Flat, smooth and perfectly even!



  psaltery + angel


You are just there close to my inclined eyes, but I can’t look at your radiance, your compelling body working so brilliantly for you, because I have to watch the patterns my fingers imprint on the black and white keys.  I regret this deeply. I try to jump away from them to just prize your eyes to mine. But I console myself that our eye beams have been long twisted together, spiralling, since our spirits leapt into these two borrowed vessels, mine and yours, from the cerulean blue.  The visible can never compete with the storm of sound vibrations after all. We both know this fact and live by it.

You are daring, so daring, in front of so many people, at the party to mark the beginning of a completely New Year! But I can’t see any of the reaction of our audience members, can’t even feel them.  The sounds and the patterns absorb us both utterly, so much so that most humans can never understand or experience it.  The audience is one giant voyeur standing getting ready for the countdown to the New Year! They are spectres to us adorned in fairy lights and paper decorations, clutching clinking glasses to suck on, their spirits locked into their flesh. In fact, I would go as far as to say that they have permanently occupied their skin sack and rarely move outside it.

You slant your head to rest your attractive cheek on the intense reflection in the mahogany case, French polished like glass or a paralysed tropical pond, and the reflection is visible to me if I blink and squint a little. Your cleavage and one of your exposed breasts lean out of your silver-leaf dress to forage for the cool of the ivory-toothed beast, and really it would seem that the top of a magnificent grand piano with its kidney curves was custom made for the writhings and song-smithing of a beautiful woman.  I just can’t look away from the patterns, but I can feel these curvaceous lines matched with my own breast, as we breathe together.


sound board



The sound board, one huge diaphragm stretching across the belly of this instrument of perfection is beneath you, handcrafted by Steinway experts. Piano makers brave the snows and blizzards to seek out the Sitka Spruce, meticulously selected with between 8 and 12 rings per inch, the more rings the more resonant. Sitka is in Alaska, the trees growing more than 50 metres in height with trunks of over 2 metres in diameter, their old-growth free of knots. They grow closely together to exclude light so that no other plants can thrive and interrupt their growth.

Once planed and sanded to perfection, this board for sound is lowered into the body of the piano, its bent rim made of indestructible rock maple which creates the barrier to stop the vibrations escaping once I create them. This takes a whole day, a small crane and the full attention of several ‘belly’ men before the stringing is done. Sitka Spruce keeps out all interferences and makes a perfect basking pool for vibrations. This is my heart.

I have been waiting for your diaphragm all this time because my own has ceased to function, given over to chain smoking. My man body is pale and unhealthy, powdered inside and out with nicotine, hardly breathing at all these days as human life and its pointlessness stunt me. I must say that you so naturally breathe in perfect synchrony with the shiny beast, diaphragms superbly matched. And once again, I can start to “breathe” through you as my dream promised.




The finger and thumb patterns of my engaged made-for-it hands move on apace, the most fascinating of all phenomena. Fingers wriggle meaninglessly, bending or flattening, squeezing together to execute a rapid change of location. The wrist rocks like a supersonic pendulum. The finger tips are masters of their strings deep inside the belly.  Long thumbs inch from side to side notching along the horizontal plane with blind precision. I am these relentless patterns, so they are effortless, and I dive into them, swimming like a tropical flash into a million connotations and probabilities. I never once stop to ask a single question of why this shape or that, this intensity or that, this speed or that, why this formation. After all, what good are questions when you are a piano.




You heavenly vocalist, squirm to mirror my hand patterns exactly, imitating me blindly, superbly. Then you transpose your head presenting me with your legs portrayed through a deep slit, the silver shining up your tanned articulate thighs, your calves, the strong bones of your shins making the flesh seem polished, sculpted. You have no single inhibition because this is the final performance and so you will pulse with your true nature.  There are no masks, no coverings, nothing reserved.

Nothing and no-one is driving this sublime music: we both create it without any of the rational explanation or analysis which the audience assumes.  They are certainly assuming that we have rehearsed for thousands of hours, perfecting phrases, restoring and rebuilding their contours, and intensifying tone and colour by experimenting a million times and using our critical judgement to choose exactly the right ones.  They are assuming that we have practised for hours, me executing physical gymnastics with the fingers and forearms and for you performing repeated vocal miracles and feats of breath and diaphragm control.  They do not know or have any inkling that we never practise and never rehearse together.

