she builds rooms for nitemares
constructs them out of spelling mistakes
ruffled feathers and worn-out nouns
cars have feet in her dreams
death is feeling guilty for ignoring her
she lives on hiding in the wind
writing and image by patrickwey
she builds rooms for nitemares
constructs them out of spelling mistakes
ruffled feathers and worn-out nouns
cars have feet in her dreams
death is feeling guilty for ignoring her
she lives on hiding in the wind
writing and image by patrickwey
It was on his way to that frozen silent space, the graveyard, in the light of day when things turned dark. He was worried about her, concerned. She had shown signs of deep depression with her tombstone eyes and endless dreams, and more than that, she was far too quiet for far too long.
The old ford broke down, stalled at an intersection, wouldn’t start, kept turning over but just would not combust, ‘a gas problem’ he thought, ‘maybe electrical’, no spark. He rolled it across the down-hill intersection and parked it along side the twisted road, out of the way, almost hidden. Tried it a few more times, ‘I guess it’s a long walk’, he thought. He couldn’t test things alone, turn it over while holding a spark plug wire away from a spark plug, or some other technique to see if it was electrical or gas related, so he said fuck it, ‘I’ll walk and deal with it later’.
That is what put him in harms way with this moulded modern man, deranged, angry and out for madness.
He headed towards the tombs to meet her, to help her, be there for her; down the railroad tracts towards the old graveyard by the edge of town. He saw him coming, a strange dark figure, like the night, long coat, afghan brown hat, rusted-white complexion it appeared and with a neck bent towards the ground and piercing darkened eyes staring up direct at me, the air turned thick. We were both sharing the single well-worn path along the tracks, so I thought I’d move on to the railroad ties side and let him have the full trail to himself, it felt like he needed it. He kept glaring, staring as I approached so I half smiled to no avail and when we met within a few feet he quickly unravelled from the inside of his coat a dull black gun and fired a shot and then again, and as if I saw it coming, bang, bang, dead, and kept walking.
This unfinished poem, or maybe it was finished, anyways, it was found in his pocket scribbled in blood and ink.
there is a place where everything is one
no imagination or dreams
where reason is the crippled warrior
in a sea of mathematical analogies
relative and whole numbers separate into infinity
and eternity is absolute endless supreme and possibly
love is all there is
Writing and Images by patrick wey
Click HERE and start a slide-show of many Sierra pictures – up in the top right corner.
Today on the 29th of Dec. 2019, Sierra would be 29, she has been gone 4/1/2 years. Time is irrelevant where tragedy lives, she knew that, i know that, many understand.
These are some of the many photographs i took of her in her first seven years. Then we were seperated for 17 years. This disturbed her, molded her, confused her, devastated her being. She struggled, wiggled in and out of this world. I entered back into her life six months before she left for good. We connected patched up what we could but in the end it was the medical world that took her breath away. She told me all, her life, the way she saw it – on video.
This story is much more than i could ever present here, too complicated, sensitive and needs delicate time.I hope to create a documentary as she would have wanted.
She mentioned, ‘anything that could help others not to have to go thru what I went thru’.
I loved her like no one else in my life, i lost her twice. She was a miracle, so many amazing moments being with her.
below – written by Sierra
I wish I were a bird,
So I could fly away.
Wish I had wings made of glass, blow my problems away.
Etched into stone, I’m grounded.
My broken wings won’t let me fly.
All my body in wanting, chasing that sky high.
All she wants is to be free,
No warning will she heed,
‘Unleash this beast!’
‘In my soul,
It’s making me ill
It’s getting hard to breathe, I’m feeling unwell.’
Redemption at it’s finest,
Credentials of a ciminalist,
‘Exorcise this demon with-in my chest!”
I have a hunger like an unfed wolf, eating at my soul. Emaciated, starving, hunting the high. Like a demon in my chest, it cries out in demand on satisfaction. “Feed me!!!” It cries. “Feed my desires. Fuel my pleasure. Take my hand, I’ll make everything better.” But high is a four letter lie. Once is never enough. Once, twice, thrice, only quells the beast in a temporary fashion. Just as quickly as it’s quieted, it’s demanding attention again with a ferocity only seen in the depths of hell.
More writing about Sierra from my past….patrickwey
309 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/29 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Sierra Kachina left at 24, would have been 28 today…born into a world almost to the minutes of 100 years after the last massacre of the NA Indian at Wounded Knee ……here is wiki-info of that event…….https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wounded_Knee_Massacre
Words about Sierra since she had gone: no one can feel the pain of loss of another, it can tear one to the depths of the soul and lift one higher than life, death.
Writing words you will never see
editing pictures you never saw
killing dreams we never met
living around lies tangled up around us yet
crying alone into fading memories
a busy numbness surrounding often
and you and me ending again
this time forever ending within
i see this thru vague scenes
that crumble into one another
drenched in pain and love
as they move along the trail
with a crippled weakness into the day
and words to you i will never say
i write to no one but the stream
of endless dreams across the purple sky
the universe that comes in clear
the universe that closes when the dream ends
Without You Sierra
sometimes it tears tenderly to my heart
sadness where it has never gone, goes.
years passing without you
your little heart and mine
twisted into each other like time
i gaze across the highway to the grassy fields beyond
the silent wind bends around invisible canyons
straight into my mind
your essence emanates soft and deep into me
with dry tears i caress the moments slipping by
there will never be anyone so true to me as you
our bond was woven by the mystery of love
no one can alter what was so clear
that alone gives a graceful comfort
this pure sadness against my path
your delicate sense breathes life into death
i need no promises, commitments, no proof
we knew we were special
a love so rare so true so threatening
we lived thru this with the most fragile of hearts
now thru this fading silence
with nothing but the humble caring of the wind
i love you with your tears upon me
nothing can harm you now
you are safe from this world
and all its misery
i am seeing this with my hidden pain
as i walk on without you….
There are few words left to say
i know in my heart there are no ears of yours to hear
what can never be said to you ever
you’re gone and love feels so empty without you
i have learned that this world is even more cruel than imagined
fake everything lures everybody into so much of little worth
they have little room for real tears
no time for true sadness
only shallow laughter and smiles against the rain
ultimately they are afraid to face their own mortality
they need to blanked it with tender wit, swift gestures
hidden desires leading secure beliefs to selfish love
They are the lost children of the american dream
stretching across every continent
desperately hanging onto every note from the popular song
caressing comfort with their broken bodies
falling alone down into cancerous heavens
to worlds they could never be
They are my brothers, my sisters, my friends and my foe
they are the celebrities cared for more than neighbours
more than the blood across the land
more than the mother in the land
the father of the other hand
the truth scattered into words
blasted against the walls of your brains
and in this context everyone is to blame
the dilemma of the human insane
In this beauty one must weep. The overwhelming understanding of pain from loss is so sad it is beyond comprehension. It goes so deep one can only cry tears from memories dying and the letting go of its truth, its reality. Admitting that it is hard to live life one must let go of the dearest feelings; all the tangled ones and all the gentle and soft ones. It is hard to see this in the air, all the clusters of memories contained in one soul and spread out across the minds of the people. The close ones the distant ones the collective ones, all of different quantities and depth, moving in and around as a dream does.
When one dies and the entanglement of thought-energy floats thru the atmosphere as a spirit would, the visions of these holographic scenes may be more real than a normal reality appears. This is pure vision with no interpretation from a past, a future, just the endless flow from one scene to the next. The magnitude of this impression is life altering.
You can feel the waves of peoples thoughts and dreams, with their spirits creating intricate delicate holographs of varied scenes floating thru the forests along creeks veins like an epiphany from ‘nature’, the creator of all known. I cried, knowing i had to let go to live. It will come in small doses, not as to destroy me, little by little till i carry on alone. This may never happen. This is the dream, the dream will change, the observer will be altered, vast death is the nature of all this. It will come regardless of what one does. It is this movement in life that sees this death and the illusions of dreams as necessary branches to this tree, as life is a dilemma.
the days go by and you fade beyond my will
every step another distance without you
memories slip in and out of the air surrounding here
some are peaceful and serene and others are dark and deep
when the pains you felt, lived through and died with
punctures my heart like a knife with tears
the road curves up ahead and your presence is near
there in the pale afternoon where your love lies
and the sunset full of your colour
there are the photographs and your remnants scattered about
there are memories hanging on the walls without you
you meant everything to a few left behind
and they struggle down the path alone
and there is no answer fit
to why you left the way you did
no conclusions can soothe this heart
it is what it is and love and you are one
there is nothing along the cove
to replace this shore on eternity
memories will continue their journey across the universe
and fade into the void beyond
but for now there is nothing left
just you caressing this heart
and a spirit feeling this
my heart aches for you
your simple smile your delicate wit
your ways and your life living
i miss you terribly so
i am so sorry i did not do enough to save you
to help you in any way i could
to share everything i have with you
i never expected it would end so quick
what a fool i was in moments i could have done more
could have poured my heart unto you
given my every touch of love
i am so sorry, forgive me
nothing i can do now for you
i am lost at moments crushed with pain
devastated to my very being
like a boat without water
and a soul with out life
i am alone lost and numb
i see the road the way and the things to be done
i walk with one foot in the desert and the other on unknown land
i am a man stranded with no home no future no dream
i remember your breath searching for air and your heart for warmth
i walk i walk i keep walking
there are moments joy slips by and noise ceases
there are those that say too much and those that can’t listen
the ones with ideals overloaded and the ones crawling down the avenue
i miss your presence, the weight in your eyes
the truth your lips concealed
i miss you, your simple love
i miss you
i can never be free from you
you are a part of me
some of you is inside of me
and i shall die like that
you and me are a memory
that will be as long as forever is
little angel up-against the tomb
on a road red as heart
spirit fallen from the sky
with no clear answer why
and with tombstone tears
a wounded kachina cries
“for simple love i live and die”.
