My friend Symeon once said - “I feel like a snail crawling over broken glass”.

He and many other friends around the Glastonbury bubble used to go to Vipashenas – some sort of intense Buddhist silent-retreats, for 10 days straight, of silent meditation and prayer to try to get deep down within the layers of excruciating pain.

The kind of pain which drives an in-dividual in-sane, to extremes of drug-culture, fallen between the cracks of sub-conscious awareness that all is not well in the world of existance.

Bubbles of awareness, commonly called “being conscious”, a little candle-light flickering in a tiny thin manufactured nylon tent, separating the vast world outside the fabric, as Time is trickling through the hour glass of the collective Moment.

Right now, I’ve awoken early, 5am.

I’d fallen asleep with my child

last night,

having sung lullaby rhymes to bring my children over the brink of their hyper-awareness, into the realms of dream-time.

Ocean’s favourite request: -

“Where-ever I turn I see Love, yet I face fear,

Where-ever I turn I see Love, yet I face fear.

Where-ever I turn, solutions may be found,

all around, on Sacred Ground,

our roots form the trunks of our trees,

and our Joys may be

Simple

A smile makes a dimple

A twinkle, in a child’s eye

our roots form the trunks of our trees,

and our Joys may be ...”

and Rebekkah’s favourite old-Irish sing-a-long song:

“. . . and in that chick, there was a heart, a rare Heart, a Ratlin Heart – and the Heart in the chick, and the chick by the bird, and the bird in the nest, and the nest on a twig, and the twig on a branch, and the branch on a tree, and the tree in a hole, and the hole in the bog –

the bog down in the Valley – O –

Hey-Ho, the Ratlin Bog, the bog down in the Valley O ...”

Ocean-daughter snuggled in the nape of my arm-pit.

Rebekkah cuddling our dog, each to their own favourite comfort zones.

And we all transition from the woke-world, through the Breath,

across The Gap, into dream-time-scapes.

We let go-of our grasp upon the Day-that-was.

I awaken to sunlight through the curtain.

Instantly, the burden of choice in confusions of not-knowing begins again:

where am I – awaken-fully or turn back to unconsciousness – get up, and do what – where am I – what “time” is it ?

I dis-entangle my Self from the child’s slumber and quietly make my way, out of the room, down the stairs, into the kitchen, see the clock-face, boil the kettle, make coffee, have a wee.

Thoughts trickle through the MinD, like sand through the hour-glass.

Is the hour-glass conscious of each passing grain of sand, aware of what William Blake wrote, for-ever conscious of the quote, the metaphor, the meaning – “see the World in a grain of sand” ?

The kettle has boiled, the coffee made, the cats prowl, the dog accompanies and then returns upstairs to stare out the window from the bed, dog-thoughts and instinct ruling and rolling around in his head.

Flies buzz, birds chirp and insects crawl and explore their terrain.

I pour a mug of coffee and consider my options – down to the beach in the cold breeze to pick the sea-snails called “wilkes” here in Scotland, a physical meditation in Nature that brings in some money for the arduous back-aching task, that sends living creatures for a thousand mile journey to the south of France, gaining value as they travel, being processed and categorised, washed, separated by size, labelled and distributed to restaurants, boiled and garnished and served upon dishes as an expensive expression of sophisticated cultural cuisine.

A culteral cuisine which the Scottish no longer relish, because here, it represents the poverty of the past, the free-food of the poor.

In this sophisticated human world

The human world, built upon what?

Grains of sand, trickling upon the tides of time-scapes, in and out of “conscious-awareness” and non-conscious ignorance of denial of con-sequences.

What was it, that The Christ said, of where to build your house ?

---

Shall I write, & keep delving into the streams-of-conscientiousness, to see what pearls of beauty I can retrieve from this Day’s current as I bash my brain upon the metaphoric cliff’s arising from the Ocean of emotions’ turmoil, broiling away with its undercurrents, it’s clashing symbols and meteoric thought-forms, taking shapes and yet dissolving like the foaming surf washing upon the beach.