‘Practise?’ ‘Rehearsal?’ These two words have come to dominate the world of neurotic and slightly insane musicians who give up everything else in life for their ‘art,’ but truly they are robots motivated only by precision and technique.  Practise makes perfect! What a facile meaningless maxim when most people never perform in their entire lifetime, keeping themselves back because they are ‘not ready,’ not ‘good enough.’ Many are still practising on their deathbed having decided that they will perform in the next life or for the worms.

To rehearse is an act of the murder of spirits. How can music have become so mechanical, so prescribed. How can human beings have so high-handedly subjugated the ‘Music of the Spheres?’ This places us always at the side of our lives instead of in the centre of existence, embodying them as it was meant to be.  We are taught to never be ready to give everything; to always keep things back for another time.  But we both have managed to sidestep this stinginess. We perform constantly. There is no break from it, no holiday, no time put aside to practise, no separation.


the spheres


Your beautiful blond fecund head is, once more, adjacent to mine and the rapid arpeggios and wide chords which expand my span to its limits forge on. Now we both look down from above at the lightning speed patterns streaming from my fingertips mixing ourselves in with them as we soak up the vibrations we are embodying.

We notice vaguely at the periphery patches of arousal along our skin, the hair pores tingling and swelling to make what they call ‘gooseflesh.’ I have no idea why we have to be distracted from the ways sound can arouse us by a skittish land bird reputed to lay golden eggs. Why can’t we allow ourselves to embody our arousal in the raised pores of a human being capable of making the most divine sounds ever known on the Earth?

I don’t have to tell you anything. No pencil markings scribbled in the score like a shopping list. No knowing looks as we approach a tempo or key change. No foot tapping or lead up.  It’s simple. I make fractals with my fingers on the glassy keys while you drape them in vocal jewels produced from the operating of the chords at your throat. The very mention of your throat makes me wince as I imagine the appalling crime of cutting throats so popular today; the opening of your taught skin, slicing muscle and nibbling bone and the jewels come spilling out with the blood. The human throat has to be the most miraculous product of evolution and at the same time the most vulnerable and visceral, uniquely fragile.

You tell me you feel the same way about my fingers being cut through on a wooden board, the razor blade rocked from point to the main body, rolling through the flesh until the blade is flat along the board the digital obstruction easily shifted.  But you need have no worries because I would find another way to articulate my patterns.  They must flow; they must fill the universe. I am the piano. My man resonances could never stay inside a body shape, unable to be vertical, insisting on stretching, radiating across the soundboard pool, muffled into silence by the felt dampers and then thrilled and free when they are lifted away by my toe-tapping pedal.

And we have found a way to escape from the barbed enclosure of ‘time’ and ‘space.’ The final performance is eternal, and I can fly my piano body anywhere with you impinged on its top. Our music never stops.  It is not dependent on an audience though we attract them, and they pay our milk and addiction bills.  They whisper ‘genius,’ ‘they were made for each other,’ and,  ‘what talent!’ thinking we cannot hear but forgetting or ignorant of, as most people are about pianos, the science of the hundreds of strings strung over the soundboard pool catching every sound when the felts are lifted. So their prosaic words are unfortunately transmitted along the strings too and we must ignore them.



                                                                            Cristofiori: inventor of the piano 16th century



This is the opening to a new book I am writing about the miracle of the piano and the mysterious way it was invented.

Scent of the Divine


between worlds


What can we learn from those deprived of fully or normally functioning senses about accessing other ways of being? How can we avoid the domination of visual processing, the consequent ownership of everything we see, and the blind instinct to pin everything down into permanence in the realities we create in our minds? Everything, and often everyone, we see we want to possess and fossilize, preserving them in aspic, making them permanent. These collections often become our reality and naturally, we fear their loss.

For urban dwellers in the developed world, the allure of millions of visual signals pulls us out of our true nature. We are provoked by their sight to make choices, to possess or reject. In modern life, the monopolizing visual sense can generate synthetic conditions in which we ‘see,’ but more importantly ‘are seen,’ and we interpret everything to suit us, on our terms. Whereas the non-visual senses – listening/hearing, tasting, smelling, feeling – receive concrete data from the environment, e.g. sound, scents, textures and shape, flavours and temperatures, etc. that need no interpretation as they are un-seeable, invisible to most humans.  In a series of articles soon to be made into a book, I will explore these ancient senses that I believe link us with our innate divinity.

