B49 … Stan Maciaczyk

We traveled a long way together. Stan was the sort of guy that was usually of a good nature. Most always had a way of making one feel respected, wanted. I knew Stan since 1963. We traveled thru the sixties with our youth bending to whatever was. He loved Dylan, as most of my friends did, he had great taste for music and found himself a wonderful woman for life, Cathy.

Taken at Don Tuckers house before he painted this Dylan image from a poster on the wall with Ultra-Violet colours that would glow in the dark. We thought Stan stole Dylans nose.

Stan survived, he never took on crippled beliefs for the benefit of comfort. He stayed true to the void to his last days. He never attempted to convince anyone of anything. I’ll miss you Stan, your laugh and all your ways.
Stan passed a few days ago. He turned 72 in mid august. That was the last time we spoke. See ya Stan and as you would say, ‘probably not’, then we’d laugh.

Stan and Cathy on one of the many outings we shared…
Stan was in love with Cathy to the end…

B48 … beauty and her love

She moves in beauty with her love wrapped carefully within. Like a tender woman she touches your soul with her most intimate glance and you melt inside her wounds like a martyr.

In the dim city where people travel tight, little room for long-time and pressure on the skull to get it right. A young woman walks by inside a tee shirt with her philosophy spelled out across her chest like a scripture, ‘sleep less, dream more’; i’m thinking’s it’s backwards; too many dreams, too many worthless homes; a crow caws from the side-lines, hidden in the streets. 

The moka house cafe on cook st. Pretty girls stroll by, at least that is what i see but at another glance i see a whole lota people so deep-dreamin by they hardly notice what is developing within their skulls.

A little boy in a real big body revs and roars his harley as he speeds away, the pot-bellied-guys standing by with their coffees held loose like a beer, look at the kid in the street and boast about something to each other while bicycles quietly skim by down around the cafe, the hot spot this covid-afternoon.

I see the coffee attendant handing straws to clients but he won’t touch my travel mug, says it’s the law. I pursue it then stop, force him to pour my coffee from his handled paper cup to my thermos, which he at first refuses than i encourage him and he does. There is a lot of crazy rules unsupported by the by-law officers just yet, but they’re getting there. Soon we’ll be in order; but harleys will continue to agitate our numb nerve cells with their concealed muscle. It’s a beautiful sunny cool afternoon and the tattoos keep walking by like human bill-boards advertising messages somewhat too deep for this mind of mine that sits nicely disturbed behind these eyes wandering.

With her facebook smile hanging in the screens with her ripped jeans and tattooed cartoons and her pierced soul she glides thru hell like a heaven. From a new section of town, cafaid in the midst of the jungle i sit pondering stuff.

the town from below

I realize i have been un-encouraged to write for a future when i am no longer here watching, looking. I, somewhere inside have assumptions, presumptions that we’re all going sooner than we’d like to believe, an apocalypse of sorts. I catch myself on this and begin a new chapter addressed to the ones not here just yet. No more threats of stabbing-echos from friends, enemies, aquintances and family. Not that they had much to do with words that find me but they’re around and that’s on me. I realize once again that death is just around this long last bend. Age is painting more texture on this canvas-face, sculptured rusting bones are being chiselled out by the winds of time, cells are getting lazy in the night. I know in the sphere of things time is expanding and slowing down, an outwards spiral to the heavens of the unknown. I’m scared in moments of such magnitude but most of the time i just let silence guide me to the slow calmness of pure perception. This is where it all began and so will it end.

as an object of art – a selfie of sorts

The loves that have brushed up against my heart i have remembered and they also will fade. There are things that needed to be said that had not been, not found in moments to exist. I know it is a common belief that there will be moments after the body ceases to exist to say things that had been misplaced, to do things that had not been done, to live again in a new way. There are those that believe we have been here before and shall return. There are books, scriptures, ceremonies and perceptions and visions that have told some so. Others believe what others have experienced and live their life with someone else’s presumed knowing. I have been one of those with definite visions telling me things as if from another level, a higher plane, a truth, the truth. Possibly if it had stopped at a few, i would still be a strong believer in simple synchronicity but i have had too many non-ordinary moments and with vision herself honouring me to question the validity of the very tool itself that had produced these visioned-belief systems. So now i feel i know that i know nothing for certain and the closer one may get to the great-mystery the more mysterious it all becomes and belief is just a wind in the night, cherish it for the moment but keep it moving, let it breathe. I am not saying that life is absurd, or meaningless or too dreadfull to continue. I think that we have all been conditioned so thoroughly as a must to know why, when, how and what it is all about with a tool that finds it extremely difficult to accept that it simply is not capable of ultimate knowing. The search itself has destroyed the simplicity of love that man could and can and does to some extent experience.

I may have loved others more or deeper than my present love, but it is becoming apparent that this love now is more valuable and more sincere as it moves thru the twists and turns of these last years. I never expected to end up here as most people in this life, and infact i never really expected to end up anywhere in-particular. Tho i do think that i had expected i would be more financially secure with the arts and entrepreneurial projects that i had pursued. Not so, at least of late, but the game is still in motion.

From this balcony, now, in down town Victoria i could imagine i was in just about any city on this planet. Recent apartment buildings scatter the view and if one doesn’t look too close at the decorations and furniture of the balconies, i could be anywhere. In my mind, i am everywhere i’ve been and more. Life is like a long branch on the big tree, many tributaries not taken but remembered and many a folk gone off up and down dead ends, out of site, simply ended along the trail, but you alone must walk, crawl, run to your end, with or without dignity, with or without the belief of knowing, in torment, in calm but the end is inevitable, quick or slow.

non-manipulated selfie

Life is beautiful and many of us know this. That must be why we continue on, with the luggage of belief, the torment of relations, the treachery of doubt, it is this , this love that carries us on. We know somehow, that it exists, that it alone makes us walk, in heaven thru hells along the canals of ignorance, the arrogance of knowing, the surrender, the almighty surrender that gives us faith that it is just the way it is and that is just good enough, beautiful mysterious life, beautiful eternal love; call it what you will.

Images and Writing by Patrick Wey
All Blog Images For Sale…..follow the path….contact me direct if you wish.

B47 … Death is coming for us all

Death is coming for us all, even the comic book people will have to go, none of the dreams will keep them here; here or there, this dream dreamin will fade to black like the nothingness in it all. The tattoos are meeting and melting later this evening amidst the flesh and bones of the dreamers, the ones with purpose and the ones with none at all. The philosopers, the predictors, the smooth slick thinkers to nowhere and all the ink-ones are gathering for the great celebration; the rock and rollers too, the classical dressed, the know-it-alls foaming from the heart and everyone whom is someone will be there, death is picking a few for the door prize and love will be spread upon the cake. 

I was thinking my pen was alive and i was just a machine typing as fast as the ink would flow. I could hardly keep up with the stream and many times lost site of the shore-line as i flowed fast past with hardly a thought to remember. Writers do that sometimes, doesn’t make sense somehow but from another plane it fits like abstracts expressed in moments of creation and disintegration. Writing with shapes of things like a painters brush disguised as a pen.

A price you pay for living long and before you know it the only friend you have left is the pen. The laws of the streets can’t be beat but you can twist them and turn them like you can anything else, either to flow with the current or against it, like life or death. Ink is so much like the wind, you can tangle it around the trees with any form you make, but you can’t stop it. A writer writes. (period)

Images and Writing by Patrick Wey

B46 … when i first laid eyes upon this scene

When i first laid eyes upon this scene, i knew it didn’t fit, outa time, outa space, a completely new world, a woman in a time that was not quite there. She leaned against the past like it was hers, a place close to her heart, a world not quite done with, one that needed a little more time to evolve smooth. I could have sworn i knew her from the way she smiled thru the air, the way she gleamed thru that space and time sitting still like that, made things surreal, real, unreal. There, with her leopard skin jacket flowing in the ages like a piece of a puzzle perfect in the right place at the wrong time. Yes, she held my glare, i couldn’t let go, i forced myself to capture the moment like a person does when seeing something so unusual, tempting, it must be right. There you have it, the look the space the time, all wrapped up into one unique scene while time fades like it does for a generation or two….

Mural with Sasha in Chemanis
Vancouver Island BC

She came like many others of the fare complexion looking for the new land, a place of adventure, something different, security; possibly secret dreams unfolding in some distant horizon of her mind. Things change, little people become historic symbols, wall-scape murals depicting fiction disguised for the pleasure of the common folk, or something like that.

She could have been a queen in another life time, a peasant, a gypsy or an early settler, even an indian, a crow; anything is possible when you believe in that sort of stuff. Times and murals, fantasies made out of brick and paper, paint and illusions in the minds of the perceiver and in the words of the writer, ‘everything is twisted when you’re winding around the trail like a dream of a scene that doesn’t exist’. Yea that’s life on the coast, fairy tales hanging off the walls and no one seems to notice, the street is strange, desolate but in perfect tune with the deserted pavement and the magic just keeps pouring in like a mystery in a smile. That’s her, the one, the perfect one, almost real amidst the world; smooth, delicate, the new woman.

Writing and Images by Patrick Wey

B45 … rain

it’s the rain that has me mellow
its washing effect that cleans my soul clear
has me wandering undisciplined
watching in new eyes
thinking thru the heart
i love the way old memories dance about
concealing their faces
sliding back and forth
between the furniture of the streets
the squish and slap off the black jungle trails
against my ears
in tune like a long day
slowly fading into an evening air
the rain scrubbing the tears off the buildings brick
off the dark deep tar to the horizon
and trees gasping for breath
relieved and speaking soft again
it’s the rain
it has its glorious way
embracing breath as water

B44 … gelatin floors and melting walls

gelatin floors warping up against melting walls of tangerine wind blowing words of multi-coloured cellophane into thick tunnels of mind. the strained history of man wrapped up into little packets floating memories deep across crevices of inner lobes. i demand an explanation, and many come then no sooner slip down some other crack into forgotten terrains of brain.
a wall appears fast moving abasing the cliffs of my lonely love and drowns in a sea of pointlessness. what is this all about asks a desk of dust thirsty dictionaries and worn umbrellas fly by in torrential rain of bulky thought; the whole universe is in chaos and i believe in answers.

doomed and forsaken i leave for a surreal cafe on a nearby shore, the roads smother me with hope and the people in the know direct me to well-welded sides. finally i feel almost whole again, complete, possibly pure when you enter wearing a silver cloak draped over some-thing uncertain and with a dark dagger hanging from your inner ear, you ask for a light; it’s a big joint and you offer me a toke and i say, ‘no thanks, i’m stoned on life’ but i take one anyways.
things change, everything is normal again, boring, purpose everywhere. i move thru walls dangling off my sight, books and books with faces, manipulations, lies being promoted like sermons and poems made of delicate strings of weak memories and real distant love fading fading thru-out the virtual dreams of mistaken heavens. i escape. i don’t look back. i can feel the trail on my heals; i slow down breathe deep, keep hidden as best i can, knowing it may all blow over but ready to take it as it comes or doesn’t; broken fences lying dead against the horizon.

Images and writing by Patrick Wey …. Images for sale

B43 … from the banks of a dream

from the banks i watch
quietly i stop nothing
the noice of the world
the arrogance along the trails
the deception carefully packaged
in love tainted with the absurd
all things moving within the grid
the mesh of power and control
my simple love drowning slow
there is no way out for this
no way to extract the simplicity
and lay it on the road

the streets are filled with fear
beliefs blooming from the curse of time
people becoming saints and scholars
with a magnitude of madness hidden
like a cancer does when it conceals itself
as love dying to live within

i walk on thru these lies on the walls
the blatant clasping for the likes that makes me sick
out to the forest where the truth is simple
nothing much more than a moment at a time
to remind you that infinity is eternally present
the smell of summer pollen in the sweet air
the vastness in a view
the taste of fresh huckleberries full of life
birds sneaking thru the forest
activity always moving perfectly
like a dream, my dream

writing and images by patrickwey

B42 … birthday time

i’m a rat according to the chinese calendar. there is some truth to all that i suppose, whatever truth is? a few days back i turned around 72 times across the path of the sun whipping thru space at speeds we’ll never know. what speed is the universe travelling, a parallel verse, a dylan verse? what is speed anyways? a concept of relativity useful for keeping things’n perspective but where deep-science is concerned things get very dice-c. anyways i want to thank all the folk that hurled happiness my way for a day that comes but once a year if your lucky, i suppose that’s what we can call it, luck.
i had a wonderful time travelling around the main land of bc with my remarkable significant other. we roamed around the highlands of the okanagan and had a few very cool dips into its lake. All in all life is what you make it, and we made those days just fine, really fine, extraordinary; we caressed rain sun wind , we had it all and the spirit of gratefulness followed us around like a magnet, a scent of purity in oh so many breaths of true-life and we inhaled it all, a trip well done……..happy birthday, yes it was, thanks once again this earth, this beauty, these moments that fly by so quick..thanks friends, foe, relatives, sometimes life is just so good, almost a sin to mention it.

‘selfie squared’ … a reflection along the way …

B40 … mourning for the loss of a year of writing.

I lost a year of writing. Laying words on a page is not like other arts; photography, painting, carving, music. It is more vunerable, exposing naked your heart, leaking your soul into the air of thought, into the space of feelings. You can intellectualize your position and be exposed for what you are not. You can cry for mercy for the guilt hidden behind your verbs. You can paint love with dashes of adjectives that transcend time, with continuity that erupts emotions into a frenzy. You can hide behind the phrases common for the times, slip out of the torture of your soul with a well manicured paragraph or two. 

Writing is hard, a dance between the intellect and the heart, the poet and the philosopher, the scientist and the craftsman, the wordsmith with nothing really to say. One can lay camouflaged with leaves from an old oak, clouds from a gray damp day. What ever writing is, it is personal no matter how things are said; if you’ve learned how to read between the lines, that’s where the juice is, the energy that runs the show. But all in all nothing is really revealed for certain, every word can ramble down eternity road and every sound will echo endlessly whether you let it or not.

I lost a year of writings, as these, thru incompetence and stupidity between myself and a mac repair shop here in Duncan. I almost lost hundreds of hours of image editing as well as tons of other important computer related content. All was eventually retrieved accept almost a year of writing. I had to remind myself of others that have lost all in fires or floods or have nothing at all to loose. None the less it did disrupt my mind and had me face death once again as in the hundreds of times that other circumstances have had me do. Eventually i’ll have to leave it all behind and the consolation of leaving a legacy often does nothing much for my weary mind. I am a traveller, an adventurer in the cells of this brain i call home. It will all die and i refuse to accept common after-life believes simply because it makes me feel well and alive with some truth to call my own. Bullshit, we made it all up, mankind is a living lie. Memory as thought changes, bends, attaches, dismembers, but it is as unstable as the wind. It is not necessary to know what you can not know. It is alright to realize reason is not the ultimate tool of knowing and knowing as eternity, just keeps flowing on. There is nothing to hang onto, no ultimate security, no dream that sits perfectly still but all is pure that way, all is just what it is, nothing more and nothing less. We need not embellish perception simply to fit it into our molds, break the sentence with a hammer of love………..stop, start, meaning will find its silly claws, it is the nature of thought, memory, words. I love and hate writing, it frees my mind and cripples my soul. It resurrects me when i’m low and soothes my heart when the existential pain of love leaves me.

