A Search Begins
Daybook Musings

1967 - 1969

 

 

:: Prologue

Some would call them journal entries, but these Swedish musings are less so than stray thoughts, which strayed near or by me most of the time, caught and jotted down in the black notebooks I always carried with me—and which I thought of as daybooks, hence the title.

I was eighteen years old in the summer of 1967 when I began these musings, and I kept them up through the summer of 1969, when I left Sweden for Africa and places beyond.

In the mid-1970s, on a ferry ride from Sweden to England, I read through these daybooks and typed up (again in Swedish) a generous extract of my musings. Twenty years on, living in Los Angeles, I translated these extracts to English. It was a fairly rough translation, but I felt that it captured what I had meant at the time in a way that I would understand.

This collection gathers these musings in a form that others might understand as well. That’s to say, I have not only revisited the translation but I’ve also expanded the thought (with what I remember meaning at the time) where I now find it too ambiguous or opaque for general consumption and comprehension. This the better to let it say what—as it now seems to me—it wants to say.

That said, I have made no attempt to analyze or clarify the feelings and thoughts behind these entries.

Most of the original entries were undated and I have made no attempt here to date them. I have, however, done my best to sequence them as truthfully as possible, and wherever there is a date, I have included it.

Some entries are more significant than others, but I have elected to include them all, even those that today strike me as banal.

Taking the birds-eye view that the distance of almost fifty years affords you, I now see these musings as an honest, real-time record of a young man’s search for truth and meaning, a young man at times convinced that poetry was the path.

The two sections: Before and After, reference a deeply significant spiritual experience I had in the early fall of 1968.

This experience was profound. It changed everything.

Everything.

::

 

:: Before

Summer 1967:

Sitting upon this mossy stone atop this hill looking down at the house—tiled roof and old chimney—where I now live temporarily, I don’t know whether I am troll or human being, but I do know that the first page of this life was written long before life knew its own origin. Mine is a life whose birth no one witnessed but whose death will haunt many dreams.

 

And in this book of life and love I’ve been given but a small part, but now I’m uncertain whether I’m up to it, for the final page and its resolution of all intrigues and conflicts was never committed to paper and now I discover that I have lost my ability to improvise.

 

For when the roaming eye of time blinked, its heart ceased to beat and time, for me, cease as well: stood still. What I saw in that timeless moment, a vision, a mirage, was immense, but my senses could not grasp, nor could they understand it. The dream was beautiful but the night far, far too short to let me comprehend.

 

But my heart does remember and it shows me no mercy as it drives my soul with the whipping hand of anguished hindsight that desperately urge my action. But, I ask, what does my heart want me to do? And how could I find out when time betrayed me, and life lived without me?

 

And so, as the day drowns into darkness, as a play dies with its last line, my verse fades into silence. And in this silence, I ask: can a time that for me has ceased soothe my anguish? Can a land where I now find myself a stranger afford me peace? Can a soul, which I have yet to touch and perhaps cannot touch, understand me, interpret my feelings? Can a feeling I myself do not understand make me stay?

::

Smoke and other atmospheres drift among these tables. Who you are or where you stand, this does not seem to matter at all.

::

While we never cease to look for life’s reasons, all we ever manage to find are its justifications. One significant justification, however, is where thought and love unite, where truth and happiness mix to form the solution to most of life’s problems.

::

In a night pregnant with yearning we escaped into each other. Once inside, we shared everything purely: feelings, thoughts, dreams.

::

Wake

Consider

Squint

Wonder

Rejoice

::

Go ahead, dream yourself away, out of yourself. Go ahead, leave your empty head behind like some discarded and ill-used item of clothing, say a shirt or a pair of undarned socks. Once away (at a safe distance), go ahead, gather and form a picture of yourself, which, even if warped and out of focus, you should be proud of. After all, is it not the only truth you’ll ever know and own, the only picture you’ll ever see where you can trace and trace and trace your own stupidity through long, hopelessly staggering and convoluted, empty, meaningless and bizarre deeds.

::

Shipwrecked on the coast of death, stranded on the cold white sand of her eyes. I wish she could bring me down, halt my flight, quench this need of mine, this longing that cries and cries: away. I wish she could and would force me to alight, to stay.

::

Within this unconveyable origin of essence resides a look no one has dared to dread, resides a truth all of us can find, resides an openness so wide that space itself shrinks in humiliation, resides a word, resides a meaning I have seen, resides a poem I’ve written, resides a happiness I seek, resides a love I’ve owned. Within this unconveyable origin stands the small cabin where I want to retire, live, in peace, alone, through to my last much offending day.

::

This one never-resting yearning of mine, alive and well long before I knew life at all, long before I learned the secret of dream—if there is indeed a difference between yearning and dreaming—this one never-resting yearning of mine is for a true symbol, for knowing the true joy of living, for knowing true events, for sharing of true scenes.

::

In this new dream, everything lives and breathes as if I were wide awake. So real, this dream, yet so illusory. I feel like we’re living a Disney fairytale. And so, here we are while you sit in your armchairs, with your grogs, with your wives (or husbands) and your children, in your counterfeit warmth where you point to the screen and say: “See, that’s happiness for you. Isn’t Disney wonderful? What imagination. Such an entertainer.” But don’t forget to make sure that your wives (or husbands) and children understand that this is only fantasy, that this can only happen on screen, never in real life. Don’t forget that, children.

::

I am a well that must be drawn from (often) or I will run dry.

::

Hashish:

The night, its many roads and bends and dead ends led me into the entirely absent, the freezing lack of existence. My anguish grew colossal, my thirst grew immense, my love for her, enormous and alive just a breath ago, grew savagely distant even though I could reach and touch her skin.

 

The night, replete with trapdoors and thresholds, grinned as I stumbled and fell over and over and over again.

 

But even so, now, in the light of new morning, my dream remains as pure as before, albeit stung and scratched and warned by that never-ending, nocturnal rose hip thicket.

::

I shall soon curl up among the dark clouds to again wake up to my dream.

::

I know I am but a miniscule drop of life in this universe. But who’s to say that this drop isn’t a fine gas, one ever-expanding, infinitely expanding, unaware of limits?

::

Hashish:

At first, there’s just a feeling, an inside essence that in a blink of an eye, or in a sigh of a sign assumes horrifying proportions and now hurls forward with a strength that is the entire universe, with a speed that is blind logic, when this mindless, reckless sprint of thought suddenly catches a reflex and explodes.

 

Out of these sudden ashes rises an association, which, like all other rising thoughts, is elevated to immeasurable value, one that my body can hardly contain, while this insane labyrinth stretches from horizon to horizon.

::

Hashish:

Vacuum, it is a vacuum, it is an emptiness, one filled to the brim with visions. A vacuum filled by events, happinesses, by experiences of this other human being etched on these naked vacuum walls, like paintings dreaming.

 

The feeling, the truth, the wonderful, pure, subdued and forgotten truth blossomed and grew to a paradise this night.

::

Hashish:

I constantly condemn my own thoughts and pathways when suddenly I’m struck by a feeling, captured by a logic, by a conviction as true as any I have ever experienced. Perhaps it is the suddenness of the rushing flood that magnifies the impression, or is it another truth that overwhelms me?

 

Temporal and constantly returning deaths cross the calm night waters within these eyes that until then had been mirroring harmonious moons.

 

Life, I say, I scream, I cry: Life again! Fast! Now! Connect, seize, obtain, answer me, answer me, share. No. Death returns.

 

Rising illusions, doubts, desperation, all conspire to foil my hopes and so very well-laid plans, wishes. Think, I say, I scream, I cry: Think! Reason, hang on to, follow up, don’t let go, don’t let it slide, don’t slide, don’t slide, slide, slide, slide away. Ah, this dark, useless struggle. My will chokes with the velocity of it all.

 

And then, suddenly: two separate worlds. So identical yet so irreconcilable. Please! I must share, I must feel that I can and do share. I will die if I can’t. But my mirrored world hides in the shadow of my very self and is soon swallowed by darkness yet again.

 

I take new aim at understanding but miss the target and falter. At some point these worlds must rejoin, eternalize. I must force my brain to battle, I must break this cursed circle, I must run towards the openness I see up ahead, I must run for it, up ahead, up ahead, closer now. Zeroed again.

 

Fear grew. The dread of loneliness rose and strode out as an extreme, unadorned and naked villain. We tried to ignore, to forget, to touch again, but all locks have frozen shut. There are no keys. My panic seized a brush and painted with its wild strokes: two human beings, outside one another, outside everything, outside.

::

Hashish:

We were two shadows fighting for our souls through that petrified night. The ground swell is coming! The ground swell is coming! Our grips loosen. Our thoughts slip, falter, drown, and die. Our nightmare is a sea of constant though ever-changing vacuum.

::

We stand at the edge of a forest, illuminated by a constantly following sun. We roam the magical forest of trials and fate.

::

I wade my way through thoughts, harmonies, melodies, towards a new mood rising on the distant horizon.

::

Hashish:

Finally, like a heaven-sent Good Samaritan, sleep approached. Of course, I had prayed for it, hoped for and anticipated it, but so had I resisted and fought it (as had she) because neither of us wanted to bid the night goodbye before we had rediscovered each other in the hearts of these two strangers. We had to reclaim that wonderful feeling of knowing, really knowing what resided behind our eyes. And so, on the brink of sleep, benevolent fates let us decipher the code, let us re-light each other’s lanterns, and so, live again. The trial was over.

::

This nocturnal trial resurrected our convictions: We were meant for each other. We had always searched for each other. We had finally found each other. Convinced and re-convinced we gained fresh certainty in our illusion, for how can illusion die? How can an honesty, mutually created from its very foundation, ever truly die? We found ourselves wrapped in a happiness so tender no flame could ever waver. Surrounded by laughter in an happiness impossible to quench.

::

Yes, believe me. I am convinced. I am elevated. Proof after proof line up in an infinite row. Such clarities. They amass. She is joy. I am joy. Yes, believe me. I am as surprise as she is.

::

My road exploded that night, to then resurrect in a love twice as strong as before.

::

Somewhere deep inside my soul there is a wild, rose hip-lacerated field harboring an overflowing goblet, spilling love all over my shirt as I drink.

 

The pasture, this morning of new life, drinks, too, and spreads and widens horizons and drowns in love.

::

Her long dark hair fell, and the light streaked and separated so softly across her shoulder.

::

If only I wasn’t made of bone and meat and blood. For I see myself as a part of the music that enters. I am made of lyrics. I am the offspring and gift of beauty.

::

I see myself surrounded by an endless will to live.