The rocky beach, I chose not to disturb this Day, with sophisticated-hunter-gatherer cuboid-thought-forms, with my sense of survival mechanisms, with my sense of duty-to-provide in this material-istic world of monetary “value”.

NO, I choose instead to write these worlds of word-constructions, to type the keys into the external hard-drive, digit to digit, data-mining my own mind, seeking “to Bridge the GAP”.

The screen is slowly but surely blinding my eye-sight, but my spectacles are somewhere upstairs, and I don’t want to disturb the sleeping-beauties, so I’ve had to make the font-size 16, to see through the blur of black letters on bright back ground, of this “graphic user-interface”.

Thoughts, reaching for deeper-feelings of self-enquiry, trying to sequence cascades of tidal ebbs and flows as the surf foams and dissolves upon the sandy surf-aces of time trickling by.

The words began to dis-integrate in my mind, long, long ago.

I hyphenate their structures, disembowelling their perceived meanings, piecing back together some original causality, reconfiguring new lingo adaptations, each syllable is a sent-hence in IT-S elf.

Likely, this wordskill was in-credibly enhanced by the ancient imbibing of magic-mush-rooms, and the life-changing incident of an acid-spike back in the late nineteen-nineties.

Word skill – words kill . . . writ ten . . . binary compu-form writ 10.

I’m t old my intellect is extremely challenging, and I’ve been trying to tone it down, ever since that 23 year-old come-down from a singular psychedelic hyper-sonic lysurgic over-drive in 1997.

I’d stayed “high” for 5 months that time, kundalini cascading fire-works crackling my skull wide open {meta-physically} and sending my "conscious-awareness" out into hyper-space, speaking-in-tongues, down-loading delta-data pack-ages through the configurations of my sun-pluto-conjunct-exact, and my mercury-uranus-mid-heaven inter-faces.

It’s taken my almost 25 years orbiting, to man-age to have just-about “come-down” from that 5-second experience, of accepting a tiny square of paper-soaked Ly-surge-ic acid tab.

I gather from the World, that most people seeking “spirituality” are trying to reach back up to Heaven, to contact “Angels” and channel frequencies of “higher-Truth of Divine Wisdom”.

I’ve been told that most spiritual-Seekers are trying to get the “attention” of God, praying through their various religious forms of uniform-Prayers and mantras, to attract The Great Attractor for an Answer.

I am an odd-ball, in that Sense.

I have the opposite “problem”.

I’ve had the “answers”, ever since I can remember.

I’ve got answers collidescoping to every myriad thought,

and if I’m not terribly care-full, I can terribly-easily over-load every conversation, over-burden any Listener and freak-out any friend.

So, I’ve tended to write in notebooks, squirrelled away like nuts in a nut-house, buried by the roots of trees, lost upon the streets of towns, where a friendly chance-chat led to “spirits”, and Spirits led to over-loaded hyper-static punctuation marks, where the intensity overwhelmed the company of strangers, and I ended up shining-too-bright with a black-out.

A “black-out”.

I’m aware these days, that I’ve allowed my Self identity to graduate.
I’m writing on a lap-top now, and sometimes a smart-screen phone.

I’m allowing my Self to accept that there’s People out there who do, in-deed, really appreciate my peculiar word-skills abilities, and that these words I’m writing now will, indeed, be read.

Some will read and find comfort in the familiarity of experience-shared.

Some will read by contrast, knowing they’ve never been in the sand-scaped scrap-yards of the soul that we psychonauts have all eventually crashed into, “landing our solo-missions” in brain-chemical-imbalanced perches upon some alien “world” where human-language has never been uttered, utterly alien worlds in the “heaven” that our “conscious human mind” avoids, recoiled like a snake dumped in a furnace of furious diesel-fire, flaming Rage and Passion and inevitable Burn-out.

I have no notion, these days, of what it is like for any one-else out there, in this waking world of so-called “reality”.

I rarely speak with strangers any more.

For a long time now, I’ve known that I have to thread too-care-fully to engage in “normal” conversations, for fear of bursting-bubbles, for care of crumpling the neat and scented cushions of other peoples comfort-zones.

There’s so much to say, and no real need to say it, and yet, I’m aware that sharing awareness of the integral, is a blessing and a relief, a cathartic release and a steady ease from disease.