“i’ was much, much too young to die”
I wish i could say what can’t be said
and do what can’t be done
i wish i could do magic
and bring back what’s gone
i am loosing the words to say much or anything at all
now is not the time to
we all want to know what can’t be known
it is the nature of thought
we all want things we can’t get
we all want teachings that can’t be taught
there is no easy way
to heal a wounded heart
you can fly high and dig low
you can tell yourself sweet little lies
you can tear yourself apart
with things you wish you’d done
but there is only one thing that can really help
hidden deep within the heart
A wave of pain struck on edges of dreams formed long ago
I know i have to write this experience out sometime soon. It is too bizarre and hideous in areas that must be written in detail to fully understand the depth and shallowness of the situation. I venture to say that Sierra died at the hands of relatives and friends and doctors that made decisions to act or not act with self imposed desires emanating from their conditioned minds without much depth to see the outcome of this simple and sincere life of Sierra Kachina. No one is to blame and yet we all are. I don’t know where to start. The beginning they say but there is no beginning.
Raw reality stripped from all its glory
naked truth condemned to hide beneath the rugs
the way it was the way it is
the way it is going to be
silence against the noise of mind
love hidden in the shadows
nothing is as nothing was
everything comes everything goes
imaginary waves upon the shores
where something ends something begins
i think of you often in so many ways
i wish i wish i wish but to no avail
if only this and if only that
you would be alive and i know it’s true
you questioned so many times
of what you would be like if only
we had not been separated at your little girls age of seven
if only we could have continued to be as father and daughter
what confused decisions tore us apart
what guilt hidden in minds separated us
why did that have to be so
what did we do to deserve such fate
is the truth worth anything now
will the prosecutors suffer as i
can anyone hurt so much
so deep for so long, my little mind
never really mature, stuck in your arms
safe and warm from the dangers of life forever
i missed you so much my father and friend
and no one could understand
and now i am gone forever
cept the memories in the minds of who’s left
twisted and torn and true and soft
some will feel the pain of abandonment as i
some will continue to ignore the facts
and continue to lie with their crafted smiles
and embrace the illusions they’ve made
for me i have gone and now you my friend write my legacy
i forgave everyone, it was in my nature
but i felt the pains of their decisions that tore my brain apart
from street and legal abuse i walked thru hell alone
tormented people are made of this
this guilt and anger hidden beneath
in minds not willing to see
i loved you all regardless; my mother, my husband, my aunts
my dear sister, my fathers and uncles
all my friends that couldn’t really understand
what i myself could only feel but not comprehend
why, why, why were you taken from me
it doesn’t make sense…..
how simple is love
this love severed but never dead
i am grateful it had found it’s way home
after so many years and for such a short time
and now i leave once again to let you walk on alone again
to face every breath without me
cept for what little is left in memory
but i am gone
gone forever with dreams
Driving home along the highway
yellow moon hanging in the sky
sounds so romantic but it’s true
everywhere i look i find you
I walk along the beach and see you in the sand
i pick up a purple stone and find you in my hand
high in the sky you fly within the clouds
trees are made of your likeness all across the land
such a sacred child in the body of a woman
you were just like me, a melancholy man
For hidden guilt and shame of things they couldn’t face
And unaware to me i’d been accused and convicted of things i never did
It was simple and easy to hide the evidence, me, and live a lie into eternity
but to their surprise and your demise, little sierra died
and now they have this tragic reality hanging from their neck
they can’t escape the truth of what’s been done
and only an apology might shine some healing light
but until then they will feel that deep darkness in their skull
how long will it take, time can’t even tell
i am not counting the days, i hardly care anymore
my little girl is gone and i don’t give a damn what people say
nothing is going to change anything anyway
people can hide but they still have to pay
that’s the nature of this way
you can fill your brain with whatever you want
fool yourself and fool the world
but in the end karma will knock you down
where ever you hide
where ever you lay
get your self a good alibi
a judgement day is on its way
we would have had such a lovely birthday time today…..always thinking about you.
Image circa 1996……writing, last 3 1/2 years
She walks in beauty, her skirt dancing, flirting high with the wind. Her love spread out in the evening breeze, her skin pure and delicate like fine mist, hair flowing entangled in the sky, her smile warm and true like earth and water. Yes that is her, safe inside all women, waiting for an escape into a perfect embrace for an endless moment or two. Waiting, walking along the waterways, searching thru the storms, holding love like a luring vase for a flower to her heart, a breath of purple to encompass her soul. She dances thru life like a knife, cutting thru dreams unworthy. She is the golden goddess inside every woman, flowing thru the machine, kissing all with tenderness, loving life like the sun with an amber side of the moon. This is the way she walks along the cove, through dreams, down avenues, her skin smooth as the evening light of the night, softness in the turmoil of the wounded, delicate in the mind serene. Her words silent speak in a future, dangle off memories of the past, holding safe in her heart the way through the mountains on her chest. The forsaken goddess in modern times, her love endless, veiled from the world of dying dreams.
She was right, on a dead end street, wrong on a road to love. She was a goddess hollow, confused along the avenues of hell. Her spell entangled around the towers of expectations. Her beauty was apparent, everybody tried to get to her, but not one could pierce her shield. She left towards the lonely boulevards, stranded, self contained in her ideals, her trauma, her canyon-ways through the storms with reason. Her love a statue upon a petestal, her beauty tormented by a path, her story fading with the pages of her truth. She lived with the word of love as her guide, her salvation, her facade, her tragedy, her beauty in a misinformed paradise, a seed on a dry earth.
Words and Images by pat wey
Out in the dim lit streets, down the alleyways of the mind, the eye was set on the jewels of the ditch, the misery of time.. Hollow dreams brown walls slim and slender thought wavering around the edge of the town, he left. Worn from the ways in the canyon and dead in the light of time, age took him towards the grave with a deep psychopathic sadness spread across his pages like a glove. Hands mangled bones reaching for a few aged breaths of meaningful air but there was nothing there, a couple of recurring memories of solid endless fantasies swimming around his scull from somewhere up above. He died a long time ago but his body kept moving thru the day like a used ford. Right from the beginning he was doomed to end demented, the world threw him round like a toy, like a bottle of beer, a cigarette butt, a scattered dream meaningless and feared.
That was the life of a man, a man somewhat like you and i, groomed into accepting the dirt in his blood, acts hidden beneath, decisions forced by the very allusions of love. He was thin in the head, with a heart of solid silver, a mind of shallow space, clear, no colour to his skin. He was a 20th century man, almost dead.
Back in the streets of the mind you can feel the souls weave thru the night air, hope wilting in the hearts, long crescendoes of despair slowly penetrating the cells of life. The end is beginning again, the 21st century is in full swing. Love is at the door, faith is emanating from the walls, paint is bright and thick.
Literature and Images by patrick wey
You with your honest lies, facts formed for from the privileged ones. My history with your polished shoes, your razor blade manners, your quest for power, a fools day on the golden screen.
I hit the streets in the rain, wind brushing up against my coat, slivers of light beaming across the sky, dim views rolling across the road. Miracles lifting off the floor, turbulence humming from the brain, a whole fleet of merchants pasting their wars in advertisements for the blind and truth hiding within the crevices as usual. This is where i was born free of commitment free of germs free of life and there you entered like a saviour like a saint like a fool. I laid across your hallways and forced walls inside my veins, i loved your bricks and toothpaste and i gave out your embraces to the midgets in the ward just like you asked but one thing i just couldn’t do was to eat your jet-planes and drive your convenience stores torn into the new world. I refused, i would rather die than kill myself like that. You, you big fucking idiot to think i could fall so easy, death wasn’t that sacred and you knew it, you too were hiding here inside somewhere close by. I could feel it, i could sense the desperation from afar, i could tell you were me right from the start.
The candle burnt to the end, the bridges lifted down to the core and the whole universe scrambled inside out and the end kept beginning over and over again like a lost snail but there was more and more that came and went and then it turned over and started all over again, repeated this endlessly. I stood on the edge alone watching, there was no one i could recognize, no one to put my finger to. The walk to the highlands was low and mean. I didn’t know if i was coming or going most of the time and when i heard that last bell ringing from across the heavens i knew it was time. I shut up watched and listened but there was nothing but darkness, no sound, no nothing just blank, a blank everything and some remnant of me. That was it, i turned , i suppose i did and then the music began, bad obnoxious pounding rap metal crashing in my ears……..what the fuck, what is this place, where is the eternity you promised, the love dangling across your eyes like an iron fist. God, you were something, looking out at the world like you owned it.
It was still raining hard across the streets, wind brushing up against my face, there was nothing left to do but to walk on and that i did.
Poems falling into broken ears, breaking ears, weary tears thru the years, and trying so desperately to own me.
Images and writing by patrick wey
let there be me
for i am
there is no other
i am all
i need nothing
i am full
Water has taken me to places where truth exists, where it reveals itself in many ways. There is a knowing that does not rely on thought born of the senses, a direct relation with reality, a complete unity of mind.
One day as i was out walking i stumbled upon a mountain creek where i sat for what appeared to be a few minutes which i later learned was a few hours. I remember a handful of thoughts about the spirit of the water; a misty shape in the form of an old woman flowing thru the atmosphere like a goddess. She took my mind along. I didn’t question anything, to think appeared to be absolutely sacrilegious. A gentle awareness, a sacred observation, a meditative seeing was all i observed. In that time span whereas i remember little that can be conveyed in words there was another seemingly knowing that had filled my being with something much more powerful and real and true that ‘just is’, and is now a part of my being and can be called upon simply with being in silence. It doesn’t resolve issues as reason tends to do but more of an understanding beyond, above, a higher octave of comprehension. That in itself resolves so much trite, so many issues that lure us into the domain of logic, whereas endlessly attempting to entrap us, to falsely convince certainty without a doubt. This is different, a freedom from the known, a road with no path, an answer to all questions, a serenity, an acceptance of the nature of everything. Nothing is so serious as to be simple with oneself and to truly acknowledge that nothing can be truly known in the domain of thought, for it is finite in an eternal universe. A beautiful tool that should emanate and conclude from the silence, not impose itself upon it. Reason is a crippled warrior in the fields of silence, a broken wing in the sky of eternity, judgement, a melting candle in the mind. Silence is where silence lives.
