Khkh Tssh Khrkhr Kh Gurgurgurgurgurgurgurgurgurgurguuur Shshshsh Zrzrzrzrzrzr Tk Glugglugglug Ah! Yes, sir! Yes, sir, I can boogie. Bacca- Chacha Fwwoop Chachachachachachachachacha Click! Zurzurzurzurzurzurwur Dur dur dur Glugglugglug Keep on believing Keep on believing Zhzhzhzhzhz Chachachachachachachacha Frwrwrwfrw Keep on believing Keep on believing Glugglugglug Ah! Keep on believing (from DOSTOEVSKY’S PLACE, Valley Independent Press, 2017) If you can describe what is happening in this onomatopoeic minute story taken from my book, I’ll send a free copy for the first correct answer. Just use the Comment box at the top of the page. GLYN F RIDGLEY novels available from bookstores and Amazon worldwide
Two written texts, separated by 700 years and two continents: On the Sacraments by Ambrose of Milan reveals the mystery school tradition of early Christianity, while the Songs of Milarepa disclose the dhamma of Tibetan Buddhism, as passed on to him by his guru. Both represent the manner in which secret wisdom is passed on from one generation to another. Teachings such as these show that mysticism reveals the true nature of the world in which we live, whereas it is sometimes claimed that mysticism involves a retreat from the realities of human existence.
In ‘Rosicrucian’, modern-day Christianity – as practised in a 1960s British village – is revealed for the sham that its original form has become, just as in ‘Key of Love’ one of the characters (originally from ‘Question’) is compared to the Tibetan monk Milarepa, as both emerge from murderous backgrounds to find esoteric wisdom and battle the dark forces of the political world.
Let’s hope the Light shines more brightly in 2021 than ever before.
The rains have come in the mountains. The grey clouds have rolled in. After weeks of early winter warmth and blue skies the inevitable has happened. Mist and sunshine vying through the low-lying valleys gave way to moisture-laden air and dowdy fog. Twenty-plus temperatures less than halved in the space of a few hours. Such is mountain weather near the sea coast.
We just made it down to Fernando’s in time for bacalhau and ice-cream before the sleet hit. Right now, the wood-burner is doing its job and the dead cold weather is halted at the window sill. Warmth continues its reign.
During the good spell the last window-frame was fitted within the wooden structure and the angled struts placed upon the strong frame of the pergola. There is no way these wood structures can be compromised.
Ironically, down the road, the concrete-framed structure surmounted by poor wood and local terracotta tiles gave way and collapsed, its untreated timber frames eaten away by termites.
The calçada laid on the western-side of the property has formed a Fibonacci rectangle awaiting in-fill with citrus fruit trees and grasses to conform by the golden mean that highlights entirely the new-found principle of a bucosmic design, both in thought and exteriority.
Ah, so much for trying to take advantage of the new place where we live.
I am 61. But feel 16. I am learning a new language. The world is in a total mess. I am in trouble with the law. I am head-over-heels in love with the woman in my life. Sometimes I have so much energy inside me it feels like it will burst my body. However right now I am taking advantage of the rain to lay in bed and recover from the muscular strain of lugging huge timber beams and shifting barrow-loads of soil. I am reading the auto-biography of Don Felder. We are slowly shifting to a bucosmic existence. I have unearthed The Secret of the Universe (see my books) and am about to uncover The Secret of Life (which may or may not be inserted within the pages of my next book). That leaves one more part of the mystic triangle to be put into place before my final transition. I am at the beginning of a new life, just as confused and wowed as any 16 year-old. My new novel P will appear at some point in the near future.
Bucosmism n. the state of living a rural existence in relation to a recognition of dependence upon the universe.
Bucolic : relating to the countryside
Cosmic : belonging or relating to the universe
Bucosmic adj. (see above)
Bucosmist n. a person who believes in bucosmism
For example, this morning it was possible to collect sweet chestnuts fallen from the trees down the lane, before walking out the village and along a track running through the forest as far as the shrine dedicated to St James (we’re on the Camino) and back, a walk of some twenty minutes. On returning, I carried out a Rosicrucian meditation intended to spread some love and peace in the world. Later, I shall sand the pine timbers delivered rough-hewn from the local yard in preparation for building an open shelter roofed with reclaimed terracotta tiles.
After recovering from illness and busting a gut in publishing my tenth novel earlier this year, I actually feel able to settle into some kind of near-effortless existence.
At the risk of sounding smug, up here in the mountains amongst the pine trees and eucalyptus forests, we’re transforming a two-hundred year old stone ruin into a wonderful living space using local timber. The stone around here is quartz-based schist and has a terrific multi-colouration and glint. Our actual house is also formed around an old ruin, with the old stone foundations visible in the adega space beneath the current structure. The heating-system will be based on a bio-mass pellet-burner, with a wood-burner already inside the house and south-facing solar panels up on the roof.
The garden is to be accessed by way of inter-laced calçada paving, laid by a local craftsman. We have just identified the grape variety to be grown on vines delineating one side, which ought to provide enough wine to meet our needs. The sub-soil is depleted at present so a whole load of manure is going to be added over the next few months. Then we can think about sowing those sun-loving vegetables that couldn’t be grown in our last place, stuff like aubergines and peppers. The exotic fruit trees are already in, from kumquat to pomegranate.