::

Filled with compulsion. To write? To breathe? Putting that aside for a minute, I know that I’m not the least informed here, for who can feel more intensely than the flower, who can love more deeply than the stone, who can think more profoundly than the forest. Who can hate more venomously than a bleeding hand’s conviction?

::

I am in agony. I am horribly and helplessly torn. For my soul scents a future far-away spring while my heart pleads with me to stay here and now, with her.

 

Yet, pleading louder still: my disappointment in the many. Away, it pleads. Away. And so, my soul and my disappointment wrestle my heart to the chilly spring ground. But where can I escape to? Where can I live? Where can I forget?

::

She calls herself Freedom and she entices me with her wonderful smile. Come, she says, take my hand. Leave this cold and tired land. Dance with me. Travel the unseen, the fields and forests of distant spring. Caress the hair you breathe each morning. Drink my happiness, meet my friends, live with us. There is nothing for you here. Yes, the girl loves you and you love her, but that will not last. Only I last. Only my love will last.

::

This ambivalence, this uncertain striving for happiness drives me away, compels me to escape this frosty home. My essence can no longer suffer physical limits. Now I want to rage across the world like my thoughts.

::

To tie myself down physically is to bow to the many pretexts, the many reasons, excuses to stay. I must not listen to them, for now I finally stand free: free from society, free from responsibility, free even from myself.

 

But the soul and the heart wage a desperate war and they tear each other apart. The heart loves deeply, as does the soul. The heart loves her. The soul loves freedom, the lack of binding roots—the rootlessness in me, the rootlessness of flight.

::

As I look around me and take in these familiar and ingrained objects I am seized by a sad nausea that tortures my restlessness into action: I must make a decision and then act accordingly—even though, this night, I seem incapable of choosing.

::

Contemplating a life among the ashes of my fragments is more than I can stand. The thought of fragments is horrible enough and I steer as clear of them as I can.

::

Again, my impending fate impales me with her gaze and says: “You little coward. Why do you force yourself to see beauty in the bizarre, in the cruel and meaningless? Why do you seek life in animals long dead, in corpses? Why do you seek movement in the dumb and motionless pebbles and stones?”

 

I have no answer.

::

For some hard-to-put-a-finger-on reason, this spring rain makes me happy. This so sad and untouchable rain that whispers and sighs as she fills the sky: “Come,” she says. “Join me,” she says. “Look at me. I am born, I live and then I die. Why do you think you’re the happy one?”

::

It is not a matter of time and space. It’s all about the very here and the very now. And it is a matter of how long and how far you want to stretch them.

::

Today I paint the mood I sketched yesterday.

::

Happiness consists of an extended now.

::

Home, the concept, the anchor, has now ceased as a physical and spatial reality. Its borders and limits left no trace.

::

But then, again, Marie rises in my vision. Her eyes smile at me as she says, “Are you going now? Already?”

 

I vacillate and flounder in the shadow of this wonderful child’s question. For how can I answer her without lying?

::

I don’t know whether to share the many pictures of today, of yesterday, or of tomorrow. But does it really matter? My dream remains wonderful.

::

The aftershocks and memories of yesterday’s petrified night live today. Today’s dream will form tomorrow.

::

I continually use—obviously repeating myself into a state of cliché—words like happiness, joy, truth. But where else lies the key? Where else hides the echo of feelings, if not behind these broad and overused windows?

::

One must live, believe.

::

It is not the outside polish that reflects, for what lives up to the ruggedness of honesty?

::

Music eases my desperate mood and I briefly storm out, dancing.

::

And you claim, along with science, that you, yourself, are one, and that the surrounding universe is infinite. But, assume the opposite, turn things around: The universe is one. Can you still see yourself? Are you still even here?

::

I find it amazing that the world can appear so differently viewed through first one mood, then another; through first one thought, then another. Is the world, then, really created and delimited by moods and thoughts?

::

What is superstition, really? Is it something you can liken to the fixed idea,

or to the dream, or to religious conviction, or stupidity, or cowardliness, or spontaneity, or fate, or chance. Is the truth a superstition?

::

That everything, one day soon, will dissolve seems to me a nightmare, as something I simply cannot absorb or understand. For how can something so concrete suddenly simply bow down and die?

::

 “Do you believe that I believe what I believe?” is what I then ask her. She smiles, a little sadly, and nods her head. And so I sense, faintly at first, but with growing intensity, how my prayer for understanding is fulfilled.

::

Here is a conviction. It fills me: A feeling is not real, does not live, unless and until conveyed through and adorned with solemn silence.

::

Upon the wings of night, here and there, a force as strong as death. One tracks and feels and knows and halts. For our aim is the nebulous. A cloud.

::

Another person’s doubts can, much like encouragement, arouse my hidden strengths, as I climb.

::

My road back narrows up ahead to a path lined with sleeping feelings. A strong wind, ripe with the tears of many yesterdays, whips my back, and forces my yearning to surge ever forward. My coachman shields his eyes, dreading the vision no one has seen, fearing the purpose no one has ever shouldered. No one (not even I) knows where my road leads, and no one is forced to follow.

::

This feeling of her that today fills the entire now and every corner of my heart, may one day up ahead saunter back this way as memory—caressed by longing stronger than the wind, deeper than the sea, purer than the star, larger than time.

::

Then, as I finally leave, as I close the gate behind me, I turn around one last time, and then another last time, for I am desperate to catch a final glimpse of her (I think she hides behind the drawn curtains). I want, one last time, to experience that inexplicable joy of seeing her—to be filled by it, by that enchantment that has no equal. And then I will, for one last time, kiss the air with hidden tears and bring it all to mind. Only then can I leave. Only then can I die.

::

I will never, ever stagnate in my pursuit. I will never let my eagerness flag. And the reason for this is the every-now-and-then glimmering vision of truth.

::

In the warm shadow of drink, I love everyone and everyone loves me. Sober again, I’m seized by anguish, almost anger. Brought to tears, nauseated by by my weak, suggestive nature. Ask me now who I love, who I see and I reflect, look for words and say: “Love?”

::

For hours I try to catch and wrestle down into words this idiotic thought. Fruitlessly. This is indeed a product of alcohol.

::

Beer, you drip and splash and flash and flush my happiness out of hiding, then my longing, then my goals. But really, what is there to catch, and where? It’s all a surrogate.

::

Hashish:

The dream poison’s vastness feeds me impressions, thoughts, associations, labyrinths, throes, songs, cries, anxiety, anguish, lethargy.

::

And then this thought strikes me: Isn’t poetry merely an irrational search for symbols? To say what? To prove what? To seek what?

::

Newly caught, I grasp it as firmly as I can. In this desert the dream lives anew.

::

Don’t expect too much from happiness. Everything has its flipside, even the universe.

::

Who of us is the doubting Thomas? You, with all that gold, all that land, all that purchased beauty, that solid happiness. Or me, the poet?

::

You be the judge. Face yourself. There, in the mirror. Horrible, right? Or are you simply too cowardly even for that. I wash my hands. Fate can face, even expel, everything—except stupidity.

::

Yes, I died yesterday while thousands watched, while thousands saw me fight, outnumbered—saw me fight the thousands. My friends are shaken, my mother anguished, my beloved frightened by this, my inevitable fate.

::

Yes, he died last night. Departed, expired, passed away. Last night a spirit roamed among us. Restless, unfettered, disoriented, a shadow, a friend. Mourned perhaps a little. Even so, he’ll be soon forgotten, soon ridiculed, but perhaps, some time up ahead, loved posthumously.

::

Honor my memory. Restore my body. For as long as I remain inert, will anyone ever awake?

::

You can dream my vision-world. You can seek my golden treasure. It lies there, in plain sight, at the foot of my rainbow. Yes, first, you must find the rainbow. And you, you who one day will find it, hang on to it, don’t let it go. Whatever you do, fight for it. It belongs to you as much as it belongs to me.

::

Lizards slither, snakes strike, but mostly in mire, marsh, soft flesh.

::

He died early, but lived long, longer than most.

::

We are strangers, that’s our name. We are a crowd of timid beetles, a mob of shameful humans. Strangers, yes, that’s us, that’s us. Oafs, never known to each other, blind, feeble, wandering fools. Incapable of action, incapable of love.

::

How can I, in my simple mind, imagine happiness? Is it really real? Can it really be real?

::

Hashish:

I swam a sea of intoxication, floating on words, fooled by ugliness, and there, out of the fathomless dark rose this simple essence: understanding. Ah, suffer with me, live, but don’t forget, and please don’t judge.

::

To Marie:

You’re sleeping now, wrapped in those clouds of fantasy we call dreams. But you and I know better, the true dream begins when once again you awake. Right now, you’re just floating in skies of fantasy.

 

If only, somehow, I could touch you, help you, make your flight a happy one, make your fantasy sparkle. Then again, what do I know, maybe I am.

::

Empty your goblet, drink my life.

::

Like a furious avalanche I rush for and hurl myself over the edge, out and up then down and down, and now towards the always, always water. But I never land, never ever.

::

But now, emptiness blankets me, spans my sky like a horizon-to-horizon black rainbow. My world, recently so bright and alive is now bereft of all meaning and clarity. That so much can be rooted in the earth of her love stuns me.

::

Nocturnal javelins brought pain and chase in this dreadful dream where tormenting words were, in the end, washed away by the tender stream of acute longing. This Sunday night, evening of sighs.

::

I wish I could sing so beautifully that I would move all humanity to tears. I wish, and wishing so I am myself moved and cannot but cry for a species that will never hear me.

::

Finding it too heavy, I let my gaze drop, and it sank, dead, to the ground.

::

What do I find here among the living, in this world of convention and habit, in this helix of profit and loss, in this day of pattern and promise? Anxiety? Yes, sure. Yearning? Yes, absolutely. A resting place? Sometimes, yes. And so I wish that I could dream eternally—but there’s always an alarm (clock) nearby.

::

Please: swallow your questions and enjoy the ensuing happiness.

::

To write in this wild desert of feelings is like resting on the clouds of understanding.

::

A ring has two sides. One is tied to and shields a dark, receding memory. The other side holds all of glorious life remaining. So, why not choose life? Still, the question remains: Who said a ring has two sides? Oh, I did?

::

Spread my song, the song of… (this is so cliché).

::

Then someone comes up to me and says: can you see in all directions? And I say: Use your inside vision.

::

Now, who’s in charge here? Bring him. Please. What? I’m sorry. Well, I’d like to have a chat. About what? Please, let me just talk to him would you, and the sooner the better. Busy? Well, of course he’s busy. All this doing and managing and in-charging, who wouldn’t be? What? Oh, I see, I’m hated.