I will miss the words that suffered upon the pages now erased into the virtual space of trash. At moments they fly by tempting me to struggle for their existence, but i won’t, new words can never replace all the moments my fingers needed the serenity of the keypad, but that my dear mind is the way it is. Goodbye to those rooms where realities once stood and now nothing more than a few disintegrated fragments faintly falling across the screen of my mind with ease and occasional hesitation.

I own nothing not even these words, death is coming for all of them soon but until then my fingers will stumble across the table of thought and scribble more sense where ultimately nothing really matters.

Words are like water dunes upon the surface of the mighty seas, they weave in and out of existence like meaning does.

Painting by Meghan Sims of Patrick Wey

B39 … dying in isolation

i’m down around the end
there is no word to please me
no wound deep enough to hide within
i have nothing left to be
the people are all away from here
there is no one to see me
the trains have all died
the flowers are crying as rain does
there are a few smells remaining
and a cluster of thought by the bridge
but other than that everything else is gone
just some resemblance of me
and an empty suitcase of dreams
quiet by the long stairway
this is where it all begins to end
not with some enormous gathering
but with a few drops of rain and a forgotten caress
this is the way things end sometimes
almost silent almost invisible
like it never was
like meaning fading slow
across a terrain of scattered memory
into a horizon
of pure beauty

images and writing by patrick wey

B38 … It’s time that we sat down and….

It’s time that we sat down and talked. The trees are weak, earth spoiled, sky dirty and people clinically insane and you want me to buy your news. I’ve been up and down your facebook drama and the live leaders dying in rusted air. What could be so important to take me away from this dream embedded in my brain. The silence surrounding the noice, the beauty against this madness. 

You have our attention, the world is rotting, the soul of love itself is evolving into a cancerous tumour in the minds of man, stabbing the heart of god itself, man is turning numb and colder. Everybody is a critic, a writer, an artist, a spiritual scientist now, everybody it seems has the certainty of thought strangling the life out of life. Nothing left but to walk alone, cry for the miserable, breathe deep and focus on nothing, for that alone is unattached to this dilemma.

Sure i will help you when i can, place a few words on your dampened heart, give you air when your lungs collapse, but don’t ask me to surrender to your prayers, your dreams, the madness of this world, the insanity of this path. Carry on as you are, i will dodge everything i can, but in the end, it doesn’t matter who you are, who i am, from dust to dust, just do what you must, we may meet again, we may not, the wind blows for no one and all, hold what you get, fly when you can.

Images and Writing by patrickwey

B37 … The war of the sacred, the way of the warrior.

Rosetta – a great friend

The path to evil is camouflaged with the flowering aroma of sacred words….to fake it is to make virtual roots in sacred soil.
This Pipe that i have carried has travelled to many spaces since this ceremony mentioned in 1996 and it has passed many prayers back and forth thru the space we call spirit. Auschwitz, Poland, Tower of London, Ireland’s pagan sites denigrated by the saint of patrick, America south to north, wounded cities, injured land, crowded prisons, ceremonies of sweats, vision quests, rain and sun dancing; it has been busy. It has carried thought focused in reverent ways, selfish ways, desperate ways, asking, telling, demanding, praising, crying, honouring, many ways and possibly the answers of our ancestors prayers are the realities we are now living. I feel that after many journeys thru the fields of grace that the most beneficial prayer is one of no prayer at all. To honour the life we carry with listening to the great mystery with no intervention, no human thought creation attempting to get what we feel we need, want, deserve……………simply listening without intention.
This is my opinion, feel free to criticize or compliment, it has no lasting difference to the scheme of the mystery. This is what the Pipe has conveyed as i have interpreted, there is no path to truth, to love, to the great mystery. My prayer is the prayer of the coyote, the crow, the birch tree, the waters, my prayer is beyond me, we are irrelevant in the winds of the silent forest. I am you as you are me, thought and prayer separates us, listen to the drum of heart, the wordless knowing in the space between. Your walk is your prayer, your breath is your gratitude, your doing is a blessing or a curse, it is up to you ….

Vern Harper – a great friend….

Images and writing by patrick wey

B36 … isolation

Falling into sketched hands down a canvas wall
i have no answer to these actions
my dreams are beyond myself
i am not in control
i am not the i i knew
things have changed
the horizon is a wall
painted with fragile clouds
stilts hang my head in shame
across a cold cold landscape
and is erased unwound as a ribbon
to the solemn wind of words
scattered across the valley
syllables desperately forming
into long sentences of meaninglessness
then tearing themselves apart one by one
into lonely letters disintegrating across a universe

Images and writing by patrick wey

B35 … Desolation Row

Years ago I recall reading in one of the many books, album covers or some interview, but somewhere, that Dylan was asked if he was the President of the US what he might do. He said, “the first thing i’d do is have every one memorize ‘Desolation Row’ and”…. that is all i remember. And now that we all have a little more time than usual, you might want to give it a listen. It’s not too late to feel a little desolate. I often felt like yelling out the last verse and occasionally i did.

‘Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can’t read too good, don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row’

Sasha feeling a bit of the ‘Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands’ along some ‘Desolation Row’

The complete lyrics to ‘Desolation Row’ by Bob Dylan

They’re selling postcards of the hanging, they’re painting the passports brown
The beauty parlor is filled with sailors, the circus is in town
Here comes the blind commissioner, they’ve got him in a trance
One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker, the other is in his pants
And the riot squad they’re restless, they need somewhere to go
As Lady and I look out tonight, from Desolation Row

Cinderella, she seems so easy, “It takes one to know one, ” she smiles
And puts her hands in her back pockets Bette Davis style
And in comes Romeo, he’s moaning. “You Belong to Me I Believe”
And someone says, “You’re in the wrong place, my friend, you’d better leave”
And the only sound that’s left after the ambulances go
Is Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row

Now the moon is almost hidden, the stars are beginning to hide
The fortune telling lady has even taken all her things inside
All except for Cain and Abel and the hunchback of Notre Dame
Everybody is making love or else expecting rain
And the Good Samaritan, he’s dressing, he’s getting ready for the show
He’s going to the carnival tonight on Desolation Row


Ophelia, she’s ‘neath the window for her I feel so afraid
On her twenty-second birthday she already is an old maid
To her, death is quite romantic she wears an iron vest
Her profession’s her religion, her sin is her lifelessness
And though her eyes are fixed upon Noah’s great rainbow
She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood with his memories in a trunk
Passed this way an hour ago with his friend, a jealous monk
Now he looked so immaculately frightful as he bummed a cigarette
And he when off sniffing drainpipes and reciting the alphabet
You would not think to look at him, but he was famous long ago
For playing the electric violin on Desolation Row

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world inside of a leather cup
But all his sexless patients, they’re trying to blow it up
Now his nurse, some local loser, she’s in charge of the cyanide hole
And she also keeps the cards that read, “Have Mercy on His Soul”
They all play on the penny whistles, you can hear them blow
If you lean your head out far enough from Desolation Row

Across the street they’ve nailed the curtains, they’re getting ready for the feast
The Phantom of the Opera in a perfect image of a priest
They are spoon feeding Casanova to get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence after poisoning him with words
And the Phantom’s shouting to skinny girls, “Get outta here if you don’t know”
Casanova is just being punished for going to Desolation Row”

At midnight all the agents and the superhuman crew
Come out and round up everyone that knows more than they do
Then they bring them to the factory where the heart-attack machine
Is strapped across their shoulders and then the kerosene
Is brought down from the castles by insurance men who go
Check to see that nobody is escaping to Desolation Row

Praise be to Nero’s Neptune, the Titanic sails at dawn
Everybody’s shouting, “Which side are you on?!”
And Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fighting in the captain’s tower
While calypso singers laugh at them and fishermen hold flowers
Between the windows of the sea where lovely mermaids flow
And nobody has to think too much about Desolation Row

Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke
When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke
All these people that you mention, yes, I know them, they’re quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces and give them all another name
Right now, I can’t read too good, don’t send me no more letters no
Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row

Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Desolation Row lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Songtrust Ave, Audiam, Inc

‘desolation row, it’s everywhere’

Images by patrick wey

B34 … we the virus or 5G

Healthy cooperative life generates itself with life-energy, when the environment becomes unbalanced the insurgence of the enemy towards life invades, death-energy life forms, the virus is believed to be one of those, there are others but this one is swift, under the radar, and can be deadly dangerous. That is its job, presumably.

This planet of smooth skinned apes has turned what was a plentiful regenerative balanced accumulative system of life forms in war with itself. In the name of nature life moves evolves becomes more specific, complex with time.

‘Babies Wail to Sixty Cycle Hum’ a line from my good friend Wayne Masters back in the late 60’s.

Man has manipulated the very structure of the molecules with an energy force that nature solely uses for death, explosive dissipating energy, the movement of water and matter in an outwards direction. When this explosive, death-giving energy is in abundance, healthy life begins to die. Life and death is the cycle of existence, but there is a natural unequal balance in which this process occurs. Organic planet earth-life is accumulated thru the over abundance of implosive energies created by the natural inwards vortexing of water and air, thru forms as veins of animals, the sap of trees, the whirling and twirling of water and air over land and sea. 

Dew levitating on the tips of grass…

Water, the carrier of memory, the consciousness of mother earth, moves to enhance its energy in an inwards vortical direction. This pacifies oxygen, increases velocity, moves towards the anomaly point of plus four degrees celsius of water. This inwards vortical direction is the temperature regulator of the earth.

Man has attempted to straighten out this direction with barriers along rivers, creeks, damns obstructing the natural flow of water and generating in all aqua-life stagnant environments for pathogens which increases the risk of unhealthy life to every living cell on earth.

The outwards direction of our explosive technology is in constant need of fuel to continue its energy output. The minerals, fossil fuels, nuclear substances is the toil of mans dilemma creating wealth and control for a few of the many.

The virus today is an example of the detriment our unnatural energy systems has created from the processes of producing foods, fertilizers, drugs, all utilizing a heat explosive outwards motion process of creation which is not the way of the cool whirling motion of natures medicines, foods in abundance of life enhancing energies.

There is something very sinister about this world lock down. I have a gut feeling that what we are being told is not what really is happening. That our inside fears, precautions, suspicions are not unjustified. There are many possibilities that the super wealthy are up to something that will ultimately gave them superior control and in the process the elimination of the weak, useless, unnecessary crowds of people that are of no further use to the machine that the peoples blood and sweat have build. 

circle beneath the skin

We and our ancestors built the factories, the machines and the machines that are now building the machines that are now thinking the thoughts, doing the deeds. There are too many of us. They are not willing to support us. There is a lack of work, more unemployed everyday, we have become outdated, a commodity to be eliminated. This must be done in a very strategic way not to allow us to unite and take back what is ours, our ancestors, our right. They have the money the time the expert intelligence to strategically eliminate many of us with out our proof. Load vaccines, make it impossible to move freely without one, control the movement of each person on this planet. People have become numb, entertained, comfortable in their beliefs. There is little that a few can do.

Divide and conquer, separate us, make us desperate, have a disease in place, one that is not easily  detectable of its source or nature and bombard areas of earth with unhealthy wave technologies that disturb the very cells of life strategically and can be directed to specific areas at will. These technologies have been in place for decades in top secret files and most of us know that. G5 is well on the way, an ultimate explosive system of control and destruction in the view of progress.

Lock the population down, make it a crime to be in public, no groups, screen and filter the detrimental communications via the internet and eventually disconnect it, possibly knock out the hydro in pockets, create a civil war, eliminate masses of people.

Possibly this is not real, not true, who knows, and what does it really matter, or does it? Possibly it is time for the earth to wipe off the parasite that has killed many species thru the antagonistic ways of man. There are natural ways of energy systems that do not depend on the refuelling and raping of the lands, veins and arteries of fuels and minerals and therefor the unneccessary control of a few over the many. 

I don’t know for certain, anything, i just think thoughts and write them out, possibly they will be discovered and eliminated, possibly they may entertain a few, insert a few more questions. I understand that this world is addicted to statistics, formulas, wars and is controlled by fear and loves the answers involving angels, gods, demons and facts. I offer little. Think for yourself, answers are lying everywhere. An unhealthy planet is bound to end up dying unnaturally. That is just simple common sense.

The few at the top of the chain are so greedy they’re willing to deceive and sacrifice the many for a a few more links, knowing they may be discovered and mass massacres could evolve into an ending that death has never seen. The self fulfilling dream secretly evolving in the minds of man. From the red man to the saints of world religions the legacy is awaiting patiently to be fulfilled.

Man Toils in the Sweat of the Machine

A few of us watch the wheels burn while saviours scramble across the global micro waves like heroes from a burnt-out book. We don’t know, they don’t know but they can make things happen just the same. Truth lies still in the gutter and on the alters of earths hells. The poor the sheep the masses caught in the struggle to survive while the mighty kings of the digital madness waiver in an absurd glory only a madman could entertain.

This is the way of the world, the way of man. we watch, we listen, we move when we must, we do the best to survive. Prophesies have been waiting, time is moving in our hearts like a knife. Be observant and walk on.

‘visions from the people of the earth’

Images and Writing by patrick wey

B33 … one thing in common

The human race has one thing in common now, the virus, virtual and real, that is so apparent, but it makes us realize that we have a lot more in common and we have been mistaken, misunderstood, even dangerous to ourselves and others. They say in order to love others you need to love yourself. This time of being more alone physically is giving humanity an opportunity to learn this difficult task of loving ourselves and possibly truly loving others. It’s a symbiotic relationship, this love stuff. It is difficult to stick to your hearts intentions while many criticize your every move but that is the nature of the game, to weave in and out of the push and pull of others and keep on straight thru the pathless road. Now is the time to face death, that one space we all must enter, that dark and light terrain that no living creature truly knows. To exit from here is the one job no one can avoid. Help your neighbour, your brother, your sister, the four legged, winged ones, everyone you come in contact with to move with grace, in dignity. Life is short and in times as these one must realize we are all delicate and deserve what little love we may find to allow to pass freely about. No sense in any other ritual, simple caring from the heart is all that is necessary, stand your ground and give that sacred energy its home; your silent heart.

Images and Writing by patrick wey

B32 … I should have left yesterday

I should have left yesterday but it was more than i could do. Your tenderness and sweet lure, your soft words wrapped up in delicate promises; the walls could wait, let some other man be the martyr. I stayed, but much too long, days turned to years and now freedom by the door lies smothered in mould, wasted in tears, dead.

That was yesteryear. Times have changed, things whirled down a different tube. I lived thru the blues of the thirties, the rock of the fifties, dylan in the sixties, i lived thru the scattered jazz rollin across the rebellion, across the oneness dreams, across the distortion of the molecules, the plastic era, the one way, the christ consciousness, the darma minds, the whole lot of it all rusting rushing down the avenues of the modern day, LSD, 5G and what have you.

