Success Amidst the Rubble

I was going to prattle on about: Why does the writer write? For whom? Where does the writer work? When does the writer writes and from what environment? And then meander on over to …

Who is the reader? What does the reader want to read? What genre does the reader prefer…

PISH POSH.

And before I join the Bag of Wind Club currently like those ensconced at the White House let’s zero in on Success: of the writer; of Humanity…

The Establishment is now sneaking in the term: Climate Adjustment, caving in finally to the reality of planetary climate change. But how 'bout we ask the Floridians experiencing 185 miles an hour one after another. Have a chat with them about "adjusting.”

Climate change in all of its brutal manifestations is here to stay and ‘for good.’

We need to change the way we design our buildings anticipating these drastic changes to these seasonable onslaughts.

Start with the writer in that setting and give him a microphone to broadcast to the widest possible readership; using every means and device at hand to deploy into this fray. The crisis is calling us out. All businesses must respond as sponsors of this movement to forward the writings of these thoughtful people. The sponsors have a critical role to play in boosting these intellectuals and their work.

These morally driven businesspeople need to take off their greed masks; rewrite the fundamentals of capitalism. Inform; broadcast, pitch and deliver their message of the extreme importance of feeding and sheltering our fellow human beings.

There is no space left for intellectual ruminating. No room left on pinheads for dancing angels. (lost count a long time ago.)

That’s why my heart is is finally beating with purpose and my quiver bleeding ink.

The modern, informed writes to protect his readership.  At a sustained 185 mile an hour windbag is a force of God.  With puffy cheeks and orange hair.     

Walt Disney and His Gang

The documentary I saw on the boob the other day took an inordinate amount of time and space cutting him down for what the writers thought was a childish and candy-assed approach to creating his own Utopia.  

It seemed obvious to me that Walt was just trying to bring more joy into our world – a world full of colour and children’s laughter; play-rides; Donald Ducks; and Goofies; Mickey Mouse and the rest of his playful gang. and such. Even while dying from lung cancer from an excess of smoking and riding along too many Malboro Men, his last words to his employees: “Keep up the good work, fellas.”  Well, Walt, that works for me. So does your optimism. And that’s what you and your vision was all about: Optimism.

Those Passengers on the Other Two Planes

And courage. Like the kind we don’t hear enough about as demonstrated by the passengers of those other two planes who managed to storm the cockpits and force those hijacked planes down (assuring their own deaths)  - one to crash into a field in Pennsylvania and the other just piercing on the outskirts of the Pentagon.

Courage and Optimism at work setting the example of successful humanity.

Piercing the Blue Veil

Ideas and eclipses,

Stories of suicide;

The host body fading;

Newspapers publishing letters.

Feuds, floods and storms

Colour the orange sun as it dims.

The ungraspable moon at twilight;

Wild strawberries still growing.

Unwelcome phone calls;

Pain persisting;

People kind and distant.

The cool, caressing touch of the summer breeze casting seeds.

Stitch another line in the death mask;

a climax looming.

No short cuts.

Doom aboard the ferris wheel,

(top wrung wouldn’t you know!)?

Sirens call for the end of day

Stealing the light

From the way ahead,

Away from the berry patch.

In a time where only lurkers grope

Gathering to chant the names of strangers

In long shadows, at a place to wear helmets;

Failing to lift the gravity of it all.

All in a day where mysteries deepen

And there barefoot on the swinging span

He heard the calling of his name,

pierce the veil of blue fire, knowing then every chip

of his magic bridge was perfectly engraved.

Letters Heavenward

Dear Future Self:

Avoid banks and borrowing. Keep the flames of curiosity well stoked. Chase down your education daily. Plunge into that pool of knowing, swim in the love there. Art and healthfulness are cousins; keep them dear. Experience the joy of charitableness while continuity of meaning unravels its mysteries.

Now find that little Revolution Blueprint book in the library and know then that your mission in life is to circulate it. By then, you will cotton to the fact that you wrote it about 20 years ago and that your Righteous Teacher will need you close.

Got it? Good. That's a good boy.

Now...     

Dear God:

Yeah, yeah, you’re busy. But make time. This is important. This is my wish list for my next life. Got a pen?

First off: I want means and wherewithal. I’ve done the poverty gig. (Thanks for that.) Next, you will not burden me with any physical handicaps. (Karma is on my side as you bloody well know.) I will be born in a civilized country with proximity to the Righteous Teacher, for whose words you will endow me with a ferocious appetite to hear; a thirst for knowledge where my undying curiosity may be quenched. I will require inspired teachers at school who will guide me into the House of Knowing where I may abide with charitableness. That’s all.

Oh. And what do you get? You get me – who will rescue this fading planet from the onslaught of radical climate change. And you know I’m good for it. After all: I wrote the book.

The Magic Bridge

A man needs to complete his manhood… in an environment to which he is already accustomed.

An earth.

And in a form with which is intimately acquainted.

His body.

One life span, or many, may not be enough.

So once more he approaches the magic bridge but before he reaches that threshold he takes a moment to bathe and pray in a warm water pool. As he nears the bridge, now refreshed despite his years,  he begins to hear beautiful sounds emitting form the area of the bridge and see its floor shimmer. His bare feet touch the surface of the bridge as he now walks across its  arch. It is then he notices that the shimmering is caused by mosaics embedded into the bridge floor.  Each chip he sees is relevant to him capturing as it does a moment in his life, a meaningful moment; an experience which contributed to his growth. He laughs upon finding these puzzle pieces, each inscribed with a secret only he now can demystify. He understands why now each occasion transpired. 