::

How I write? Well, you see, when I find or arrive at something, I always question it. Then I question that question, and after some deep-sea diving and pondering answer that second question. What you read is that answer.

::

Changes leave my body with no spiritual equivalence.

::

Sometimes I imagine that I only exist in the shadow of happy drink.

::

Pathetic pages, hollow truths, empty lines, they all fill me with disgust. Now, there’s a tangible truth, isn’t it?

::

How do you pronounce life?

::

To leave your soul behind when you go away is also called love.

::

A wonderful and true feeling is where friendship and love merge into life. And a superb litmus for determining its purity can be found in a break, but mostly the dust swirls round and round.

::

I wander through many and varied memories, some true, others truer, into the cold castle of amnesia, then out into the falling snow, then down into our moist grave-bed of happiness.

::

I wander along the edge of expectation (pressure), a long stick in my hand. Now I have to lean on it for support. Now I have to use it for balance.

::

What determines that a poet has come far? Necessities of life? Parents? Critics? The poet himself, or perhaps his work? But in that case, what should his work contain? Tension, humor or truth? If truth, what is the truth of a poet? Analysis of self? Honesty? Clarity of vision? Ability to teach? But, if so, what should he teach? Et cetera, ad infinitum.

::

My concentration is largely composed of harmony.

::

Sun, hide. Or the bomb will come and take you.

::

Angles that in the dusky haze dress themselves in veils are pierced by penal nails and forced to roam this maze.

::

Now that the horizons hide the happiness that I will never caress, it seems that the torture of the soul has finally come to an end.

::

Deafness. Is it an illness or lack of willpower and culture?

::

Money. What is it really? Surely a poison. An utterly failed surrogate for all things that have to do with a real life: the coward’s salary, bread for the lazy, the god of evil, happiness for the stupid.

::

When the abundance of friends overflows the depth of need vanity has taken hold.

::

My big turnaround became a successful fiasco. It opened the door to understanding.

::

A collection of wonderful letters circulate in my brain. And not a single one of them seems uncomfortable.

::

If in a dream I would find a kind and loving girl, sleep would unfurl.

::

The Pit

This is now taking the form of a nauseating mud pit where worms like status and money and greed and lust and weariness of life blindly crawl and twist round each other while the slime we call time is excreted.

 

And where am I now, where do I stand, drowned by doubts, in the grip of a father’s admonitions, compelled by the yearning to escape while too drunk on cowardice to actually face freedom, intimidated by the responsibility they seem to expect me dutifully (and without objections) to shoulder?

 

Will my dream world—the one I see as real—survive the skepticism of those around me? Honestly, I am beginning to doubt it. But then, what would be life’s meaning? Where would be my dreams?

 

Have I then lost my soul, my will, my true self? No, God, please don’t make me suffer my cowardice.

 

Strength! Strength! Please don’t abandon me. Find me! Unfold! Grow! Conquer! Let me explode in flight.

::

Oasis

Last night I made my way through a pitch-black desert, an age-old oasis suspended above me. Miserable beings believe it obscures the sun. But, oh, it is the sun.

::

The Painting

Now I want to paint. I want to explore what I feel and give color and life to what I discover—and to the sky. I want to paint it green. Think about it, a green sky. A huge, green, near-infinite symbol for all that lives. It would be a garden of the giants, where all the giant children would play their giant children games among the giant green sky-trees.

 

Yes, I can just see them. They’re not at all unlike real children, just so very big. Huge. This is now a moving picture, where their happiness has been raised to an ungraspable power.

 

Some sit in the green sky-grass and sing. I’m trying to make out the words, but the distance, I’m sorry to say, is an insurmountable barrier. But despite that, I have good eyes and can see their lips form: now in smiles, now in laughter, as they, with the green sky-greenery as amplification, rejoice in a child’s hymn to beauty.

 

A bit further down, with Orion at their horizon, sit another small group of somewhat less playful children. More serious. Older, too. They’re discussing something. They talk and describe and argue, convince and concede with an eagerness reflected by hands and arms and faces. Now they actually seem upset, because they have begun to shout. And focusing my hearing, I can even make out a bit here and there of their conversation. As far as I can make out, they’re discussing, arguing about, incomprehensible beings, primarily humans.

 

A beautiful, dark girl answers a question which I did not catch. “Surely,” she says, “you must understand that time plays a part. Time acts like a sort of compulsion.”

 

“Well, that might be true,” said he who had asked the original question, “but on the other hand, I cannot believe, in fact I don’t want to believe, that these, our supposed images, can be so void of judgment and knowledge, so ignorant of their souls.”

 

Then I suddenly realize his original question. I fill with shame, and force myself to stop listening.

 

Three small girls are dancing in the chase of a galaxy—as if it were a butterfly, their nets held high in the chase. They’re shouting to each other in a language that suddenly is very foreign to me, but I assume that they agree to surround the star system.

 

Completely absorbed in their joyful chase they rush by the old man whose dreamy gaze tries to keep up with them. I’m so taken by him that I now lose all interests in the girls. The old man’s entire person emanates helplessness, which is something that I just had not expected to find here (up there). He gives me such a distressing impression of hopelessness that I, with my entire soul, want nothing else than to help him somehow.

 

Then it strikes me that the man reminds me of the picture I had as a child of God. Yes, the long white hair, and the similarly white full beard. These mild, tender eyes. Even the tunic fits in.

 

He is now the only thing that exists for me. Slowly, slowly, he lets his gaze glide away from the girls and out towards the deep green horizon. Slowly, slowly, century by century, the very picture of patient wisdom, his gaze glides along the horizon. What are his thoughts?

 

And so his gaze continues its slow circle round the green heaven, when suddenly (and I should have seen this coming) our eyes meet. I freeze with the icy shock of it: God has discovered me. Oh, it feels like I’ve done something terribly wrong, committed a crime, and I cannot help but submerge into this hypnotic gaze, while terror and uncertainty fills me. I see, but cannot grasp, how he with a long sweep of his arm reaches for and catches a comet, his eyes still fixed on mine, me still caught in his. Slowly, so slowly he bends his arm back, and I feel how he summons all of his strength.

 

The comet now comes crashing with the speed of insanity right at me. It will hit me, that’s a certainty. It will crush me. I try, but cannot move. God has hypnotized me.

::

Variations

I feel how my world of many insights move around a nucleus of variation. Sometimes my soul soars upwards, towards space, where it dances in an eternal farce with the galaxies. Other times, driven by memories, it sinks to slither with worms and lizards in a damp grave of sighs.

 

In yet another mood I play and try to match the laughter of the wind. And that’s my true stage.

::

The Rope

At the end of a long rope there clings a being, heavy with yesterday’s doubts. And as he hangs there, he likens the rope to the thin thread life sometimes hangs on, although the contrast between the two is so obvious only humans could miss it.

 

Anyway, so here I dangle, and my hands have formed a grip which stirs the image of a tug boat brought in tow by a luxury liner across this enormous ocean, en route from one continent to another.

 

The taut line between the two boats has, time and again, proved sufficiently strong to support the reverse relation, still, uncertainty grows: Can this rope bear the little stresses that the soft waves of life bring to one and all?

::

An open letter to my friends:

Today, and as if for the first time, I noticed the cloud in the summer sky. “Blocking the sun,” you may think. No, not at all. It was just one of those little white puffs of cloud, you know. She sailed into the room in a newly sewn crepe dress and brown wavy hair. And there she stayed. Yes, she sat down, alone against the huge, clear-blue sky, pretending she had no way of graying and growing. And who would even suspect that she could, with a sun shining so brightly.

::

A performance

A single note, a line, a soft caress, even a pain, they all evoke visions of her, though the opposite is also true. Everything can intoxicate. A symbol can rise and overshadow a logical conclusion and so replace reasoning—no matter how detailed and fine—with silence. Why not fall, give in, bow down to this infinite and overwhelming proof of beauty that she is. Please, I beg you, please let me be smart enough not to question the honesty and truth of an F, or a G, or an A7.

 

Please let me subdue my stupidity and admit the rhythm, the intervals of which are determined by her breath. Sometimes I even question poetry, to no avail, it always rises victorious in the end. Oh, my dear pen. Please don’t obscure my thoughts, don’t force my convictions into the bonds of silence. I want to convey, I want to beautify, I want to destroy.

 

But I’m still a poet who subjects himself to his own doubts. Even though I now have my will, my inspiration, yes, I even have the frame around the writing itself, that which conventionally should surround the poet: a desk in a foreign city, the light from a candle spilling onto the page, a room where I sit, deeply immersed in either loneliness or love. Even though…

 

But these worldly circumstances force conclusions, and so I tell myself: “Please, for heaven’s sake stop drawing these damned conclusions, at least leave the groundless ones alone!” Having said that, I don’t know whether I’m filled with clarity or compulsion, whether my mood, or my impressions will decide, take charge.

 

Will I be able to interpret my own thoughts, will my questions dominate my answers? When I now write I sketch the feelings of a carnival, where the diversions and objects of laughter vie for the visitors’ favor, and where most attention is given to the announcer that proclaims:

 

“Now hear this! The phenomenal say-what-you-wish-written-and-I’ll-transform-it-into-poetry-poet will now appear!!” Come, buy tickets, don’t miss this wonderful performance. You don’t want to miss this! You do not want to miss this.”

 

The slightly amazed mob begins drifting towards that part of the carnival, as the crier continues at the top of his voice and sounds so very convincing. This was something new, and curiosity spreads. That part of the carnival soon becomes congested and the ticket line is long.

 

After many laughs, speculations, and skeptical opinions the announced curiosity will finally appear. And there he stands, all ready now for his entrée. An indistinct murmur ripples through the crowd as he exposes himself for scrutiny. Yes, here he comes, the poet…, but, oh my, what a miserable thing, look at him, so run-down. How could that little worn, humble body house poetry.

 

He slowly approaches the podium, where they’ve set up a small table and chair. He sits down and picks up the pen. Truth be told, he gives a very concentrated impression which nonetheless is somewhat muddied by the skepticism of the mob.

 

A shrill voice can be heard above the general buzz of the crowd as soon as the curiosity has wound down. “Describe my wife’s new necklace in rhymes!”

 

The silence now spreads with terrifying speed. Everyone wants to see what he’s made of, and the murmur turns to the silence of death. The poet feels how the eyes of the mob are nailed to him as if to remind him of the ticket price. He feels himself drowning by the doubt-filled expectations. “So, go ahead, write!” his inner audience cries, “Hurry up! They’re waiting.”