I come here without mind, my heart flattened out like an ancient stone. Stretched out along some creek waiting for the truth to find its light, waiting for the night to awaken, waiting for the hard rains to dry, for time to find its space here amidst eternity.

I’m not so unique, just like you, some of you that travelled the quiet road full of noice and nonsense and twisted decoys. We made it thru so we thought but here we are structured in a world messed up and impossible to read and here we are surviving, heading down towards the last train.

I love you i suppose with your miracles and angels and gods and demons. I’m gonna walk right on like nothing has happened, keep my head on straight, stand up to the last dream, no curse can keep me from meeting the end, open.

I’m gonna keep my promise no matter how much hate hits my guts, i’m gonna keep true to the roots of my veins, let my heart tell my story no matter what.

I’m not black, red or olive and most of the time i don’t feel white, german, italian, british, mexican,  just human, the last of the wanderers, a true seed, the mistaken, a dot stretched off the page…………………….

Images and writing by patrick wey

B30 … Mother Gaia WaterColours

Chiang Mai Thailand

She has influenced the greatest artists from Leonardo DaVinci, to Picasso, certainly Cézanne, without doubt Feininger, the expressionists, impressionists, even the abstract painters; Malevich to Emily Carr, Norval Morrisseau to Modglianni.
She, in all her wisdom is the basis of all art, her water colours are the glory of the earth, the colour and shape of consciousness itself.
I have been honoured to document a few of these paintings, from the crevices of St Paul St. Montreal, the puddles of NYC, to name a few, the water-surfaces across Europe, the canals of Thailand, the wetlands of BC and the alley ways of Ontario Canada.
Everywhere i go she confronts me to document her art. It is a mission i was chosen for to expose the beauty in the pure and the polluted waters of the earth.

St Paul St. Montreal

More – Patrick Wey Water Reflections

Images and Literature by patrick wey

B28 … there are those

there are those that demand nothing but the air of happiness
that would live in illusion to satisfy this desire
defend it to the gods, the creations of creation
there are those that see only destruction
the despair of life and the absurdity of destiny
there are those that are too weak to be
and those that move between the limits of ecstasy
like a reflection from a drop of a passing rain
there are those that want what they can never obtain
that can never accept the wounds of reality
that act out a love as if they own it
project images onto well designed walls
live on the outside of the inside of it all
these are the people of the world
these are the movements along the avenues
the virus gone viral down the halls of the surreal
a world ending just beyond its birth
time slowing down inside the mind of man
like an autumn maple leaf falling
blowing across the endless forests floor
thru the uncertainly of shadows

Image and writing by patrick wey

B27 … america

the Badlands of South Dakota

angels of mercy hiding in the wounds
masters leading walking behind
the one and only goddess falling
with the hope of life dying in the ruins
this is america worn and deceived
this is the way to the heavens
this is the way of the lord

the simple dream the simple way
thru the forests and the plains
man and her inventions
from saints and shadows, time in space
the maya moves slow behind
along patterns in the mind

the raw beauty of your melting eyes
scriptures written all over your skin
as silhouettes of truth caresses the sands
of your miraculous body
i surrender within

here i make my stand and demand
a few smells of lilac, a taste of peach
from your delicate hands
and entering your heart
i see the angel is you
america
the land of illusion
the promise to be free

Alabama USA…just passin thru. the 90’s.

images and writing by patrick wey

B26 … she builds rooms

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

B25 … He, unfinished…finished.

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.

– the erasing –

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

B24 … Sierra Kachina 29 on 29 – could have been.

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.

My Mother and Little Sierra

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.

Sierra Kachina

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

Sierra Kachina
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
never shone

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

B23 … psychedelic pioneers.

Timothy Leary and Ram Dass, psychedelic pioneers are both dead here and now. Took this photo in San Francisco a number of years ago at a conference with numerous psychedelic advocates. Both good honest men and glad they traveled parallel thru my life and gave us their conclusions along the trail. It all ends, cept here and now…….

This folk-rock song i wrote back in the early 70’s very influenced by the use of psychedelics…….definitely my greatest teacher in my youth and beyond. This song talks of that space between worlds of thought-abstracts and the here and now, the reality, oneness timeless space all religion, spirituality, and some philosophy alludes towards.

Beyond No Doubt in Jest

Take me on an endless trip
And remove that’s all unreal
This road hasn’t been an easy one
That has led my thoughts to feel
That all that really matters
Is ta know that you don’t know
But it’s so hard
Gettin’ on that oneness road

Memories hit, old habits grip
Puts ya right back down
And the more you fall the harder it is
With pleasures all around
Makes it so hard
Gettin’ on that oneness road
Where all that really matters
Ia ta know that you don’t know

You better leave i tell myself
Or they’ll kill all your resistance
Then plaster you with secure beliefs
That depends on their assistance
And you’ll be where
You swore you’d never go
And you’ll deny
What you don’t really know

Take me way from this weary crowd
Far beyond my dreams
Open up to me one door
That closes when one leaves
Take me fadin, tripin
Through that mighty storm
I promise i’ll fight the night
Until the early morn
Where all that really matters
Is ta know that you don’t know
But it’s so hard getting on
Just getting on that oneness road

Fall 71
Thomas P Wey

B22 … ‘That is the way the world ends’

Dying shadows; wannabes searching out for love, poets, shamans, yogis, healers, saints, gurus, the leaders of the search, ‘the wounded and the traumatized, the abused and misused’, the manipulators of the heart. Strangled by the light they try to guide the sick, the patients of hope, the sufferers of faith, mirrors-of-themselves. The terrain of spirituality creating dreams that can never exist, fantasies formed into realities, structures made of brick of walls straight and thick, minds crystallized into heavens, expectations dying lying everywhere along a mirage to truth. Love cursed by sacred hugs caressed in streets, cathedrals of the brain, man surviving floods, fires spreading thru the species; reason killing the poet, the dreamer of life, the one last standing alone forsaken hidden in the midst of humanity with a crying heart in vain. ‘This is the way the world ends’, not with a crashing thunder but a silent whimper in a broken caress. 

Images and Literature by patrick wey

B21 … She walks in beauty…

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

362 … water reflections of uncertainty

362 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/20 of-by patrick weyhttp://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
My life has been a coast line of water reflections of uncertainty, dreams waving in and out of realities, roads with too many bends. My love has been mistaken, my integrity misunderstood, my visions misrepresented. My journey has been long, barren and born of random continuity, possibilities beyond the norm, realms hardly exposed. Disturbances of air on water and hues slender like night the traveller never stops, the path never ends, beauty never dies.
I attempted to document everything i saw, felt and imagined. There was nothing that escaped my sight when i was young, free of form and ready. Things have changed, time has slipped into my veins, the present is so close now, the distance so short. Stars shine in me, the universe is not so far as it once was, death is so full of life.
Image circa a few years ago – writing, last night as i rode my horses along the shore.
#patrickwey #puddleart #surealism #literature #proseverse

PATRICKWEY.ZENFOLIO.COM

361 … everything ends, nothing is complete

361 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/19 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Dog and Shadow runnin free in the centre square of Wroclaw Poland.
Spent a few weeks there back awhile with a dear freind that i met in London England. Few weeks could compare in my heart within this short life of mine. I know it may appear with all these images i display, that all i have left is memories, but that is not so. I just happen to have documented most of my life before the iphone belittled the challenge. The negative truth of the past has a way of caressing the future with more of the same, if you demand to run free like that dog no matter what terrain presents itself. Well, that’s the theory.
I committed myself to this challenge of an ‘image a day’ to a blog almost a year ago. This is coming to an end in a few days. Everything ends, nothing is complete. Just as with the scenes not documented in the eyes of humanity, many of my images will lie dying unseen unappreciated cept for the love and time and toil of my doing. That can be sad, that can be a revelation, that is up to me / you.
Image circa 90’s Wroclaw, Poland
#poland #wroclaw #dog #patrickwey

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Patrick Wey

360 … Unfinished sketch of an Irish man

360 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/18 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Unfinished sketch of an Irish man whom lost his hat on a movie set……
He crossed the scene from some other time zone but it didn’t make any sense neither here nor there. The same issues were laid out across the streets, now and then. The world and all its dreams were going to go along in its own way no matter what. The stage was set the take was shot, reality edited, exposed, a medium where innocence dies. You could attempt to fly high with transcendental airlines and meditate yourself numb or just soar low with the rest and get your fare share of the mess. It didn’t matter in the long run to the gossip from the avenues, it had not altered for centuries and wasn’t about to shift drastically now. A better time, a better place awaited, the romance envisioned would recover from the turmoil behind closed doors, or so thought thought. They want it all clear as day but it ain’t that way in reality. There are no words that will set them free, it’s a trap, it’s a condition in the mind, everything will talk itself out across concrete tables and end clearly unclear as it always does when prime temptations are evoked. That is just the way it is, so get used to it, spend your time wisely or not; not everybody can win. He walked across the set again and again tryin to get it right but he never did; there was no right, just the remnants of a hat lying half dead on the walk-side in a scene for more lost lovers to dream upon.
That was a day grey that ended short on a vacant timeless road in some forsaken town in Ireland mid century with his name concealed and the story split like time shatters in the middle of things unclear and ends with no end, no script left to the story line, no dream to dream upon. Cut, end.
Image circa early 90’s Ireland, writing last night.
#Ireland#patrickwey#streetphotography#losthat#oldcars,

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349 … Along some wavy street of Old Montreal

349 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/02/07 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Along some wavy street of Old Montreal one night at dusk. Stumbled upon a door way to another side. Saw things i never suspected i could. Left slowly along some back alleyway. Took this shot just so i could remember the dream; the one that keeps me alive.
Image circa the 90’s Old Montreal through a puddle…
#oldmontreal#sureal#patrickwey#photoart

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Patrick Wey

328 … David Finlay and Dusan Nedelko

328 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/01/17 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
David Finlay and Dusan Nedelko……Two funny curly haired guys at a party by the looks of it. We had a lot of good times thru bad times and some of the memories have been slightly dampened by the substance abuse. Over all we were moderately doing our youth justice by being ourselves and walking our own paths. Dave was a video guy with tons of ideas forprojects and Dusan ended up teaching kids in remote camps in northern Ontario. Me myself, well i’m writing this am i not. I think this is the kitchen of a house i owned with George Demelo. We ran an Information Brokerage Co at the time called Parallel Source which had the promise of doing really great things but it didn’t. Dusan had a fatal accident on the way home one miserable northern highway night. David is around, George is too, KW area. Of course there is so much more that could be written and maybe someday if i ever find the time i will. All these images bring up so many thoughts and i really do wish i had the time to twist some words into something; create an image-book novel, a picture book with text of all sorts, serious, poetic, loose words, detailed, maybe an image play or two.
Image circa late 80’s i believe.

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326 … Coral Andrews….me thinks; the Back Door

326 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/01/15 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Coral Andrews….me thinks; the Back Door, down under where all the Little Berlin bohemians hung about when things were simpler, younger and you never really imagined you’d get this far ahead in time but here we are the ones left the ones gathered about here on the front end of the social press for a few more years most there some here a few spread about the earth like fallen apples that landed in the back of a passing truck on some remote highway and got taken for a ride…….me, here i sit in some local cafe in a paved west coast forest throwing pictures to the winds of memories connecting the space between us. The suns shinin the grass is green. I miss that white stuff sometimes, both kinds but the road moves on, modern cowboys and indians walkin in the streets and lumberjacks and new age hippies building malls along the highways. The world’s a magnificent dream. I see a large crow walkin the pavement sqawkin about something and a young woman with dreads a foot above her scull eating a salad at a table on the outside of the cafe. Half the people or more are fixated on a little screen in the palm of their hand. Hello bohemians and friends from the east or wherever you be……
Image circa late 70’s i presume…writing today

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324 … so much free sky in my eye

324 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/01/13 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Sometimes i think i tend to stick my neck out a little too far and though it is a long way down to my feet on the earth i am still inclined to shove my foot into my throat much too often. With that being said and over with, it’s a lovely day from here, somewhat higher than most, a touch surreal and by far extremely glorious to have so much free sky in my eye. Nothing much to report to the lower level that can’t be noticed from down there if you really pay attention, tho there is this one thing that i question occasionally and that is, ‘how come so many want to be so high’?….
Image circa 80’s – Infra Red 35mm B/W neg…an African confined on Canadian soil.

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323 … understand, comprehend and copy nature.

323 Image-Content-Blog of the Day 2019/01/12 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
There will always be another pipe line to separate the people until who knows when. First of all, we are all one people, the police, natives, the whites, blacks, yellows, multi-coloured. This is a human problem not a race problem. The ownership of land is an illusion we kill for on a basis of separation for control and wealth. The problem is not oil, gas, fossil fuel, it is explosive energy systems and the misunderstanding of natural living-energy and the relationship of water in all organic life systems. Viktor Schauberger laid out the principals for a free energy system based on the true ways in which a life-giving energy works within nature. I refuse to attempt to converse his knowledge here. I have tried unsuccessfully in the past. At that i was a failure. http://waternature.org/
We have the internet now and there are numerous pages of his conclusions, theories, inventions and procedures that shows how we can eliminate this dilemma that we are facing. I see all the new social media reporters in their social press with their lame attempts to educate the world with their quilt induced articles and comments that do nothing more than give them a number of ‘likes’ and a following with fuel for more inflation of the ego.
If one really wants an answer to these problems there are numerous web sites with implosive bio-technology in mind. But it takes personal time, integrity and money. There is no excuse any longer, the knowledge is accessible. The problem is the will of people to really want a future world for future generations, not just talk for sympathetic likes. The problem is problems on top of problems but there are some basics that most cannot comprehend the foundational aspects clearly. Most are fighting for causes with solutions that will change very little. It is a scientific misinterpretation, manoeuvring, a greed selfish human issue, a misunderstanding of the validity of thought itself and consequently the misuse of the sacred.
The white guilt praise for the red anger over broken treaties not worth the paper they were written on. The black man, the yellow and all the mixed colours fighting for their own identities and the land they can scrape up between the shadows of a past and the dream of a future in turmoil. Prophesies gone wrong shifted into sentimental dreams of romantic worlds living alone surreal in the imagination.
We know the world of man is a mess no matter how many gentle thoughts we comfort ourselves with, how many safe conclusions caress our weary souls. We dream on, it is the nature of the mind.
My dream has concluded that the technological answer is implosive biotechnology introduced and understood by Viktor Schauberger and secondly to constantly investigate the validity of the main tool that has conjured the world we live in, ‘thought’ itself. Both are related to the foundation of living energy. The mind is a myth, useful immensely but none the less a myth, therefore always on trial and always to be questioned from religion to politics to science to the brains mind itself and all its beliefs. This alone would enhance the understanding that we know very little and possibly nothing ‘absolute’ which would leave us much more vulnerable to love one another and all things.
It is an individual comprehension of the total that can lead us to understand our insanity and without that we are doomed. Thought can only describe the door but it is the heart that must walk through and these words are but mere symbols for an understanding that lives within a mystery.
The energy-fuel for our world is a monopoly of power and control, perhaps it is the time to cripple the pipe line and its system. We would hope for a peaceful conclusion but we know there is no peace in violence and violence has been the way of change in this world of man since man began. Do what you must do and let it be done but do it as one fight for one love. This is my conclusion for the time being; things change. Everyone has to figure it out for themselves, quit the group the system the institution the race the people, it’s culture and let the mystery be your guide, there is where it is at, understand, comprehend and copy nature.
An Introduction to…… Viktor Schauberger…. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhwhmqM2oFE
On Thought….check out U. G. Krishnamurti: Mind as a Myth … https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9olyqhwf2y4
Ultimately nothing really matters….tho we walk on…. and simply, so we do.
Image circa 1980’s Infrared B/W….Douglas Point Nuclear Generating Station

