Metaphysical Beliefs » Creative Writing

Poetry: Religion of spirituality

admin — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 05:26:10 +0000

When I say honor you say respect honor!

.honor!…

I am a metaphysical miner,

And I search for spiritual gold within consciousness.

In plain sight without the walls of religion, I preached,

Using a laser beam of thought, I probed,

Using an obstacle of thought to convey my message, I searched,

I searched deep into consciousness,

Where I feel there is a vast treasure, waiting to be found.

When I find it, I will have found,

What the whole world has been searching for,

For thousands of years scientists have been looking,

They have looked everywhere, but in the right place,

And the right place is deep writhing consciousness.

Short stories: Wishes

admin — Fri, 09 Jul 2010 23:26:12 +0000

Introduction

(Sacred Geometry)

In the world of geometry there are two shapes that are held sacred, the sphere and the cube.

These lay the foundation for “sacred geometry”. “Sacred geometry” is an ancient art and science, which

reveals the nature of man and his relationship to the cosmos.

Nature has patterns to be found, designs and also constructs from minuscule particles, to

forms of life indiscernible to the human eye. Throughout the greater cosmos these expressions follow an

individual vibrational resonance. These are symbolic of underlying metaphysical principles of the part of

the whole. This principle of oneness underlies all geometry that runs through the architectural construct of

all form and myriad diversity. Principles of interconnectedness, inseparability and union provide a

continuous reminder of man’s relationship to the whole as well as a blueprint for the mind to sacred

foundations of all creation.

The Spiral and the Square

(A creation myth in fable form)

This is a story about a spiral and a square, derivatives of such sacred geometrical proportions,

their relationship to one another and the true nature of both. This is also the story of the true love and the

joyful union, that ensued. Which created not only reality as we perceive it but shaped the very concept

of existence itself. It is in essence a written record of a creation myth that has remained unspoken by the

the primitive heart of the human race since time’s first conception.

Once, very long ago, there was a beautiful, graceful spiral making her way through the fullness

of infinity, as was her nature. For infinity is where such things originate. This infinity having no beginning,

no end, being everlasting, going on and on without interruption forever and always. In her constant

travels she had been to a multitude of places and seen many strange and varied things. Whirling masses of

the cosmic elements of creation, stars, asteroids, comets, the occasional black hole; as a matter of course

the perceived passage of time through out the burgeoning concept we now know to be our perceived and

mutually shared reality.

At a particular space and time she came across a most rare and captivating sight. A straight,

strong, noble shape, a unique pleasure to view and a delight to the soul, it was the square. So intensely

attractive

Essays: Philosophy

admin — Thu, 27 May 2010 12:15:42 +0000

Kantian Philosophy

17 December 2007

“It is indeed true that I think many things with the cleverest conviction, and to my great satisfaction, which I never have the courage to say anything that I do not think.”

Perhaps, one of the lesser known of quotes by philosopher Immanuel Kant, yet it is from just a few words that one can conclude many things. Such as; the will to speak what is on one’s mind is stronger than the ability to do so. To give better insight into the life, work, and meaning of Kant’s philosophies the following will analyze his work on various topics throughout his lifetime. The topics for discussion include, but are not limited to metaphysics, moral law etc. It is from the analysis of the writings of Immanuel Kant that the reader will grasp a better understanding of Kant’s personal philosophy, his views of life, and why he has come to be regarded as the most influential philosopher during the modern period.

Before we examine Immanuel Kant’s work, let us see how the philosopher lived his life throughout his eighty years on the Earth. Immanuel Kant, baptised Emanuel, was born in 1724 in Konigsburg, East Prussia (at the time). Raised in a strict Pietist household, these values reflected Kant’s impervious ability to throw himself rigorously into his studies in his later years at Collegium Fredericianum and then at the University of Knigsberg in 1740 studying the philosophy of Leibitz and Wolf and the metaphysical sciences. After his father’s death interrupted his studies, Kant made ends meet as a private tutor to those around his hometown all the while continuing his private studies. After coming out of his eleven years of near seclusion, The Critique of Pure Reason was published. It was met with few reviews, and many found it to be dry being that it was written in a scholarly context (Ross 1). Although, the latter was met with such a response it is now greatly recognized as one of the most important and widely read philosophical texts of its era.