I remember that i must remember to not forget to remember to forget. I hardly give a damn about the lost souls that have been extinguished into heroes for being forced to carry a weapon to kill for god, country, freedom, oil and peace. The ones that died in vain for war, for the masters of ships and wealth beyond the dignity of a common man. I don’t give a fuck for your poppies all in a row, your graves set up like little boxes of poisoned foods on super-market shelves. I remember the guns that raped my sisters and the fuckers that tortured my mothers and inflicted trauma that killed our fathers. I remember the dreams dying in the red stained mud flowing free down past the ditches of your mansions. I remember your tear drenched words begging by the side of the curb for a little food as no one remembered your heroic feats with their closed eyes as they walked by to their homes in the free-world. Yes i remember how discussed you were when someone pointed out to you your hypocrisy and how shy you became when the beggars came tugging at your sleeve. Yes i remember your brave wars, your religious wars, your land theft wars, chemical dust wars and your knew fantasy fighting ultimate wars to claim your bubbles in outer and virtual space. You chiefs of war forcing my children to fight your wars or flee the country or consequently get thrown in jail, well fuck you, you should be slaughtered for forcing us to be your heroes or die ashamed afraid.
Yes i remember that you’ll never forget that foreign jealous sonofabitch that cursed your freshly mowed lawn, your two car garage and your big screen movie den. Yea i remember you, you make me sick with your guns and your guns and your guns fighting for dreams that are nothing more than well thought out propaganda ropes. I remember the soft touch of my mothers hand as she sent me out to the war-trenches for oil and freedom with the hidden facades of wealthy power for a few. I remember my brother dying in my arms with one last breath whispering out the horror of it all. I remember the immense pain, the endless stretching out for one last hit from your poppies drugs in your war torn junky alleyways. I remember when war made sense and killing was rewarded with metals and champagne, yes i remember when things had to be this way or you would die along side your brothers and mothers and sisters and friends. I recall remembrance day when the people deceived themselves into believing we fought for freedom, the freedom to buy stuff, kill the earth with toxic chemistry, entertain ourselves to the grave and brag about our grandchildren as we sent them off to the front lines. I remember that i must forget to forgive and live free until the next gun is shoved up my ass. I remember how you used to say lest we forget it may happen again and yet it has never stopped and is happening with my next door neighbour, my family, my politician, my heroes, humanity. War is at the very centre of our remembrance, we just can’t forget.
To truly forgive is to put your life in the line of fire, i remember that. I love you enough to put my person on the track but i won’t kill my brother for you. fuck you, masters and participants of war. You deceptors of reality, creators of fake history and dead brains. I feel so sorry for the ones that suffer because of you, that are suffering now and so many that still want to believe in you and you keep sending them off into the nightmare of the horror of war. You lied to us, everyday forgets us, it should be renamed to ‘forget-us day’. You bastards, you fuck heads. I hope you die and you die soon. Yes i remember you, everyday, you dealers of death.
(for the warriors whose strength is not to fight….b dylan)
where are the ceremonies for the soldiers of the mind
the disabled and crippled whose wounds can never heal
and the psychedelic martyrs condemned for being real
the cool dudes with misplaced freedom in minds surreal
where are the monuments for the poets of the soul
the singers on the road to freedom lying in the ditch
who are these ones that remember guns and blood
why are we immersed in memory that condemns
where are the statues for the wrecked and abused
the cursed and simple brains detached and confused
for the ones conditioned and wrongfully accused
while killers go free and simple love is refused
where is the testament to surpass this remembrance
when will we pass this curse of memory misused
Images and Writing by patrickwey
He’s five-foot-two and he’s six-feet-four
He fights with missiles and with spears
He’s all of thirty-one and he’s only seventeen
He’s been a soldier for a thousand yearsHe’s a catholic, a Hindu, an Atheist, a Jane
A Buddhist and a Baptist and Jew
And he knows he shouldn’t kill
And he knows he always will kill
You’ll for me my friend and me for youAnd he’s fighting for Canada, he’s fighting for France
He’s fighting for the USA
And he’s fighting for the Russians and he’s fighting for Japan
And he thinks we’ll put an end to war this wayAnd he’s fighting for democracy, he’s fighting for the reds
He says it’s for the peace of all
He’s the one who must decide who’s to live and who’s to die
And he never sees the writing on the wallBut without him how would Hitler have condemned him at Dachau
Without him Caesar would’ve stood alone
He’s the one who gives his body as the weapon of the war
And without him, all this killing can’t go onHe’s the universal soldier and he really is to blame
His orders come from far away no more
They come from him and you and me
And brothers, can’t you see
This is not the way we put an end to war?
Songwriters: Buffy Sainte-Marie
The Universal Soldier lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
Imagine there’s no heaven
It’s easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today… Aha-ah…
Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace… You…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world… You…
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will live as one
People convinced of what they think they know. They carry their knapsack of scattered dreams smothered of routine entertainment rolled down a choked throat of opinion like a badge. What’s in it for me the dead end schemes, where’s a ditch to get sick in.
The young kid excited to know, truth sitting on finger tips, love twisted between their eyes. It’s a sunny late winter afternoon weekend in the streets, people going nowhere relaxed and sure. I’m sittin here observing my mind bend around the day, struggling smooth along the streets, curving through possibilities, stuck on nothing for time being as it is, holding loose, flowing as water does.
When you said, “I and I, one said to the other, no man sees my face and lives”, I was dying along the side of the road, crows hovering over me like the wind. Jesus walked up to me right then and there, lit a cigarette and passed it my way, “That for me”, I questioned with my eye. “Sure is”, I saw it in his grin.
‘So you think you can get there from here’, I questioned once again. “I don’t know, there ain’t no one here from there’, the other I answered, and then forgot again.
‘So this is what it’s all about, right here in this’, some knowing crashed upon me like a wave of heavy light, flashed the truth, sure and sure and was gone.
I walked on sitting here and there with words, ‘nothing to get hung about’, saturday afternoon forever.
Jesus looked back on the way out, ” that’s natural tobacco, rolled it, grew it myself; used light”, he said.
Took his word as truth, smoked it right down. A winged one emanating gratitude flew across my mind. I gently placed the tobacco butt on the living earth, and out of the edge of the sky an Owl silently glided by and that was it. I walked on.
Words and Images by patrick wey
Written around the winter of 2001 sittin in a 2nd cup cafe on universtity ave on a sunny saturday snow flurried afternoon in waterloo on.
He didn’t give a damn at all whether he was liked or not walking down past the walls of half confused murals of splintered dreams dangling off minds like dying tulips in a vacant vase. Sometimes the walls just look that way, well that’s what he thought, he thought a lot of things. He travelled inside and outside throughout his long uneven life; been loved, criticized, cursed and respected but mostly he’d been fooled into thinking things were the way they weren’t. The patterns hadn’t changed, people strived, people survived, people died. He was like most in most ways. If there was a difference at all it was in the way he attempted to understand. He had to know the foundation, the basic pattern, the way things moved. With that he could navigate thru the storms, the difficult moments when it all seemed to fall apart and when it didn’t make sense any longer, he could hang onto the last remaining threads to possibly put it back together, mend the wounds.
That was the plan and it worked often but not often enough. The end was doomed for the world as it was and he knew it. There was no turning back, it was too late, the turning point was gone, best to just go with the flow, the end was just down around the bend, but there is no ultimate end, but definitely, without a doubt, what you think, ends.
So the day was spectacular, sun gleaming across the avenues, love seemed to be everywhere. There was a happiness that just emanated from his soul, his heart was full of light, warm soft caressing light, the kind you find when you’re flying high in ecstasy, the kind you can’t quite hang onto, but its there, everywhere and your whole being is in it. The air the ground the sky the trees, buildings glowing with feelings from everywhere, illuminated love that flew thru the veins of the rusted brick from ancient times to future fantasies and then some. Yes this was his day. He had a bunch of names, jim, pat, doug, al, joe, all of them useless to the spirits, they knew his real names, his strength, his weaknesses, his truth, his sins.
Jazz playing low across the cafe floor, humanity walking by from every rock on this earth, nothing holding nothing for nothing, thought just winding around every concept thrown his way. It was on the free trail, the path that dies, the roads that end, the streets of heaven changing with every breath; yea that is where he was lost not lost, found not found, in this perfect space that has no time, owns no moments, nothing for anything.
And then as if out of nowhere it all changed. He saw her, a replica, a clone, a perfect image of a love gone astray that his brain cells just kept passing around and rearranging thru time. “It all is so strange this mind of mine, as if i own it, won it, stole it, created it. Memories fold into the air, bend around time without my say”. The day continued on as if nothing had happened. People kept coming and going. All the things of the times were present again as if they had never left. The news, the old folk with their papers, the young in their cells, the world from the middle east to argentina, poverty to riches, rape to love. “I don’t care about the ‘likes’, most of the time”.
Writing and Images by patrick wey
I’m out here wandering between the branches thru the open air in the nigh-time of your early dawn. I miss your soft voice against the kitchen cabinets and your sweet smell when you brush up against my will. I love those moments when the air is perfect, memories soft, pure. I want to be there, i want to be there always, i believe in the impossible, the totally unlikely time that lays still between the leaves. The young, with dreams for no purpose but to exist to be as it is to care for nothing, for nothing is in need. Yes this life has taken too much of me, my soul, pieces scattered into data office machines, factories scheming dreams lying across futures that have already tattooed a bar code across my forehead. I want out, suicide this mess, i want beauty, the heart of these trees, the seed of freedom in my eyes.
