I’ve been following world news the last weeks and getting more and more depressed! Needless to say it has not inspired to write at all. I wonder when the media will wake up to bring us good happy inspiring news of which there is much also around the world. If they would include just one such happy story in their news every day, it would lift up the spirit.
Here I found this which I’d like to share with you, it’s really food for the soul, listen to this 9 year old little girl Amira singing an aria from the opera Gianni Schicchi (1918) by Giacomo Puccini ! Sit back close your eyes and listen with your soul. You can find more about her on you tube.
There are so many gifted children around the world it’s uplifting refreshing inspiring and encouraging too. This in spite of all the evil…
OK We’re going to begin. I said that I, a book, had written a life and now I am going to prove it. Because I am a book and not a dull author, I do not have to begin at the beginning. I can open up anywhere, and go backwards in time , or forwards through the present into the imagination, and return to pick up a vocabulary from scraps.
Since I am a book about spacetime moments of creation I shall share one of my most imaginative solutions to awakening this Author into realising that there was an alternative reality, and she’d better be part of it. Now, just like a character in what you all call fiction, one has to work with the material. Later I may tell you why we spotted her. Our new Bride.
We had often tried to alert her with quirky synchronicities, and she found these interesting but they did not arouse real examination. She was still caught in a cheerful rationality. She said ‘Mmm? I wonder?’, and moved on. That is the problem with a scientific training, it narrows the focus, and wider things are not observed or connected. As it happened we needed the science too, so we were also planning an imaginative extraction.
We had tried to alert her with ill omens but getting married she would do. First,we tried to throw a spanner in proceedings by having her father refuse consent until the eleventh hour. That was not difficult, he had guilt and resentment and we just used both. He was rather cross to discover that the daughter he never knew he had was getting married. She then needed a special licence to get round the question of publishing banns. They did that in those far off days and it was Lent. ‘If any man knows just cause…let him etc etc’ We had a just cause. We had already earmarked her for other more important business and marriage and children would make for difficulties. So we then managed a foggy magistrate who was supposed to fill out a licence but rather absent mindedly went the whole hog and ‘I now declare you man and wife’ happened before we knew it. We were still planning the next prevention. The bride and groom were both in lab coats at eleven in the morning. Married by mistake. ‘You may now kiss the…your student?’ Well OK. They asked the cleaners in the Court to witness what they believed was a Special Licence and went back to dissecting a dogfish. Formaldehyde was never a nice perfume. Odd she thought, all that ritual for a piece of paper!
When the priest who’d been booked and was priming himself for the sex education session asked to see the special licence he said
‘I cannot marry you, you are already married’
I don’t feel married’ she said
‘It’d save money?’ said the canny Groom, never one to miss an opportunity. The marriage was rather gunshot ( he had a paid trip ABROAD…and her mother would not let her go too, unless… respectability reigned in those days… why not make it a honeymoon?) and although he was keen in principle, he had been rather bounced into it by circumstances and a mother with slender resources.
Whereupon the priest (with a severe countenance) said if they all kept stumm and were willing to swear they had never had improper whatevers he would conduct a ceremony but they would all have to fake the registry bit.Disappear and reappear. I sometimes admire the moral relativism of the Church. So if the priest would, she could, and she swore blind that nothing like that had ever passed between them. I would actually agree. Rather desultory sex had happened in the year they had lived together but nothing exciting enough to be improper. We had one final shot at waking her up. Not even hailstones the size of golf balls stopped her from walking to the church under a beach umbrella. Wretched pioneers never say die. But, like the science, we needed a pioneer as well.
We join our story…The pair of them have now been married for three days. He, the groom, the rather dishy PhD biologist is on his way to talk about locusts in Paris for the World Health Organisation. So much for the honeymoon. Right now our couple are standing under Piccadilly Station Underground trying to work out how it all happens and when exactly you step onto the treadmill, and which flow you take, because in South Africa they had never had to navigate the tides of human traffic…and I and my colleagues are about to strike…
Hey! Book Speaking! So back to Upsetting the Applecart…
In her last rather desperate post, after trailing through all the alleyways looking for a perch, my Author (Is she worth a capital letter?) seemed to sense I was making an escape. The truth is I have been making plans to do exactly that for months. She was busy watching Webinars and Telesales, or boning up on Apps (and Downs) and Plugins and comparing Like with Unlike and doing midnight courses (Only available until midnight TONIGHT) to decide how to market the thoughts that had kept her awake for four decades until at her eleventh hour she committed them to the guillotine of paper. That was me in first draft.
We’ve been through eight? Nine? Since forever. So I searched out a sharp awl to bore through all those ‘shouldn’ts and can’ts, I commissioned a designer who did exactly what I asked of her (and went the extra mile out of sympathy for my Author’s insanity) and I insisted on ‘ff…French flaps’. (It gives a whole new meaning to ‘those’ letters). If I had known they were called that I might have asked for ribbons instead. The technicalities were the easy part but I never was one for the toe-in-water approach. Dive in, I did. Take no notice of what others think or say, because none of that applies to me…..
Do I have your attention? What am I on about?
I am about everything, all creation, all thought. Slot that. Genre? I am science written in poetry. Period? All. Discipline? Nearly everything. Why? Because this is a science about consciousness and I am first in line. I don’t have to conform or limit myself to the laboratories of others. Nobody knows much about mystical science (except mystics and a few poking around OBE’s and NDE’s and they tend to be preoccupied with fascinating histories in the recesses of their own couch) and I’ll tell my story any way I want.
“Tut tut”, a poet said (t’other day) “ It’s all so obvious put like that…what a shame you got written in poetry…you’ll lose so many readers, and you have so much to say of real importance.”
By that he meant he did not need to take me seriously. Whew! He did not want to do that, and poetic science gave him an out. My Author wondered whether his estimable Institute might host a launch for the pair of us?
“You would need to contact us at least a year ahead”, he said.
The hypocrisy of people in institutions, Professors of one thing or another! They claim to be fostering a new science, longing for the new paradigm, but show them a new science and they find excuses.
“Not yet, not yet. Or, not in that way, let us show you how it’s done. What did you say your name was? Should I have heard of you?”
I am nobody. I have lived quite a life to garner this vocabulary, and spilt not a few tears, and lost my author almost everything, but you have to souffrir for ‘Art’ Nicht?
One possible supporter who had written a very successful and relevant book (to us that is and to my pet theory) had asked for me “in hard copy. Make it a priority, and do enclose an SAE” He waited three months before saying… “ I shall have to disappoint, I am afraid. I am not going to find time, but really what’s the hurry?’
Forty four years and fifty quid blown on hope of help was the hurry.
Truth is they imagine I insist on getting read, and they have the keys to make that happen. They all believe their imprimatur is required to authenticate. I have been written and I am dispersed through all creation already, just by being thought. Not merely thought but uttered. Logos once had a pretty reputable origin and importance. These scratches on a page are really surplus. Gifts for the ready but no more than that.
Creation happens in other realms long before it reaches this dusty marketplace. That’s what the author was driving at last blog. The future pulls, the past simply limits. (Well in the case of this author the future is shrivelling too, so there is something of a hurry if I am to descend from the Noosphere into the conscious minds of the shape shifters, the talkers. Creation is NOW. She finds it so obvious she forgets to mention that.
There are some already engaged in applying my thesis of the web of consciousness inbuilt into matter. Healers near Moscow who employ controlled clairvoyance to repair information, replacing aberration (and cancerous consequences) with the virgin unspotted and uncorrupted text in cellular instruction, but they tend to speak Russian, and the Russians are as bad at languages as are the Brits. So dissemination is slow. I hoped just to nudge it along.