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Patrick Wey

320 … a pigeon dancing through times experiences

320 Image-Content of the Day 2019/01/09 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
a pigeon dancing through times experiences
while colours retreat and grey surfaces
then disintegrates across the floor of distances
things disappear this way into darknesses
and the cycle repeats for new appearances
Image circa 1980’s from a dead factory floor

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317 … down by the waters edge

317 Image-Content of the Day 2019/01/06 of-by patrick weyhttp://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
I went down by the waters edge. I sat there quietly for sometime before the air became alive and entered me to places i’ve never touched. The sound of the way whispered to my heart things i had never known. The beauty caressed me, entangled me in its web, light and uneven i followed the view to beyond and it was there i was told things i could not and would never tell.
The day was gray and no one noticed when the wind had stopped; right in the middle of a melody trampling across the wavering sky the vision appeared and left me stranded there alone like an island.
The way it was was not the way it is. The war inside ended in the light of darkness and the beginning of the end ended in very uncertain terms. ‘Dreams move about free of form with reality tainted by imagination. Observe, there is no answer, there are many questions.’
The water lies mellow over the rocks, the tree line silhouettes the near horizon and the gray sky takes it in to the limits and that swings you back to the grass weaving itself into the wind like a snake across a deserts sand.
Everything is complete. In times like these a silent gaze into the scene is the perfect answer.
Image circa late in the century / writing this morning

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314 … down some endless stretch of high way

314 Image-Content of the Day 2019/01/03 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
i don’t know how many years i have left but i do know i’m lucky to have made it this far down the line. It is getting to the point where i have more friends in the underground than struggling on the surface. It gets to that point if you live long. I can’t say it is just genes, i’ve been watching my health since the sixties when i first stumbled upon Jetro Kloss, author of the book ‘Back to Eden’. A bible on herbs, their use and the sacredness of nature and everything natural. Of course a little lsd didn’t hurt. I found a place along a stream that i would go to and take a psychedelic alone and stay up all night with a small fire and watch the horror and beauty of it all. That was my first and last real teacher, so i thought, then. Since then i’ve not learned much more, just variations on the theme.
I hear the gentle rain, still, in the background of my mind, making rhythm out of rhyme, space out of time. I have long gone from looking for anything in anybody’s eyes, searching for truth in vacant lots, busy street corners; the search itself was the biggest mistake. Some think there are no mistakes, just accidents. I used to think that, i used to think a lot of things, but that was yesterday. Some think they’ve got it figured out, know what it is all about; i just turn away and listen to the gentle polyrhythmic drumming of the rain, it soothes the weary soul, makes me feel just perfect. I can say i don’t fear death any longer, but we will see. I have seen too much, questioned everything, surrendered my self to the mystery. I am truly nothing, made up of pencils and words. I have no need to be and yet somehow i am and that is perfectly fine with me. I am the illusion maya talks about, as you are. I hear the soft rain take my soul or whatever it is it takes and i leave as sleep becomes my home, down some endless stretch of high way, i’m gone.
Image circa 90’s down Arizona way i believe….out off the high way, the stretch between here and nowhere…….writing – yesterday.

313 … the struggle of women, the struggle of life

313 Image-Content of the Day 2019/01/02 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Occasionally yesterday visits today…..New Realities
Shot taken depicting the struggle of women, the struggle of life. So many stories weave themselves in between the vendors, the brick, the alleyways, the tainted food, the farm land lost. Stories of hard times, of survival, laughter, celebrations, loss. Many new years turn old quick in the cold, turn sour over forged sweet truth. Happy is often not much more than a word travelling down the corridors of conditioning, the repetition of denial but there is always hope so one can cope with the new frontiers, the news in the network, the blues in the streets. Nothing anyone can say, wish for, pray for can alleviate the struggle in the mind but it may soothe the broken heart, sweeten the sour veins. Balance, anybody can claim to be happy, whatever that means. I don’t think it means a damn to wish everybody a happy anything but i do it anyways just incase and so i don’t feel so all alone………i wish what i say could really make a difference….would be nice if somehow we could all awaken with wordless love in our hearts forever; well we try i suppose – may it be loving years for all, along this lonesome road.
Image circa 80″s – writing today

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312 … the city rolls down the avenue

312 Image-Content of the Day 2019/01/01 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
i get the feeling that things aren’t quite right here and nobody gives much of a damn. at least that’s what i’m thinkin sometimes. the people on the streets got their worlds and their dreams that they’re trying to untangle. they don’t have time for stepping out, attempting anything less secure. so the city rolls down the avenue, the life lives as it does, with its face hidden and its walls painted, dreams floating about like blurred leaves on a pond. i happened to hear your voice echo in the background and your future advertised in the signs hidden across the streets. the sense of direction moves about like a kite from one breeze to the next, wind rushing thru your skull and freedom riding high in the clouds. yea that was me watching you sit on the side lines with your green shirt and all, your broken-machine working overtime and your buddy learning the tricks. yea that’s the city life, it may not be the best life, but it’s your life and as i said, nobody really cares.
the image caught the beauty just right don’t ya think, your square heads floatin down the worlds way like you belong. life in the stream of things, coming from nowhere heading nowhere but with lots of plans, thats the way to do it, just like you know what’s happening and you do……kool

Image circa Thailand 2016 – writing last night

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309 … Writing words you will never see

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

Sierra Kachina
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
never shone

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

PATRICKWEY.ZENFOLIO.COM
Patrick Wey

307 … time death light and night

307 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/27 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

time death light and night
don’t mean a damn when nothings right
the storm the calm the ways the path
torn and twisted in my eyes grasp

as well as i be and useless at heart
the dream is dead the road is at an end
any thing once worth while here
and i thought you were my friend

sure there’ll be another day
and i might even be around
but things said today i’m afraid
won’t easily be buried under ground

i’m goin out again to places i’ve never been
i feel so lost and weak i don’t wanna win
but get up i will and be what’s natural within
to never let this arrogance dig deep under my skin again

Image circa Ireland 1990’s – writing Dec 6, 2016 3:40am

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Patrick Wey

306 … thoughts doomed to disintegrate

306 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/26 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

No other has taken me to the depths of my being, no other has forced me to see what i had failed to see. As it should be, if one is growing, i am forced to see the impermanence of it all. It is quite uncomfortable at times, this world without eternity, these thoughts doomed to disintegrate. The whole world full of dream, this life set to die, an endless stream of illusions to observe. This thought dying unto itself.
Money, it all revolves around paying rent, taxes, poverty has its claws inside my heart. Where could i be without this hindrance chaining me to mediocrity. This afternoon of springs last winters-wet-snow and gloomy skies and desperate thoughts hanging on to the last remains of your love. Can we grow? I don’t know. Is there hope beyond this air?
Image circa Poland late 90’s – writing April 2, 2005 4am

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304 … twas th nite befor christmas

304 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/24 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

twas th nite befor christmas
all the people were asleep
you couldn’t hear a sound
not even a peep
and then came in santa
to the stark dark manger
and he pulled from his bag
and nothing was stranger
a gift of canadian weed
to share with the wise
joseph, mary the animals
and the rest of the guys
they sang thru the evening
and when all was sung
little jesus awoke and spoke
in multiple tongue
‘don’t criticize, institutionalize
hypnotize or romanticize
and also, i’d not feel so damn alone
everybody must get stoned’

twas th nite befor christmas
i dreamed i was a saint
in some far off universe
then i awoke, realized i ain’t.

Image circa 80’s, two slides sandwiched – writing today

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Patrick Wey

303 … Today change has come

303 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/23 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

Today change has come, the weather has shifted, the roads have opened, the way is clear. It always seems so obvious when the light comes shining thru, when clarity settles in the brain, when the universe makes sense again. It is these moments of understanding that lay the foundations of uncertainty in pillars of time that move thru the mystery so perfectly inrhythm and endless rhyme. An acceptance of the wavering truth that enters the mind one way and exits into a completely new universe. Today change has come.
Waves of a conscious mystery are rolling along the open shores. Tangerine skies are skimming melodies on the waters and dreams are scattering themselves about like autumn leaves blowing across a forests floor. Change is changing today into yesterday like bent light surrounding the wind in an open mind of dreaming dreams.

Image 1980’s puddle shot slide sandwiched with hand painted colour gelatin acetate – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

302 … hurricanes blowing across the sands

302 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/22 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

hurricanes blowing across the sands
turmoil on every corner, every street, deceit
you got your love secure and camouflaged 
waiting for a little breeze
for some relief from the heat

Words trampled and crushed into little packets of self contained messages colonialized like small islands off the coast. How did it ever get to this, warped boats over treacherous waters carrying the cargo of ‘boxed-up-meanings’ leaking into the vast unknown seas. It is here we attempt to understand each other with a soul full of emptiness and a heart forsaken across discontented distant waters and a sincerity to reach into each others arms, sabotaged.
The drifter walks ahead already looking back at the silent coast and the ones so dearly loved. With the scrap heap of the west on our heals and the parade of saints playing in pools of nymphs and pirates and such, who could have ever guessed we were end-bound. What used to survive desolate in the alley ways of the metropolis we now find in remote villages across the globe. Like an unstoppable disease of the heart spreading like thought waves doomed by its own desires, humanity crawls along alone. There is no way out for it, only more illusions to soothe its fateful appetite, and as the drifter always says from his cool twisted damp lips, “choose careful, beware, everything fades towards the end of time”. And with that said the ships unload, the docks disperse, the constant pounding of the drums continue along the avenues and into the endless winds of dream, things come and go.
Image circa 80’s two slides sandwiched into one…writing yesterday

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299 … somedays are just like that

299 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/19 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
somedays are just like that
a man behind your back in a hat
people looking in you, through
refined filtered lenses
Image circa 70’s….with a few words today.

297 … The open road:

297 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/17 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The open road: where in the hell is that? Nowadays you can travel half way around the world, carry a cell phone and send selfies live back home, but where in gods mind is that open road? Where is that place where real freedom is hanging in the air, where there is no direction home, no place left to be, no one to aspire to; where is that road? There was always some place to get away from, some place to feel your way thru. A few thousand miles down Route 66 seemed an eternity, no one could track your step, you were on your own, maybe a phone booth a couple hundred miles down some dirt road could get you a scratchy voice to some past you left behind; if you needed to be lucky.
Leaves of Grass found falling in the air long ago, now nothing but splashes of dull colour from eight miles high. The open road is a myth like Robert Johnson and answers blowin in some wind fallin in some time zone that can’t be reached no more; so far outa touch from this space only ancient text can attempt to reveal.
The open road closed for some museums reconstruction, fake images bracing imaginary brains, modern students with science degrees in hard-luck while the true old road is left dying alone in some ditch. The road warriors are not what they used to be, whatever that was. That’s the way it is, nothin stays the same but if you’re really careful and time is on your side there is still a way to get a glimpse of that road that is barely open yet for but a few that just might make the right moves. But beware, it holds nothing but raw freedom and that has left most lonely, weary and desperately miserable in the end. But, for but a very few of the few, the drifter does escape.
Image Infra-red B/W 35mm circa 80’s – some 60’s look-a-like of Highway Route #66, 61 or whatever, down some lonely New Mexico highway…Writing; years in the making, squashed into yesterday for no tomorrow.

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296 … The morning has arrived

296 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/16 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The morning has arrived just like it said it would. Mist moving almost still and hanging off the mountain like a veil. The valley flooded with white geese dotted about, the air is tender, i’m not sure i should be here. My heart can breathe high and it can sore low but it just stares and wonders if there are other valleys though. The green lush blanket winding in the distance to unknown land and the mountain tops sharp and hazy edge against the grey grey sky. I could have been so many things, i could have learned the dance; i questioned i till there was nothing left and still it demands to belong where there is no valley towards a mountain top left to go. I sit here in the morning light and watch the wood stove blue smoke fall down into the valley and disappear where no dreams flow. Like stopping by a woods on a snowy evening i have my horses too, some are tired in the sun, some just wanna run, how can i possibly get it done, said the valley to the road.
Woke up fell outa bed, rubbed some horses across my head, and right in the middle of a dream this is what i heard i said, ‘wow’……..and that was that, moved right into another day, nothing more to say; the rain kept gleaming down and here i am, where the forest is my home.
Image circa – rain forest of 2001 – writing in this morning light

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Patrick Wey

295 … it’s not cold yet but i feel the chill

295 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/15 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

it’s not cold yet but i feel the chill
the world is goin to sleep
the night light is flashing red
and even shallow is too deep

the heart that loved you
the one you thru away
the last kiss on the wet tracks
when there was nothing left to say

like a love that was pure as fire
and a caress as simple as the wind
i fell for you and you wouldn’t let go
i wonder sometimes, what could have been

now time has found its way once more
down this weary road of life
but if i could do it all over again
would i take you for my wife

it doesn’t really matter all that much
what would or could have been
we were just two lovers as such
along a breath of restless wind

the tree sways in the night light
looking for a place that will
shelter the bitter damp air a little
it’s not cold yet but i feel the chill

Image circa Slave County Alabama 1992 – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

294 … kiss the wind

294 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/14 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Flying high with blended hues against an eternal sky of a sun dipping below the line between existence and imagination. On the long trip north with restless children on board and a longing in my heart for things that never quite were, i followed the intense skyline until i was too tired to keep my eyes awake and faded into the dawn of another time. There i was on the beginning without a hope on earth and i saw you there like i was attached to your soul somehow but i wasn’t. You began to hesitate right from the start and i began to lie to myself to make things happen that weren’t there. We settled on an imaginary life and caressed each others wounds until death do us part. Somehow love did enter the realm that was as real as any other love, it was love what could you expect, love doesn’t choose what’s real or not it just is or isn’t. That was good, life continued in a way that was expected tho surprising at the same time. The sun fell and that was that the night the night hit like a tomb.
You might think that you understand the game and conclude to yourself to fulfill your own imaginary life but i assure you that you’r fooling yourself just like everyone else to get by in a world too dangerous to be aware of its truths. But that’s alright no need to get upset push me under your rugs i’m just your night light to get you thru when times get too weary, too absurd to realize, a wake up call just so you don’t take it all that serious. There ain’t no guru gonna get you or some devil waiting for your sleepy soul or nitemares you can’t get thru…….you’ll be fine, just follow the line till the end of time and you’ll get exactly where you outa be. Take a flower and put it into your hair, smell the essence of life, kiss the wind, be true and you’ll get thru right to the end of the bend and you’ll see.
Image circa 80’s – writing last night

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291 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/11

291 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/11 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Those fuckers are gonna get a beating today. They’ve been pushing us to the limit for years and today is the day we give it to’um good. Maze, bullets, skull crashin, those left winged fuckers are gonna get exactly what they deserve.
‘Ah this coke tastes good, wonder how the kids are doin’, “little Juan has got his first soccer tournament today”, ‘hope i can still get there to see him beat the shit out of that out-of-town team’. “Hey Antonio lets grab a beer after we crack a few skulls and tell the wifes we have to work late….maybe fuck a few too”.
“Here they come, let’s move slow and let the foot soldiers give the first beating to wear them down some”.
Time passes and the attack backs down. After a while the new shift comes in and Ricardo and Antonio go for a beer and more.
That was on the shelf of yesterday, today and tomorrow.
Image circa 70’s Mexico City – writing today

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Patrick Wey

290 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/10

290 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/10 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Numero uno church in the main zacolo de ciudad de mexico. Poor Folk begging for a few pesos. The wealth of catholicism stands strong behind the gates. The way it is, hypocrisy crawls between the cracks, empty stomachs ache for jesus.
image circa 70’s, comment today, as yesterday and all bets on tomorrow.