In the afternoon the streets are quiet, the hill side is fading towards the night, the people are wavering in and out of the hazy uncertain horizon. I can see clear across the globe, the sky, into the heavens where a creator is looking thru me. I see as it is.
All things, fields of forests of ancestors with their yarn woven within the mind, truth exposed everywhere like mist hovering between timeless branches. My being within everything, my time all time, dissolved as water does, her love kissed upon the soil in rain, her ambers of life eternally me. This is the place i long for, this here where the streets lie still and the song of the forest is forever sung.
Images and writing by patrick wey ….
I created this image for a waternature.org graphic project about ten years ago. It appears that most have taken little time in attempting to understand the one living substance that governs all earthly existence, water. It is not enough to memorize green facts, write songs, protest, and carry on as if this problem is understood by science or god and will disappear. It won’t and it is getting much more urgent and probably beyond the point of complete reversal if mankind cares enough to care.
In my quest for knowing i stumbled upon Viktor Schauberger 25 years ago when i was living in Ireland. I devoured what i could and 20 years later got frustrated with the lack of interest, support and funding so i side-stepped off into other terrains. It hounds me often to my soul because i know that i had found no better answers to understanding and comprehending nature. Our newtonian/einsteinian science based explosive-styled technology monopoly is in direct opposition to life, killing it. Viktor explains in detail and people like Callum Coats, Viktor’s son Walter and numerous others carry on this Implosive Biotechnology knowledge that in my view is the only true direction for a healthy existence for mankind and all species. And of course we are becoming more and more aware that the hour is getting late, very late. Don’t trust me, listen to me or take my word for anything….check it out for yourself but please keep your lips sealed about so called green issues until you have at least spent some serious time attempting to understand Implosive biotechnology as Viktor Schauberger had partially understood and explained and exposed for humanity. That was his gift to the earth and yet he died a saddened man…..here is a starter link. and another. There is lots on the internet about Viktor and Implosive Technology, and here also is a site i produced 20 years ago that needs some updating and love – waternature.
Graphics and Writing by patrickwey
Viktor Schauberger Quotes
“Whoever accelerates the media of earth, water and air centrifugally perishes unconditionally, for in so doing they reduce the Blood of the Earth (water) to a pathogenic state and make it the most dangerous enemy of all living and growing things.”
“They call me deranged. The hope is that they are right! It is of no greater or lesser import for yet another fool to wander this Earth. But if I am right and science is wrong, then may the Lord God have mercy on mankind!”
Viktor Schauberger (30th June 1885 – 25th September 1958) was an Austrian forester, inventor, engineer, philosopher, writer and artist.
|Contents1 Sourced1.1 Implosion Magazine1.2 Mensch und Technik1.3 Viktor Schauberger: Our Senseless Toil (1934)1.4 Jane Cobbald: Viktor Schauberger – A Life of Learning from Nature (2006)1.5 Callum Coats: Living Energies – Viktor Schauberger’s brilliant work with Natural Energies Explained (2002)1.6 Callum Coats: Water Wizard2 Unsourced2.1 Intuitive thinking2.2 Science3 External links|
Woke up into a bizarre world. I knew i was in my bed and on the same planet i was in when i fell into sleep space but today when i awoke i just was overwhelmed with how ridiculous this world of man sometimes can be. Everybody i’ve met in my life or had come to know thru the medium of media, books to talk shows to movies to gossip, everybody, everyone of us believes in the thoughts that harvest our minds. We can’t stop it. I know people that believe we are descendants from particular aliens from particular star systems. I know people that believe Trump was sent by god, the big God, the one and only. I know folk that believe we’ll all meet up again in some heaven or some kind of karma will keep us going thru eons of lives. I know people that believe in walt disney truth, in fantasies and strange dark side evil characters beyond my imagination, way beyond my comprehension. I know women that believe all men are liars and they could do without completely. I’ve met men that absolutely hate women and despise their nature. I know men that love only men and women that love only women. I know scientists that truly believe man is superior to nature and that reason is the utmost truth in the universe. I know dear people that believe in love, in truth, in family, in all kinds of ideals and truly believe it is all just as they believe it is. I know people that don’t have a clue in what they believe and ones that never question their beliefs ever.
Everybody believes, even the non-believers believe. It’s a strange world. Somedays you just wake up and wonder wtf and want to roll over and fall back into dream time, but you don’t.
Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense anymore, you got to laugh, there is nothing left to do, smile and laugh, entertain yourself with the absurdity of it all, believe when you believe and tear it all apart when you can. It just amazes me how serious we all are about what ever it is we are, we do, we think. That is what we do. We live our lives believing in what we do, what we are but some of it is all just so insane, crazy, hypocritical, pious, hollow. People with a vision small and large or some epiphany spend their whole lives gathering facts to prove what they experienced is correct, perfect, the truth, real. They bring in texts from the ancient scholars, bibles, geometric analysis, philosophical conclusions, gathering facts and supporters where ever they can and then they attempt to convince the world they got it, they have the evidence, or at least most of it to prove their conclusions are valid, absolute and then far too many attempt to ram it down our throats in one way or another, sometimes easy at first, sometimes not. I know, i’ve been there, done that just like so many others. There are those that are much more modest with their conclusions and usually are not quite as certain about what went on in and outside of their minds and realize it is much too distant to hold so tight.
I know people that believe in things that are simply ridiculous, people that conceal what they believe out of embarrassment. I have friends that believe in all kinds of weird stuff. I have friends, relatives that avoid talking to me because i can’t believe in what they believe. Belief turned rigid is at the root of most all disagreements, arguments, fights, wars, killing. Whereas flexible belief changes, adapts, moves on, evolves, ends, kills itself, often as gentle as a breath of fresh air but it is rare and possibly thought can never be completely fluid.
It is bizarre, when in the end, none of it really matters but none the less, you must do it, that is the world of man, thought, life. One must live with conviction. Most humans i have met are not very clear about what the process of thought really does to their way of life, their convictions. For most ‘thought’ is a given, understood, self evident and i suppose most of the time it is but i see that many get caught in the trap of building it into a system structure of belief that is doomed to failure or simply ‘just not so’, an illusion, a life long deception for the simple pleasure of being in a comfortable bubble. Unfortunately that little box often falls apart just when you had thought it was almost a steady dream. It is possible to ignore the real questions of life and take on former belief systems from outdated religions, dangerous rituals, dead philosophies, rigid science disciplines and ‘that’ is the right of every mind, i suppose. At least, that is just the way it is.
I prefer to question ‘the serous stuff’, but i am uncertain whether it was worth it. I don’t know if it really matters. I do tend to believe that questioning all belief does make for a more peaceful mind, a mind much more unconcerned with the typical useless arguments over gods and demons and absolutes whether philosophical, scientific of simply street nonsense. Certainly i’ll never be around to exist in a world where these useless arguments are forever forgotten. So one moves on into what ever world one is placed within, or possibly, some mornings an attempt to fall back into the uncontrollable moments of sleep-time where thought tends to bend easy.
Hope is irrelevant, rather useless, an excuse to do nothing, a paralysis. I think faith is all one truly needs and it is a given, a physical knowing, body truth. I think faith is beyond thought, is something that exists within the nature of the process of creation itself, a string theory, a mystery, thee mystery, the great mystery, but of course i don’t know, just something i choose to ‘believe in’, for now. The movement to question every belief allows one to attempt to be as open as possible in every inquiry in every moment. That alone opens the doors to a much more healthy approach to every issue as it becomes an investigation for the most appropriate solution for the moment…………knowing it will change as time inhales our mind. A constitution for freedom from the known. In thought nothing is perfect but one must walk on, that is life as we know it ….. till death when we shall part our ways, ‘you and i’ and ‘i and i’.
The train lines have turned to dust, your hair all tangled from the night time hollows. Love wavering in the ruins of time, your sweet smile kissing the graves of the poets down by the rivers edge. The world beaten by its dreams lying in a future dying in the streets; you’re all that the midnight needs, a few blood stained sketches of perfect form and a sip of love in vain. Out of the trembling skies, out of the harrowing feats, out of the historic events into your heart beat you’re born down into the city waves. That’s the way it is, stoned, cursed by the blues, tough as steel, soft as moon. Time turns tight dark and red alone by the cobble stones and neon lights. Things come to you unseen deep, smooth like a pure path to somewhere and you take it, questions falling off like autumn leaves, answers smothered in delight. This is the way to the other side, down below, over there, the distance that never ends, the end of love, the end silently moving still.
I wanted you, i wanted the touch of your heart, your lips touching me, your being mingling in mine as one. The air without you dying forsaken whispering in agony. I want you like water needs breath. I need this life to live.
Woven threads of love tingle themselves around the heavens. I can see this is not real. I can see this is all there is. The walk thru the foreign forest feels dangerous and true, real and beautiful. Thoughts tangle themselves around the roots, dreams drip like dew embraced by morning light. I am forced to the centre of it all by strings of beauty and i can see that you are no where near. That is when the road unfolds and memory dies and overtaken by its weight the trail sweeps itself thru you and i and we’re gone, done.
History picks up the pieces and fresh minds unravel the bits of truths scattered across the paths. Monuments emerge, elegies are written, sacred poems sprout out across the desert sands but nothing lasts. A sad lonely coyote howls across the moon lit desert into the cool night air lifting high into the atmosphere and at that exact moment silent love is envisioned within my heart, my mind, my life then disappears.
Click on any image and create a slide show
In the underground below the surface things are different, walls bend, structures twist around realities and the liquid skies flow in and out of space in magic. After a sound rain the other side comes into being, alive and opens up like love does when it flashes itself pure for a moment. I stumbled into this secret world by accident, as if anything really is by chance, and since then i could never find solitude in the streets of man again with its dull rigid forms. Every slight shift another shape presents itself out of melting molecules of curved space and bent time. The connected lines curl inside my mind to the mirrors outside, inside the painted water-colours from the goddess of earth herself. She is the artist without ideals in silence she speaks in moving shades of colours upon the surface of her life, the water, the gift, life blending into one another in warmth and beauty. This is why i live here, the underwater world of mystery, beneath the surface, my love.