 

The seconds that now stretch to centuries torment him towards mental destruction as he feels everything locking up. And it is with a relief-strewn panic that he hears himself say: “No, for God’s sake, I can’t. I cannot deliver rhymes. I’m not your poet. I’m a fake!”

 

At that he stands up blindly, and rushes down from the podium. The threateningly dissatisfied crowd reluctantly makes way for the fleeing poet, who in is wounded subconscious reads: “Am I a pretender, or does my art die in the demands of these humans?”

::

The Necklace

Against a green background lies a necklace of gold. If it really is gold is debatable, but who cares. I see in this necklace, which by the way is a bracelet and not a necklace, a long line of symbols, symbols that I cannot envision being used for anything but a necklace.

 

The clasp is made like a book, a small book where the pages of a life have been reconciled in this unity to be worn around the neck. Thirteen similar, but individual bodies, comprise the chain itself. Four of them are adorned by green, hanging pearls, probably plastic or glass, one on each side of life, altogether eight green tears. The other nine days are similarly adorned by sighs of falling gold.

 

As if uncertainty no longer imposes itself, I feel how this vision seizes me and stirs my heart. I see in this necklace thirteen generations of thinking families, each one in a struggle to complete the circle. Each family fighting for what it believes in.

 

It is frightening to realize how the eleven inside families will never succeed in their fruitless struggle, and equally releasing to know the possibilities of the two end families.

 

Can this relation really have a corresponding reality? Can the thirteenth link reestablish contact backwards or forwards, whichever way, and whenever you want?

 

When the proof and experience have been inherited through sufficiently many steps I see someone suddenly stop and dream himself back to the origin, which although a result of honest aspirations has been discolored and mistreated along the way; the origin which eventually will make its trustee damn the gift. Who is the judge, and who the accused?
 

I see myself as a curious spectator, although my dream in many ways is meant as a foundation for coming generations.

::

Compulsion

When you sit down, pen in hand, completely determined to write yourself a Nobel-prize-winning masterpiece, you feel how wrong everything is without true inspiration. The only thing you can really get said is exactly what I’ve just written.

::

Human Frailties Sustain Each Other

A female acquaintance of a dubious friend once exclaimed in complete rapture: “You’ve got to send me a copy of that poem!” Drowned by a similar fire I promise and swear up and down that I’ll do just that.

 

Days turn to nights, and hours to years. And we meet again. As a lightning in my brain I remember the poem. My face reflects shame, but that’s a feeling I cannot trace in hers, despite industrious attempts. I now see that she had forgotten my poem even before its last line had faded.

::

If thought is my only consolation, and the ability to share it my only gift: does my joy die in the lack of rhymes?

::

The Knowledge of a Tightrope Walker

One morning, I strung a rope between heaven and hell. Fate had, and very thoughtfully so, unfolded a protecting arm which would catch me should I fall, but what fate had not told me is how I would recognize this safety net. All it said is that I must fall within the frame of a heartbeat.

 

Later, afternoon by now, I set out on my balancing act, the act I hoped would end in me successfully landing in the net, for to go the whole way is apparently impossible, even for God Almighty Himself.

::

Contrast I — Hashish:

Molded inside a diffuse brown facade lies a hidden mirror with the power to share its impression of the happy world. Long has the paining wind dug, and long has the tunnel of darkness covered its surface.

 

You crawling worms; three days and three years I traveled among the nymphs and clouds. I swam in the desert for three centuries. Three hours earlier the wind panted and died. The moon observed quietly and smiled.

 

My road leads up towards the silent evening where sounds shout and twist my thoughts. Never, never shall my road be crushed to dust by the beat of dark wings.

::

Contrast II — Hashish:

Now I am uplifted again. Up to a basket braided by the magic of the moon, where sadness is strength, and where love is filled by the ecstasy of enchantment. My feeling encompasses land and sea, mountain and wind, happiness within the width of my own vision where she is the artist who picks all my thoughts and gilds them with tenderness.

 

My own darling painting queen. How many feelings have you not found? How many shudders have you not begot? And how often am I not intoxicated by your warmth? Everything contributes to this contrast, this lovely refraction where soft light shines, where hush becomes music, where kisses become wells of dreams.

 

This is where I want to travel to, and there is where I want to stay. Here is where I want to travel.

::

Newly Awake

Human beings, especially the lazy ones, often associate the expressions newly awake with tired. But this is so wrong. I want to compare newly awake with biting your lip or your tongue.

 

When you chew whatever it is, and suddenly happen to catch a piece of your tongue or lip, you can reflect, as soon as the pain has subsided, on the power with which you just hurt yourself. You’re wondering if you always chew that hard—which, of course, you do.

 

For me, waking up carries a similar mystique. I’m wondering whether I am in fact living life this intensely all the time.

::

Temple I — With Rabindranath Tagore in my pocket

It is a wonderful, peaceful feeling—though mixed with the mockery of non-comprehension—that silences me as I enter this temple. For what I cannot understand, or maybe don’t even have the prerequisites to understand, is how a belief can fill a human being so strongly that she erects such a building, such a palace. I would want to call the church the world’s most wonderful place of work, albeit with the somber knowledge that I myself could never work here.

 

I compare the holy atmosphere that rests here with my feeling for poetry, and it truly is that calm that I seek here. My prayer is that similar symbols within poetry and music would move the many the same way that this glorious symbol of the many moves me.

 

On further reflection, however, I realize that there is a link between religion and art. I realize that music and painting and even poetry saw some of their limbs born within these four walls, if with a frightening connection with the religion it celebrates.

 

With that thought as a backdrop, I find it incorrect to look at a painting of a biblical scene and call it true art. I ask myself: Since the artist has created this work under the influence of an extremely strong drug, how can I see the painting as the artist’s personal conviction about art itself?

 

Maybe my reasoning is faulty in the ears of many, but I feel that art should be able to live on its own blood.

::

Temple II

I see other people enter through the door I just used. They look up, struck by awe, and I want to believe that they are filled with the same sense of might that rocks me. Then they look down again, to their sides, then, without breathing almost, proceeding slowly forward towards the altar, maybe the most beautiful thing in this whole building.

 

During a prolonged silence they continue their stroll around the church for maybe five, ten more minutes, but then they’re out of time, things to do, and tonight some husband or wife will hear how they found a deafening calm, etc. in the church.

 

I suppose I envy these people, those who can be filled to the brim by devotion so quickly, and I envy a church that possesses the power, even if temporarily, and with doubtful success as far as real sincerity is concerned, to fill so many with what poetry so often has cried tears of blood in its many failed attempts to do.

 

I believe the fact remains that we have two separate families of feeling fighting each other in the battle for the soul. To me, the magic of the church is inexplicable, the message obscure and its ecstasy baseless, even for the initiated. This is where the human being can stumble upwards, secure in the knowledge that she will never have to work for true enlightenment.

 

Poetry, on the other hand, has substance, is concrete, as it turns towards the living with stories about the living, towards life about life, towards truth about truth.

::

Temple III

Not even here do we escape the underdeveloped. Now I’m forced to view them in the form of souvenir hunters. A sign outside the door conveys: “The church is open for visit and devotion.” On my advice I hear they’re going to change that to: “The sights now permit picture-taking.”

::

Happiness

Happily, my physical eyes are incapable of seeing detail at a distance. So, I’m spared sloppy details and instead I’m gifted a wonderful impression of the whole.

::

Success

Sure, the thought of success as a poet is wonderful, success and general understanding. And some form of such break is needed—if we want to discuss that—if one is to survive as a poet. But that aside, I feel that the most important thing for me is to love and to be loved. The union that emerges from a true and pure relationship is, as far as I’m concerned, the same as the foundation for poetic intensity.

 

I don’t know whether I could write something uplifting and happy while remaining honest if that prerequisite were unfilled. Erase this part of me, and you would find a melancholy person who, although still with the drive to write, would only be a shell for a dreary soul. It is my success as a person (as a spirit) that places the materialistic gains in a more or less unessential light.

::

The Tree of Silence — Hashish

There, in the frozen night, stands a bare birch tree, its top rising high above nearby rooftops. I see it from my window. The trunk and branches seem to carry all this world’s silence, its branch-tips, heavy with dumb ice, seem to gaze at death.

 

Once, these branches carried life—green leaves, beautiful symbols. Is it because it misses all this wonder that the tree seems to sad? I feel the tree’s presence, I am influenced by it, fascinated. Then the thought that this tree will once again carry life shakes me to happiness. The thought that nature has indeed created resurrection.

 

Right now, the trunk appears to me a corpse, the whole of the tree a grave yard. The thought that our dead will bloom again lifts my soul.

::

Hopelessness

 

Tonight, my thoughts are seeking words to replace them; words that once born will form a large, jelly-like mass. And in this mass of letters, everything will be compared to what I so often want to call the truth; and then this new, hard film will develop. A film so hard that not a single syllable can bubble out into freedom. That, for a poet, is how you spell hopelessness.

::

A Mother (Harriet)

I am always struck, if not awestruck, by the elation I feel after conversing with a mother. Maybe not all mothers are alike, but most of all, and I would like to say and hope all, possess the fine magic of motherly love. I feel it, I am seized by it, I am elated by it. I’m filled by the thoughtfulness a mother radiates, and I grow to feel the hope that this love is directed towards all children, of all ages.

 

What, then, makes a mother? I think about my own, and find that all mothers are beautiful, if not always on the outside, a beauty which makes me dream about a divine love for sincerity and truth.

 

The mother I now think of is indirectly a part of me since she bore the child I love so deeply, maybe that’s why she paints me the picture of woman in such gilded nuances.

 

I wish I were the son of all the world’s women, as I would then always be loved beyond my capacity to fathom or contain, and the prayer I now breathe is that all mothers, those who’ve lived, those who live and those who will live, always will remain what she was and is and will be born to be: a living symbol for life, with the enchantment of life’s happiness inscribed with burning letters in her heart.

::

Consolation

It’s night, but no matter how much I beg, sleep refuses to obey. The peace I seek rushes away from me like a screaming, crazed man charging down an alley. I pray for and pray for a long for as deeply as I’ve longed for anything, for release, for sleep’s release, sleep’s refuge. But no matter how much, the shackles binding me to awake have been forged to my feet.

 

And no matter how much I try, no matter how desperately, I can’t find the source to this worry, these scattering thoughts that refuse to settle down. Where shall I look for this source? In my disgust of now or in the mystique of the past. Before me lies a dying world, a world that in sheer stupidity is racing towards an inescapable nightmare. When will it wake up? I ask for the world’s morning with the same desperation that I ask for my own night.