I'm often called a Peter-Pan kinda character, mostly meant in a complimentary way, by people who appreciate my brighter, shinier, energetic aspects.

I’m well aware also, of “the boy who couldn’t grow-up”.

The archetype who cannot “fit-in” the card-board cut-out pre-tences of so-called “harsh-reality” of cut-and-thrust commerce, where empathy is a weakness, where ecology is a commodity, where con-men succeed while the honest are starved, where the 3^rd World is all around us while “business-men” step over the home-less and curse their very existence as an inconvenience along the way to the convenience-store.

I’ve spent far more time hanging-out with the home-less alcoholics than in the Public-houses, from which the home-less are “barred” from entry.

I’ve lived on “almost nothing” my whole life, preferring honest-poverty than dis-honest denial, of commerce, of common-sense. I've able to survive the stares of disapproval of my dishevelled appearance and skinny frame, of self-denial in my brutal-style of self-honesty.

I am a hit-and-miss-fit, rather than a functioning successful-card-carrying “member of Society”.

And, I finally acknowledge, I’m a broken man.

I can not keep going on in this World, in the Way I have been.

I’ve got to un-zip the fabricated shell of my imagined nylon tent.

I’ve got to stop re-imagining the various forms of my lost-boy self-image.

I have to regain my composure and accept, that I can be accepted.

I’ve got to clean up my window-on-the-World and see more clearly.

We all have to, if we can, and reach out to each other, where we can, and risk rejection, to face the frozen-fears and melt the i-cycles of uniformity.

The Past is passed, yet our memories are imprinted by our interpretations of experiences.

We all have neural pathways in our physical brains, entrained to repeat patterns of add-diction, attempting to feed our selves with junk-food, with concoctions brought “home” from “civilised-society”.

If you are reading this, you’ve probable come across me before, most likely on Facebook’s Meta-versatile plat-formed spyware, where I’ve felt OK to show my face and share my perspective, to air my laundry, to hang my clothes out to dry.

I’ve been “sharing” here for 13 years now, struggling against the odds, even to begin to believe that I could be published.

From 2017, I began to publish my researches about what’s coming, about the directions that Society is being herded along, with behavioural-science combined with Artificial Intelligence and technological “disruption”, as the Giants of Silly-con Valley pronounce IT, as the self-possessed digital saviours of our “built-environment”, now becoming more commonly known as the “metaVerse”.

I’ve shied-away from accepting the recognition that I have a “following”, the notion that there are real People out there scanning their screens for sincere-insights.

I’ve been hacked-at and trolled, insulted and intimidated at times, but mostly, I’ve been seen and recognised.

I’ve begun to trust in these dis-embodied profiled-FaceBook friends, and I’ve gotten more easy about speaking-out what is with-in.

I’ve “been through the wars” again these past 7 months since my dad died, having my forgotten fears resurface the terrain of my terrors of technological imperialism, resurfaced with my Original drowning fears, of my own Family childhood terrors and errors.

Survival for me these days is far less about “escaping” the dystopian future than escaping my pre-owned masked-past self-images.

I’m far less worried about the impending runaway-inflation of the cost-of-living, than living with the cost of my own self-denial, self-starvation, self-employed martyrdom of Self-sabotage in the name of humiliated humility.

I got cut-off and set-loose as a teenager, rebelled against The Machine and herded into the “alter-native” sub-culture, just another native kid attracted into the MK-ultra violet flame of “freedom”, like a moth attracted to the neon-glow of an electronic insect-killer invention, eclectric-shock treatment, induced by the main-stream glow of the TV that dominated our “living room” in the house I grew up in. The house I used to call “home”.

That house is now being sold by my blood-brothers.

My mother was removed from her Home on the 22.2.2022 and taking to live elsewhere, told a lie to trick her into a car, driven away, never to return.

I failed to stop it from happening.

A piece of paper had been signed in a solicitors office on 20.12.2021.

On the very day that Rosie Woods should have received inheritance of everything her husband had left to her.

By her own hand, “under-handed”, my Mother signed her dignity away.