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289 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/09

289 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/09 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Just before i took this shot we stood there not knowing what to say. The end was dripping from our lips, the last kiss was done and in your mind, you were already walking. That’s the way it goes sometimes, quick, just like the way some things fly into your life. I recall the beauty of the day when i saw you by the bench, the one that faces the long and narrow park, the one we sat at for the next two weeks before this night. It appeared we were falling in love until our differences emerged and spread out on the avenue like a night can do. You had your dreams laid out like a text, mine just surfaced out of impulse and they saw each other in the light of the day and freaked out. Our love was never meant to build a family around, it was not tough enough to stand alone, not true enough to create. So there we were feeling miserable for a short sweet past that was ending and a future with no spirit to be.
You shuffled in there sandwiched against the masses and wham the door squeezed shut and that was it, the last train left the station and left me stranded in the twilight just as you had found me there in a Mexico City night at some forgotten stop long ago and that was that, done, gone forever cept this last image from my crazy shutter sped finger tips.
Image circa 77 Mexico City – writing yesterday

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288 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/08

288 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/08 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
In the early part of the century i made my living as a photographer on a tour boat in Xochimilco just on the south side of Mexico City. People called me Jose but my name was really Fernandez and i lived the life of a photo-specialist. Having the eye of an artist was just the beginning. In those days you had to know the science of lenses, the chemistry of film and developers and the physics of light. You had to be a mechanic of sorts to deal with all the apparatus and a carpenter and painter for sets, let alone a marketing genius and promotion manager just to stay in the business. I loved my work and photographed some of the many celebrities that visited the City from all over the globe. Up and down the canals of one of the most scenic places near the city. Flowers and vegetation showered the days with beauty and my life was in love with me. Things changed when 35mm cameras came into vogue and more and more people took their own images and the competition made the game much more challenging. I managed, i had a talent for staying in the game, i survived, lived a long life and have images in a few of the museums spread across the city. I died decades of years ago now and with the advent of digital modernism in all forms of media in the hands of the many, i survive only in the minds of a few surrealists and history buffs. This wandering 35mm gringo caught me doing my thing way before his time and he’s probably close to the final curtain himself if not already gone.
We shared a smile before our boats parted up and down the canal and that was that.
Image circa early 70’s – writing yesterday

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287 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/07

287 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/07 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Strange the way waking-dreams weave in an out of mind. Troubled in the doorway of change, the delicate undertaker slips in to mind.
I swung in from the other side, just in time to see him leave for the top. They saw you trapped within your love but making it big on the social stage and that was good enough for you and you had already lost your honour towards the hard path, anyways. Meantime big business was buying up every green field of passion from here to the edge of the do-gooder horizon and you got sucked right in. When you thought you saw me there struggling in the forefront of humanity, you were mistaken, i wasn’t
struggling, i was breathing deep just before the night hit. I didn’t expect to turn in your heart or your expression on your delicate face when you saw me bend down to wash the feet of an unknown soul. What else could i do, the waves were pouring in, the crash was close and the immense pressure to surrender was overwhelming, i had no choice really and i’m glad the road turned and twisted into the dead end it is. How else could it have turned into this soft shadow slipping down the tears of your face? You, it seems were meant to be a star, it’s all over the media now, without much of a message, and without so much as a credit or a byline for the mysterious undertaker.
I stood there just on the verge when things changed and headed back from whence it came, the other side, leaving but with a few thoughts to get you through too.
Image circa late 70’s – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

286 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/06

286 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/06 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Today everything is a little off. The mural on the wall is slightly tilted. The people don’t seem right. Their voices are gargled their smiles slanted. Everything is a little crooked. Colours are overly bright and in your face. The parrot is squawking more than normal and wavering back and forth shaking his gage in response to something that i can’t quite put my finger on. The music seems to be missing a few notes here and there, the sun can’t decide on showing up or staying away. The waitress is hesitating unsure of what to suggest.
Me, i feel fine, perfect of sorts, just wish my head didn’t exist for awhile, too much pressure in doing nothing, to get things right, to make it straight
Image circa 77…writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

285 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/05

285 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/05 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The sun is setting. Pelicans are diving deep. Sticky clouds are falling off the edge of the horizon. Waves are turning themselves in, folding up into the shore. The sky on the sea is blooming mauve, burgundy, shades of tangerine. Silhouettes of clifftop islands march into the open fields of the long ocean. Dreams sail across the waters as a warm breeze and history kisses the palms full of mellow truth and endless time.
The day is turning in, families are calming down and cuddling into the evenings
night and talking soft like the rolling waves along the endless shore line.
The smart phone has spread its wings of information into every mind along the beach. The glow of communications illuminates dark faces in the dusk of the towns spread along the beaches of civilization. We are connected. Music emanates from every space of humanity. Silence is rare and feared. The sound of nature considered boring and naive.
In a typical day and average mind hears more songs than most would have heard in a full life time from the mid eighteen hundreds and before. People have become addicted to entertainment. They can not function without some visual and/or sound piercing their brains all day long. In the car, in the home, in the street, in the shops, department stores, in the work place, in everything everywhere from sun up to sundown, thru the night, thru their meals, while they think from birth to death.
My attempt to find a quiet sunset failed. Only the silence i preserve inside can keep me calm. You either become numb and fall into the noice or one must learn the difficult possibly impossible techniques to eliminate the frequencies agitating the cells of ones being. Eventually the civil law will force head set use in areas just like the forced smoking space. Common sense has rarely been common and getting more rare as the minutes roll in from the avenues. Light pollution, sound pollution, toxic pollution, mind pollution. Mankind is a very rude specie.
The sun is down, i missed most of it dealing with the new humanity infiltrating my brain. Fake pounding drum beats driving itself to the core of the mind constantly everywhere. From LA to Zimbabwe, Shanghai to Siberia people and their light, sound, fumes follow you like a trail of prophesies down the long turbulent road of humanity.
I left the beach and headed along streets of scratchy noice bouncing off cement and metal from the dreamt up structures forcing gas-lit bulbed-light across smelly air and despite things, i felt alive. Here i am small town mexico accepting life as it is, watching young girls, some of them with more folds on their stomach than i and others dripping with tight tenderness remembered from so long ago. Old men, young men, broken bicycles, loud exhaust, sharp light and noice from every direction. Ah, the romance of the cobble stone road down soft lit dreamy streets just far enough away from the mad action of the centre of town. I made it, peace caressing my mind.
Wherever you go today most of society is active and noisy. Technology is a gift but certainly a curse for all of the other secondary species inhabiting, coexisting with us here on this majestic planet.
I am here and i love it, most of the time. You just have to learn how to weave in and out of the mess outside and to warm up to those cosy corners that one must protect so well, inside. A few deep breaths and then the focus, attention.
Image circa 1977 – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

283 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/03

283 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/03 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The church, the cathedral, the lords house with its high ceilings and its sacred echo of angelic song and the voice of the lord emanating from high above the gold glazed alters. One can not mistaken the presence of pain and suffering jesus bestowed for the hearts of humanity to elevate themselves from venom of the earth to a higher order in the presence of god himself.
While the poor praise with their last material wealth to be in the presence of the lord, in their church of worship for the salvation of all, while at the same time the clergy, the bishops and priests live within wealthy walls and eat from the sweat, blood and toil of the congregation. The vatican being one of the wealthiest institutions on the planet let alone all the protestant jesus follower institutions of one kind or another. It is overwhelming that this continues while the planet dies.
I cannot continue writing about this hypocrisy and realize how many millions upon millions have bought into this absolute rubbish. It is just way too much for this brain to comprehend. There is more than enough evidence for one to discover this deceptive structure if one really wants to know the way it is. We got the internet, google, you tube, tons of info, there is no excuse other than a lack of courage and will.
I remember when i first entered a sweat lodge. It was a windy winter night in December, cold and snowing. The ground was frozen as we crawled into the sweat lodge church to sit on mother earth and talk with our creator, the grandfathers, the wind, the water. With shorts and a towel and not until everyone was inside and the hot glowing grandfathered rocks were brought in did the space begin to heat up. I remember realizing that no matter how powerful one medicine man became he could only instruct no more than the number that could physically sit in this church, his/her sweat lodge. It could never be institutionalized, it would never have gold statues and high echoed angelic ceilings. You had to be brave humble and sincere to crawl into this church and anyone was welcome, the priest, the medicine man was merely a conductor for procedures to run smooth and safe, but the teachings came from elsewhere. Many visions occur in this physically symbolic womb of mother earth.
The church in this image is one of millions on this planet with a wealth undescribable to most members. It is totally disgusting, unjust, useless and serves mankind as a cover-up for real so called spiritual work. It is time for humanity to wake up and shut down these institutions that are sucking their wealth and their souls dry.
This is my opinion and apparently jesus had a similar concept; possibly he implanted this in my brain.. I was brought up catholic and it took years to scrape the quilt off my soul for feeling condemned for what would be called blasphemous for realizing the total insane structure of the church and all its fabricated higher order.
I understand that people feel they need to have something to believe in. Most do not have the will or integrity to truly investigate for themselves and the few that do often take the easy intellectual route with a few schizophrenic like visions as proof that it must all be real. A few visions are just the tip of the iceberg on the real road of the pathless trail.
Of course nothing of the sort is going to happen in my life time. But i don’t need jesus, moses, mohammad, budha, and all the other gurus and entities to be right and honest and true and i don’t believe anyone else does neither. If anything, we need to be saved from this conventional institutionalized religious dogma before all mankind and the earth is completely destroyed. That includes the strict beliefs in anything including cast-iron science; the law is changing moving evolving, the mathematics of tomorrow will be a religion of the past. It is simple, as thought is stationary and still, reality is moving and on the go. One must dive deep into the abyss to see how shallow the idealistic nature of the ego really is and how to un-stick its nature.
It feels right and true to walk within the changing tide, scary at times but as it should be and never the less, as it is.
This church as so many others is a beautifully architecturally designed structure and though i do appreciate the ingenuity and beauty of mans creations, overall, my heart prefers the architecture of nature and for prayer and revelations, the simple humble structure and immense powers of the sweat lodge.
The war of the gods is all in the heads of man.
Image 1977 Mexico – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

282 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/02

282 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/02 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Crashing waves along the shore curve of quantum waters sucking to its core. This is the energy path, the movement that all matter, a low-vibration-substance must abide by. All physical things follow a path laid out before itself. The big bang didn’t explode it just appears that way. A silent energy movement sucks matter to itself endlessly in an opposite direction. Gravity is a weak matter movement overpowered by levity. All matter moves towards this unseen energy as water from a mountain creek flows downwards attracted towards an upwards stream of unseen levity energy pulling the water with a downwards gravity to itself.
I collected these concepts from observations that ended up here inside my imagination. Imagination as gravity and direct non-thought observation as levity. All laws are theory that even on their best days only work most of the time. It always ends up in the same playing field, the math of thought is limited and reality is always infinite and beyond, a knowing that slips in and out of consciousness, leaving non-absolute thought in its wake. The mind is a myth.
Imagine an unknown energy movement in the shape of a tornado parabolic cone that is sucking matter from outside the vortex cone lid but is travelling inwards towards the centre of the spiral vortex. To the observer it looks like an explosion of matter outwards like our big whopper of a bang theory. The closer you get to the inside movement of the unseen inward energy the more matter is spewed outwards looking like a force exploding creating matter from the opposite levity movement that is in control….eg: gravity as 1 (outwards) mass of matter and levity energy as 1.618infinity (inwards); the golden mean found everywhere in the universe, a constant made from an infinite number which is not constant at all……..but close enough.
You don’t have to leave the planet to observe this phenomenon, you can observe it in nature everywhere from all the golden mean fibinochi movements of buds and plants sprouting, pine cones and the relationship of the fibonacci sequence of eight rows of seeds twirling downwards and five whirling upwards, flowers and their parabolic outwards growth movement, leaves in spring time unfolding and even water whirling down your toilet……….its everywhere and well documented these days via the Tube.
It is hard at first to wrap your head around that all matter is moving because of an opposite energy movement more powerful sucking to itself. So the sucking inwards imploding unseen movement is dominant. It took me many years before i could see and feel this understanding as a fact and as a more natural reasonable movement of matter, especially in reference to water and air. Levity was a much more common possibility before Newton came along and shifted science to a more destructive explosive way of thinking about matter and the dominance of gravity. Quantum physics is changing that again. We will never get it completely right but working within natures natural ways can help us live in a much more harmonized condition from technology to psychology. Often our science believes it can force and reshape reality without concern of disturbing the sacred unequal balance of the golden mean and that means much more than we may think. It appears we can manipulate the balance for awhile before real destructive forces take hold. If we are smart and humble enough and realize the folly and stupidity of our arrogance it may be possible to rebalance this delicate balance.
This is a simplified reason why explosive energy is destroying the balance of nature. It must be fuelled constantly whereas implosive energy movement forms will constantly move matter of air and water in an implosive, increased velocity direction…..Viktor Schauberger investigated this understanding thoroughly and devised numerous devises to give us all and more of what we need in energy, transportation, heat and cold without any pollution whatsoever. Our society is not ready it appears and the monstrous monetary system based on the explosive technological fuelling system will not crumble easily, probably until it is too late, it may already be too late. Most environmental ‘save-the-planet’ movements are bandages that will eventually also collapse but at least it has people realizing we need a major transformation.. If one was truly interested there is more than enough info online these days concerning Viktor Schauberger and Implosive Biotechnology. It appears that most of us have been too tainted or numbed down to understand the simplicity of our misunderstanding of natures ways.
Schauberger also predicted this predicament. It is no ones fault, it is everyones.
I am walking along the coast with my freind. I see the beauty of the crashing waves to the gentle minds along the cove. I also see the unseen disaster in every imbalanced cell tainted by mankind’s greed based technology creating a dangerous momentum towards our doom in every cell-call we make, every folk of food we eat, every plane ride we take, every thought we use to cover up natures message with a wink.
I am enjoying a cool drink and letting the beauty of the setting sun swim slowly over my one opened eye. I love this life and all its contradictions……….wink!
Image circa west coast 2018 – writing yesterday