 

Who created this hysteria? Where does it come from? What is the root of this evil, this treadmill? These questions pile up and pile up and pile in and pile on in their efforts to force out of me whatever little oxygen I still have to call mine.

 

When I look back at the now long-departed day I see myself as a rootless shadow about to slip out of myself. Can nobody prevent me, can nobody stop this hot avalanche rushing away with me. What a pig I am. Now that happiness is at its peak I’m threatening to end it all, I threaten myself with my own weapons. Still, everything seems like a phantasm, like a vision of hell. I don’t want to believe, and I can’t believe that this is life, it must be a warning: Don’t fly to high, you foolhardy humans. Don’t trust the clouds. They are dead, soul-less, without understanding.

 

But who’s to say that a soul cannot find its way through these clouds, beyond them and to the sphere of universal love, humming in its chrysalis of happiness. That’s what I want to believe in. Yes, that’s where my hope is reaching for.

::

Divorce

Now that I sit down at my desk, by this open window, I do so with the fresh conviction that I consist of both body and soul. Notice that I say conviction. I certainly had strong suspicions before, but no inner proof.

 

The latch to my brain’s gate, for the last nineteen years frozen shut by rust, has now been steeped in the oil of revelation and so opens with ease.

 

I look at my what I’ve written and find that my soul has been striving for freedom, and temporarily found it in my poems. It has even quite often called itself by name, but never with sufficient emphasis (or conviction).

 

I have now, however, in a long exchange of meaning with someone also convinced, firmly convinced, found this feeling of relief for myself. With the help of occurrences, events (that in this new light constitute proofs), and above all logic, we led me forward to my soul—a poor soul, who for so long has been forced to live within a doubter.

 

The incidents of the last few months should already have led me to this conclusion, this knowledge, but the feeling was partially unidentifiable, and partially obscured by doubt—doubt, although not strong enough to hide and suppress happiness and love, still a doubt. But now, when I view this in the light of insight I want to equate yesterday’s incident to my first confirmed  sighting of the soul.

 

My darling Marie, yes it is she who helped me, consciously as well as unconsciously. This gift from Happiness. Her homeland’s beauty knows no limits. The wonderful powers’ mercy that brought us together is so ungraspable that not even the brush of dream owns a right to paint them. My darling, who’s understanding and love has braided me an ecstasy high above all that can be described. She has helped me, and I must, as so often before, bow down and give thanks.

 

Throughout our relationship, my soul has made its presence felt without my direct awareness of it. Then, last night, it stepped out in its almost feverish urge to prove its existence. We had met, enjoyed, made high love, shared feelings, dreamed, talked, yes, we had done all that this fate-engendered relationship has offered our lives, when on a strange but real subconscious level we agreed that we must part for a day. Not see each other for twenty or so hours. Of course, a day is only a day, it’s temporary, but it is still a parting. For both of us, this prospect (one this strange decision was made) took the shape of an unconditional trial, a necessary test of character.

 

Now, normal earthly logic may question the value in a twenty-hour long divorce, but, oh, it was a test. It was a fight so filled with suffering and inward tears that not even a fraction of the contents of its width can be painted; a fight so filled with anguish that no one who doesn’t know his soul could even begin to fathom it.

 

And what, bodily logic still wonders, could have evoked these torture-like feelings? I answer, after denying the pains—we felt it was right, we were convinced, so there was no real pain, despite the suffering—I answer that it was our souls.

 

It was our hidden ambers, those that most often without the body being at all aware influence and are influenced. These eternal symbols of all feeling at this moment played a part that led their earthly shapes into the deep, deep forests of each other.

 

We smiled, laughed, shuddered, cried, kissed and tore. Our eyes glowed with an inner glow that far surpassed the sun’s. Our tenderness was a direct manifestation of the spiritual contact we owned and still own. This entire long row of expressions, now in hindsight, gives me a clear and enlightened picture of my soul. I know that it exists, and that it, together with hers, often will race out in a blissful dance in an unknown dimension.

::

In a Fight with Two Faces

I met a day. It was sunny and warm, and it shared all my happiness. It invited and let my song echo out with painted feelings in her sky. “This is the life that so many (without any reason) want to make dark,” I thought. And the sun, bright already, shone even more brightly.

 

“Wonderful day,” I said. “You are the only one who understands to let my happiness echo in your soul.” Her answer stretched from the western shore to the eastern, and the sun gave my soul even more beautiful nuances.

 

“Wonderful day,” I said. “I always want to live like this. You and me. We will always help each other and make each other happy, even if my contribution most likely will be the lesser.” Once again the sky pearled a laughter in a rush of joy.

 

When I awoke the next day, I was still intoxicated by my days experience, and I rushed out of bed to greet my newly found friend as soon as possible. But my heart filled with loving sympathy, with compassion, when I saw my day’s heavy and sad countenance from my window. Its entire sky was subdued by dark and rain-heavy clouds and tears ran in all grooves and crevices I could see down on the ground.

 

“Wonderful day, now it’s my turn to fill you up with happiness,” I said. “Yes, I feel now that you also need me. Lovely sky, wonderful day.” But my friend showed no sign of the happiness of reunion, the day continued to cry and the clouds remained dark. “But, my darling morning, don’t you recognize me, I’m your friend, don’t you remember? Don’t you remember the wonderful games we passed the time with before the sun set. I remember, I still feel. Take this, I still have all that happiness, take all you need, you can have it. Just don’t look so sad. I just want to help you.”

 

But the day sighed even deeper and cried and cried. “Listen to me, my lovely friend,” I said. “I’m willing to use all my strength, all my love, and however much loving patience is needed to make you happy again. I ask you once again. Please take this, look, you can have all my happiness, my tenderness. Or is there anything else I can do for you. Tell me?”

 

The day now sighed and cried so hard that my face stung. “Oh, my day, you break my heart. What can I do then? I’m suffering with you.”

 

And the young man went out and sat down in the wet grass and cried. His grief was honest as it sprung from love. His pain-filled longing tormented him towards the dark. The night came and covered the youth with a cruel sheet of cold. The tears turned to ice and the sighs to storm, but the faithful lover still remained in love-fueled sympathy. And so through the night.

 

In the early dawn the wind died and the dark veils floated away beyond the horizon. The first golden rays of the sun dressed the fields in gold and made the dead youth’s hair flare up like a heart.

 

But the soul gave birth to me again and as a morning gift I this time received the most valuable of all, the key to love. The soul said: “Don’t let the gloomy day torment you to death, because it suffers with the strength of the universe, which makes it suffer within itself. Even if your tears would drown the rain, they may as well be lost in the sea, as you tears will never fully mix. Instead, let the day suffer for the day, and you for you. Then life will fill you again tomorrow, because you should know, the sun never dies.”

::

The White Line

I’m not saying that it is worrying her, but I imagine that there are those that do—worry about the little white line, that is. Maybe this statement needs a bit of an explanation, it has to do with rings and pigment. Pigment gives us a tan, and rings cast shadows, hence the white line.

 

Yes, I said that there are those that worry about the white line that the smooth gold ring will create on the finger. But please tell me why, no one will ever see it, right? Or what?

::

Sunday May 19, 1968

Although I’ve been aware of this for three months, known the date (May 24) she would depart, it’s not until now (with that date on the doorstep) that I realize what a cruel death I’m heading for. Why must people part? Once upon a time I had strength, strength to live and strength to seek answers, seek resonances. All on my own.

 

Three years is a long time to ask for (while infinitely many ask for much more, even eternity). But I was given three years, three years to live and play and look (the three years since leaving home, living in Stockholm). But although I did look, or pretended to look, during that time I found nothing, because in hindsight I cannot count the counterfeit—for that is was I found or claimed to find as I staggered among clichés, behavior patterns, lies and pretense. This journey was to cost me three years, but I’m still eternally grateful, the line to end my waste of time was drawn there—besides, the young have an unlimited trove or years at their disposal.

 

But after these three years, I finally found an understanding ear, a thinking, reflecting being. She became the fruit of all my search and strife. How can I ever describe the happiness I’ve imbibed lately and still do it justice? I don’t know, it’s an unsolvable riddle to me. I just can’t, there are no words to describe this feeling—the intensity and depth of this feeling. Those words do not exist in our superficial language with its lack of true and subtle nuance.

 

What I can say, though, is that that strength to seek answers and resonance on my own was no longer needed. So I simply tossed it overboard, jetsam. Of course, it was as lamentable as it was unavoidable that my capacity for living on my own went with it, bopping away on the waves. But what did that matter, I had Marie.

 

But did I then lock myself inside the most fatal of all traps? Now that she leaves for the summer, I cannot find any strength at all, she takes my strength to live with her. All of it.

 

Who is God? Who is Baudelaire? This all seems immaterial now, I just want someone to help me. If only someone could return to me my strength.

 

My wish is that human beings should not have to be subjected to circumstance. Yes, that’s an unreasonable wish, but aren’t they all?

::

Wednesday May 22, 1968 —11:30 pm

All thoughts are tossing about, spinning round, in and out among those I knew in Stockholm, especially Peter, the funny man I met at Sturehof with his graphic drawings. It feels like although I’m staying I’m bidding farewell. I ask myself where I’m going, and I answer that I’m now leaving my former life for good. My inability to think is somehow merciful, for can no longer focus on the fact that this is the last night (for a long time, a whole, long summer) that I spend with her.

 

I don’t dare say, nor can I, what mood I’m actually in at this dark moment. I’m uncertain on that point, maybe because so much else has now been ben clarified, shaped as unavoidable reality.

::

Thursday May 23, 1968—1:30 am

I feel like I don’t have the strength to stay awake alone. Oh, God, I envy her who can sleep. I wonder what she’s dreaming. At least I know what I feel now, in what mood I’m in. Don’t ask me how long an eternity is, but I would think that it’s as long as you yourself paint it.

 

I am filled by the longest eternity. But when I don’t want to be awake, much less awake alone.

 

Thirty-three hours now remain until she leaves, until my eternity alone. How inconsolable is now my waiting. Yet, I feel it is wrong to say now, already. It only serves to aggravate the hurt of these last few hours we have together in a long, long time. Why then my sorrow? Is it to demonstrate to her my innermost feelings? I don’t want to believe that, as I know that that would only pain her. Then, what’s the matter with me?