Emerging from his seclusion would subject Kant’s later works to a well-endowed audience eager to grasp what the thinker had to say. Recognizing the latter, it is clearly no surprise that Kant’s reputation both for his works, and his teachings rose throughout the late 1700’s. Up until his death from long equated ill-health, Kant continued to pen his various ideals of philosophy and various areas of science. It is often viewed that Kant did not come into his own as a philosopher until publishing

Novel excerpts: Life

admin — Sun, 16 May 2010 17:44:41 +0000

Both of Eliot Wild’s fathers were long dead. His so called real father from a guilt induced exploding heart. His surrogate father from a self inflicted wound through the neck and out the temple from the spinning bullet of his favorite deer hunting rifle. His mother far away in Florida by this time was well into her second vodka martini of the day and rhapsodizing to her cohorts in the Purple Hat Club on the grassy banks between her trailer and Lake Tarpon.

It was clear to him that his life story would come off like a long lost Twilight Zone classic about the plumber assigned to fix all the leaky faucets on the Titanic. Such was the fate of one Eliot Wild who heard the lamentations of the dead and dying, the inbred symphony of tears.

He could trace most of his current problems back to the very day when he first appeared in the Mayflower metaphysical bookstore in Ferndale and walked over to the Rudolf Steiner aisle. This was thirty years ago and he had just finished reading Humboldt’s Gift and realized that America was no place for a poet so he took up permanent residence in the ether stream of his imagination like Charlie Citrine and Humboldt. Only thing was Humboldt ended up on that cold steely slab in the mortuary leaving Charlie to pick up the pieces. And his endless musing on Steiner, what was that all about?

Nonetheless, Eliot had been dangling over the abyss and the grim reaper was tap dancing right above his eyebrows and the headaches were unbearable. Cheap scotch and cannabis hadn’t done the trick. Neither had the whores on Second and Seldon. So Eliot, inspired by fictitious Charlie to slay the very real hydra had stood in the hallowed vortex of the Mayflower hovering in the divine feminine far from Saffy’s dyke bar he had drunkenly stumbled into off Washington Square seven weeks ago boldly proclaiming to the cross dressing bouncer that he alone could save them from the cruel fate of lesbianism. The last thing he remembered was a kick to the chops from the black pumps of a 250 pound heifer everyone called Sweet Nikita, clearly a refugee from the Russian gulag. He woke up in front of Mill’s Tavern on Bleecker Steet to the caterwauling sirens of New York City light years from the cloistered reality of Ann Arbor and his writing classes and the world of academe.

Try as he may Eliot Wild didn’t seem to fit anywhere but in the perpetual stages of transition backlit by the pyrotechnics of failed romance and bewildered friends.

“What

Poetry: Philosophy

admin — Sun, 16 May 2010 15:57:25 +0000

I don’t like the hard

Cold edges of structured life

I prefer life that looks like the

Philosophy of Aristotle or Socrates’

A little less prepared

An existence more discreet

Metaphysically

I detest nine to five

Rather to arrive at cosmic times

Jump into a space time dimension

Glide and flip through other worlds

And observe history with different conditions

But if you inquire

I may drop pearls mystically

Gems from the lightworkers

Seeds from stars

You know the essential me however

Spiritually higher than mars

I hate the desk at which I reside

The black terminal that holds and bestows

Emptiness like the black hole

But for the programmed ones

They require order to exist

To tell me the snow is cold

Or how and where I fit in

The chairs I sit

The papers I flip

Are so damn useless

An endless attempt to simulate order

In a prison where chaos is a square box

A place where my octagon

Will not fit

Their paper currency I detest

The sum attempts to define she

I secure my abundance from the Universe

My wealth

I manifest inside me

My eyes are watching the tick

When it tocks reminding me to

Eat to sleep to breath

Time is a machine that lifts my breath

And lulls my chest

Into the hypnotic state of utter mess

When you see me I am not here

Or aware of your stares

It’s my body that resides in this dimension

My mind has left this continuum

I live in the haze of Damiana smoke

The past time I took a toke

It flew me away to my home

In my astral Body my zone

Of wish fulfilling trees that bend to my deeds

And cures me of all my

Egotistical and psychological needs

And I say to the leaves

Rescue me please

From The hard cold edges of structured life

Short stories: Childhood memories

admin — Mon, 10 May 2010 19:40:41 +0000

Splotch-in, .splotch-in, splotch-in

that was the sound which breaks the silence of Dorothy Doraline, a woman as those of millions inhabitants who embellish our world with their greatness and delicate manners.