And ahead of him now on the downward incline of this magical bridge are blank mosaic chips, nicely coloured but awaiting, as it were, to be inscribed by those memories his new form and life experience will contribute.  

He knows now continuity of meaning as he crosses the bridge and after he pierces the veil of fire he will sing, laugh, dance, and run again; even perhaps to love. Perhaps upon his next crossing his humanity will be full.  

Under a familiar sun. 

As he has been equipped all over again to know God. 

What a relief. Ring up another blessing.

Leo: Pick a Date

The Stars are Strangers

I don’t have a map. The stars are strangers. Differently configured. Sometimes I’m standing barefoot on a platform drifting across my personal sea, its pulse and heave lulling me.  Other moments on a soft earth, I walk and am nearly stupefied by the intensity of the flower beds, their delicate petals trembling at the slightest breeze; the colours of the leaves on grand trees have shown me greens of such variety that any attempt to describe them would be a spectacular failure and quite likely mortify the personality of the infinite for its shallowness. I take heart in the presence of a forgiving host.

In the last week, my world of the mundane ceased to exist. One caring professional after another informed me that my brain was bleeding and a mass on my liver was cancerous and inoperable. Separate hoe-downs. And the lung specialists explained that they couldn’t use blood thinners on the embolisms embedded in my lungs as such treatment would exacerbate the brain bleed.  A weird dilemma. Who was to know Limbo had a wicked sense of humour? Hence, the inexorable and now dramatically abbreviated trek across my personal sea of mortality.  My death may not be imminent but it will be a surprise for its suddenness and the mystery of its timing is the existential tease.  

So I witness a riotous upheaval of nature and hear words with a micro-observational power.  I see more clearly what my mentor meant when he stated “Words are organic.” And now I contemplate that if words are indeed biological, so is meaning. 

Now I receive affirmations from nature that my body has been invaded, intervened upon, at a time when the planet is suffering a similar crisis.  Poetic  happenstance? Is it egotistical to imagine that the state of my physical health is a true reflection of the state of the macrocosm? Well that amusement works for me at the moment and actually I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that this timing is all entirely relevant to me.  Each of us are tied into the machinations of the universe abroad and our bodies reflect intimately all this divine commingling. The individual  may participate with this godly creation, sometimes ascending into a multidimensional unfolding. Runners and dancers know this. They have stepped into that rarefied atmos of being suspended in continuity of joy.

I have used the terms: “moment” and “time” a couple of times in this minor missive so I need to make myself clear: I believe quite simply that “There is no time. There never was. Just your relationship to the truth… and perhaps for you the extreme and intense peace of knowing.”

Jesua ben Yusef spake : “The very hairs on your head are all numbered.” Well that works the other way too. Through micro-observation and a heightened state of awareness, and an attention span longer then that of a hummingbird’s singular wing-bat, each of us may witness the intensity of Nature’s expansive outbursts, its quiet outbreathings.  And one may spy moreso  then not only the shimmering beauty of it all, but also the mathematics; geometry; the symmetry and balance inherent in life; and the intent of the drive of Nature. 

I keep interlopers at bay now. Cycles of anxiety are dissembling, and fears dissolving. Self persecutions and judgements are all dissipating like the fog on my sea. So there is peace while the personal anger and general turbulence relent.

Now more carefully I move my lips. Now those sounds emit to make sense, even express empathy; so no more obsequious prattle to currie the approval of the listener; no expressions of contempt; not even mean glances escape. I may bestill the cacophony, the noise of humankind, and discover then what has been overwhelming has not been the towering challenge of nature’s current predicament - the species extinctions; the ocean acidification; the temperature rising - no, no, not to fret because it is those words of substance rolled out with continuity of meaning which will deliver resolutions.  

Turn on the silence. Turn off your gadgets. Extend your humanity. Rediscover conversation. Compliment strangers.  I seek out that silence now. I need time for prayer – now there’s a reason for time!  You have been invited into the House of the Creator. At least, wash up.  Fit in. And if you think you’ve gotten lost en route to that holy abode, persevere. That’s what I’m doing now under this new sky, atop this platform which itself sits upon another glassy universe all a’ humbubbling with water-sucking organisms throwing kisses. (And Jeez! The lipsticks!)

Oh, and Yes, I do believe that the state of my outside universe is indeed related to me personally. That's because I believe it is related to each of us personally. Privately. Such is the work of omnipotence. The rabbit in that hat is squirming to get out, be acknowledged.

So you are not a trivial being. We may, each of us, be champions.  Find the meaning. Find the words.  Then: En garde!

. 

Book Store

I believe there  is a vast pool of literary talent being neglected in Vancouver. The reading public has been lulled into buying pocketbooks at supermarkets and bestsellers by the usual string of top-billed authors at play-it-safe bookstores. New ideas from bold intellectuals are being ignored while one crisis after another piles up at the doorstep of civilization.

These writers, of both fiction and non-fiction, need exposure and promotion. The younger ones need editorial guidance and the seniors need a reason to hope that their words will finally be read. We need a hub. Our own store. Our store would offer window displays showcasing these writers for two weeks at a shot; readings; lectures; signings; book sales and the occasional press party to keep the word out. Self-published material will be welcome and courses offered to walk the novices through the steps to becoming a self-published author

I will use my blog, The English Bay Banner, is track the interest in the establishing of the store. Meanwhile, if anyone shares my enthusiasm, they may contact me at harry.langen@gmail.com and in a week or so visit harrylangen.com for my own offerings.

We live in a time where the crises are taking on planetary dimensions. There is not just a role for writers here, but a desperate need.