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.
This should probably be called ‘A Labourer’s Blog’ considering that the writer hasn’t endured such an onslaught of physical duress since working in the sawmill at Glennister’s furniture factory back in his hometown many years ago, after his school impolitely asked him to leave.
The employment at the furniture factory involved clambering over huge felled trees and wrapping chains around them so they could be lifted into place on a crane and made into planks on a giant circular saw.
At least there I had the compensation of sheltering in the boiler-room and drinking hot tea during breaks.
Actually, I was following a family tradition since my great-grandfather worked as a sawyer in the beech woods around south Buckinghamshire in the 1800s. He was a top-dog, which is to say he sawed from the top of the sawpit and so avoided the sawdust falling down all over him.
The sawpits he dug and used are still visible up in the woods around Piggot’s Hill, at the end of the Hughenden valley, where the Ridgley family reunion takes place every year in the property once belonging to Eric Gill – the famous British artist commissioned by the BBC to create the Prospero and Ariel sculpture for their London headquarters in 1933 – who maintained an artists’ colony there from 1928 onwards.
A few years ago my father and I were taking a walk through the surrounding fields up from the Harrow pub overlooking Bryant’s Bottom when a big white van roared through an opening and pulled up menacingly before us. Some guy got out and asked what we were doing there, saying that his employer’s residence on the hill opposite had been spied out and robbed by “gypsies” recently.
This was just utterly typical of the area where I had once lived so joyously. Some parvenu twat had bought a place for x-million pounds on a hillside where you couldn’t even plant a garden and had turned into a paranoid freak thinking that an old man and his son who actually belonged to the area were out there planning to rob him.
All this kind of shit is part and parcel of why I have left the now horrible land known as the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland in order to set up some kind of bucosmic existence in a different country.
Even here there is similar aggro (to be told later).
But for now, hard labour is the order of the day.
And, by the way, Glennister’s folded back in the 1990s, a symptomatic outcome of the monetarist policies which led to the outsourcing of labour to foreign countries for the sake of greater profit. So much for the UK. Now a Morrison’s supermarket stands in its place.
As a matter of fact, there is no more furniture industry in my hometown. The whole story is contained in a ten-part fictional series available by clicking below.
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!
“I have decided to be a freak like the people I read
about in the music papers during the day and listen to in the
evening and watch at night on TV when no one is around.
No longer do I want to be another brick in the wall. I want
to be on the road, taking drugs and drinking gallon after
gallon of strong hooch: some kind of drug-taking, drink-swilling, long-haired musician or maybe writer or something – a fiend, still undefined and embryonic, but definitely out there in front of me as a goal.” – Death and the Dead (2017)
In ten years time, I hope to be a different person.
A different guy, in a different era.
Yea, ‘tis the Autumn of My Soul
The Time before of feeling awld
When misty sunsets, they do set
Before thine eyes a settlin’ wet
Skies unfold to me the waiting dawn
A sunset new, makes for forlorn
Shews of views that mine will ne’er behold
That auld Time again
The grain is set
Among the swallows heading to West
They do foresee
Aside from Thee
When the East, thou do behest
‘To the West’ by Z.R. Grates (1820)
Humanity is lost. The planet is being destroyed, and with no place left to go there is no way out.
My new work P, which I am currently aiming to place with a publisher in order that it may reach a wider audience, is essentially a re-telling of the Fall.
The original inhabitants of Eden at least had somewhere to go following their expulsion, since there remained unforgiving fields to be tilled.
For us, nowhere is untouched.
Soon, light will not be emerging from the darkness, but rather the other way round.
Future legends will be told of the Earth’s destruction in bygone times – except these stories will not be told by our children.
Unless maybe the new Adam and Eve have something to say about it…