Our true nature is both visible and invisible, never limitable to man-made concepts like space and time, to merely seeing and being seen. Our sacred responsibility while inhabiting the visible world is to live out our unconditional love and compassion so we can convey the lessons of humanity to others. As well as to revive our divine energy in these days of shocking social deterioration and urban isolation. In simple terms, our senses are out of balance in modern life so by closing down the visual sense and ‘going inside,’ we can make contact with our higher self and the vast magical land of the invisible.

The ‘I,’ the ego, and the physical eye operate in a similar way. As mentioned, the visual sense is the most dominant in our consumerist acquisitive societies, manufactured diversity and pluralism overwhelm us with choices, alternatives, get-out clauses, and so on. If we cannot see something, there is a possibility that we consider it not to exist, or at the very least to have no validity. We need proof either with the naked eye or in writing to make things valid because our trust in others and in our perceptions of reality is so weak.

It is no wonder then that we cling desperately to the ‘self’ as evidence that our flesh and blood actually exist. But in that clinging, there is a possibility that we may have lost all contact with our true self our true nature; that our divine flame is either guttering or has extinguished altogether.

In respect of the above, the visually impaired are fascinating. If we take away visual data from human existence altogether, then how do we make sense of the world? I have had the privilege of working with visually impaired children and adults as a Music Therapist. They have taught me so much about concrete communication, contributing to my own spiritual insights and helping me to step beyond the straitjacket of duality which most of us wear.




Before writing in detail about my professional experience, I would like to recount a film which movingly depicts how a person deprived of sight as an adult, makes sense of his new world. The title is ‘Scent of a Woman’ 1992, based on an Italian film released in 1974 Profumo di donna, (director Dino Risi, leading role Vittorio Gassman, based on the story Il Buio e il Miele by Giovanni Arpino).

A colonel is injured in an accident, losing his sight entirely. He adapts badly to his disability by drinking heavily and lashing out obnoxiously at everyone around him. He sees no reason to go on living so he employs a young student paying his way at a local university to accompany him to New York to take his final pleasures before shooting himself, his pristine gun in his suitcase, his practice at assembling and cleaning it copious.

Booking into the best hotel, he lavishes them both during their stay. In the hotel, there is a dance floor, a small band playing Latin American music in the afternoon where guests are dancing formally. The colonel senses the fragrance of a woman sitting nearby them and somehow knows that she is alone. He goes to ask her to join them for a drink, and then to his helper’s incredulity, forcefully invites her to dance the tango with him. He knows the steps intimately and the floor clears to watch the spectacle. His helper is nervous at first but soon relaxes as they stride out together confidently, victoriously.


scent of a woman.jpg


Personally, this scene has incredible nobility because of my experience of visual impairment. Apparently, all the visually imapired colonel needs to achieve the impossible is the fragrance of a woman, his healthy body receptive to vibrations, and his kinesthetic memories of dancing the Tango, all of them concrete data.

Is it possible to reconstruct a visually accessed environment in terms of sound and movement? I know first-hand that this is what the visually impaired do to make sense of their world. A young female client blind from birth had never seen anything or anyone; unusually, she did not experience even faint patterns of light or shadow. She had no choice but to utilize sound and movement as her environment, making mountains out of piano chords and snowy summits with her agile voice. She could create a journey in a ship by jumping high to make wave patterns and the rocking of the vessel, using her fingers and voice as the people on board.

She was happiest without words, entirely nourished by the vibrations of sound and sensing them in her body. I often envied her freedom from intellectual assessment or interpretation, craving only spontaneous integration with the stimuli.

Jiddu Krishnamurti, spiritual teacher and visionary, said, “The description is not the described; I can describe the mountain, but the description is not the mountain, and if you get caught up in the description as most people are, then you will never see the mountain.’ Of course, my young client had never seen a mountain and never would be able to do so, so instead, she could sense it made of sound and smells combined with her own bodily movements in space. This can demonstrate just how attached the sighted become to words and their meaning. Being receptive to only the sound of the word and not its meaning can liberate us, so we are able to revert to our true spirit nature beyond mere symbols. As we listen to music, imbibe the fragrance of toasted bread, taste a freshly picked ripe plum, finger fabric made from silk in the dark, words become redundant and shockingly inadequate except in the hands of a talented poet.

Colonel Slade on the other hand, had seen many mountains and had actually experienced their descriptions but was now dependent on memories of mountains. Would he be content with this vagueness when he had made mountains so permanent in his life? Would his awareness of mountains gradually dissolve if it could not be refreshed? Would his sense of loss, of the living reality that everything is impermanent, finally hit home and bring him to an awakening, or would it be utterly unendurable. Perhaps he was now consumed by the description of himself as a blind helpless and pitiable being and failed to see that he was not the described. It would seem that his decision to kill himself in some way represented the final irreversible permanence.