Now that she has no chance of ever returning to her own Home, now that my Father has died and can no longer keep my brothers away, my Mother’s “worst nightmare” is coming through, and she is destined for the “nursing home, to sit staring at the 4 walls surrounded by drooling, medicated zombies”, as she described it, to be labelled as "suffering from dementia".

 

Whereas, in reality, mu mom has quite happily lived with "short term memory loss" for the past 30 years.

I have no “standing” in the “legal” world, I have no finacial-whereabouts, no “savings” left to pay for High-Court challenges.

My Mother is not alone in this situation, being driven demented by her own family, by neglect, by lack emotional reflection or appreciation for her loving nature, by the cruelty of a cruel-world, the harsh-reality of modern-living.

She failed to stop it happening.

A piece of paper she signed, without even reading, because she trusted her own family, and could have never-imagined that she has reared such monsters.

One of my brothers repeating “I have no Heart” on the day he changed all the locks on our Mother’s home and chained a dead-tree truck across the entrance.

The other of my brothers, isolating our Mother in his home, so far from anyone she has ever known and loved, and he claiming that it is everyone else that is a “narcissist” and “abuser”.

I’m not writing this for “entertainment”, not publishing this on the internet as a last-ditch-effort to intervene, nor to raise support for fight this “war” through any vain attempt to fund a legal-battle in a world where a sig-nature secures the theft of Natural Lore and converts it into digital bits, and the pieces-of-eight that pirates call “commerce” and Judges call Justice.

I’m writing this to help heal the hurt, to help warn the others, who may have never heard of such a thing as a “Power of Attorney” document.

A piece of paper, like a vessel, to “dock” on Land, a vessel with a name and a signature, a stamp and an address, containing cargo to be sold upon the slavery of the Market-price, of so-called “freedom of enterprise”, of equity and juris-diction in the virtuous realm of “legal-ease” – where no thing is as it seems, where forked-tongues rape the Native languages.

Enough of my writing for today, the children have awoken from slumber, as the toilet flushes upstairs and the floor-boards creak, the dog excited and the cats purring for their wet and dry provisions, the animal instincts of self-preservation through the symbiotic inter-play of differing species.

I am attempting these days, to bridge the Gap, from barely employed labourer and rarely published note-scribbler, into a fully-fledged Author of my own destiny.

I am climbing out of a cling-film cocoon of my own self-scrutiny, attempting a mutiny against the harsh-light of my critical up-bringing, my Saturn in Cancer squaring my Sun-Pluto conjunct, exacting a regime of self-imposed recession, my boom and bust economic model, imprinted from my early role-modelled austerity.

If you find this writing worthy, I’ve got a paypal … wiselands23@gmail.com

If you want to read more insights, yet less-barbed with self-flagulation, then I am finally willingly, unashamedly grateful for any little support, of money,  of “likes” n “shares” – or words of appreciation + encouragement.

Lots of little trickles, will eventually drip-feed into a stream and a revenue that I can begin to rely upon.

I can but try . . . and commit and invest this time and effort.

I’ve refused all advise so far, to set up a Patrion Account or any other plat-form of digital domain, telling myself that I’m afraid of selling-out, or giving-in, and becoming a digital new-age begger on the meta-streets of metropolis.

But really, I’ve just been torturing myself with deeply held imprints which have thus-far, ruled my Life-force.

The events that have been unfolding over this past 6 months in Ireland, with my siblings exhibitions of extreme hatred, judgement and punishment, have shown me some things that I had blacked-out.

Perversely, their bullying that made me a Peter-Pan cartoon child-hood-character, have now forced me to grow-up.

. here’s a link to my web-site – with much more writings and spoken-word videos collated

https://wiselands.webador.co.uk/snail-crawling-over-broken-glass

If anyone out there can help with knowledge of magazines, of publishers, of experience of Platforms, of any means of getting these writing and creative urges into a greater form of market-ability – do please contact me and I’ll do my best from now on, to rise to this challenge.

Thanks for reading, I hope it’s been of interest and helpful in some ways.

Sincerely.

 

Here’s a somg, to go along with the sent I mentes ;) <3 :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFle2FNHASs