iron pot into it. It will take half an hour now. She could take a look around. The smell of the woodsmoke was comforting. Even more comforting was the sight of it rising steadily from the chimney. All around her the world was wakin...

I'm paying these short stories back. I am supposed to write one short story a month and one book chapter. So this is the short story for October. =========================================== The Fool - 0 She could not remember how she got here. The house itself, deep in the woods, was made of earth and wood. It was circular and on the roof grass grew. The windows let light and a draught in. In the middle of the house was a fire in which she could, if she needed to cook anything. You lit the fire and pushed it to the back of the stove, then you put your covered pot it. A Dutch over would do. But how did she get here? Outside the sun was either setting or rising. That half light, between the times, which made you think of either going home or setting off. Depending on the time of day there was either satisfaction or possibility - not knowing what it was made it difficult to decide what to feel. The bed at the back of the hut was made of stuffed straw. A cover which also served as a bl...

I get my best ideas when running - so I should run right? Yes. I was thinking the other day that the I would love to write a book for children aged 12 and above which have historical figures who have gone on to change the world in their own way. I think that should be one book. Another book should be Atlantis again. Yes. here we go again. After a few false starts, Atlantis again. And see where it takes me.  The routine of the day should return to what had planned for it to be. It has been three weeks since I walked out of the classroom. I feel a bit more steady. A bit more held together. I have recovered from the shock. OK. Writing.  Atlantis. What keeps coming back to me is the moment before Atlantis goes under. The chaos which takes place as the people leave there. I want to reread what Steiner says about Atlantis. That is research I will be inspired by. The remnants of Atlantis are this place. Ireland. Those are the two things I know. Another thread. Birth. The expulsion. T...

People ask me what the weather was like. It is the most common question I get. What was the weather like? Not what is their system of governance? The types of plants? Are the women beautiful? Do they have shopping centres. No. What was the weather like. So, let's talk about the weather. The weather is - soft. That is what the weather is like. But it is warm. Warm and soft. It is like being in a warm soup all the time. The sun would shine and the mist would filter the straight edges of shadows and cast them as gentle blurs on the ground. It was never too cold - at night perhaps, the little nip - making you wear a shawl or a light coat. It rained - regularly. Three or four times a week. But not enough that it would make you think, I wish there was less rain. The rivulets and streams ran silver after each shower, tinkling and gushing, conversations after exhaustion. Plenitude. It exuded from every crevice. The bounty of the land, a new land. The soil and the sun and the silky light. A...

2008 An attempt was made. An attempt made several times. The run up and the jump - almost, almost but not quite. The fear of failure which yanked back, like a chain around the neck of a dog, the sudden jerk, a noose sideways, to never quite strangle, but never quite let go - the binding of life. Attempts made over and over and over again, and never quite falling, but not taking off either. That was life. Life here. Sitting on the porch, watching the world go by. Watching the mother with the stroller and the old man, double bent, the boys passing in slouches, the dads on their phones, barely here, or even there. The frustration of never quite making it. The sensation that life was not meant to be like this, but then not knowing what it was meant to be like either. The feeling of never catching the wind in the sails, the sense of concrete filling your shoes. I feel sorry you know. I feel sorry for those people. The ones which thought that they had gotten away with it. Watching Netflix is...

It has been a strange old time. Very strange. Very old.  I feel the strange tug and pull of the mountains falling over me. I feel the strange happinesses break like a ripened pomegranate. The jewels that it holds, and the nothingness of the words with which to bring them alive. I am bereft and filled. Contentment is mine. I daren't go too near that inside part. The inside part is too soft. It cannot drawback for it is already on the inside and it cannot hide for it was hidden. I have never dared to go to the inside part, and so I will always fail.  I have never dared to imagine the sad and the wonderful and the truly pained. I have never dared that. It seemed too much. Too momentous. The truth of our life here is too much, too terrible. Hence, the inside part. The inside part which we can never go to. The inside part which breaks up and flies away. The inside part which brings me to the horrors of the never not knowing. It is a strange thing to be able to walk over a burning b...