So there you have it, a bucosmic existence.
I am not enclosing pictures of the actual construction since my intention is to write it all up later in book-form – hopefully from the balcony which overlooks the valley and countryside all the way to the Atlantic Ocean!
The Rolling Stones topping the UK charts this week with their Goats Head Soup album kind of makes a mockery of the last forty-seven years, to me.
I can recall when the album first came out. The single Angie really irritated me, especially as it was performed on Top of the Pops with a simpering Mick Jagger sat on a stool and the rest of the band looking all drugged-out standing behind him.
That album irked me, and I can tell you why.
For a start, I was fourteen and I did not like the band because they seemed too flash and glam, like Sweet and T Rex; I had been into ska and reggae with regard the pop scene, and as a result of listening to my sister’s records was graduating from the Moody Blues and King Crimson to Deep Purple and prog. Serious stuff, not campy miming on television. A couple of boys at the youth club used to march up and down the church hall strutting their stuff with stars and glitter attached to their faces when Brown Sugar was played. They looked ridiculous. On my portable cassette player the only recorded tape I had was Genesis’ Foxtrot and Black Sabbath’s first, which were played over and over.
I remember going round to my new friend’s house and seeing the original Goats Head Soup album cover featuring Mick Jagger’s enshrouded face stood by the hi-fi in the corner of the living room. I was fourteen and going to a school which I was by then learning to despise. The two went together, somehow. The Rolling Stones album in the awful living room, and my education. Yuk!
The house was situated within the Park Estate – which I’ve written about often enough in my fiction – and was emblematic of all the horrible changes taking place around me. Not only was I attending a creepy school which required I travel from my village first by bus for four miles into town (after standing in the winter rain and morning dark) and then a half-hour trek up a long, long hill, but my beloved woods were being torn down all around me and being replaced by estates of human hutches and hovels, purpose built for the London slum-dwellers taking up jobs in the factories in our nearby town on the M40. The owner of the Rolling Stones record standing beside the stereo was typical of the low/middle management types who had moved into the village with their youngish families and now could afford to buy all the tat that came their way: cameras, stereos, TVs, three-piece suites, cars. Yep, dad was a hepcat, all right, also with a penchant for John Lennon’s Mind Games (which I similarly loathed at the time, and for the same reasons), while the mother was a dragon and the eldest sister a wonderful example of how beautiful teenage minds are driven crazy by all the unassimilated bad faith operating around them. A new shopping strip called the Parade had been built to help the newcomers spend their earnings. I can see it now, all grey concrete squares. At one end was the chippy (where they watered down the vinegar, for sure), then came some indeterminate businesses like insurance sales and shoe shops, until you reached Bunces, the newsagent’s (where my days began at six a.m. without fail after I cycled down the hill to collect my papers and placed them in a big canvas shoulder bag – and whose proprietor’s fourteen year-old daughter became my girlfriend for a time: again, see my fiction) and then In Time, where they sold all sorts of stuff for the interior decoration of the new houses: clocks, lamps, vases, framed pictures and so forth; the concrete boxes stretching along until an extended section morphed into a supermarket whose name currently eludes me.
So how does the successful re-release of a so-so rock album make a mockery of almost five decades out of six spent on earth, kind of?
It’s because of the same theme touched upon in the last blogpost, of how so much seems to be happening all the time and still nothing changes: still the same old Tories in charge, mugging the British public, still the same old tat for sale, still the same old wars, still the same old internal and external enemies, still the same old establishment, still the same old – background music?
On the thirtieth of June I went to the local praia fluvial up in the mountains and saw them putting up the taffeta umbrellas on the grass bank beside the natural water pool ready for this year’s summer bathers; today I went up there and saw the workmen taking them back down…
Since spring I have gained residence in another country, done up the house, planted the garden, completed two novels (one, KEY OF LOVE is currently available, the other, P is with an agent), treated a very bad case of Hepatitis C (following years of mis-diagnoses), all but finished a barn conversion – and yet…it feels like nothing at all has been accomplished!
I think it’s because, despite everything, the world appears to be in such an on-going mess: endless wars, starvation, disease, systematic destruction of the environment – all, at least in part, the result of English-speaking peoples continually voting in corrupted and corrupting governments – with concomitant COVID lockdowns, so that regardless of individual effort, we keep ending up at square one…
To think that forty years ago it seemed the time was ripe in the west – and by extension, the rest of the world – to build on any societal and technical advances which had been made in the decades following WW2 – only to find that here we are back in the same old situation of grinding poverty and unnecessary conflict.
Such realities really do wear a person down, and maybe they are supposed to.
The one person who has done most to reveal the utter corruption of our so-called representatives is now sitting in virtual solitary confinement in a British jail awaiting illegal extradition to the Land of the Free: Julian Assange, while his jailers enjoy all the fruits of their ill-gotten gains, unreported in the mainstream, complicit press.
Summer comes to an end, nothing changes, and we keep having to challenge apparently freely-elected individuals who really do not have the electorates’ best interests at heart but will, in fact, tell any lie they can get away with in order to hang on to power.
Yet again, we find that our only oppressors are members of our own society and that any lack of social progress is entirely down to our own feeble choices.
Oh, for another Winter of Discontent!
Why do you run around looking for the truth? Be still, and there it is – in the mountain, in the pine, in yourself. – Lao Tzu