The other stream

Finally I’ve realised what has happened – I fell in the stream – the other stream, the one that drags you along, tearing your heart on snags, bruising your bones on rocks, filling your lungs with water .. but not enough to drown you. Enough to keep you struggling though .. to the surface, gulping for air. Floating along holding on to the bottle, looking for something bigger, a log perhaps – a log from the money tree, the other stream, the money stream, the river of gold. That one where life and art and the rainbow connection come together in the harmony usually there alone in dreams, the other stream, the night stream. The one I sometimes glimpse in my third eye, the flash, the vague image that would dazzle and blind if the light was not from that source. I’d watch for hours, if only I could .. if only the dark did not descend, and take the truth in deeper – away for the night… to the night garden, the other stream, to where (fool!) I tried to follow. I thought I’d found the garden path (fool!).  They said the grass was greener over the bridge, the other stream. A softly softly stroll, quietly over the head of the troll, the troll that guards the stream. A hop, a skip and a long long dive explains the way across more fairly. Fairly? Barely. When I look I know the face so well, the twisted face of the troll. Familiar, he stared back through the looking glass, the other stream, the Alice stream, the nightmare stream, where trolls and many other things grotesque lurk grinning in the garden. I’ve never fallen all the way, that way, that upside way. I’d cartwheel many times back then, turn and turn to gayest music, the other stream, the robot stream, the robot’s dream. The lazer beam eyes, transfixed, locked .. and loaded .. counting down .. and (Thunderbirds are go!) soaring across the universe, like puppets, fraggle rocked muppets. Till dizzy all fall down we did, some to dream and some to terror, denying lady slumber, and falling into the ice, cold water, the other stream. Dragged myself out I did, from that stream, the cold stream. To face the troll was close enough, I skated near to the edge and stumbled, seemingly upward, probably sideways.. rolled slowly down the hill .. ever more to day dream of adventures o’er the mountain.

Fiat lux

I suppose it’s about time I started this. My writing is sure to be a little shaky, I haven’t ridden in ages, but keeping it all to myself ain’t gonna help no one. So here goes… What is this blog about? We’ll see won’t we? There is no plan … perhaps this is the process of building the plan. It’s not my purpose to transpose the mundane events of my life into a verbose account of happenings, I mean who really cares what brand of toothpaste I bought today or what I think of that shade of grey they painted parliament? It’s not so much about repeating my life in words, more about finding those ideas, created in the catastrophe of that life, that spark the emotion inside of me, those that give me understanding of the universe; and releasing them into the ether, into the ethernet, into the internet, to see if they’ll join with any of yours. I think that’s it .. it’s a quest for the sex of ideas, the procreation of creation itself. It’s about starting (or joining?) an esoteric orgy, a true democracy, with children of white light, born to replace the darkness of fear and order. High hopes, high hopes. But one can only see where one’s ideas will lead, and intellectual Darwinism can have its way with me…