Although occasionally troubled by the language and words of her carers and therapists, which she was often unable to interpret, my young client was completely happy and reasonably well-adjusted in normal life. But she became aggressive if she was not allowed to move her body through the air or blocked from feeling the vibrations of sound because this was the only way she could be certain that she existed. So, in terms of her inner spiritual life, she was not beleaguered by dialogue from either her demons or her false angels, not attached to concepts and theories, and not hampered by the acquisitive ‘I’ or ‘eye.’ Whatever she needed to affirm her identity came from sounds and smells, touches and tastes. Words were not symbols which developed an intellectual reality of their own to her and caused her to live in an abstract world of the mind.

The visible. The invisible. A famous blind and deaf phenomenon Helen Keller, who eventually learned to live in the visible and audible world said, ‘the best and the most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt in the heart.’ This spiritual view of life comes from a grueling heart-breaking training as a child to be able to live in the world of the sighted and the hearing. Her complete adaptation is testimony to our ability to overcome anything if the divine flame in the heart is strong and we do not allow our senses to be out of balance.

As the world is designed for the sighted, it is impossible for the majority of the unsighted to make sense of it. They experience existence more directly, more concretely, often from the higher self. This is an inspiration. Many of us have learned to access the higher self through meditation or prayer, which invariably entails closing the eyes and focusing our listening. But how we struggle with distractions in the form of words – notions, speculations, justifications, judgments, criticisms, ad infinitum.

We naturally want to escape from this relentless barrage of concepts, so look for a path leading away, taking us out of ourselves. It is ironic that all we need is already located inside us if only we can quell the noise of our minds and just be in silence and stillness. The blind cannot escape and have no desire to usually. They are content to finger the complex textures of an item on and on or jump continuously to experiment with their balance or to mingle with concrete energies.

In spiritual practice, we aspire to go beyond words and other habitual interpretations of reality. We can learn to sink down into the firm yielding of now and here, of the great still silence where we too, like the unsighted, can detect vibrations and use other tools accessible to humans such as clairvoyance, perfect pitch, telepathy, that we once utilized. Colonel Slade’s tango with a beautiful fragrant woman almost pushed him over the edge, sending him to lock himself into his room and prepare his gun. Then he felt the love of his young accomplice in an angry invective about his cowardliness and self-pity and knew he could play a useful role in his young life. He could settle for concrete stimuli in time and found wisdom behind his irascible intolerance, and he could still believe in questions and their answers, somnambulating around the visual world learned from memory, at least for a while longer.

The questions the congenitally blind may pose are mere sound-play empty of meaning: hearing their own voices, imitating other voices, projecting the sounds their being can create to chart their environment. They are not desperate jabs at understanding existence, of ‘seeing’ through or behind impressions, of ‘understanding’ and interpreting everything as those of the sighted, because they know there are no questions, so there are no answers.

They are not separated away from existence because they cannot see to measure and compare, to judge and sort, to speculate or criticize. We sighted need to accept everything and step beyond duality to reconnect with our divine origins. Whereas the blind are embedded in existence; they cannot easily move around in their concrete environment as we do in the virtual worlds we invent.

It is difficult for those who have always been able to see the world to imagine the world of the congenital blind. They are like ghosts using their body form as an instrument to detect their environment. They themselves become concrete in the same way that what they perceive best is concrete. They do not take what is visible and transient deep inside them and make it invisible in order to learn lessons and connect with the invisible world. They are invisible already.

They are usually calm and steady because everything is already lost in their world; they can hold onto little and describe nothing. Voices come and go and textures and temperatures are continually changing beyond their control. There is no light or shade. There are no models to imitate except vocally which means they are often excellent mimics because of their exclusive audio focus. We often pity them, their deprivation of the treasures of the visual, but their insight into life is extraordinary and their link with the divine I believe functions strongly.

My blind client knew my inner thoughts as I worked with her. She had the gift of clairvoyance without doubt, and she could predict my future. As a music therapist, I was one of the few people she wanted to be with all the time because I could make soundscapes for her and with her, and she could use instruments and her voice and body to act in them.