The morning was as restful as a morning could be. Wetted by drops of thin rain that has falling throughout the night.

Grey clouds dominate the sky, the birds were hidden in their nests and silence, with its dissonant echoes were resonating and reverberating as ohm’ a word which better describe its state, was predominantly the almighty.

The almighty silence heard as ohm was harmoniously synchronized by drops. Broken, unstoppable drops, generated by an amount of water, stagnated on a crowd of dry leaves in the rooftop of Dorothy room, sliding gracefully to an old can of Guinness, forgotten from a meat murder barbecue the weekend before.

The left over can, in that untidy garden, wetted by the thin rain which seems to do not stop, has been hit by sliding drops of rooftop water which as it falls produces a sound, a syncopate sound symbolically written as..splotch-in , splotch-in, splotch-in

Listen to it, was for Dorothy a companion in the solitary awakens state of early morning:

Nature, my best friend, she uses to thought to herself.

She didn’t as she was too young to know, that for Tibetan Medicine her enjoyment was also healing.

It did not sound boring to her ears, it was much more than a merely sound of drops striking a left over can of Guinness. Dorothy felt as if she was the water drops, the can and the sound.

Today she is more intrigued than ever, she can understand that the water drops and the sound it generates, its resonance, was all to do with the material properties of the can and the force generates by the rooftop height that a drop of water produce as it hit the can.

She was not a child anymore to know that it was all too logical to be understood.

The logical concepts of science, adulthood thinking, betrayed her, and it was for her as it is for most of us, imposed as truth.

Her childhood memories brought back to her a sense of stillness, infiniteness. It brought back to her the knowledge of the metaphysical, the divine, the sacred and the perennial force which always existed and will surround us forever, independently of our science achievements.

Splotch-in, splotch-in, splotch-in.would continuously be heard, heard by attentive ears.

As long as the tinny rain does not ceases to fall, as long as the garden remains untidy, as long as wet trees leaves blocked the water passage in the roof top , it will produce that unusual, healed sound, which when connected to her heart beat, offered harmony which results in peace.

Poetry: Just so you know

admin — Sat, 08 May 2010 00:09:31 +0000

SEE

See

My not thinking

Denies it control.

When,

really,

it exerts much control.

Funny. Irony funny.

The control is illusory.

I’ve been liberated by the same cancers

that vie for this body.

Cause I know now.

Really know now.

In real time.

No metaphysical, philosophical;

Debate, discussion, dialectic

I really know now

The illusory nature of life in

All its totality;

The chimera that is life

The mirage that is power.

Age old questions:

What is sacred?

What is profane?

The answers surprise you.

Do I care if I am on time for anything?

More telling to be;

Living in time with everything.

Flowing.

Do I care if someone else

has need of a “snit”?

Not my blood pressure.

Not my precious moments.

Wasted on trivialities;

Someone else needs to feel

To feel needed for…..

The true priorities of living

Have organised themselves

The rest is DROSS.

So much pusillanimous, miscellaneous, supercilious

Nonsense.

Shed.

To lighten the load.

To lift the spirit.

To level the way.

Essays: Escape

admin — Sat, 01 May 2010 09:41:27 +0000

Escape is an enigma. The difficulty is in finding a place to escape. We live in a convoluted world full of distress and disillusionment. Increasingly, the avenues for physical escape are limited and inaccessible. People find themselves trapped among the lifeless faces of the glass and concrete framework of our modern world. Desperately, we seek a place of quiet rest. We crave these moments of sanity and solitude. Where many are drawn to the more metaphysical and cerebral elements of escapism, others choose the more destructive path of tangibles that drugs, alcohol, gambling and sex provide. Human nature has become imbalanced.

People are consumed with passions they cannot understand. It leads them to do acts of violence unto themselves, unto humanity, unto the individual.

It is hard to comprehend. Yet, we seek a place to escape the vulgarities and disposed values of life. Drugs are an anathema to the world closing in around them. Those on crack, those with lack, every thing is slack. Our society does not own its own. We keep challenging and condemning everyone around us. How much do we have to say ” Leave us alone” . We are not challenged by those around us. We are challenged by our selves surrounding us. So , if you can find a place to leave us alone. A solitude as yet unknown, let us know.

Still, they will not see. What it’s doing to me? What it’s doing to you? When we see that it’s all an illusion, then, and only then, do we realize that our true selves were born not of this earth but of somewhere far more special than that. We will always seek out those who verify and vilify our own souls.

