Bach

I type. Yo Yo plays a mean cello and Bach who is both dead and not dead, well his mind is hear now. A one way mirror across time. My mind is apparantly in potential as wide as the sky. Yet through hoops and loops it shoots. Round wires and along snickets and ginnels and many other types of path which we only have in Yorkshire.

Today I was up against the mind made shakle of fixity As one fine fellow called it. The great difficulty in transforming ideas into embodied reality. The water of creativity becoming the wood and earth of life tactile. The third fetter. Bugger it. It lurks, highly programmed and fully competent and will itself being undeluded, delude magnificently. The mind's underneath, with dark worms and even scorpions I assure you. There are, in caves, both the unbeleivable fullfillment of all longings and the complete kit of self sabbotage. And I think they intertwine most crazilly.

So the mind clouds. It clouds over like a heat haze. It also forms clouds of infered actuality onto the blue sky of open space. Coloured and patterned, but ultimately free open space. And it creates dense storm clouds of catasrophe, of all hell being conjouired from vapour. The image of the rainbow is too pretty to describe it. Yet the image of hell is too gruesome to fashion it. It is kind of, the everyday stories of confinement and habit which we tell ourselves, to keep us cocooned yet recognisable. It is how I emerge dripping with possibiltiy and frzon simultaneously.

Time to sit and breath some.