Our environment can provide concrete data such as resonances, smells, textures and temperatures, tastes and kinesthetic awareness, none of which are open to the same kind of interpretation as visual data perceived only by the physical eyes. These data are invisible, the dimension and substance of our spiritual origin. The shaman in primitive tribes enters into a trance to connect with the world of spirits to access wisdom of the elder ancestors. He or she can no longer ’see’ in the physical sense. Soothsayers and seers have traditionally been visually impaired. We are told by Buddhist Masters that during our time in human life we are living in a dream world in which everything is impermanent and created by our minds.


fragrance 4


The blind colonel on the dance floor moving his own body and his unknown partner’s through space to the majestic rhythms of the Tango inspired by the fragrance she is wearing is a moving feat to the sighted. There is no hesitation, no speculation, just beautiful bodies moving trustingly through space, responding to resonances and scents. This is surely an unconditional act. At first, he intends this performance to be his swan song – resonance, rhythms, fragrance, bodily accompaniment- all that he needs to shift to the invisible world. But soon he realizes that he can adapt and at the same time can find peace with his true self.




Torn out Twice



Crawling is inhuman, wet belly down, chafed and chapped skin on limb extensions knee and elbow, no claws or thick fur to protect an exposed white membrane. The hillside quietly drinks from the snow melt, sapling roots peeping up as soil filters away.  They feel my weight, my new heat, the prickle of the fear which mutates between my ears and behind my eyes. They feel me as a different kind of mammal from those humans who crawl with the abandon and rigour of wolves and wild cats.

Once before I walked ‘vertical’ here in leather boots and dry garments, my head in the sky, my eyes seeking out only the best fruits. I did not know the drinkers beneath my soles and they were far away from my peculiar fear. My arms were free to clutch the ultimate product, my oiled rifle; my lips and tongue liberally dusted with gunpowder always ready to spit-charge it with; and my heart was greedy to snatch land without permission, to fell building trees and scrape away the fur and claws I lacked, without a thought.  I stepped proudly through the rivulets, eyes cocked, index finger twitching, choices firmly made: the walking zenith of God’s creation to date.

By my side was my son who only knew pride as a father’s theory. He could clearly see the drinkers below and had never known a single choice in all his life. Although we prowled together with blind pistols, he was not torn out of the universe like me, not marooned without a puff of wind in the visible world, not perpetually surveyed by the bloodshot eyes of the master of my mind and a bearded creator.

I could see the edge of the watery copse ahead and the guttering flame of rolling hills beyond and I knew I could be seen; my son was his mother’s line, that different kind of mammal that is not concerned with being seen but with pure seeing, not marred by chronic fear just a necessary flickering of it; descended from that noble line of the loyal custodians of the Earth, not pilfering aliens like me.

My punctured ripped weight is dragged by a mere fragrance.  I follow it with my nose but I have no notion of the intoxication of questions or whereabouts. Now I know my son’s mammal – there are no choices, no play with word games and the decaying baubles of outcome, just listening to the needs of the Lands without beginning or end.  I have no desires as I crawl, only crude urges which my cellular being remembers – urges to only drink like the roots below me, to only become my pain like the facets of jewels, to only be packed back in to the guardian universe like him.

The she-bear tore me out for a second time, filling my face with her bristling pelt: her cub whined applause from cover.  Hoisted by teeth injected into soft organs, lifted and rigoured by the modernized apparatus of the throat, dropped and thrown by a wet muzzle, even her eyes assaulted mine for extra punishment to make a laughing stock of me to the eyes of the hills.  Turning and turning me again to reach right into me from both back and front, she then chucked me off the ridge.

My gang shot her just before she was about to go for the head and finish my miserable existence. With the shot, she plumped down directly on top of me, the final belly blow. Extracted as trophies, I earned her teeth and claws. I did not steal them. They embed my torn thigh as the scent drags me but I feel nothing until much later when they have to be surgically removed.

Just-crawling, that only, is my sole way to be pasted back into reality, to fully apply the theory, and the only way to be with my son and fill my arms with the essence of all life instead of a killing machine.





Survival of the body against all odds. To a body which is prey to arrogance and fear and the chronic decay of suffering, revenge, jealousy and greed are its yeast.

I see it clearly now from my crawl. The heavily-armed settlers of gleaming white skin are the true enemy of Nature, snatching it excessively to go way beyond ‘survival’ by marching towards wealth and power over others. They are uninvited visitors stumbling on a pristine land ample with resources and treasures. Convicted criminals and entrepreneurs, outcasts of their societies, they race to the far corners of the world to be the first to ravage. But they are unaware of their infliction, long since sold out on Nature, preferring instead cess-pool cities and pleasure palaces beneath roofs and glass.