These images are not simply reflections as most would prefer to believe, they are curved realities of a parallel source that comes in and out of existence just as truth emanates from the myth of mind than hides. They are shape shifting thru the galaxies, wonders as unique as faith. Everything is a reflection, even the eternal source, the underworld, the romance of the mind, the puddle in all its glory and force to take you where you need to go, the stories in your mind.
I saw you walk thru the sky with buildings dissolving around you. You stoped by the heavens of light for a glance into my eyes. Our minds evaporated together in a single length for a moment and the soft presence of reality slipped upon us in shades of silvery hues only you could produce, the woman of life, earth mother, the goddess of love, the maternal water-colour-painter of earth. Liquid light dancing to the compositions of chance floating around in perfect harmony within the chaos of love.
In the heat of the day, things change, forms melt dry, whole worlds fade into thin air, the doors to the windows of magic end slowly as the sun spreads itself across the land and the underworld hides itself with time to gather her thoughts and shape itself once again into realities that slide across this secret universe alone. Worlds hide in the dry shadows of the earth and man and beast wait till time is right for the wet life of imagination to form in coves and hollows where spirit weeps its tears in infinite arrays of fantasies. The puddle sees the absent mind and lives for but a moment in the unknown history of the eternal.
Melted vanished now, I loved you when time was slow, as a statue on a pedestal we kissed along the avenues of forever, the fortunes of favour came to us for nothing but a warm embrace. We had it all, light crawling across your face and glowing like a saint, a DaVinci master piece, an angel of a virgin, a perfect love in a perfect place. You were the dream that tangled up my memories, the love that lasted forever before time turned round and sped up on down the roads of change. You went your way and i went mine; leaves of grass wavering across the plains of time.
Images and literature by patrickwey
The streets are big in Minsk, clean, the side walks wide, the buildings grand and people well dressed. There is not the typical noice you hear in many other huge cities of the world, less horn honking and repetitious music blasting and speed is not as urgent from the vehicles surfacing the black tar along the avenues. There are many beautiful women, thin and nicely decorated unlike the america’s new over-weight sloppy tattooed pierced trend, a refreshing glimpse into a past where bodies were still pure skin and healthy without the sometimes blasphemous over abundance of cartooned ink upon toxic fat skin and metal driven thru flesh and fluorescent post modern painted hair. The men are very short haired, also thin and congenially dressed. Even the older folk dress modest and simple compared to the holly-world western space .
A feel of dignity still prevails though i notice often an endless stare into your eyes unless you stare back until one or the other breaks, i don’t break usually but look with a soft stare into the often deep disturbed eyes.
Since there is a prohibition on drugs of any sort, by default alcohol is the intoxicant. In a world where people are investigating alternative realities, in this respect Belarus is left in some dark age and yet with the toy of the future, the internet and its social addictive apps. You can smell the disgusting scent of cigarette smoke in many locations, restaurants, outside cafes, in the streets; ten years behind the west. Kids still play outside, the games of the virtual world has not got them by the balls nearly as much as in the west, but it’s on its way. There is good there is bad, the world moves on. The country is flat, poor, segregated from the west under a democratic communist facist form; minds confined. A lot of bureaucracy everywhere, foolish laws to keep the system in order and the people under thumbs.
The poor from the smaller towns and villages live well if they work their fingers to the bones, they eat organic food, slightly tainted with western chemicals, they spend time talking at the kitchen table, Jesus is on their walls. The country folk as everywhere have people that care from the heart.
There is a sense of rudeness in the city streets by many, a touch of disrespect for the other, for the different, for the wild west. They do what they know but the window of the internet is spilling into their every move. It has got the world on its knees. It is changing things daily, by the hour, the second, it is everywhere, the big brothers of business are loving us, connecting us, controlling us.
Now, at the moment, i am in a small country cabin, no electricity, no running water, an out house toilet, a wood oven stove. A river on the other side of a short walk thru a magical pine and birch forest, the swimming hole, the shower, the beauty and life from a vein of mother earth. A distance from the madness in the streets, the glamour, the dreams, i write slow, with silence.
The world over, people are lost, from the privileged in the west, the east, the poor in the streets, the saved in the cults, the craftsmen in the art scene, the musicians lost in their groove, politicians, business people, families and scientists ‘working on a future’, alternative intelligence sneaking their views into the brains of humanity. It’s all a part of gods plan, many are determined to believe.
The autumn night is cool and the air is awake with no answers floating easy thru my mind. I am fine with this uncertainty, this refreshing breath of calm spirit holding me close to its heart. I have no desire to bother you, to invite you into my mind, to convince you of anything. Love is nothing but a shelter from the storm for most, hate is completely insane for the few, beauty is all that matters and it is everywhere, in the arguments at the table, the sliver of moon thru the pines, the tea as it soothes my throat and the whole world is at my mercy and i have nothing that needs to be done. I care about nothing, the future luring itself to me with a ‘now’, life is glorious in moments and treacherous at times but beauty is always there presenting itself for nothing but a whisper of faith; what is and will be just is, take it as it comes and honour your mind with its presence. That is all, so easy and yet so incredibly difficult to perform, this act of life, as it is.
I am in a little village as some of the greatest writers we know had lived, the Russian people, their hard walk thru the blizzards of life, Dostoevsky, my first read, the Brothers and Notes from an Underground, Mayakovsky’s poems that kept me alive, ‘past one o’clock’, Yevtushenko’s ‘monologue’ walked my youth into the world and Malevich with his warning paints against a future canvas, a sage, the great uncle of a few of my closest friends……….how did it all shape itself into this ; and now Sasha, my Belarusian wife, here with me in her homeland with family i write of the world, the people, their things that i can not do justice to, my words fail miserably admits such giants of the mind.
Unlucky I suppose, I never reaped the benefits of these great men in cloth but they taught me of things money often shrouds in hollow homes; there is no understanding in misunderstood and expensive love. Blood-awards are not the cure for love but there are no rules where money lives.
I walked thru this world watching the desperate, the weak, the crippled rule while we few slid between the cracks, life like a highway leading to the shore where nothing escapes, we all come we all go and nothing really matters at all, cept the honour of your own walk. Thanks to you ‘russian writers and artists’ that painted light thru the hard dark days, somehow it reverberated in my mind and here i am writing to you with russian-air blowing thru my words like earth and the plow, the rivers, the pure and the blind.
mayakovsky….’in hours as these i write words to the heavens, i have no reason to wake you and as they say the ships of love have smashed into the daily grind. There is no sense in attempting to balance mutual pains, sorrows, or straighten out the crooked lines of fate. When i look up as stars stream across the milky way i can see there is no time left to ask another thing, this day is closed and you and i are quits, so leave yourself from questions of our worth, there is nothing important here, go on your way thru the misery and joys of this world with the knowing that we did exist and leave it at that’.
In the smaller towns many older folk still ride bicycles, not the newer multi-speed bikes but the ones from sixty years ago; one speed, a carriage for groceries, a rat trap for stuff in the trunk. The yards are fenced in with ornate precast lengths of concrete designed and painted uniquely from house to house and town to town. There are gardens in every yard with vegetables, fruit trees and flowers everywhere. The people work hard for less than they’re worth. The system scrapes more than their share for the insiders—the cops to the clergy, but only a special few perched at the very top really reap the majority of the wealth. In that respect the twain of the west and east do really meet. I would say in general that people here are less happy, fake or not, depression hidden close to their heart, a beaten past, a tough perspective difficult to hold, a curse very slowly lifting. The youth want more, as everywhere, and the internet feels like a road to freedom, but it comes with a price. Much of the good of the old will vanish, new trends will appear, tattoos, piercings, fat, sloppiness, arrogance, freedom and toxic chemicals from the kool west is creeping in and the best of the worst is dying out. Here no one smiles at a first glance, and in the west far too many smile from a condition of ‘fake it till you make it’ or as John Lennon said in ‘Working Class Hero’, “first you must learn how to smile as you kill”——his point is clear. Nothing is black and white, there is grey everywhere.
It takes a lot of effort to get someone to smile. Often, even kids suspect something wrong if you attempt to smile for the encouragement for them to smile back. Older people are very suspect and you need to be careful at times not to offend them into looking back at you with troubled hate in their eyes. The best i can do is smile with gentle eyes and if they look long enough sometimes they feel the sincerity and the possibility that it may be safe enough to give a gentle glance back before quickly looking away. It’s complicated and you have to understand the culture, the government, the past, the hard work for little, the internet, the cell phone, the condition of the conditioning. I don’t understand enough, i’m careful, sympathetic. I’m not looking for anything or expecting miracles, suspecting the worst, the best or anything at all, just observing for nothing better to do.
Sasha manages to get thru to some of the people to make them talk and laugh but still unlike the west with the sometimes frenzy of undue emotion for the sake of proof that one does in fact possess happiness and security, it is a challenge, but she has the language on her lips and the culture engrained in her brain.
Everywhere you go the majority of people have in common the tremendous desire to belong, to feel safe, to be comfortable in their beliefs and to act accordingly in some form of freedom, real or not. It is the awareness that this does not exist quite the way one would hope for, and that fact alone makes them react in odd ways with repression and aggression but with a little luck a true simple act of love, an observation of their beauty often opens up the laced curtains to their melting windows of love where all is connected and then things sometimes change in the most peculiar modest manner.
After sitting in the same cafe for a few days you get to notice familiar faces, the one gypsy family, a crippled man, his wife, a grandmother and a 12 year old boy. A number of old ladies with their bikes and a few sexy young chicks. There must be a 6 to 1 ratio of woman to men. I suppose the baby boomers last stance with many of the men dead; gone from rough times. I could be wrong about many of my observations but one thing for certain is this, ‘it is a depressed repressed flat country with a modest dignity’.