Chirico As the light lifts, I find myself sat on the shore. I cannot remember how long I have been here for, but the fire is out and I have spent the best part of the dawn thinking of things I cannot bring myself to recall. The sun is rising out of the waters. I see the edges of the light splintered and scattered on the waters. Shards dancing on glass, skating and sliding noiselessly. I stand up. My legs are stiff from the cold. My dress is damp. I cannot imagine how alone I am. There was a time when I longed for this and now that it has happened...  Having children was unexpected. I did not think I would be a mother, but when the role arrived, without question, a role I avoided for such a long time, I made myself subject to it. Out of the window flew my ideas about career and mother, as soon as I saw the circumstances I had been left with, I knew I had to choose. I had to because there was no space, no place for anything else. I either dedicated myself to raising my children or I ...

Manu and the Rishis I am currently now working on four or five strands. 1. There was suddenly a short story which materialised out of nowhere. Those are the best. So potential short story collection. The first one I called Cleaver. Maybe it will be the only one. 2. Atlantis a) Present day to past memory b) A journey of Return 3. These four women which came out of nowhere as part of the journey of Atlantis. Kinda a Murakami thing. 4. Goddess stories - Persephone being the most developed I want to think about the 3 strand a bit more today. Four women, undergo a traumatic experience and are transformed into these half animal/half women and they are released. Freed. One is on a boat and becomes a mermaid. Another is trapped in a house fire and becomes a Lamia/Salamander. A third is on a mountain and experiences an earthquake and becomes a harpy. The fourth is in a forest and becomes a centaur. The conceit is that it is an end of the world thing. It is corny. And cheesy and...

Cleaver Here i sit, in my beautiful garden, just all life rioting about me and there are angels and sprites swirling all about. This is why I brought my computer out here to write. Just the lifeforces which address you as you stand here. I have to garden a little everyday. It is a must at this time of the year. The nettles need cutting back and the heat, the heat - as the sun reaches its longest stretch across the skies i am drowning in the honey of its heavy warm light. Bees are buzzing everywhere and wood piegeons are guzzling the ivy berries. They flap about so noisily I fear they will break the already overburden shed roof. The cherries, despite their hard greenness are already weighing down the otherwise whipsy branches. I must water them every morning too. Despite the rains it is still very dry. We had a very dry, almost bone dry April and practically nothing at all in May save a few damp mornings. I harvest a rose now and then from my rose shrub. It is not a bush but a ...

Hel I have promised myself I WILL write a story month, even if it kills me. Actually I have written three stories during this lockdown already, so I'm not doing so badly, but I must write everyday. Writing is like panning for gold. You just have to bloody keep going. I have a few story ideas which are rattling around me head. There is the Return to Atlantis, which I appear to have done already, in my own revelation. And then that literally led me to rereading St John's Gospel and Revelations. St John is supposed to have been Lazarus, the one disciple which Jesus initiated or talks about his initiation by Jesus. After he is brought out of the tomb, he is renamed John. Or so the legends go. I've also been reading Ursula le Guin and I am also inspired to create my own landscape, my own country. A parallel Earth, as it were. A parallel place and time. Then I was working on Persephone. And also something to do with time travelling. Also I was thinking of this children...

The Rape of Persephone Bernini I didn't write yesterday because I didn't feel like it. It felt broken my writing. But Dorothea Brand says we must push past the pain of writing. For a while back there even writing blogs were hard. They are not hard now. And I must continue with the writing. As I was running on Tuesday, I thought of the other part of the Persephone story. It is now gone, that will show me. But it was good as it is... it still isn't Atlantis though. So I have two possibles - Atlantis and stories of mythology. I was thinking about how cultures have made women victims. Why must there be a victim? What is this flaw in power? Why do men want to make women suffer? Why can they not treat us as equals? What is wrong with me? =================================== Somewhere a spider's web catches the sun and the light slides between the points of its beginning and end.... What? The roaring of space - it is only massive - the darkness breathing in thr...