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281 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/01

281 Image-Content of the Day 2018/12/01 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Remember when we were young how nothing much mattered. It was all so immediate, the closest things at hand were all that we paid attention to. One minute we were laughing and the next questioning and learning something new. Simple things kept us amused for hours, dislikes tormented us every time they arrived in our mind. Food we hated to taste but were forced to digest turned us into panic, tears, disgust.. We would cry as if the world was about to end.
When we were tired we just wanted someone we loved to be close. I suppose we have learned to control these reactions as age developed but it makes you wonder occasionally with the way we are still so often like grown up kids.
There are billions of pictures of children these days and more and more being created every second. Black and white and gray. The texture of the background wall against the casual stance of a young man watching over his younger sister protecting her from any possibility of harm. This was in a time when it is quite likely that they had never been photographed before; an honour possibly, a suspect likely.
Love weaves itself in and out of reality like an intricate cloth woven by special angels and occasionally the past arrives early to a future for one more short glance at a dream that never was.
Hello my name is Rodriquez and this is my sister Catalina. I am almost fifty years old, my sister died young from complications with her heart. It broke after my dad left. My mother struggled alone for years. She made sure i got the best education i could. I am a doctor in a costal town of west Mexico. I am married with three kids, two daughters and a son all healthy and beautiful. I remember this man with light skin pointing this glass object at us while we were playing around in our corridor. I later learned that those glass medal objects were cameras. I began to wonder about the image suddenly stolen from my childhood and how we looked, my dear sister and i.
With unlikely possibility one evening doing online research about heart surgery in Mexico i stumbled across some Mexican images taken by a photographer from Canada. I couldn’t believe my eyes when i saw this black and white and gray image of two children against a textured cement gray wall…..that was me and my dear sister Catalina.
i haven’t contacted the photographer patrick wey yet but someday i will. This is the only image that exists of my sister. i remember when we were young and nothing much mattered.
Unlikely stories from lost dreams.
Image circa 1977 writing yesterday

280 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/30

280 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/30 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
One must walk out on your own, carry your own load. Days’ll be tough, roads long but no ones gonna do it for ya. There’s always another day to work your magic till there’s not. There is always someone carrying a heavier load than yours so help them on their way. There will always be the ones that will criticize any attempt you make in being real, in being simple and honest. Jealousy is inherent in us all to different degrees but yet we continue to ‘point’ with every finger we have to our hearts content and then some. Social media is encouraging the destruction of humanity but there is more to it than that. You’re destroying this earth, this world, you and all your fucking constant manipulations and deceit to ramming your belief systems no matter what they are down the throats of others. You just can’t conceive of a world where everyone accepts that we don’t really know anything for certain and that for centuries you have been played the fool, it has all been fabricated, manufactured, formulated to control this and that, you and them for money and power. That is the simple explanation and of course your mind now is screaming with every breath with just the possibility in knowing that your mind may be totally fucking wrong. And who in the hell am i to suggest this. Well i’m just a guy who has gone to the edge so many times and been up and down so many trails and talked to gods and devils to the trees the waters and all has lead me to a love that thought can not know. The truth is unknowable in this way. You can not bring truth back from the heavens with your mind but you can tell fantastic stories and some of these tales may help others with their burdens, their carts of conclusions and definite abstracts but they must eventually crumble to live free, real and as the super humans we are being drawn towards to be, possibly.
It is all too scary for most so we cling onto the secure cluster of thoughts we call our sacred greed with our god, our creator, our ideals, our science, institutions and authority. Possibly that used to work in a society geographically separated but in this unified world where numerous earth species and human extinction is very real and on our front door step, it is just not acceptable any longer. We all have to question the validity of our very minds and what we with its’ tool of thought ‘reason’ can really be known and what, if anything, can we all believe together as one race, one people. Our beliefs are killing each other, the world and the scared love we all so desperately want to believe exists.
We continue to pull our wagons of truth carry our loads of beliefs thru the streets and avenues hoping to arrive somewhere for good, forever but where do we end up but back here, right back here on the back porch of discontent with an eager uncertain smile beaming out through our front door……….
Possibly the only answer is for…………another day; (brave ventures into the unknown crevices of the mind; psychedelics, isolation tanks, sweats, vision quests, whatever dissolves the ego whereas real truth and love may hold you for a moment or two)
What can i say, my self is on the line, bending, changing with every image.
Image circa 1977, writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

279 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/29

279 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/29 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
I came to tell you a few things. About the way things were when most of you were asleep amongst the sheep. There were hard rain hurricanes and soft elusive lights on every window sill from London to LA. Hardly a soul saw what was coming but there were a few blue eyed sons walking the alleyways. There could have been a new world, a much better way to live out our time here in the sacred womb of the earth. There was a force like never before to make things right but we were driven down like we were the enemy. All we really wanted was to care for everything to the limit but you wouldn’t let us. You stomped us into the ground, squashed us into the dirt beneath your greedy feet. You manipulated the masses into believing you were on their side and now after all these years many more have awakened and yet still so many half asleep, numb, sedated.
I left the streets for the coast, too much confusion here, too much conflict between the dreams.
In the cool light of the night i look back and wonder, could it really have shone, this love we saw, this love we felt for everything together like one.
Wasn’t there more than enough to go around and now it’s obviously much too late, the gates closed, the collaboration has gone solo. You’re on your own, the world is not one, it’s every man for himself. The beatles are listening to dylan again and just like a bunch of well worn rolling stones, memory has been tainted, distorted, twisted like a length of dangling rope, waiting.
And so it goes, stranded like the night, walking.

Image circa 2010 – writing yesterday

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278 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/28

278 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/28 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
There is so much more that could be said. You think you can get away with a few trips into your head as if time was constant and to be resolved. You are attached to everything, the furthest star is your neighbour the smallest spec a long wave. Every theory you attempted to own, owned you in the end. There was no end, there is no end. A few years ago you were sitting as you are but in a desert night with a cactus as your guide and visions of patterned chaos in control of everything. The jesus you knew transformed into a few creatures before your eyes, and did tricks for you, the dream in a dream of a dream took you beyond yourself. You found no self. You belong to no one. What you thought was real melted into the desert sands. A medicine man appeared from the fire, sang you into a scene, took you places you’ll never remember, taught you to realize nothing really matters but everything has a consequence. Laws evolve, everything is a reflection. Freedom drives consciousness into itself but reason will always be a weak truth.
As i sat there inside of you, i could feel your discomfort with the way things are. You were hoping for things to follow but they didn’t, just when you thought you had it together things changed. These are simply words crashing into one another attempting a dialogue with themselves. They can not go any further than the edge of mind. The vast space is thoughtless and demands you leave yourself at the gate but there is no barrier.
It was a hot day on the Zocalo, i had a few moments alone before my life was to return. I sat there letting the mind go as it did. It is strange how a simple glimpse can take you so far. Who would have ever suspected how vast the mind can travel in a few flashes of our time. Who could have known what had been implanted as i had pondered here in meditation. You, me, future, past,, interwoven for a flash.
circa the Main Zocalo Mexico City 1977 – literature yesterday.

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Patrick Wey

276 Your elusive walls and delicate lies.

276 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/26 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Your elusive walls and delicate lies. The beauty beneath your skin and the avenues so in tune to you. How could anyone misplace you? The door keeper with his facade entered like he owned you but you didn’t let on, you kept your dignity and caressed his heart with your magnitude and sunset eyes. The times they had changed, by the day end the war was over and no-one cared about your degrees and folded up knowledge, the world was focused on intricate entertainment, the type that slowly squeezes you inside and bends you out of shape. The way you handled the saints and all their prodigies as if you cared with your sensitive love and the dreamy touch you gave just when they thought they could own you. How did you escape with so few scars, what did you have to sell to get here, what did you tell the commissioner, how did you convince the judge.
There are so few that understand the things that must be understood to touch the other side. There is no sense in trying to explain the visions to the blind. In this world of sound there isn’t a single chord out of place and when you’re playing hard with your soft heart it can ease the most weary from that sharp death. You were seen by a few as you disappeared inside the photographs on the wall. That was me there behind the camera long before this night. This is a setup, a scene from some burned out city street and i was sent by who knows who to document you. This is it, there were jokers and thieves down by the docks just waiting for the ship to come in. They waited hundreds of years for this night without hardly a sense of what was about to happen.
But things changed again, you never showed up and the ship died at sea. It just goes to show you flat out that you can’t depend on prophecies any more than the night. This portrait of you by your windows reflection with your truth so well concealed.The tainted glass-wall of the window is behind you now.
I always wanted to tell you just how much this moment meant but time twisted me out of your life and all that i have left now is this grey image of you looking out your open window to the dark tar valley below.
Image circa 80’s – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

275 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/25

275 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/25 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
I am a pig and i love this rugged landscape. They call me Jose when they want my attention. I have the freedom to wander wherever i want. Somedays i just sit and look over into the mountains. I watch the lizards roam around in the desert sand, well, i imagine them. Sometimes i feel like another entity, like i shape shifted or something like that, became a coyote for awhile and meandered around the hot sands from one shady nook to the next.
This area used to be more populated a couple hundred years ago, you can still see the old walls melted into the mountain slopes. They named this place Real De Catorce. To this day Huichol medicine people come here to the lowlands at different times of the year to harvest the sacred Peyote cactus. They do ceremonies in the desert evening air and connect with the spirits of their ancestors from here and off into distant lands, even other planets stars and stars away. Occasionally i’ve felt their presence slipping thru my mind but they mostly swim-shift thru to the more wild ones, crows, snakes, eagles, coyotes and such.
I’m totally at home here. It’s less stress, i get fed often enough. Yes my life is cut short but my little ones carry on. It’s all the same to me, i don’t remember much and it’s just the way it is.
Image 1977, writing yesterday

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274 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/24

274 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/24 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Some say I’m negative, my words depressing. So what. Those are usually the ones that want it all sweet and certain. I use to care but that was yesterday. I don’t attempt to find the negative in this world it just presents itself, there’s plenty of it to go around but that doesn’t depress me and if it does you, well what can i say, put another pretty picture on your wall, i’ve got thousands of um for the right price. You see, i need um too.
I didn’t travel down these roads to get anything in particular, and if i found some good fortune along the trail it was because i stuck to the path, stayed focused on the mission at hand, but most of the time i didn’t evaluate life in those terms. I just wiped any past off as best i could and kept walking. No, it never disappeared completely, death’ll do that but it did allow for a new breeze to blow against this mind while i rambled on.
I don’t have much use for the superficial shit that floats around but i accept it the best i can and no doubt, i have contributed my own fare share. I ain’t no saint and i never said i was and if you think i implied a ‘holier than thou’ attitude, well you’ve been mistaken, i’m just a guy that was looking for something that it appears no one has ever found and i see now, no one ever will. Most lie and want you to believe what they believe, but it’s all made up, a fantasy, a dream. So when i see most people wandering down a similar terrain expecting it all for nothing, no hardship, no desert nights alone with nothing but you and you and you. Well sometimes it makes me laugh and others times it just makes me sick. A lack of compassion some do say, a lack of this or a little of that, whatever, hit the road jack and that does it for me, i’m gone. As i said, i don’t care, shove your face-look social praise where the sun don’t shine. There ain’t anyone i have to please but if a few find my words resemble some thoughts roaming around in their own questioning brains, well then that’s great, reassuring of sorts, but it doesn’t change a thing, just feels a little less lonely in here, i suppose.
The curtain falls and i can feel the next scene supposing itself just beyond some dream on another slippery edge of time. So i better move on, so as to catch the next glimpse of light, when it shows up.
Image circa 1977 but it could have been tomorrow.

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273 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/23

273 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/23 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Is there anybody listening asked the traveler? Is there any room left on the walls for a little piece of me? You see i’m just like you, i need a name to capture my thoughts upon too. Something to die for, something to hang on to, something to let go of. The hills in the distance are too far, the beach is too hot, the streets too slow for dreaming. A simple breeze skims thru the palms, some birds fly by inside a blue sky. There is so much more somewhere, so many things i could have done, could have been. Here i am mellow and belonging to no-one. A few dreams float by and i catch a glimpse. I let them go, there are others they can catch, still in need of purpose. I am content to hold nothing. I am a simple vessel, one that lives for nothing, cares when i care and one whom holds no ideal to dear.
They appear out of nowhere just in the nick of time, the little ones, the bright ones. When you least expect it, love covers you. Love so free and yet it costs so much. All your dreams, all your conclusions crash away when the waters of mystery sails upon your soul.
Image circa 1976 – writing yesterday

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Patrick Wey

272 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/22

272 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/22 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
In the early morning mist stuffing newspapers for a few bucks on the way to the top. You got your dreams and i got mine we’re just different fantasies caught in time. This day is long gone and the news faded into the streets like dying dreams do, into peoples lives, into their souls, into the cracks of their bedroom walls.
It’s hard to imagine just what happened here. Where were they goin when the ads got sandwiched into the rag, when their job was done, where did they end up from the heat and the heart of the metropolis?
The city was barely awake, the all night people were crawling home, traffic polite and sparse, the silent folk were scraping their thoughts together and the avenues rolled into the dawn with a grateful smile while the steady hum of machine slowly wound its routine louder and further along the tar. Alive again, another day with the news headed for the masses, little written words jammed into packets of meaning to get them through the day.
The daily news so yesterday and so over done. The love of life for a few cents and a glass of time. This is life in the city; clean, straight, forward, entertaining on a good day.
Image circa 1977 Mexico City

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Patrick Wey

271 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/21

271 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/21 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Nice to be back in a land where people greet you in the streets. Where there isn’t the typical western paranoia. They are hesitant sometimes unsure of what type of a gringo you might be. Many gringos don’t even look at you so it is obvious why many Mexicans are hesitant to give you their tradition. They feel the vibes, the arrogance, the useless conclusions swimming around northern brains. The age old ‘better than thou’ attitude lingers on like a fool in a sinking trade.
In this town you can still go to the zacalo (town square) on most evenings especially Saturdays and see families, neighbours, young and old intermingle. The whole cross section of the town connects in this square. This is their life, their way, a slow pace long forgotten in the north of the americas.
It is all not so romantic. There is the noice, a different attitude here concerning music everywhere. At least most of it is Mexican style country rather than the pounding drums of rap, bad rock, hip hop and what have you. Accordion, stand up base, acoustic guitar and that’s it, simple and softer.
For the most part you can usually escape the traditional chatter once you find a few hideaways along well worn cobble stone roads with small tiendas and local restaurants of real foods and mothers and daughters holding hands as they stroll thru the evening air. Old men sitting in old broken structures that resemble chairs and kids playing with amigos and genuine waves of love floating around their poverty.
It’s a soft life here….most of the time.
These quaint places are diminishing as more and more western traits capture the youth with the frills of a more modern life. It is a western trend to travel the world these days or you’re a nobody which is another aspect destroying the simple life.
In the end it is mostly your own choice if you want the glamour, the gold, a simple love or the complexities of the modern man.
I can’t do justice to the beauty and the destruction here so i best leave this gentle night to the roosters in the distance and dogs singing their bark.
Image circa 1977

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Patrick Wey

268 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/18

268 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/18 of-by patrick wey  http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Man loaded down with bags of hope, buckets of paint for colouring his walls and worn out shoes from long walks through-out the lowlands. Man carries his struggle with a bent back and weary eyes. He knows there’s light at the end of the tunnel, he’s been told so for so many years, it’s written in the scriptures, prophesies have inscribed truth in visions upon his brain. Man has a purpose upon the stairway to heaven, songs have been written in gold, guitar licks have been immortalized.
The sun is sailing west, the crimson flames are wavering in the breeze across the horizons of the seas. I’m a man here from the archives stretching along the avenues, bent around the bends towards a promised paradise. I’m here free chained to the genetics of the future, strolling along the beach in a holiday.
Mexico, the ancient land of remote civilizations sprouting out of the sands along this prehistoric shore. I love this place, it’s magic for the stranded man inside.
Image circa 1977

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Patrick Wey

256 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/06

256 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/06 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The woman and i were travelling, moving west thru the northern states in the fall of 2016 listening to the Autobiography ‘Chronicles One’ by Bob Dylan when a man came on the radio telling me directly that My Dylan had won the Noble Prize for Literature….
i wrote this that night in a downtown hotel room off some highway in some Montana cowboy town, disguised as one of the gypsies.