Horizontal and servile, I am between worlds, haunted by visions of my union with the Land through my native wife, ranging through tall grasses waving with no knowledge of fear or obsession with competition. She smiles and sings me to Now and Here beneath the Madonna tree, our mixed flesh son running between us as yet unable to see above, still carefully wrapped in the oiled skins of intuition.

The soldiers slapped away the luxuriant herds of buffalo along with her body. And our son was wounded and feverish as I kept his spirit in him with the tribal lore in my pedestrian Pawnee.  He came to me from her and did his best to be by my theoretical side until he too was scared off by an alien bullet to the head.

My hunger for revenge is far greater than that for food.





The stags float by on the bloated current behind me as I tear the moss surreptitiously from the rocks and stuff it into my mouth.  They do not know I am there clinging like a boneless leach, my body jellified, my bitten fingers full of holes and relieved of their dexterity.

I cease my snorting and grunting for sustenance when the exposed nerves of my spine detect their antler parade moving effortlessly with single purpose. They notice out of sheer appreciation of a contrast so dramatic between us mammals. And once again, I stumble upon that other mammal like my son, their ancient elegance and assurance of their place in the land stunning me.  Despite my defeated crumpled state, my white enemy status, I foolishly aim my stick rifle at them and even issue the mock sound of shooting a bullet from it.  Who on Earth do I imagine is listening?

This pathetic silliness in this magnificent wilderness serves no purpose other than to distract me from the collapsing of the balloon of my stomach as its sides stick together. Natural balance denies me organic food to pay back with my concentrated pain for all the enemy assaults of all time.  I am being made an example of I believe.

But I am not angry or humiliated as such things do not exist in true human nature. These other original mammals are kindly showing me the error of my ways, clawing and biting away the layers of manufactured life to reveal the most exquisite gem of all, my indestructible and divine nature which is just like theirs.



valid-lit-logo                                      Inspired by a stunning film which compares survival modes of ancient inhabitants of a land                                                                                                           and offcomers who live in their minds!

Making Titans: interfering even with the gods!



What has Science come to? Where are the so-called doyens of our civilization leading us?  In the evolution of the human species during the last 30,000 years can we really believe that using the fruits of our creativity in the form of technology and medical advances to change everything that is natural is our true direction?

The list of how we have ‘interfered’ on so many counts is long! We have exploited the Earth with our lust and greed until it is showing strong signs of extinction. We have hypnotized members of mass societies so that their true nature is buried so deeply that they become their status, the economic situation and their social masks are like ingrown toenails impossible to remove. Homogenized bureaucrats and those receiving education have sewn their qualifications earned by dubious means into their flesh. But to top it all, we are starting to meddle in nature’s products by using invasive surgery and transformational therapy. 

In the film which illegally coins the eponym ‘The Titan’ (2018), humans ruin the paradise Earth and then prepare to abandon it to live on the planet of Titan which offers a similar paradise. However, Earthlings are not adapted to live in its gaseous and flooded conditions, so scientists set about selecting humans of outstanding endurance to ‘adapt.’ The adaptation consists of transforming most of their human functions especially the way they see by surgical blinding and implanting feline retinas and corneas.

This concept though alluring, and fascinating, is highly flawed and negatively influential especially for younger generations who thrive on staples of computer graphics, avatars and animation. The arrogance of the human mind in full flood systematically washes away all that is natural in favour of home-grown beings of their own creation and leads us to quite rightly label modern humans as ‘conquering aliens’ for the good of the progress and evolution of their race, they think.  We, humans, are portrayed as being a truly invasive species, plundering and laying waste until we get what our minds want. The portrayal, sad to say, is accurate especially for the wealthy ‘educated’ sections of the world.

Earth is undeniably a unique paradise made even more paradisical by our human presence and our extraordinary abilities to express our divine spark of Love.  You only have to look at the lives of indigenous peoples living in a traditional way and their utter respect for the Earth and their mother ‘Nature,’ to realise that modern civilisation is careering off course driven by power-crazed monsters who care nothing for our origins as a species and have bungled the divine into the trunk of their vehicle!  Yes, we can look at the facts of evolution and trace our physical development culminating in the zenith of our miraculous bodies, but when we look at the spiritual aspects, it is difficult to see any evolution.  This is precisely because the human mind has taken over and smashed the sacred into smithereens in favour of the secular gods of money, Coca-cola, Levis and the Olympic games.  The reality is that our birth and adaptation to Earth is both our origin and our destiny.  The flame of our special existence is divine and created by natural forces, but the hurricanes and cyclones are blowing out that flame, the desert sands burying our true nature and origin ever more deeply. 