::

Thursday May 23, 1968—2:00 am

Is this but a giant eruption of self-pity? I almost think so, but I almost don’t think so, too. What do I actually think? I’m thinking about Friday and Saturday. I am thinking long, painful thoughts about Friday (the day she leaves) and Saturday (my first day alone). And I’m about to travel north, while she also, at the same time, travels away, in the opposite direction. This thought is utter torture. Am I crazy, hypersensitive? Do I actually believe in what I write? You couldn’t, even with the best will in the world, say that I’m currently capable of rendering anything at all. I must be a fool to write things down in the hand of an idiot. If I could only sleep, I’m so tired.

 

No, I know what’s going to happen. I cannot lay down, I know what’s going to happen. I already feel the longing, and it only grows. Can I then not exist in the singular? I’m beginning to doubt it. One moment I think clearly, the next I’m filled again with this fathomless sadness, despair, despair, it’s like a drug. When you think that the poison has lost its power, it makes itself reminded again, with unsuspected and frightening strength. God, time hunts me. Am I then but a hunter’s game. Are we not all games. Gladiator games. Time is the cruel lions that quickly and with drooling jaws approach us as we stand, fettered to the stakes of life. Time, the cruelest of all drugs.

 

Spare me time. Make it cease. Now, now, now, now, there, it should have stopped, all time should have dissolved, and the world and life should have formed a single now for eternity. But everywhere is the ticking of these hellish clocks. Marie is still asleep and I still envy her.

::

Thursday May 23, 1968—2:30 am

I feel myself cast in sorrow. Steeped. Frozen in sorrow. Engulfed by the concept of missing. Everything is so unreal. Is it because I’m so tired? If I only could see across this chasm of eternity. Feel, touch the other shore. If I only could see the two that there are reunited, but that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? I don’t think I’m obsessed, I’m just unnaturally human, which also encompasses all human weaknesses. I want to sleep.

::

The Missing

I have never been so alone. I constantly have to swallow the lumps in my throat. I would never have though that the pain would be so intense. Is not this, beloved Marie, proof of my love for you?

::

Saturday May 25, 1968—1:15 am

I’m not even sure why I write now, or whether I even can. Is it to let the blood of my feelings in the form of ink flow onto and fill my paper and so, I pray, ease my sorrow? Or is this a letter to my darling? I know that the latter stirs my love for her even more. This loneliness is so very, very cold, so very, very hard to bear, and so is my longing. And that is the true feeling within me: longing, longing for life’s happiness, the proof of love, the well of tears. The feeling is consoling caresses, tender eyes, warm smiles, love-filled kisses.

 

I am filled with Marie, she is the feeling within me—her presence, but even more so her absence. This is my tribute to love, to sincere love. Marie, darling, you’re the source of my true me. You showed me happiness and said: “See here, look at it, feel it, you can have it, it is yours, darling. Here is your happiness, Ulf.” You painted true and living paintings in wonderful nuances. And now you’re gone; still on your way away from me. Out there on the North Sea, still moving farther and farther and farther away from me with each breath.

 

You’re no longer with me, although I know that you are, I know that I own your soul. You own mine. Can that be why I don’t feel myself filled by myself anymore? But I know that you, my heavenly love, are with me, braided in my thoughts, and you’re smiling there. You give me strength again. You give birth to my body anew. The thought of you makes me look forward again. Darling Marie, be with me!

::

Saturday May 25, 1968—9:00 am

This is the final day of the epoch that came to determine my life. Soon I will leave, and I find that both very hard and somewhat liberating. Hard because it was here that my happiness was planted, and because our tree is here. Liberating, because the city is now empty, without life, because I’m left here alone. I don’t really know why I came here, or, rather, I didn’t really know. As I see it now it was fate after all, for it was here that Marie planted and tended and grew my happiness.

::

Sunday May 26, 1968—Noon

The first freezing Sunday (warm, with sunshine) is vibrantly alive. The warm winds play with the deep green leaves in all the little garden patches in this suburb. Small, light clouds are dancing with space for their floor. Naturally I recall the neat little summer cloud that once innocently glided up on the sky of love. It is now the only thing that obstructs the sun. I find it more or less incomprehensible, but this light little cloud has grown to a storm, as intense as the flood, before my imagination’s eyes, and what torments me the most is that it uses my tears, and that its rainbow is black.

 

I wonder what’s hidden at that end of that black bow; possibly a tombstone? But am I then a manic depressive? I now want to discard the now, tear down its thoughts, but I think my thought patterns have been locked into a schema, influenced by the moment. Future, what is it? It is the morrow, is it a week from now, or the fall? Is the future distant? Is it a breath or a century away?

 

Either way, whichever I choose, I die. If only the approaching moment could inspire me with hope. The future, I keep telling myself, is two months from now (Marie’s return), do you hear that, future is two months from now, and despite that the future is not distant anymore, you can touch it, caress it. Then again, it might as well be the moon, if I could see it. I can grasp it but not caress. Reality then? I have to live, plan, support. Plan? Me? Alone? It’s hard, but I have to. Maybe I’ll soon be able to share.

::

Suppose I want to write for money? How? How could that possibly agree with my ideals?

::

For the first time in a long while I write in a somewhat composed state. What I want to perform is probably some sort of consoling self-analysis. Consoling? Yes, I’m still uncertain; the problem, which is what I want to call my pathological longing, is keeping itself at a calming distance, but its resemblance to manic-depression is striking. Without warning and with devastating power it forces itself into my thoughts again and poisons the logic.

 

To boot, I’m strongly inclined towards jealousy, and in these moments of depression that sickness also emerges unchecked. But I don’t really know at which end I should start to unwind myself. I know that on those (few) occasions that I’m free of these tyrannical cramps, well, partially free, when their pressure is eased, I support my calm with the innermost in the human being—the pure, the clean. I ride my ideals, albeit the voyage is crossing the storm-whipped sea of missing her.

 

One common and illustrating example is when I meet other people with problems. I manage to console them, yes, even help them, by the very means I really should help myself (but can’t). But in the act of helping, in the helping moment I am calm, in that act of purity, of generosity.

 

I suspect that my jealousy in large part is the root of the evil. Thoughts like: “What is she doing now?” or “Who is she dancing with now?” enlarge themselves and obscure my reason with their sickly circle. Of course I must admit that I also miss her morbidly, she is the fruit of four years of desperate search for understanding—for I have an enormous need to be understood.

 

The feeling of not being able to share thoughts, to not feel a response to my innermost feelings, can, and often does, seize me and wrench me in its grip of hysteria. Yes, I could sit down and cry my despair over people’s blindness towards each other, and sometimes do. But looking at that anyone will notice exhilarating contrast of my real life (with Marie) to that of my old, desperate, past, which now threatens to return.

 

But of course I cannot completely view and chart and solve the anxiety that lives within me. Luckily, I now sometimes see this feeling temporarily subside to instead express itself in its opposite, optimism.

::

July 12, 1968

This morning I want to draw a parallel between “see through” and “understand.” The synonyms may be many, but the feeling I allude to lies within the word “understand.” Here I once again want to unite two of nature’s unsurpassed riches in my reasoning: the human being and art. This parallel can in my eyes be restated as an equation: What would art be, what would the pure be without the human being? And what would the human being be without the art, and the pure? The equation solves itself, for a human being’s thoughts and views, the human mind itself, according to my meaning, are utterly hobbled without the knowledge of art and the pure (sincerity).

 

One would be forgiven for wondering what spawned this perhaps conceited theory and I can answer with the weight of conviction: I have observed the human being, both the sincere and the artificial.

 

Now I should at least try to challenge my thought by admitting to a certain single-mindedness in my idealistic way of thinking, but with this admission the obstacle dissolves for the one-track mind I accuse myself of is sincere.

 

And it is in this sifting of thoughts that all unworthy clichés are caught and rejected. It is in this thought-trial that my friends are revealed, and the others, the naked are many, incomprehensibly many.

 

But what about understanding? Yes, I understand the naked. I once lived among them. How did I escape? How can I see this? Uplifted, is as good a word as any, a nice synonym for my experienced wonder.

 

“Proof,” the mob cries, “can you prove your idiocies?” I know that my friends do not need long lines of dead substantives, they already know the truth of art and the pure, the real, but the hobbled, how shall I open their eyes and cure the blindness of their minds?

 

As far as I can see, the person who sees nothing behind an exchange of meaning, or sees meaning behind an exchange of nothing, is a very poor person; for the hollow is a proof of misuse of clichés (the opposite is also true). Still, poverty is a stereotype. Perhaps sickness is the word, spiritual emaciation, psychological affliction.

 

But seeing this, how shall I reason, how shall I react? How shall I behave? With disgust, with mercy, pointing out, ironically, consoling, convincing, helping? Oh, dear God. What a line of useless measures, for no one can defend (and cure) stupid habits except the hobbled, the sick. For how can a human being even begin to digest advice if he or she lacks personal conviction.

 

The roads are so many, yet so distant. I don’t want to condemn the stupid to eternal extinction, as that would be a stupidity if any, but what’s required to begin the climb out this cave? The answer is self-insight, the answer to the question, Why the hell am I doing this? And self-criticism, How am I doing this? And self-irony, Very badly.

 

My dear people, do you see what I mean? If not, I’m sorry, this was the first rung of the ladder.

::

July 12, 1968

You would think that in a culture as advanced as this, it would be obvious that time as a concept, as opponent and poison, is the most powerful and dangerous of all.

 

Many experience time as a whirlpool, a beast that no one can control, despite conscious efforts to keep the him in check. All such attempts of course fall outside the rim of possibility. Yes, no one has succeeded, and no one will ever succeed, but the problem is to really try.

 

The purpose of time, as with so many other universal phenomena, is to stir the fetus of struggle into existence. The many that still carry this seed inside an unbreakable shell will never smile truly, or happily.

 

For seconds, years, centuries, eternity, time has hurled itself upon the living and forced them to insight. But how many have accepted the duel, how many dare try? Someone now says: “I just read that you yourself considered time impossible to conquer, so why then even reflect upon this fight, life must be lived after all. Why even try?”

 

“Sure,” I answer, “Sure, life has to be lived, sure you should enjoy the fruit, but tell me then, what fruit are we talking about?”

 

I will continue to preach time and battle, for tell me, how will anyone ever enjoy something without struggle; no one can reap an unsown field. What do I want then, why am I writing this? Is this a struggle against time? Yes, indeed. It is.

::

Linköping, July 12, 1968 — Departure

With “Blowing in the Wind” as a backdrop, I can’t help but see my future in a romantic, dazed shimmer. I know that yet another phase of my life will in the not too distant future serve itself up for view, yet within the scope of my idealistic dream. Still, wouldn’t anyone consider even an unavoidable fact once or twice? I test the waters in my fantasy.