Bob Dylan – Noble Prize for Literature…How does the Gypsy feel about that?
‘the Locusts sang and they were sangin for me’

The last few days i, the Gypsy, scrambled around my nature to find some denial for being lost. I am not lost because i don’t know where it’s at. I am lost because that is what we are and that is where it’s at. I don’t have one spec of truth tangled up inside or some myth hidden up my sleeve to soothe you from you or me. We are all lost whether we want to admit it or not. Anyone can believe they got the answer, got the right perspective on reality, anyone can do that, but we all know all serious endeavours into any discipline whatsoever is a small dot of the true nature of that subject whatever it is and we can feel that, feel it deep in our heart. The truth is, is that thought itself is limited like time and space, as if ‘every distance is not near’ and it is the creator of all the worlds it imagines, all the conclusions, all the beliefs in absolutes, the broken reasons, all the jokes are on us, ‘the Joker said to the Thief’, ‘there must be someway outa here’….and there is a way out, but it’s not here but then again, ’two riders were approaching and the wind began to howl’….well who from hell are those two riders, dualism itself? ‘And they’re breaking down the distance; Between right and wrong’ and ‘sometimes i think there are no words but these to say which are true, but there are no truths outside the gates of eden’.

People say that you can’t live without a belief system, something to believe in, even though you know in your heart it is just a facade to keep you from scaring yourself to suicide, physically or mentally; you feel compelled to feel secure with thoughts wrapped around your skull in complicated systems that prove themselves into truth, but they’re not. So what does one do when you come to the realization that one cannot know anything at all for certain? The tool is flawed, self serving, an illusion full of itself where as all reason stumbles across the heavens on its knees begging for awareness, a law that can never bend, one beyond time, a false ’Time out of Mind’.

Maybe this is freedom, and that the road to freedom is no road at all. I am not playing with words to confuse or avoid the seriousness of the absolute question of all questions. No question can be answered fully, complete, it is as simple as that. Thought itself is not capable of completeness, it is always fragmented, out of the present of the past, memory and we can see that, feel that and we are always that, an entity out of time, all about time, surreal time. Thought itself will always believe in itself, it is perpetual-believing in motion. It is indefinite, shallow, a ‘judge that is badly built and walks on stilts, watch out he don’t fall on you’.

‘But it’s alright Ma, it’s life and life only’. I could go on and on quoting Dylan and write a book on Dylans observations of the world, but ‘I’d forever talk to you and soon my words they would turn into a meaningless ring, for deep in my heart, love, i know there is no help i can bring……’and

‘In a soldier’s stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I’d become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My existence led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now’.

What is disturbing is that the world is awaking to the fact that this world is doomed. The validity of thought with all of our absolute beliefs are doomed, coming to an end, ‘God is Dead’. ‘It’s easy to see without looking too far that not much is really sacred’. Dylan addresses many issues, and at the end of every line it is still this, ‘we sit here stranded tho we all do our best to deny it’.

“So somehow it has been a sad understanding that the world is catching up to the facts that can only lead us to despair”, so the gypsy says. It is so obvious that we all are wanting desperately to know we got it right, but we constantly get rude awakenings to obscure that safe belief and we’re all alone again facing a death that ends the whole world that thought has put together. “Humpty Dumpty is Down and He ain’t gettin Back Up”, the joker says. The universe will continue without us, without thought, without god, without anything of us, “we are the illusion” so the Joker mumbled.

Bob has encouraged us to attempt to be ‘forever young’, and ‘I was so much older then, i’m younger than that now’, but ‘Life is Hard’ and ‘i used to care but times have changed’ and ‘this place don’t make sense to me no more’ so ‘disconnect the cables over turn the tables’ and ‘ the only thing i know how to do is to keep on keeping on’.

No matter how long you go on believing in where-ever thought has taken you, to, changing it, revising it, time comes to an end, ‘Time out of Mind’, you can hang on to it all right up to the last breath but eventually you’ll just have to let the great-mystery take you out and float into the space unknown, unthought about. Life can take you there in peace, to just melt into the silence without anything. “Freedom from the known”, some other gypsy said from the side, presumed this, and thought of that and who was right there ‘caught in the middle with you’, ‘jokers to the right of me, clowns to the left’.

I am glad i suppose that the world is catching up but it is also sad. Not much has changed, “the world is filled with beauty and grieve”, the Caretaker pursued.….”that is as certain as it gets”, but i don’t let these, ‘abstracts threat to noble to neglect’, i just let the ‘River Flow’ and keep walking.

Anyways, i know in your heart Bob that you don’t give a damn about any degree, prize or fortune, and once again for the Gypsy, for the Joker, for the Thief, the Hooligan, the Caretaker and all the identities, ‘the Locusts sang and they were sangin for me’.

and nobody could ever sing ‘Strike another match, go start anew’ with the menace of Dylan himself. ‘for it’s all over now baby blue’.
Image circa the 80’s, enhanced later, literature written autumn 2017

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254 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/04

254 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/04 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
‘Wavering in the Wind’
She stood there wavering in the wind, pale rain washing away fading dreams and kissing the grey and lonely skies. A highway passes by the sea and all humanity. Faint waves of gentle light caressing her. All life’s purpose floating by unseen yet clear in the dampness of her eyes. The misty evening air surrounding lightly and giving simply like truth does. She looked directly into the soft sea and saw dreams weaving their nature. She held this vision tenderly then noticed the road again with all its turns and slippery ways towards the dark forest. The evening brushing up against the night, the day accepting its fate, the tale, its reflection, its intimacy left wavering in the wind.
Image circa 2017 west coast, writing Nov.2/2018

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251 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/01

251 Image-Content of the Day 2018/11/01 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Somedays makes you wanna just sail away into the breeze of the sea, leave it all behind, find a new life, fall off the earth, fly off the cliff, hit the road on the open sea and live all those dreams hiding, swimming around the water in your head. That shimmering insight born of the depth you dove, the breath you’ve held tight, the strength of your will to be something new, something totally different, an adventure that never sees behind.
Somedays you can just sit on the dock and watch the ripples of water warp reality into dreams, all yours, all magic for a few moments of eternity washing up upon the shore line like silence whispering tones of pure purity right to the core of your being.
Yes, sail boats wavering off the water and me in some strange form of reality.
Image west coast 2017, writing last night…

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Patrick Wey

246 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/27

246 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/27 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Lying on the beach on a pale afternoon attempting to crawl into existence. She came from a long line of mud people from the near underground. Her dreams were simple and true to live free to see clear to love and to be loved. She died kicked apart by hoodlums from the streets of hell. Her epitaph reads, ‘earth people one love’ engraved into the mystic sands along the silent shores and if you stick your head out far enough from the politics of the day and the velvet curtains of religious ruins you just might catch a glimpse of the eternal source reflected against the shadows of the mind.
Image circa the 90’s along Lake Huron…writing today

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235 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/16

235 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/16 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
In the chill of a damp dismal day i set out to conquer fear. I headed straight into the cold frozen swamp of the forest and fell to my knees in prayer. With my forehead on the ice and truth in the wind i felt answers swarming unclear and delicate until i cried forgiveness for the people i’ve been, the things i’ve done with my arrogance and slippery deceit. i surrendered to the maker until my tears froze to the earth. A cold chill crawled up my spine and landed deep within my brain. With my mind belonging to no one to nothing but the cold dark truth within, I cried till all tears warmed up inside of me with a peace that can only come from humility. I left the forest with the strength of ice as the softness of water.
Image circa 2010 writing Oct 2018

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Patrick Wey

227 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/08

227 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/08 of-by patrick weyhttp://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

….a ruffled-up-crow dreams out a prayer for our thanksgiving….

Thanks for the food and the door way to the other side
thanks for the rock and roll and the cafes and social media
thanks for the summer evenings and the crucifictions
thanks for spelling errors and correction apps and toilet paper
thanks for the troubled minds and the addicted
thanks for my freedom to say what i want
for the turkeys real and symbolic and the privileged airplane rides
thanks for the love hidden and over done
thanks for your sweet thoughts right in the nitch of time
and for all the tattoos and sacred symbols
thanks for all the people that try so hard
and the flowers in bloom and the animals
Thanks for everything for this moment for this high
thanks for you, them and the earth and sky
thanks for the time wasted on facebook
and friends that have reappeared and disappeared
thanks for thanks and life and death
and thanks for everything i regret
for all the things i’ve missed for all the things i’ve had
thanks again and again for this day this night
for everything wrong and everything right
for all the smiles and all the tears
for the bravery and all the fears
thanks for today and tomorrow and our concept of time
thanks thanks thanks and thanks over and over again thanks

thanks for second thoughts and peculiar conclusions
thanks for trumped-up-like people, the jesus saved ones and the entertainment
for those whom see what’s right and for those lost in a dream
for the future for the critics for the politicians and the saints
thanks for this life, this time to be, this circus and christmas celebrations
thanks for all the holidays and the hard days at work
for the children the women the men the beliefs and illusions
thanks for the brave the stupid and the discreet
for karma the mystery the universe the unknown
thanks for the chance to feel at a glance
the real the unreal the surreal and beyond
and thanks for thanksgiving happy or not, and to be thankful
for our consciousness and for all we’ve got……..
and oh yea, thank god for crows
image circa late 70’s writing oct 2018

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225 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/06

225 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/06 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
A pretty face on a porcelain brain, autumn rain slippin down the street, the whole race on the track of city air surrounding. He walked by never noticed a thing, she looked down. The world was rough, damp, cold and the mood was swinging low. The city takes you places you knew you’d never go but there you were right in the midst of it. The turbulence was everywhere the purpose was lost, meaning fell like a tomb. I walked into the scene, fell in love, then left for the coast.
photo circa 80’s writing oct. 2018

Irena Berlinska in the background i noticed….

 

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224 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/05

224 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/05 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
There is no beauty like beauty. Water painting its way down stream. The heavens falling all around. A man in his old armour rushing about and a woman with a butterfly net walks by. A heavenly drizzle slants itself across the view and sun shimmers thru each and every drop in its wake. Water is everywhere, it’s in your brain, it’s in the rain, it’s in the dreams that flow down your drain. Beauty is in everything – if it’s in your eye, it’s reflected from trees across the streams, it’s the web of love and consciousness it seems.
photo circa 2018 writing October 2018

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Patrick Wey

221 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/02

221 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/02 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
walking around town with my head in the clouds, lookin to see what i can see, lookin to be what ever i be. no worries, in a dream, livin free. i got no place to go, nobody to be, i got nothin but my feelin free…..this is the way i remember some of my youth but sometimes things change and sharp realities slide in. you can see them if you look quick to the left, catch a glimpse as they float by but if you’re really swift and in tune to the day you can brush it all aside and get right back to that good old young to be, forever free……..it’s a dream, lasts awhile then fades then reappears then again….
image circa 80’s, writing yesterday

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220 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/01

220 Image-Content of the Day 2018/10/01 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Looking out this window here in BC across a valley to a mist hidden mountain of beauty and pondering over times in Mexico 40 years ago. I remember taking this photo in some city along the way, Oxoaco in the south, i believe. I was fascinated with poverty and the poor so obvious and many, unhidden from view, in contrast to in the prosperous streets of the north.
Farmers and peasants forced into cities for a better life that became impossible to find for most. Many ended up in the streets begging for an existence difficult and absurd. There was little choice for most but to keep walking. They were once young with dreams that slowly eroded into a ditch of hard times. They remain; more and more generations have worn out shoes stumbling along these same streets. All across the globe poor souls exist in conditions most people refuse to see. A billion excuses come to mind to alleviate any quilt that may arise. We have more than enough pretty pictures to cover our walls and conclusions and veils to keep us safe, secure and motivated to enlighten our surroundings with a sprinkle of love straight from our wounded hearts.
What is one to do? So much wealth in the hands of a few and so much struggle for the many and a complete hell for far far too many….this is our world of incredible beauty, difficult decisions, denial, false assumptions, insanity, deep sadness, wonder, laughter and what we call love.
A great man once said (Wes Jackson), “if you can’t find any humour in all this you are just not taking it serious enough”.
circa 70’s image, writing yesterday….

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Patrick Wey

219 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/30

219 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/30 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The walls we left behind, the barren scape of time
the roads the home the very scope of love, once mine….

into the sky, way down me head swaying like a willow across fields of memory and straight into a long and narrow day. i love it the way she tells me things that only she can tell, the way she sees into things like they were alive and well. This cloudy stream of sky sun-lit and soft held us for awhile, a long dear while. We were in love like beauty is when two is one. The scene was set the noon came in soft and our time melted around the gentle air like a warm sweater like lips across her cheek.
We walked on for years, time held us like luck does before a change that breaks things apart. And just like an old man i can remember things that never were, things that really never moved so smooth, days of love like rain of light drizzling soft upon our hearts. Time, it has its way of twisting in and out of life…..like love does.