When it comes to the world of man, nothing is close to perfect, no country, no civilization, only aspects of individual lives with the right amount of moderation for this, and for that, then and only then does a human survive in contentment. One that can be mostly satisfied with ones life no matter what condition, changing what one can and accepting what one cannot change and of course the key attribute, the intelligence to know that difference; some anonymous character said that, “be what you are, be what you are not, and own that”, and i said that.
I watch the people hustle about, the same in South Africa, Argentina, the Duncan Garage Cafe, the world over people are so complicated they have lost the ability to be simple. Simple like living for no reason, being with no purpose, giving for no expectation, receiving for no compliment.
It is mid afternoon, there are more men in the streets, the sun is high, the traffic is steady and quiet, the horn is rarely used, people are orderly, law abiding, conditioned that way. People are tired, it’s mid week, hard life, difficult future; entrepreneuring is not supported, not respected, it’s difficult times but there have been worse, much, much worse. There are no wheel chairs, no motorized wheel chairs, no walkers. People walk, even if they have cars, gas can be expensive. The cane is still the best bet for an aching joint. Over all people here are definitely more healthy, but weary, a contradiction, but true.
Words fall from the ages with syllables of sorrow and joy. Time has come to end all time with but a flinch of an eye. For nothing needs to be said of the pain, all the misery in the world, all the circumstances and all their meaning; the blood, the desperation for love, the beauty of it all. The last night has come, the day is done, no sense in a final attempt to understand, the mystery will prevail, the only certainty we can understand and it will fade also. So know that i did try to find you, to love you, to understand love, to see the beauty in it all. Now, time has come to a slow walk, a crawl and we must depart from this last shore, the infinite sands where the waters will own us, take us, disintegrate us, give us back to the eternal source, the everlasting reflections of mystery. This is the end my friend, no time left to begin…..
In a morning moment from a cafe in Brest
Jokerman hasn’t made his mind up yet, but the streets of hell are over flowing, the great artists have been striving to reach out, give what they can to the ditch of deceit, the river is moving on, the prophets are drowning in their words, love is on the edge. The basement tapes have been digitized into zeros and ones, the kings of the jungle own everything now, right down to the last sip of water, the moon is just another franchise for crazy concepts, the hip are moving in down along the boulevard, prices are skyrocketing; Brest is just another city transforming into a scene of just another holly-world, Belarusian pride is flourishing.
I walk along the streets looking for an image to say it right, everybody is a camera man everywhere in this era of fame for all, there is no moment to hold it all together, the way will have its way, time will just escape along the streets as it always does, with or without me. I see a figure approaching, a cane holding a worn pile of bones, an old lady with dignity moving along in her cage like a saint. My camera clicks in black and white, a flash of a second and she is immortalized, the world is stopped and the street is dead. Her lover in torn war worn clothes enters her simple room on the second floor of a shattered structure in the centre of town, here she walks so many years ahead in a dream she never owned. She lives in and out of this space in solitude and a beautiful sorrow. War tears the winds apart. How could i have known it would happen like this, this street in all its memories moving in and out of time across from the cafe, the new hip K-lab Cafe along a park avenue in Brest. I could be anywhere, war is everywhere, the coffee is smooth and i move out again onto the path and walk with the saints, phantoms, and the modern.
I can see it ain’t what we suppose. It is all beyond our conclusions. What is, is not what is in our minds. For most, life is a series of uncompleted strategies, unfulfilled dreams, rational and acceptable illusions we believe are true. We strive and desire, we want and we lie, we know we are all made up of dreams and for a few of us this is exactly what we love, the fantasy, the unreality of it all, a way to live our lives in harmony with the mystery. This understanding is the knowing that life is much more than what we could possibly think. Thought is just not the utmost tool in the box, the best meal on the menu, the favourite in gods hope chest. Thought has got humanity by the balls. Let it ride. Breathe faith along the trail, the process is love.
This ends my tour of Belarus for this time.
Excerpts and short conclusions and images by Patrick Wey
There is so much to say about the secrets hiding in the shadows, the truth so invisible to the herd, the simple understandings that have been manufactured into honest lies. Whom will step out into the dark so bright from the false hopes half empty in this mirrored glass of life.
There have been but few to see beyond the false walls of deceit and illusions and even those few had often fallen within the thickets of thought. It is thought that is the map; the ideals, the concepts, the direction, and utilized properly it would always find its way towards the edge of certainty and fall into the abyss of loves knowing, god, the creator, the great mystery. Thought is the tool to save us but it must always see its limit so it may not entrap itself in secure beliefs that ultimately will torture one into yet but another form of mans luring insanities, rigid religions, dangerous sciences, AGI, fake blues everywhere, but in it’s very nature, thought it appears, walks in crippled knowledge.
He saw the world of man as predominately insane, clasping unto the abstracts of words, ideas, maps as truth in themselves. Thoughts belief is not the undivided truth and never can be, relative at best. In its very nature of ‘memory the past’ it is flawed against the absolute but it is a gift to understand; but not to worship. Worship the unknown, the creator, the mystery but never claim a path that leads to its knowing. Understanding that one can never truly know is the pure path of the critical thinker, the real man, the true super mind. The relationship between thought and knowing is paramount to the harmony and sanity of the mind. Thought is always standing on the outside looking in, never on the inside looking out.
‘The only way out of this mess is in’, but thought can not take you there. Thought can enhance your understanding of what it can not do and that in itself can lead you to its shore, possibly.
He stood on the shore and saw the sheep – lost, roaming in the mountains, children crying – dying in the streets of dreams, authority conspiring behind pretty plastic walls, and answers disintegrating in ditches like poems barely alive, perfect words falling from a paradise unheard.
His lips were tight walking thru the night, hearing the news of the latest fight, seeing the screen of the masses murdered, tasting the air of desolation. He had to walk away from the turmoil, lay low for awhile, catch his breath, look again deep within to see there is no answer fit to keep it together to know anything other than to let go, take it to the mystery, lay it on the altar, gather feathers and stones and weep into the darkness for humanity. That was the way to survive, cry for the people, feel their pain, feel the insanity of it all and breathe, breathe deep slow and walk on. Man has made his bed and but a few watch it squirm in its hidden agony sheltered by its crippled hope and do nothing but help the dying die with the last few fragments of dignity that sits quietly alone like a lost angel in their broken hearts.
From the shore the salted air waved along his skin like silk in magic. The sound of the sea rushed onto the coast whispering the sacred straight thru his mind and composed itself soft onto his heart. There were no answers from this mist, truth clung onto nothing, the smell of kelp, the sand as poems upon his feet, the earth alive and breathing simple and true.
So there he stood upon the shore to nothingness where dreams weave in and out of existence like wind in beauty where one can see without looking. That is the way of knowing nothing, for it alone will hold you forever where life and death are one and the same and things just are for no reason. Love sits everywhere, sometimes you can feel it when the mind is quiet but it is but a reflection, its source unknown, a mystery, a god; perhaps, at least, an intelligence, which reason trudges thru and appears to understand somehow.
The people walk by and he sees them but they don’t see him. They carry on with their well worn dreams and their half constructed beliefs and their struggle well concealed but they know somewhere hidden deep within their being that they also, ‘know nothing that lasts’; lost children hoping for a saviour that never comes, only shallow blind dreams sliding down the tubes of their myth of mind. That is their existence, their truth and they defend it with a pride to die for and they do, supporting, killing, hoping and lying, doing what they do in their desperate world of faith in knowing. Few could travel along side with him, but some did attempt to walk the pathless trail, especially in their later years when dreams fell wounded and death came calling but the patterns of the mind are tough and long and deep and it takes more than most can bare to break the mold of myth straight clear into the end.
He walked on thru the world in and out of the hard jungle, the mountains, the valleys, the minds of man with one eye on beauty and the other emerged and conditioned with thought. That was the best he could do to survive in a brain twisted of this world. He was no saint, no leader, no fool, just a man observing what he could of this mystery of being. In this state no will was necessary to find anything, everything just all was. Love, energy, dark matter, god, the intelligent process, mystery, truth all melted into an eternity of possible oneness that was always beyond, always elusive, always safe and distant from mind and there he died once again leaving behind disintegrating memories fading in the dying of time.
Images and Literature by patrickwey
‘what does it matter in the end or in the beginning. sadness is just another way for not understanding the process of it all which one never can and one never will. life just is and the mechanics of the human mind makes it what it isn’t and that is what makes it all matter. death will come upon all the living. love is just a concept to glue it all together, but nothing matters where love is.’
She walked through the door like she was floating thru the air. Her sweet smile was a miracle from space, a symbol written in wind, a breeze made of love. She was heavenly beyond belief, a magnet of purity, a simple walk across the floor she glided in like a dream within a dream.
He loved her like no other, how could he know this truth with the noise inside the room, the confusion in the streets, the disasters in the mind but he felt it deep within and believed it so.
The illusion of shape, the mirage of wind, the absurdity of distance, the uncertainty of belief. This is the beauty of love.
I want so much to be able to say the things that i cannot. To speak with words that could never die, to feel the love of her touch, the smell of her skin, the caress of her heart. I want these things that move about in my mind. These things with tenderness that stops time, that ends thought, that never dies. I want these things that can never exist but for a moment so slight, so minute, so vague. I want eternity forever. I want love.
as Love moves quietly thru the noise of desire…..
‘this was inspired over the knowledge of a close friend facing death’
Images and Literature by Patrick Wey
Audio reciting ‘the only thing that is the same’, by Patrick Wey
the only thing that is the same in this universe is zero and even that is debatable when you’re on one side or the other side of the law
I moved away from the familiar past into a world where friends were few and loneliness was often found in the silence hidden aside the walkways across the avenues. I almost found solitude if it weren’t for the e social networks, nonetheless there were many moments of calm creations; when there is nothing left to prove things happen in a different way. Streets open up with unimaginable events, people surprise you, animals speak out loud silently, birds fly for no reason, insects have some strange purpose one will never know. Dreams keep surrounding you with images that don’t have to make sense, the disease of man seems bearable and things just are.