 

This is a new step, a step between two milieus, between two contrasting atmospheres. Two cities, two feelings. I know what the now consists of, and I hate it. I know what the future holds, and I love it. How? I love the new, the uncertain, what lies beyond the horizon of tomorrow’s fog. Can I see through it? Yes, I can. How can this be? I don’t know. Isn’t everything just a speculation in life.

 

The concrete stands where it has always stood: naked, unveiled, as a symbol for the banal, and it is in this labyrinth that I fumble around with my arms stretched forward. Every now and then, as now, I stop and open my eyes. I’m jolted. How can I, and how do I have the strength to smile at myself, when time constantly bursts past me out of reach.

 

When, during those moments, I find the strength to move the thought some distance from myself, then I dare laugh, as I can’t hear anything anyway. In order to dare hope I must tear down one illusion after the other and feed them to the jaws of futility. But am I alone in my insight of reality? There is one thought who’s taken my side.

::

Before (my spiritual experience) — Hashish

This is the awful experience of the day after that Baudelaire describes. The gruesome sight of the battlefield’s remains. The surroundings, so beautiful and vivid the night before, now but broken illusions; and all that remains of yesterday’s symbolic sibling-ties are a few feelings of shame, drunk with sleep. Moreover, I feel all the hellish anguish of the criminal. Have I now betrayed myself, my ideals and my future? It can feel that way. “Never again, not even once,” shouts my awake intellect, “Never.”

 

How do my sleepy impressions of the circumstances appear? Do I see? Yes, I see, I feel and perceive all the slow moving nuances of my conscience’s remains. What is truth, in this cauldron of scorched tears. I believe it is the stench. The unclean, artificial atmosphere that my memories supply.

 

Hopefulness? Maybe, but not now. Maybe later, further along in this physical life, when the process of waking has fully reached morning. Otherwise I only exist in a muffled doubt, stifled memories, dark feelings.

::

Linköping, July 30, 1968—Departure again.

A new goodbye, a bitter voice, gloomy sounds. Moby Grape’s “Wow” on the stereo here in this café—the first time I hear it. Things are not at all certain. I cannot escape that fact. Yet, truth grows, if only I knew what part of this truth is true, alive. Is it the one about Fromm’s happiness, or is it Hansen’s togetherness? No, the second is reprehensible. Impeding, underdeveloped, dead? No. But I’m set to travel again. Into happiness, into harmony? Which plane, which terrace? Close to the sun, near the glow. Wonderful people. Wonderful ears, minds, thoughts. Truth. Thank you earth.

::

Helsingborg, July 31, 1968 — Arrival

The evening became a long journey that ended 3:15 in the morning. So, this is Helsingborg, at last. Is this home? Sleep, now I want to close my eyes in slumber. But where? A park lawn, a park bench? The station? Yes, the Central Station. I rise to make my way there.

 

Newly awake now, enormously awake. Tea, cheese sandwich. Wandering the streets carrying pressing and warped thoughts, chaos very near. Onto the ferry, over the Öresund to Helsingør. Now, on my way to Denmark. Exciting? No, not really, but the crisis has passed, anyway.

::

Before (Helsingborg)

Time has passed, naturally. But how should I measure a space of feeling? In months, in days (well, nights rather), in tears? Time, once so prominent, now flows like a hazy river among the inner folds of the substance, yet the perceptible feeling exists to an incomprehensible degree. This despite the fact that I can nowhere find similarities in the exterior around me, between the past and the current. Everything is changed, the city, the people, new circumstances. Hope?

 

It strikes me that these Ringbar restaurants pursue me, or am I imagining things? Either way, the sign I behold shouts as loudly and falsely as all the others I’ve seen, and this despite my movement in space. Is it cold, or is that my imagination as well?

::

Öresund

Yes, it is this watery sound that captures my thoughts in a novelty’s delight. This wonderful perception of water, sea, near and concrete, and yet so steeped in mystery. We all know what uses and covers its surface, as surely as the deep grave beneath remains veiled in darkness. But for me the surface is now sufficient, the sight and feeling of the entire life form that is supported by and floats upon this the most common of all substances, yet so distant from all real thoughts about existence.

 

I ask myself what blinds me the most, the sun, in its natural reflection, the light from the seagulls’ wings, or the water as a continent, and I must admit that together—and all parts are needed—these phenomena form a unique and entirely new atmosphere of feeling for my soul.

::

Before (Helsingborg)

I’m midflight over a ravine, between two precipices, two stable ledges. The question is how?

::

Before (Viken—a small village just north of Helsingborg, Leif’s house)

I now hear crickets for the first time in my life. How is this? How can this be? Have my ears just opened? I now, for the first time in my life, hear the real music. And this music cannot be described. It is a calm, an intimate, natural mood of realness. Yes, I think, for the first time in weeks, months: I am finally happy. Surely, then, I must have met the answer: stay pure.

::

If feels like everything happened so coarsely, so roughly, if that makes any sense. The surprises and events hit one after the other. I miss security as a friend. Still, I don’t want to declare myself weak. In a human gesture I’ll blame most of it on circumstance, in the hope that I may lay a foundation of more stable self-confidence, spiritually. I know what’s demanded of me.

::

The opportunities, you say, is the basis of success. Opportunity? This word heard by normal ears is a concept, but in my ears forms two. There are two types of opportunities, there is a spiritual and therefore marked difference between them. Optimism is the first, money the other. The latter seems quite infallible most of the time, but how wonderful is not optimism?

 

If I swam in earthly happiness, stained by colors of money and power, would then our primitive, innate condition for harmony survive? I’m sorry, but I doubt it.

::

Before (Helsingborg)

Rain, at least temporarily, either way the sky is mad. Today, I let time wander hand in hand with the day, and I don’t care in the least that they’re out of my soul’s sight. Oh, I love travelling, to move, both in space and time, back and forward, here and there, everwhich way. Well, actually, with the single reservation that I would like to plan this thing with everwhich way. I’ll naturally stop sooner or later, reflect, settle down and rise on the wave of time, that is if time wants to give me a lift, because trying to determine the journey’s end in advance, while the soul is still moving, can be risky.

::

Before (Helsingborg)

I am about to coagulate, take shape. I have now lowered myself into the boiling liquid some call life, although not any life, but the temporarily final and forming life. I know that I’ll solidify, take shape, but as I’m still in motion, I look forward to the result with undivided suspense.

::

Before (Helsingborg)

Do I feel compelled to write? Do my ideals seem so pressing, so prominent, so important, that the words are torn from me without real motive or aforethought? I find myself searching for origins of thought, only to always find answers lined up as an avenue of question marks. Do I still not know who I am, or why I write, or is this simply proof that I’m still searching?

::

Before (Helsingborg)

Again, I’m facing a road sign and another fork of the road up ahead. Truth is that I have discerned a certain fear of God in my own thoughts. Not of God as a concept, but of my utter non-comprehension of organized religion. As a result, I’ve often begun, but never completed, studies of philosophers whose belief in God forced me to doubt them even at the outset, this to such a degree that I’ve always put their work aside—as I realize that I must be able to absorb and ascertain what I’m reading with my entire being, and within me God finds no resonance, and so I cannot absorb fully. And so I put the book aside.

 

However, this view, and these many desertions have in effect limited my choice of philosophers to atheists. I have wanted to make sure that God is not going to pop up again before I begin my studies for I cannot allow myself to be influenced by a belief that I cannot accept, but in fact reject.

 

Now, however, as I’m about to embark upon Spinoza’s Ethics, I do this with the purpose of testing the strength of my own logic and my own convictions against those of a proclaimed and accepted religious philosopher’s.

 

I sincerely hope that I will emerge as clear and pure as before after this contest, but I also hope that I will be able to absorb and transform Spinoza’s thoughts into the colors of poetry and logic, my playground of truth.

::

Before (Helsingborg)

I thought, not so long ago, that the current hour was the last in the existing epoch. I believed that a dramatic change was near at hand. Well, what had I expected? Blasts of trumpets and mass ovations? None of that, even if I had expected a drastic shift in circumstance for changes don’t seem to work like that.

 

Still, here I am again, thinking the same thought: “So this is the beginning of a new epoch, my new life.” But now, that I’ve done this enough times, I’m beginning to wonder why all these epochs have left me unaware of their beginnings and their ends, their changes, because I have to admit, nothing feels especially new or sensational, and I realize that despite the coming and going of five or six epochs, only one has left a lasting trace, only one was truly spiritual: meeting Marie. This was the one and only new, real change in my life.

 

All other thoughts of new roads, new crossroads, really have been nothing but a continuation of the already travelled path. All these changes have only touched my thoughts, the things around them, their prerequisites, but they never touched the soul. Am I then a malingerer, a product of self-suggestive thoughts, who sees vast happenings, tremendous changes, where only the conditions (like the weather) change a bit.

 

Why, as I write, I yet feel that another epoch is imminent is because I feel that I am about to coagulate, take form. I am now inclined to believe that this is another fork in the many roads of life. I have made another choice, and I find, happily, that this “new” road also carries my body weight. But as I glance back across all these formal changes, these byroads, I can walk the road all the way back, without noticing any huge changes along the way, except when I had to swim that river to reach Marie.

::

August 2, 1968 — Helsingborg

I live in the belief that my idealistic self is both perfect and complete, even though I am very well aware of my weaknesses, both those purely human and the spiritual ones.

 

And facing the mirror, I see someone who contains the thoughts of the ideal, a self whom I declare is myself, a self who, spiritually, in reckless silence, can move outside the physical and from there use my belief and trust in the ideal as a pillow.

 

In other words, I comfort myself with the belief that whatever I do I can always cure myself by my pure interior. I do, however, fear that if this is ever put to the test, if I’ll ever try to heal all of my ailments, I’ll discover how deeply and powerfully the plague of idiocy has stained both me, the human, and me the spiritual ideal.

 

Still, it is against the backdrop of this assumed ideal that I allow myself to silently judge and criticize others, as I always see my path of thought as considerably more true than that of any object I observe and analyze.

 

But do I really know what I myself believe in? Yes, I do, and that’s maybe the frightening thing: I believe in myself, in my true self, in my future, in my spiritual ideals. So, I ask myself again: When will I begin to practice my theories? And I answer that I’ve started already, and that at this point—while waiting for Marie—I can do no more than bide my time.

 

Here’s another more or less true truth: I have begun as I had planned, and this strongly bolsters my self-confidence. Then, again, when I behold this beginning honestly, I must admit that it could be the beginning of anything. Suicide—Happiness? Is this sick world for me? Yes, I’m serious, but really skeptical.