But, somehow, we cannot reach that star. I have a friend whose life is lonely and depraved. And she still seeks that great God in the sky. I admire those who keep an open mind. Who remain untouched by all the garbage and subterfuge in the world.

I hope for a world where man does not control our thoughts, our loves, our minds. I wish to find that place that is not escape. A portal to love without hate. And, if I can’t find it, then I wish no longer to reside in this place.

The place full of hatred with no peace, a place of deception with no grace, a place of dissent with no harmony, a place unreal. I keep my loves under check. I cherish every moment of peace and content. I cry out to the place where I find rest. I am alive. I am refreshed. I am real. And I am content.

Short stories: The muse

admin — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 07:25:10 +0000

God knew I needed help with this, all I had were tears, a well of inconspicuous emotion. I stared down a the vast open space of the paper, that now seemed so epic, so incongruous. I took a shuddered breath and pulled from a second glass of vodka, my pen stroked lightly on the dessert that had once been wood, could I not draw from that once living edifice now? The biro tapped there quietly for a few moments in answer, clearly I could not. Another breath, breathing for the sake of breathing, trying to fill the empty thoughts with breath, like hot air balloons. Never had I been so empty as when positioned with that piece of paper and told to write.

Write me something, anything, a letter, tell me how you feel, tell me from the start, how it happened when and why. Then tell me where we go from here. Truth was I had no idea, when all was said and done did we really have anything to continue with, what good would it do either of us now to lay down our laundry and wash it clean. I had nothing to give, I had no more in me, that’s what I wanted to say, but how do you say goodbye, especially when you’ve only just learnt to say hello. Perhaps id never really covered the first, if I had would I be throwing this chance away, killing this thing with words from my own being.

I looked behind me. The muse stood up a small and knowing smile full of solemn wisdom, she walked to stand to the rear of me a faint breath of substance against my back. She took my hand in hers, closing that pale palm over my skin, moulding it into a hand that could write. She looked at me briefly, time left us alone for that moment, both full of understanding, I submitted to her movements and our hands began to move as one, fashioning a page full of regrettable writing, things that should’ve been said, things that were thought and meant, that could be used and that should be forgotten.

She kissed my forehead, missed, slightly catching my eye, had she meant to do it? A physical action of the metaphysical one she had encouraged, kissed my eyes clear of everything that should’ve been clear. Opened up the tears and the words, parted the lips and eased the hands into forging beings. All but the ghost of her retreated to her chair, leaving me with the faint buzz of inspiration thumbing across my skin. Yes her vindictive love had allowed me to do what I had to, I had used her and she had gotten her way. A platonic nature of scribbling. She could go now knowing i was safe, knowing i had at least closed one door beofre moving on out into another world.

I stared at the page alive with painful words, another breath, no more drink. I stood up, slid the poison into a vile and put it into the hands of the messenger. Once the door was closed I sat by the fire, watching the flame, my face tilted towards the muse with a grateful little smile, which she acknowledged with one of her own and stepped out of the room, leaving me with my thoughts on things that had passed like fermented wine.

Poetry: Falling in love

admin — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 20:04:57 +0000

Like a rainbow appearing after a storm, like the happiness after the strife

The existence of love is never unseen, and a lover is dreamt into life

It is love that I speak of so tenderly now

And it has found its way into my heart.

Like the wind that knocks into the trees and carries the leaves astray,

The spirit of love can shake the soul in such a similar way

The powerful branches are swayed and caressed

And the brittle remains of a broken heart are forever forgotten.

Similar to how magnets are made solely to collide

Two wandering souls are connected before they knowingly abide

A strong force resists the power to separate

And two people find themselves becoming one metaphysical being.

Just as the pure white snow blankets the earth with promising care

True love will always protect the heart from damage, neglect or fear

The sparkling snow is soft to the touch

And the serene nature of love will never weigh heavily.

Similar to dormant waters rippled by the passing rain

The heart is renewed by a pattern of kindness and a passion forever untamed

The tide is calm with a new direction.

And two lives are enraptured by a destiny withheld.

Like the body embracing the rhythm of music, like the mind being fed with a beautiful poem

The soul is captured by the essence of giving and no longer shall it wander this earth alone.

It is love that I speak of so tenderly now

And it has found its way into your heart.

Metaphysical Beliefs » Creative Writing

Poetry: Religion of spirituality

Short stories: Wishes

Essays: Philosophy

Novel excerpts: Life

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