….So sail on thru the storm
Let time see of itself
Be the heart that beats true
Hold nothing old
into the new…..

circa – Image created 90’s, writing yesterday/today

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Patrick Wey

217 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/28

217 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/28 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
She said she didn’t want me anymore, walked away, headed for the deck, threw specs of bread into the air. Seagulls surrounded her, swept their wings so close she dreamed
of flying.
The sun set, the day gave up shuffled about the deck, squandered a few memories begging for one more sweet caress against the world; her love with warm hands in hand, just awhile longer, just one more moment, sea breeze swimming around our minds but then, wind came swift shifted things.
We met against the dark side, held on for life, gave our hearts complete….times moved about and clouded the sun for days, landing us in a drought of our souls. The desert landscape couldn’t have been more beautiful but the deep thirst killed us.
Time blew in again and forgiveness settled in our breath. Love, no more than a word, scrambled about looking for something to hang onto and that was the day with bread crumbs, she left for good.
Here lies the remains of the memory of our love and like a worn out painting this photograph holds the key to my heart, the sea, the wind.
image circa 25 years ago or so, writing yesterday

No automatic alt text available.

216 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/27

216 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/27 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
There’s probably a story or two hidden in the backyards of a few minds from the night light hit the negatives of my nikon way back when, but not from me. I don’t recall who she is or where i was. There’s a good chance it’s toronto and a semi famous band and that Coral Andrews would know. At any rate, she’s pretty and she plays base and i was there and i wish i was again.
Why do i do this, what’s the point, makes me question my sanity….old photographs lost in the archives of a one-time photographer with some strange commitment to a few more posts or so. The time is coming to an end, i feel it in my blood, i’m gettin to the ledge, the end of the line, an era dead. These photos will find there way here and there i suppose but for someone who cares little about the past they mean less and less. The age of image gluttony, sound bit specs in every dash of wind is here while the past is drowning in a future dangerously uncertain.
My thoughts move about the page for nothing better to do. I sit in a small cafe in a small town with small dreams waiting for the winds to shift.

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211 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/22

211 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/22 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The old ones have turned gray. I want to be able to say what i can’t comprehend, so what is there left but determinism, the endeavour to create. What else is there when there is no room left on the walls, images competing for space. No room for a future, the past has cluttered the hallways with debris, rubbish demanding attention endlessly, noice with silence on death row. What kind of a life has developed here, where has the love gone, what dreams are smothering the road? I want you because of habit, circumstance, security; out of the frame and into the blue.
Image created 2016, content today and yesterday…

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210 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/21

210 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/21 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
I see you walk down your city streets glance out across the plains dream of things into form for nothing better to do. You cage us up like we’re your little toys, things to amuse you with. We watch you drink from streams and eat from the earth and force us to act out our nature confined. I love it the way you squeeze our brains into the likeness of your worlds of religious domination beliefs and others. We get on the best we can living our nature unnaturally. We don’t have the hells you’ve created the karma you’ve devised or the walls your thoughts praise. We live by the second free no matter what you think. I suppose if we thought about it we’d feel immense pity for you but we don’t. We have a different sort of love, a love that kills and lives and dies free within a code of mystery. I speak for all but you. I am a crow, my big brother the raven is the being whom brought light into this world. That’s what we know, believe it or not it means nothing to us, our mission is unknown to us, that’s the way it outa be, that’s the way it is.
signed..rosetta
image circa 90’s content yesterday

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205 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/16

205 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/16 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
dreaming from the shore of a sea
love falling off leaves of trees
all the worlds worries floating by
under this clear blue sky….
when troubles reform to projects of interest to investigate and friends in view become tender and family exposes warm concerns and the world turns into something one can touch, it’s then you will know you have been walking hard along the trail.
Some say there is magic in the air
when things go light and breath is easy and true
that god is beside you always and the devil is just a concept in you
but it seems no doubt that when the process of thought stops in the mind
only magic and mystery remain without a trace of a word in time….
This is possible and goes to prove that he/she without a home is free in a universe that mystery and magic are merely words as a costume for a clown.
My costume is my images and my words, a gift for the few as i drag them across the floor.
Circa Thailand Chiang Mai canal around the old city…2017

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204 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/15

204 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/15 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
You got your troubles and i got mine
some can’t hear, most are blind
some can speak, most won’t talk
makes you want to get off the train
go for a walk

street photography…obviously
symbolism…probably
circa dundas st. toronto, china town 80’s

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202 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/13

202 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/13 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
….in that cool breeze of the night when things were different and you were on the wall wavering from one side towards another knowing this then knowing that but unable to squeeze a self out. The train flew by with a bunch of heavens in search of more, headless sculptures walked to and fro, drowning men kept screaming unclear, new mediums filled the air waves,dying frogs leap against the glass to death and you were simple, knitting scarfs for the crippled and playing chess with a screen. What ever happened to the dreams of poets kissing love, the painters throwing roads of colour against a canvas, songs waiting patiently for a throat or two.
The day breaks open like a poem falling off a page, the political mice snarl inside their holes, the whole damn mess gets scraped off sides of streets with news of saints flying thru heading for the ditch. The peanut factory increasing sales, doing well in the capital and bees busy digitizing facts as fast as they can manufacture-um. The critics are all over the social medium with heads dispersed into fragments for the benefit of a few.
Life is coming to an end the way we see it, we have out-thought ourselves, we have held out too long, we are being replaced by crystal, copper and gold. The new ‘on or off’ technology will rule the wise men and the fool. There is no necessity to fear, keep your ears glued to the visions of glamour and your gods of deceit, the end will not kill you, you will not disappear, turn the page, scribble out the text, delete the posts, call your faceless friends and love your self into the end………..
photo circa 90’s kitchener city wall, self stand-in

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200 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/11

200 Image-Content of the Day 2018/09/11 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
Wall Shadow’s Self Portrait, some call it a selfie
The image on the wall looks like Authur Rimbau, a poet of the Symbolist Movement, late 1800’s… https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rimbaud
The first poet to create prose verse and more or less shit on the traditional hypocrisy of rhyme; some would like to believe Bob Dylan reincarnated from him.
Back in 1970 or so i met a bohemian poet on the main drag of Little Berlin (kitchener)….i put him up for a few nights, he was eastern european with a hand full of english. When we departed he gave a copy of the book (Les Illuminations) of Rimbau’s poems , i gave him a book of poems by Dylan Thomas.
I left almost all my books in the farm house when we left for the west coast a couple of years ago now, time doesn’t fly, it melts in an out of space like a daydream. Here i sit cafed in a rain struck afternoon in the duncan garage cafe writing words to people i hardly know, will probably never see again and if time twists right i may even receive a few head crumb compliments while i slip down upon their walls into the archives of digital humanity. I don’t mind at all, it passes the time and reminds me of the things i left behind. The rain let up, time to move.
circa poland, turn of the millenium

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181 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/23

181 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/23 of-by patrick wey http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
i can’t keep up. Everything is moving too fast. I can’t understand this world. Yesterday it was so easy to believe. It was simple, things meant what they meant. Today everybody changes so fast there is nothing to hang on to. One day this is good for you and the next day it is life threatening. Makes you wonder if you yourself had it right. Maybe i am just as wrong as the rest, maybe things are meant to disappear, maybe life is nothing much at all. I think i best keep praying.
On the Streets, Circa 70’s 80’s 90’s etc.

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180 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/22

180 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/22 of-by patrick weyhttp://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
He stood out in to the night hidden. Light skimming across his mind. Trees folding arms straight into the sky. Shades of waves blending into the walls. His hold firm bold stern cool, lit a cigarette smoked himself into the scene.
Down the streets of Chiang Mai, heat pouring down the road, soft haze full and thick. Light waves swimming dreams thru the atmosphere bending into his blurry stance. The air wading thru the mood late still into the night, he thought, ‘time can be so smooth when you’re lost in a dream’.
Photo Circa Thailand 2017

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Patrick Wey

172 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/14

172 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/14 of-by http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
I need a cafe to serve me words. I need a narrow road that leads to it. I need her to sit there and talk sometimes. There is a war outside the door. I don’t fit in this world. The demand to be is too great for this mind. Leave me alone here where i can write for no reason. My mother is dead, my daughter is dead, my brother is dead, there are many that are dead. The cafe is quiet this afternoon and sun light comes dancing in across the tables. The man in the corner is slowly sipping his tea. He looks around half interested in life but no one bothers him. She is talking again about her dreams and some thoughts about a future she knows will never exist. I look up occasionally and wonder, about nothing much, have a sip of coffee then continue to write words as if i was walking. There is a world outside at war. I never really understood what it was all about. People discontented with their lives, bullies pushing others around. The sun glistens off a wine glass and it looks beautiful for a few moments then disappears. The odd customer comes in, buys something then leaves. The day is normal. There is only the sound of soft people against hard dishes and the occasional street car in the distance. I love life today. She gets up and leaves. I write a few more words.

Image Circa late 80’s, cafe in Kensington Market Toronto; actor & friend Lindsay Stewart
Portrait of an Outsider
Alexandra Zaichanka picked this shot from my archives thinking it fit the literature.
I was listening to a CBC audio doc about Albert Camus’s book, The Outsider (sometimes referred to as The Stranger) which i read years ago. I was inspired and sat down and wrote the last paragraph to a fictitious novel called ‘Inside the Outsider’. A few of my bohemian friends fit this description as well as myself it appears.

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171 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/13

171 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/13 of-by http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
‘Even the Eternal Source is a Reflection’. With that statement i mean that there is no absolute anything, thought made it all up because of our fear of being simply mortal naked apes that think. All the gods, all the absolute laws, all the determinations to use reason to convince the brain that we are superior beings, aliens, creations in the likeness of gods, all definitive conclusions must be on trial endlessly; logic is no more than a tool to create technologies to explore the universe. There is no higher purpose. The eternal source is merely a shade of an infinite refection endlessly moving changing shifting. There is no great mystery that can be known. This denial is the source of all misery in the mind of man.
We have been conditioned with a need to believe in some formula from christ to buddha, to scientific law, politics, to happiness, enlightenment, afterlives to endless comforts and securities to soothe the fear of being in the natural state of simple unknowing clear observations. This is too scary and meaningless for the ego. Man has not changed at all since the cave man in his discomfort with his neighbour and his self, only the weapons have evolved. Think about it, if you can accept the fear to be without any direction home, no ritual to save you, no ceremony to ultimately calm you, no ideal to hang onto forever. There is no certainty in the mind of man, nothing is and never was. We have been fooled by the fears of the saviours, the saints, the holy men, the logicians. The body is all that is immortal, the mind is the illusion that fades and dies.
I am a man walking thru all history with a duffel bag strung over my shoulder hanging off my back and in my mental strength with my one hand holding a knife i slit the bag releasing the tons of beliefs, ideals, concepts, dogma, certainties, absolutes, sciences, securities, identities, words, abstracts, gods and demons and when the mind freaks out i grab the hole in the bag and breathe deep, slowly, grab my composure, resting into the new lesser emptier identity and when i’m strong and brave again i slit the bag once more and do it all over……….keep walking towards the illusion of the eternal source. Freedom from the known is the pathless trail to be. There is no method, like a coyote in the desert one just lives naturally. This may be impossible, but no more impossible than living with the illusions of ones absurd absolute beliefs and certainly much more honourable to the process of creation…………i suppose.
I don’t care what anyone thinks, i have more faith in the eyes of a crow than i do of any man. They are to the point, direct, real and without the illusions of the self fulfilling imagination of man. I move on from there.
circa 2017 Chiang Mai Thailand

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170 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/12

170 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/12 of-by http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
She held me in her hand, swung me to and fro, tripping down this cobble stone road with liquid air bubbling off the melting brick yellow with a sky full with turmoil set against a stage of oceans painted in atmosphere and caressing a magnificent sense of wonder lying in the streets below. Me in the handbag of hopes waving thru the speckled air, transforming into some formless light bending around the air like love in a summer afternoon and her dress free falling as matter disengaging from itself and splattering texture against the wind; she walked free into the day surreal and lovely.
Circa 2001 Montreal, St Paul Street, Old Montreal

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Patrick Wey

166 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/08

166 Image-Content of the Day 2018/08/08 of-by http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day

Portrait of a man on the street looking straight to me thru his lizard eyes.
By now he’ll be back with his maker and isn’t it strange how we conjure feelings, emotions, liquid conclusions about things that are now dead and invisible. He was well with his gesture from my camera, a simple love in his smile. Someone with a few stories easily melted into his mind, you can tell by your imagination of his heart, by the well worn wrinkles in his leathered face.
circa 70’s somewhere, some city in america.
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Patrick Wey

118 Image-Content of the Day 2018/06/21

118 Image-Content of the Day 2018/06/21 of-by http://patrickwey.com/blog/category/image-content-of-the-day
The window sees thru the wall….Eyes meet,
Down by the edge of a down town and a second millennium, in his flannel trousers and a head full of pain he headed in the wrong direction. His name was hard to find and his looks were likewise. The wet from the sweat drenched his heart but it still wasn’t enough to keep the demons away; times took him were he was told not to enter, those crazy places that one has already left.
In another part of a town and the world, she lifted her head to a soft wind, gentle hair black against a night and her shoulders, she let go a gaze that pierced his heart.
The night brushes against the brick, footsteps lay across the valley’s like lead. In a miracle someone catches a glimpse in a red road of dust upon his heals, and he turns up in the ceremony, and someone says, ” hey cowboy, is that red around your throat”, and stretches off into the distance backwards.
She sees the brick laced in night and yellow faces crowded in sacred places, quiet hiding across terrains of mad beliefs and terrible sadness; the silence enters her web like the brick.
His voice is gentle as it reaches a window on the silver side of town, ” that’s the way to the other side”, down towns blocked with heavens from a black book on the edge of dawn.
When he awakes she’s dreamin he’s leavin, comin soon, and carries water from a secret well in flesh of silk and satin and draws him to her breast.
The day spreads itself out like time does when it’s twisted around a bend. From the corners of hallucinations to transparent-dust-forming-dreams, sacred air from the other side, the neons dangle off the brick.
On the trail his mouth is on fire, “Hey cowboy, you comin out here”, the tracks are torn of grime and greed, the shadow of the nite, she whispers in some ancient lore,”(rush of wind a half an earth apart)”.
On the street to ecstasy under construction, signs rustling in the wind, crows cawing over splattered glass, the pavement livin the life in the underground, the kid shufflin thru a long turn out.
In the backwoods by the turn of a century some magic tree is walking towards them, ” you will meet again, this earth is your saviour”, the wind clutches clouds, hurls rain, time and them far apart. Destiny plays fate to the crow, black hair in sea-wind blowing thru space where time is dead, truth laid out like the brick spread out against the alley.
The scent of her golden skin, from the glow of a million moons, whispers in the silence of the earth beneath his feet. Patience falls soft in a gentle rain, two crows sit huddled in a tree blowing across a horizon in a dream.
The day cracks open and the trail reaches out towards the other side. In the room there is new furniture from another piece of history. The window sees thru the wall. The love once so soft hard against the brick dangles medicine from its neck. In the end sage brush smiles to the wind, the sea is wild inside calm upon the earth and two strangers touch.
There is another day waiting in the streets, from Shanghai, New York is sinking and the drum is rolling across the plains. He speaks into the machine, her keypad stretches across the wire but the link is dead.
In an afternoon across the street by the edge of the park, sun glistening off the air, their eyes meet between light years and a million worlds.

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