What is our true nature?  It perhaps is so submerged that the only way we can get in touch with it is through meditation and other transcendent means such as the re-educative techniques of F.M.Alexander and Moshe Feldenkrais and via the insights of great spiritual visionaries such as Buddha, Lao Tzu, Gandhi, Osho, Krishnamurti and a few others.  They all directed us away from foraging outside to acquire and possess, to visibly prove ourselves and desperately seek approval and fame, to create and then rightfully, in our deluded minds, destroy our creations with the sweep of an arm. Instead, a 180-degree turn inside is deemed necessary to side-step the heavy modifications of conditioning and indoctrination, to fling off the encasements and costumes issued to us by bogus leaders and embody our true and individual nature.

We naked miraculous human beings are the only Titans here and now moving around our home Earth which we must not abandon. We are not mythical giants of Bible lands leaving trails of destruction and fear in our wake.  But we are truly the gods and buddhas that we have come to raise up on to pedestals in erroneous acts of sanctification. We, each one of us, are the good titans when we embody our true nature and live here in our peaceful harmonic paradise of Earth.






Mariko Kinoshita, a Japanese artist, is highly culturally adaptable unlike many Japanese who still harbour suspicions about foreigners. This is to be expected when we consider that the whole country was closed to all foreign influence for a period of over 250 years between 1603 and 1868. 

But this work unashamedly evokes the very essence of Japan. Gazing at the moon through the pale fish of cherry blossom (sakura) is essential for the Japanese spirit. The kimono and white mask of a beautiful silent woman create the sense of mystery the world is so intrigued by.

In Japan, fully-grown adults can be seen weeping at the sight of sakura at its peak. We watch the national news several times a day to find the exact peak for particular locations and then rush to stand close and gaze by moonlight.  In fact, the first national forecast has been released today so people are already planning.

Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto is the moon god in the Shinto religion and in Japanese mythology.  This deity is male unlike in ancient myths of Greece or Rome, and its creator also male. Tsukuyomi was the second of the ‘three noble children’ born when Izangi-no-Mikoto, the god who created the first land of the Japanese archipelago.  It is said that he was born from Izangi’s right eye. After climbing a celestial ladder, Tsukuyomi lived in the heavens with his sister Amaterasu, the sun goddess, who also became his wife. Japanese myths are primitive and not limited by worldly classifications. The very origins of Japan are fantastical in a very eastern way which fascinates westerners.

I love Kinoshita’s painting and feel honoured to be helping this artist edge into the wide world. It is easy to see her unconscious heritage in the stillness and silent joy.

                                    Images courtesy of Mariko Kinoshita and Linden Thorp


Earth Aware in Arizona


I feel so privileged to be here at Monument Valley staying in a Navajo Hotel called ‘The View,’ in the Navajo Nation Lands. Every view displays these ‘monuments-butte,’ (tower) and ‘mesa’ (table) – free-standing rock formations which appeared about 570 million years ago.

The Valley Road is unpaved and only visitors may use it. It was freezing cold with snow in the air, so we decided to drive down it at 5 mph to allow us to negotiate the ruts and rocks. We were obliged to take a long slow look at these incredible monuments and resist stopping to hike off- road. The Navajo fiercely protect the delicate strata which native people have lived in awe of for thousands of years.




This was once the ocean floor and the mantle of the Earth uplifted in these strange forms known as ‘The Mittens’ with their prominent thumbs to crack it. Later the ocean subsided west to become the Pacific Ocean during the shifting of the tectonic plates. Slowly the resultant mud solidified into sandstone and limestone as the climate fluctuated.


I drove here from San Diego, a total of 662 miles, but the journey went by quickly. We passed through many types of desert and mountain landscapes, through great heat and snow, rarely stopping because we did not want to interrupt such Earth closeness.



Such an ancient scenario to suddenly arrive in, but arriving created a deep connection with my Earth! I am One with it now!

I am sandstone and limestone. The desert paints me in rainbow colours against the gigantic Moon. And I continue to arrive there and will do so eternally.




This is my Earth! I am inspired to become its custodian once more, to hold it and look upon it with complete awe like the wise ones!

Only putting aside the synthetic so-called reality created by my limited mind will allow this to be.