Out west the air is clear once you travel beyond the atmosphere, nothing is perfect in the mind, mirrors just appear and the road unravels like a rug finely woven with magic and mystery like a heaven sometimes rejected for hell.
I love the smell of success as well as anyone, whether it be in the mind or in the pocket, it just seems simpler with out the travesty of catching money for your thoughts, it seems the toil of labour for jewels is degrading, a useless waste of life if you don’t even have a family to sit with for dinner. It’s hard times on the road, being human, forced to find an identity that doesn’t exist, a purpose where there is no meaning unless you deliver one for your self, create a home for your phantom soul to relax within.
I am me, the creation of numerous years searching to not search, moving to find nothing, a life completely vacant of hope for humanity, hope to cope, a path to end all paths, but i am stuck here, in a mind forced to believe in stuff this world is made of, a victim of conditional love, a surviver thru many a storm, a man growing old in body and simpler in mind. There is no escape but death and i love it, the times twisted bend out of and into shape, i love this life, most of the time.
(Read the lyrics as you listen)
Most of the time, by Bob Dylan…. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oq7EM8jjNUs
Most of the time
I’m clear focused all around
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground
I can follow the path
I can read the signs
Stay right with it
When the road unwinds
I can handle whatever
I stumble upon
I don’t even notice
Most of the time
Most of the time
It’s well understood
Most of the time
I wouldn’t change it if I could
I can’t make it all match up
I can hold my own
I can deal with the situation
Right down to the bone
I can survive,
And I can endure
And I don’t even think
Most of the time
Most of the time
My head is on straight
Most of the time
I’m strong enough not to hate
I don’t build up illusion
’till it makes me sick
I ain’t afraid of confusion
No matter how thick
I can smile in the face
Don’t even remember
What her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time
Most of the time
She ain’t even in my mind
I wouldn’t know her if I saw her
She’s that far behind
Most of the time
I can’t even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was ever with her
Most of the time
I’m halfway content
Most of the time
I know exactly where it all went
I don’t cheat on myself
I don’t run and hide
Hide from the feelings
That are buried inside
I don’t compromise
And I don’t pretend
I don’t even care
If I ever see her again
Most of the time
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Most of the Time (alternate version #2) lyrics © Audiam, Inc
The judge, he holds a grudge
He’s gonna call on you
But he’s badly built
And he walks on stilts
Watch out he don’t fall on you…..b dylan
Believe in nothing to believe, but if you must, then master the system and then let it disintegrate and walk on.
The man with the brain slowly edged himself up upon thru to the ruins of definiteness and held a glimpse or two of the wavering minds lounging in the cafes along the avenues. He was weathered by the storms of the twisted perspectives attached to the paint upon the canvases of the ancients to the post moderns and otherwise dangling off the limbs as dreams, possibilities, awakenings of white on white on white – canvas.
He had a coffee as usual and glued together a few words as they swung by like intruders off the modern capes flowing in the winds. He was done, left for the highway.
Crippled roads searching for a language to heal their weary words he rode the obscure train lines headed for the coast and sang endlessly from one tune to another songs never sung, beliefs never believed, then disregarded it all and sailed off into the night sea backwards. That was me just the other day and now i am someone else again, back on the streets and watching the new people dressed in old clothes and talking with worn out words saying ban that and take this and do this and stop that, same old, new language. The forest is calling the silence is here; gone again.
There is a better way than being right or wrong, it involves the focus between the ear and the heart.
Here, take this poem and smash it against the wall. Let the dreams fall off your branches, let the dying die and kiss that delicious sky just one more time again. Tear up the roads, crush the path of truth beneath your fingers and walk out there one more time alone, be that there, just exactly what you need, what you are, coming along into the morning light. Here you can see the sailors streaming across the space of time and the jokers the thieves the saints all floating by with their treasures all wrapped up secure and tight across their backs like a disease. Hey, come on now, you don’t have to stay down here worried about what can never be, get to the edge of time and drown there….
Hey hey, gettin closer to the final curtain but not there yet, so put away the shovels and open up that birthday treat you’re holding in your hand and get on with the day, you and me and all those weary fathers away from you’re loved ones….thanks ya all for your wishes; may they come true…?
Birthday wishes answered……….
Thanks to you all that mentioned me on this birthday celebration thing. Some of you are black, native, christian, moslem, white, pink, nieces, nephews, great, great great and not, siblings, great friends true and false, even almost enemies at times, some are serious trump lovers, some definite haters of that kind; some poor, middle class, wealthy, arrogant, humble, racist, modest, philosophers, musicians, welders, just about every archetype of human on this weary forsaken planet; but it keeps changing and it’s never correct for long, if ever. Some have lost their way, some caring, some in it for the hype, some unsure, some way too certain, yup that’s my facebook, some question everything and some have the answers for it all; got to love it, but one thing for certain is that you all like something about me, but maybe i got that wrong too.
Hey anyways, thanks right from the edges of my heart to the eternal memories floating within the waters of my cells; just knowing that there is some sort of forgiveness, caring, love in the air between us means a ton of ‘belonging’ to this restless soul of mine. We’re all restless, uncertain, in the core of our hearts and it’s nice to let it all go once in a while and just feel that we are cared for in one way or another.
It’s a long life for some of us and the longer you live the more loved ones we watch leave for that treacherous swim across those great waters. So many struggles along the trail, so many conclusions that get in the way of love, love, that forever changing space that one must surrender into, just in order to cross with dignity. We are all one there presumably, but so divided here and it just is what it is, no more, no less and that’s reality; at least, close enough for now.
So this is my thanks for all the comments, likes, etc., this social media is really somethin ain’t it. Somehow maybe that is what celebration is all about, to show we care, and that it is worth, we are worth, without the weight of conclusions, we just are, alive and moving, worthy of love.
Well, that’s the way i see it at the moment. Chocolate’s almost gone, sun’s settin, i see nothin much on the horizon, cept more walkin, so i best be on my way, wey.
I just returned from a cluster of years travelling down and up avenues, across highways of success and despair, thru plains of serenity, stupidity, galmour, inner power, crippled minds and all for what? some formulations embedded into my head about what it’s all about….i suppose.
Dreams broken floating in pieces along canals of my brain and definite ideals standing tall rusted in silhouettes against my mind and a heart being pumped with emotions from some distant scene fading into a future that will never exist. That’s the life dying every moment living full like an empty glass.
I love this place and all its peculiar shapes, plastic boats and time ships made of pure imagination travelling thru space from one certainty to another in obvious conflict along a desperate way. I love the way things melt into one another leaving hardly a trace of the reasons for being here. I love this investigation and all its strange conclusions about things that can never be known, like who invented me and why would it and what does it matter anyhow. I love it all and i love love and the way it hates to be fooled and then hugs me again in the end.
Streets are filling with celebrities, clowns, sailors, virtual warriors, tattoo queens, shamanists, sacred chocolate gurus, image experts, musical authorities and velvet dreamers; avenues are taking turns winding bending heading direct towards highways of perfect thought, pure serenity, dangerous times and happy afternoons.
And just one more thing…..whoopse, it’s nothing much, forget it.
When man got stuck in his spiritual pursuits, she looked and saw her expectations, he is her and she is he and we are all quite the same in this regard. If you believe in jesus, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in buddha, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in the spirit, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in money, you’ve got expectations, if you believe in family, dreams, water, science, war, the written word, you’ve got expectations; belief and expectations are two sides of the same coin. If you are stuck and feel some dark matter curtain hanging over your soul, look and watch your expectations, you may find yourself, the self that is made of this coin. This coin is you and it is always rolling, just like a rolling stone, you can flip it and attempt to honour the flip, or twist it around, deny your promises till the opportunity fades and leaves you with the wounds of your unfulfilled expectations. The wound is the feeling of being stuck. It’s a circle and if you’re sharp you can see it coming round before it comes around but all this is futile, there is no circle, a vortex at best, appearing with meaning to the end. In the end the coin disintegrates, but nothing ends, things fade, dissolve into nothingness. After life, in death the glue melts away, some spirits hang around longer than others like cache from an app hidden in the program, the process like magnetism slowly spreading its power, disintegrating, love moving on, changing its energy developing new form.
If you believe in science, if you believe in religion, if you believe in love, if you believe in expectations, if you believe you must believe you are expecting something to fulfil this belief and yet all is incomplete simply because the mind is time, is concepts, is abstract, is always a broken piece of the puzzle and the puzzle is infinite and moving always changing, the mystery. This is the dilemma of man, of human thought. We get stuck because we see continuity and we feel we can know how things work perfectly, absolutely, infinitely and it is obvious some things can be made from concepts and shift into forms created by this understanding such as guns, chesterfields, space craft, rice pudding but our problem is we attempt to know it all, to develop philosophies, belief systems, laws that disregard eternity and the humble understanding that there is a process we must surrender to; to be free from the coin of mind. Our relative knowledge is irrelevant in matters of the dark, the light simply shines in the silence, the thoughtless truth beyond mind.
So what can one do in this system of getting stuck, being, feeling, searching. I have no ultimate answer, how could i have and for the ones that are so certain that so and so has the answer from mohammad to einstein to a hitler, to yourself to whoever, you are mistaken; the answer is blowing in the wind, beyond the word, beyond the mind, beyond any system that the mind can imagine, mind is myth.
This understanding is the paradox, so continue on your road alone and do your best to help where you can with honesty that is clothed in silence.
Often when one is stuck it is because of this unconscious, collective conscious, genetics, constant search that man and his thought began when we stepped out of eden, ate the apple, began to think. Thought is limited and that is our condition, it feels it needs a higher power, a guru, a belief, an ultimate truth worth fighting, killing, dying for and that is mans reality…but, “let me take you down, where nothing is real and nothing to get hung about” j.lennon, “sometimes i think there are no words but these to tell what is true, but there are no truths outside the gates of eden” b.dylan
I am sure as only idiots are sure that there was a movement in the sixties that alluded towards the unseen truth, silence, nothingness that psychedelics assisted the mind to the understanding that ‘all you need is love, love is all you need’ j.lennon and a few years later from much more of a cynic, ‘love is all there is, it makes the world go around, love and only love, it can’t be denied, no matter what you think about it, you just won’t be able to do without it, take a tip from one whose tried’ b.dylan
One has to surrender to the universe but first to the earth, our mother, to come upon this knowing that thought itself stands directly in the way. All of its clear concepts so certain and conditional beliefs that destroy this understanding, this love, this one love, ‘one love, one heart’ b.marley.
There are many lyrics form the time of man that insist that there is an underlying energy that is loosely called love, a mystery, something that ‘all’ is made of, and thought attempts to separate itself from this oneness, timeless reality, with its insistence upon ‘knowing’, but even thought, tho it seems to come alive and create worlds out of thin air, is also under the process of the great mystery.
‘The world is a stage and all of us actors’ shakespear, as far as thought is concerned.’ All belief is make belief and all personas exist in virtual realities and that is the mind of mankind.
I have attempted to rid myself, the self build upon fantasy of this shield from nature with psychedelics, floatation tank sessions, fasts for days with out food and water alone in the bush, sweat lodge ceremonies, native ceremonies, the sacred pipe and numerous other investigations, experiences to get beyond the mind. If anything i am now trying to not try, to let it be, kill the dreams as they evolve, help life live, be alive, breathe well, eat well, exercise body mind and spirit well and work diligently towards my own salvation; stop the process and the continuity of mind. Is it possible, i don’t know, it is what i believe to be the most honourable path to no path, the paradox, the dilemma. Today is a good day. I have written my thoughts about thought and love as an impossible feat. Now i leave to walk on. I am not important. My words may lead one to an understanding that ‘it is up to you’ and when people say there is a reason for everything, that is only one of the infinite traps within the mind, the collective mind, the mind of man.
The brain is where the mystery begins. It never ends. Life is good, life is hard, life is what it is, a mystery. You can’t stop the mind from living, thinking, but you can watch it as it creates its worlds with a stillness as a coyote gazing across the desserts of love for moments in eternity.
So if you find yourself along a path of promises, send it on its way, it is of no use to you or anyone, just walk, throw your goals to the wind and your dreams to the silence and dive into the abyss of change, the death of mind and maybe just possibly a dream will come true, but you may never know and that is just the way it works.
Imagine peace walking quietly into the mystery for real. Imagine peace without imagination, so may it be, the dying of the time mind.
This is not an answer, possibly a question. There are many ways to leave your mind, to use your mind, to believe, but they are all limited and the certainty you might feel at the moment will also fade. That is the nature of nature, so possibly honesty is one of the few noble endeavours that the mind may attempt and it is also vague but caring.
This short essay was inspired by a past lover and dear friend whom discussed her feelings of being stuck and not able to see the search clear. I am no guru, i don’t trust gurus, leaders, masters, and all their self fulfilling alluring techniques, as honourable as they may seem. I trust in a deep silent faith in ‘the process’, nature, the unseen intelligence, the smell of a blossom, the tears of dew, the sounds of silence, not unlike being perfectly aware with and for no reason.
One of my all time favourite Rolling Stones Tunes…Used to listen to this endlessly and it brings to mind one of my favourite best friends whom also ended up similar to Brian Jones….Don Tucker used to love playing this song…..No Expectations …versions – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ONymOaZ-IQ8
Visit us …..
We’re wondering if we have any quests slipping by this summer for a few days to visit with us. Well we hope so, we’re lonely for our Ontario and worldly friends sometimes and it would be nice to entertain a freind or two and show you the wonders of the Island…trails, beaches, big old grandparent trees, exotic vegetation, ships, boats, cool cafes, mountain tops, windy roads, valleys and much much more…….
We are also looking for people to rent our beautiful place while we are off the continent in late August to late September……….here is the ad i wrote, soon to be posted elsewhere but thought we’d give our friends the first look:
House short term rental – Aug. 28 to Sept 22….$1500
Vancouver Island 5K north of Duncan.
Looking for mature couple or individual wanting a retreat for three weeks.
Beautiful very private location overlooking valley and mountains. Two bedrooms, large kitchen, one washroom, living room, study room and 2 decks. One hour to beautiful Victoria in the south, 45 minutes to Nanaimo to the north, 2 1/2 hours to Tofino, 25 minutes to Nanaimo airport. There are many trails and costal towns in the area.
Wood stove with lots of wood, super high speed internet, large screen with access to youtube, netflix and the internet. House comes with two lovely cats, Misty and Hunter, and they have access to the outdoors 24/7. They just need to be fed daily but can be left alone for a few days. The place is very quiet, the air is mountain fresh, the home is calm.
Being placed in a world that is difficult, demanding. Grew up somewhere else and ended up here this grey day downtown Chicago numerous years ago. Her story is private, complicated, untold….sad with flights of spring.
When i was a young girl i often had an empty stomach and now i have an empty dream. I knew i would get there, the avenues of america, the streets of heaven, the walls of gold. I was well on my way, rising when he left, money gone, alone, attempting to walk with no sun in my soul, night time all day, clouds grey i walked on, i never gave in, for long. You wouldn’t know it this day but i strived beyond and found some tender times here and there till that invisible darkness slipped in beside me and back in the streets i was lookin at nothin for awhile once again.
The light was even and the air thin, buildings growing up all around, a melancholy breeze squeezed up against the glass and brick while i held my camera low….. waiting, waiting for someone just like her; lost, woman lost in america.
Words have fallen away, chains broke, syllables floating about weaving in and out and around wrecked concepts and a grateful sun rising up over the mountain slopes to make the day. Feels free to watch meaning dangle off tree limbs and slide across open air belonging to nothing and break away, deteriorate and die. Time isn’t still it’s just melting folding bending upon itself, yesterday streaming into tomorrow and ancient space present along side future worlds. Time is fluid in and around this bent space like dreams dreamt tomorrow for yesterday. Time is out of mind free of form and living.
The soft landscape folds over me, the trees caress me, the wind slight and tender kisses me, birds sing for me and then just like the night me is gone, erased from the swamp of time and i stand with no one nothing but the breath breathed and the raw awareness of all with one and nothing and it swims around from head to toe this timeless consciousness everywhere, i’m gone.
365 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/23 of-by patrick wey
ONE YEAR OF ‘IMAGES AND CONTENT OF THE DAY’….I’M DONE
I committed myself to this and kept my promise. Never missed a day. There are so many more but i have another life. At 70 i study 5 to 8 hours a day in a new career. This image/content project took an hour or so a day. I would prefer to do this all the time, ‘images and writing’, books, novels, prose-verse, new image creations but the highway of life has got me behind the wheel once again in search of more fuel driving me down into new territory. Possibly in a few years if i live long enough I will get back to this full time.
I hope you enjoyed some of my work or learnt something about me, the universe, yourself. Nothing is complete cept nothing itself and we’ve thought ourselves out of there. So until later, goodbye for now. I plan on adding an image here and there and focusing on my blog for maybe weekly entries; we shall see.
If Not For You – written by Bob Dylan sung by George Harrison says it best about my feelings for this woman, Sasha…..https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tR21ui1MAQQ
Please, if you enjoyed even one of this years collection, let me know.
Full Collection here: http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Image circa last year in the mountains of BC with my Cuban hat and the woman in my dreams.
#patrickwey #imagecontent, #photography, #portrait, #selfie
364 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/22 of-by patrick wey
spent my whole life travelling into the mind
with drugs meditations sweats float-tanks and reason
and i can honestly say that there is no absolute answer
there is no one moment that is always present
understanding comes and goes like the seasons
i have nothing to offer anyone
and no one holds the truth
it weaves in and out of mind like love
the mystery that can be nothing other
than change moving endlessly everywhere all the time
thank you my friends that had faith in me
the ones that care when i’m a mess
the ones that keep in touch thru hard rains
the few that never slam love against the walls
and thanks for the ones that think i am something that i am not
that can’t see my sincerity and judge my every move
the ones that attempt to make their problems mine
thanks for this life to be here with you
it is what it is no matter what
we cannot change what has been
cover up our simple jealousy our envy and deceit
none of us our perfect, all of us are defected, affected and blessed
it will be time enough for me to move on
to disintegrate into the waters
i won’t try to hang on to this world
here or after in body or spirit
we’ve made up so much
with our crying desire for immortality
our desperate imaginary territories
we are so afraid to see that nothing is but mystery
without one definite absolute conclusion about anything
a knowing that is unaware, dead, nonexistent
we know not that or this
or whether we are here or whether we exist
truly nothing really matters
just do what ever you must do
i loved you all like brothers and sisters
somehow, within those moments of truth
with an eternal blessing
nothing needed to be rearranged
reality was real and the air alive
everything was exactly the way it was
acceptance serenity knowing as love
all, the same below as above
Image beyond time beyond mind – self portrait, writing yesterday
#patrickwey #literature ##photoart #surealism #poetry
363 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/21 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
I walk through the low shallow winds of the highways because i must, they cut across my life. I live in the mountains in body and mind where my spirit is safe from western skies. I travel here and there as time permits for most of my past is missing or dead. There was Billy gone long and there was Shiela whom forgot about me; Irene, Phil, Gary, and so many others and lovers, many dead and the rest sailing in and out of sea. That’s the way time travels when you’re young in an old body. The mist still lays across the valley where hope used to live and the alder trees still talk quietly along old faith ridge and occasionally sun glistens over the wild streams of my heart, but time turns regardless and to the ocean it must flow.
Image circa 90’s the Highlands of middle Ireland – writing today
#patrickwey #Ireland, #Oldman, #portrait,