Images courtesy of Linden Thorp and megapixyl.com


Gattaca 1997: rejecting a gift from existence



This film makes many important points about a future of human beings dominated by the intellect and the ascendancy of technology and science. The hero – Vincent’s – genetic composition is flawed because his heart is weak, in fact, 10,000 beats overdue in his thirties, so he is determined to realize his dream of going up into space before he dies. Due to genoism – cell discrimination – he is forced to work as a cleaner but all the while he studies and memorizes astronautical manuals. His search for a new identity to enable this is the main focus of the film, and in this lie the gems of insight.




He, along with his new identity Jerome Morrow, spend all their time transforming Vincent. To enable this he must carry samples of Jerome’s blood at all times, he must wear lenses the colour of Jerome’s, he must even undergo surgery to increase his height by 2 centimetres, wear false fingerprints, etc. Their shared apartment is a laboratory and they are both experts at various eugenic techniques.  At every opportunity, Vincent-Jerome must scrub away his dead skin cells in case he sheds any while at work.  He also has to negotiate the world without his glasses as myopathy is only associated with the genetic underclass.





In short, Vincent must discard his natural inheritance if he wants to realize what he believes is his absolute mission in human life. At one point, he sheds an eyelash in the workplace, the genetic police find it and start a hunt for the ‘invalid’ who has been so careless. Everywhere he goes he must check that he is not leaving skin fragments or hairs behind. His whole resume lies in his DNA; an interview consists only of a blood test. He even offers a hair from his head as a love token to the beautiful Irene during their brief skirmish. But she lets it drop on the breeze perhaps because she too is an imposter with a weak heart!




Science will go mad in the future as this rare film eloquently suggests! Personality, ancestral lineage and merit will all be abandoned but we will live in sanitized societies the leaders of which will be free of defects. But what about our True Nature, our original divine origin, and our unique spirit.  What about the unknown which is our natural environment: science is one dimensional in comparison because it exclusively concerns the known, and what is known is dead, destined to be archived and regurgitated mechanically.




We, humans, are potentially the next stage of evolution from animals because we have been endowed with the special gifts of language and communication. But despite advanced technology and the so-called excellence of education and progress, most of us still only realize 10% of our potential because we fritter away our human moments in a dream. It is said that we have reached our peak in physical terms, our bodies are miracles of genetic engineering, but we lag very far behind spiritually as is obvious from the trail of damage we leave behind us everywhere.  The planet has been ruined because developed nations are so primitive.




Our natural existence, exactly as it is, is our divine inheritance.  Embodying our True Nature, some would call it Christ-Consciousness or Buddha-Nature, is our only chance to find our Truth, to use our Mind mechanism to properly realize out potential in order to step across the bridge of our native energy into full awareness.  If we allow dead scientific knowledge to dominate, then we will rapidly deteriorate and annihilate the planet and therefore the human race. Human beings are the way if we can only allow ourselves to just be.

At the close of Gattaca, as Vincent-Jerome jubilantly prepares to take his first space flight and Jerome-Eugene prepares to take his own life, Vincent tries to express his indebtedness for his new identity to Jerome. But Jerome says that no thanks are needed for the gift of his body because it is nothing compared to the gift of the dream that Vincent has given him in exchange. 





The facts of the film

In brief, the title Gattaca is formed from the first 4 components of DNA – guanine, adenine, thymine and cytosine, but it was original called ‘The Eighth Day.’ Its genre is biopunk, it is a visually stunning filmand it concerns Eugenics, the study of improving a population by controlling breeding to produce desirable characteristics, and a view of destiny through the battle of genetic inheritance. It is directed and written by Andrew Niccol {b.1964 New Zealand screenwriter, producer and director, famous for Lord of War (2005), In Time (2011), The Host (2013) and Good Kill (2014)}   The protagonists are Vincent Freeman (Ethan Hawke), Jerome Eugene Morrow (Jude Law) and Irene Cassini (Uma Thurman).  The fitting and evocative score is composed by Michael Nyman.

The Plot: Vincent Thurman is born with a defective heart and so because of genoism (discrimination according to cells) is forced to join an underclass and has no future, but his passion is going into space.  His blind ambition drives him to acquire another identity, that of Jerome Eugene Morrow, a genetic aristocrat and outstanding space navigator who, due to an accident, is paralyzed and unable to function in his capacity.   A gene broker sets about creating Vincent’s new identity so that he can take Jerome’s place in Gattaca, the space exploration centre.  We follow the nerve-racking scrutiny Vincent-Jerome must undergo to enable him to take his first rocket flight. 

Here is the official trailer for Gattaca so you can take a look.


images courtesy of megapixyl.com and Internet Movie Data Base (imdb.com)