::

August 2, 1968—Helsingborg

Now what do you do? Held captive in a much too warm classroom, and with a harassing, completely impossible projection in my ear (the actual noise of the fan of a slide projector immediately to my right). No, I’m not kidding, or rather, I don’t want to kid, but is this really real? Is this really life or is it just that so many are living it this way?

 

And again, I ask myself about future. Yes, I cannot avoid the importance of a definitive stance as soon as possible. Do I see a future with Marie? She is overdue, and I fear that she might have changed. I fear that London might have corrupted her, and if that is the case, I will be forced to buttress my insights with conviction anyway. I must know, I must keep up. Yes, that’s the word, keep up, keep up. I don’t have the time to reflect. I had a reality and a play before. Now I have two plays flickering before my logical thoughts.

::

Now, everything seems artificial, unreal, but I know what I want, and I want to strive, fight, find. But what am I looking for? Am I striving? Will I have the strength? Oh, my highest dream, my living flame, my ideal self, wants to burn clear and undisturbed. Where am I then, and how?

::

Despite my soul’s vow to forego artificial means to happiness and harmony, I find myself encased in the heaviest and most massive of all atmospheres, the naturally artificial (hashish). There is my thought threshold. I stand there, stomping like a madman. Nothing moves, nothing flows in this thought vacuum. Time seems unbendable in the long run but yet so flowing, so ungraspable.

::

Time, oh my feelings about this beast cannot be captured in words. But when will I actually take a stance, decide? I do know how it should be, how I want it to be. But at the same time it seems like I don’t want to let go of my past, and is not that the big knot? The need to deny your past.

 

I’m sure it’s like that for most people: one would often want to, and sometimes is maybe forced to, for one’s well-being forced to erase or forget one’s past. But how hard, how frightening, is not this torture? To forget, to forgive oneself, is to deny an earlier way of life, and one must, for oneself admit one’s own errors. To decide that the past was wasted and should be thrown away as meaningless can be the cruelest of all fates: disgusting, bizarre days that clump together to form a period, a phase of life, void of meaning.

 

No, I think that many, maybe unconsciously, refuse to deny their past selves this way, but rather continue along the current path, an often incorrect path, hoping that somehow, at some point, they’ll be able to prove to themselves that they were right in the first place.

 

I do know what I believe in, I do know what I want. Must then the thought of denial be my big problem? No, at the same time I can see the logic in the thought about myself. And I know that I have to take a position. A firm one, a path I must stick to.

 

Is there then no compromise? No, I doubt that.

::

Idiocy? That’s the product of teaching institutions without guidance in the ability to think.

::

Why is the act of making love holy in my thoughts about love?

::

That you can perceive something and make it mean a little more, that’s what I do.

::

August 2, 1968—Helsingborg

Philosophy, yes, philosophy. Are not all people, more or less against their will, or at least unbeknownst to them, in possession of a philosophy of sorts, their personal philosophy? Even if, as I said, and which I believe, hardly anyone is aware of this. What I mean is that their way of life, how they live it, whether well or not, in my eyes comprise a personal philosophy with them—at least with the fed, that is, not starving, reflecting, part of the world. For all these people have an established path, or established norms for their forward motion, even if some people don’t give a damn, which, of course, is just another philosophy.

 

The problem I have set out to solve, however, is to not affirm existence but to ascertain the source of thinking, the source of my thoughts—what makes me think? I once wrote that, in my eyes, the impressions influenced and directed the individual in a fateful way; that nobody knows what time has to give, and what it will demand in return. No one believes he can master fate.

 

But as I wrote that, didn’t I do that just then? Were my thoughts not balancing on the all-powerful point of zero then? Was I not choosing my impressions? In that regard time is etching its question marks, for I truly don’t know? Am I a product of time and fate like everyone else, or do I have the right to judge the masses, to penetrate individual phases with my siblings, the human race.

 

Neither do I know, or don’t know yet, if I’m propelled by self-suggestion or by conviction. Anyway, right now I’m living by my own erected norms.

::

August 5, 1968—Helsingborg Library (Hashish)

Time has stopped, and I am completely in the power of the floating organ. These leaps, ladders, these flowing rivers of harmony, possess more than an intensive power over my conscience. Ah, when I don’t know what is played, probably Bach or Handel; at least I can see the label Archiv, and I delight in this completely fantastically.

::

August 11, 1968—Santa Maria Mental Hospital (just north of Helsingborg where I worked for a while) — Hashish

Marie should be back now, here by me—while I hunt for myself. Judge me fairly, but I think I find some sort of surrogate in my musical dreams. Am I not then the shadow of the deepest ideal, the deepest shadow? “Unaware,” Sunday morning in dreams, how sweet? I long through my atmosphere, unendurable it seems. But everything is so far, far away, it seems so, so infinitely far. Reality, fantasy, labyrinth. Yes, why not, keep writing. Don’t stop, never stop. Speed up now, increase. Keep going. In again, into the dream, sweet dream. Come soon to my true me, flow out with the mother of ashes. Die away in peaceful sleep, awake thereafter in light.

::

August 12, 1968 (Santa Maria)

It is always hard to express oneself when one is tired, which I am now, but I have to try. “The first day.” Banal, isn’t it? But it actually was, the very first day working for the hospital, and it was filled with impressions—well, show me a day that isn’t. And honestly speaking, this day has really given me something, something true, something above the commonplace. A pinch of sincerity, a new thread to weave into the cloth which when completed will paint my poem in truth.

 

My experience’s name is M., considerate, withdrawn, honest, wonderful to learn and understand. And here I stop as I don’t have the strength to relate this entire storm of feeling—too tired; I just want to record the event, as a wonderful carpet for my memories to rest on.

::

Before (Santa Maria)

Time has passed again, of course it has, it always does, and how have I been shaped by it? I am partially convinced of the purity (and truth) of good, via Socrates, Plato. However, my character’s resistance against surrogates is swaying. But I will fight, in me, for us.

::

Before (Helsingborg Library Park)

Yes, I’ve said (or at least thought) this a lot of times; asked myself the same question. It concerns the problem of what happens to humanity between one and seven o’clock on Saturday afternoons. I mean, the city is completely dead, everything seems to wait, rest. Yes, I believe they take long hot baths, at home in their cozy bath rooms, everybody preparing for the evening’s simulated pleasures. However, I’m not taking a bath, I’m doing something else, a lot of something else.

 

I’ve been over to Helsingør, bought cigarettes on the ferry, had two beers, wondered what to do next without reaching any conclusion, walked around the city for a while, found the library park, laid myself down on this enormously nice—and trespassable to boot—lawn, read, wrote two letters, mailed them, went back to the park, laid down again, and began to write this.

 

So here I am, spread out on the grass, a cigarette in hand and with a myriad of thoughts that constantly demand to be dressed up in words, and I wonder how I can whip time into a run. However, it feels like I’ve found myself again today. A fresh belief (or rediscovered old belief) in my fellow human beings; Grandma, Mom, H. I feel relaxed, lazily waiting.

 

But, am I satisfied? Yes, just now I am, but what can be improved at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? You have to feel content with what you have, that is, there’s nothing you can do to better things.

 

And now I believe that I’ve awoken a spark of security, or happiness in a fellow human being. A., 32, drinks a lot, has even spent a few weeks in Santa Maria, by his own will however, or so he says. He was shy, too shy, too kind, too unsure of himself. If you’re cold and calculating, you would see in him a perfect study sample within psychology, a typical example in other words.

 

But he is more than that, he is a human being. A human being with feelings, thoughts, problems just like the rest of us. Those who would assume that his thoughts are influenced by alcohol with a capital A are mistaken, because aside from the space devoted to his thirst there is an unsuspected humanity, considerably more human than the poor smidgen which is stuffed in with the bulky vanity in the rest of us.

 

He’s got a problem with alcohol, I will not and cannot deny that, but I must point out the human value even in an alcoholic. Is love, or understanding, a universal cure then?

::

Before (Santa Maria)

It is raining. The outside is gray and heavy. Inside, I’m sitting in a job which has been woven into my spiritual life. People, different people, constantly attract my shifting paths of thought. And in this labyrinth I find myself the biggest problem.

 

Here, waiting, I shall clarify, consolidate, coagulate, take shape—no, not my life, but my swaying directions must settle down into a true line. As I myself know how I think, this is somewhat comical, but sometimes, I must admit, I can keep a straight face. Is everything pointing in the same direction?

 

Perhaps the ideal is, but the adjustments I make when it comes to the life lived seem affected by a shallower self. This while I know (although I hope that I never have to experience the proof of this) that the soul of the ideal will suffocate eventually if trapped in a maladjusted feeling-atmosphere.

::

Often, in short or longer spells, everything circles around in my brain. Ingredients: music, lyrics, philosophy, love, problems. Problems? Well, doubts then. Doubts? For the un-enlightened, there are no doubts as its foundation is non-existent. Doubts? For me, an enticing gesture by a constantly eluding goal.

::

A new, reeling fool. Reeling in what? Money. Money? Everything else, that is.

::

Concrete thought, or visionary ideology? But I have for various reasons been put in a situation where I, in the name of my own truth, ought to help myself and others, everyone. I see it as a meaning, these coincidences, events and conversations. My own conclusions are ratified by science.

 

Psychological talk therapy. Am I the object of this chain. I want to believe that, I hope that.

::

That I am true and right standing here before the self, gives me a vision of truth. The truth of thought, the feeling of the human being. I want to love them.

::

Often, eternally enticing dreams of a lost dream (Marie?) that in their selfish nature luckily consume themselves. And there, the feeling lives again, my unidentifiable feeling which in itself encompasses harmony. Is the art of helping, then, the purest? Am I helping?

::

Compelled to, I cry, “Careful, careful. Slow and easy, slow and easy now.” For eagerness born of inroads made in a newly discovered field may be the very element that sabotages the entire experience, and I do not want to break this one—too valuable, too amazing. So I approach the new feeling with care, I treat the knowledge gingerly, I handle the purity of thought with velvet gloves, the insight with (almost) caution. Life is too dear, the thought too holy, to be killed by eagerness.

::

I am convinced that all these things and events (everything) are signs, exhortations, demands. This way, come. This way, come. Is this, then, my calling: to find absolute purity. Where or within what does it hide? Within me, within my thought?

::

About Marie: Right now, I force myself to write, and just because I do it can feel false; but at the same time, it’s what works right now, and I have to write, have to say something, because I stand in a purgatory of uncertainty. Writing then is a way for me perhaps to climb out.

 

All harmony has fled me. And what’s up with Marie, inside her? She’s late. Is everything true? Should I seek the answers within myself? Never. It is she who must convince, I shall no longer create thoughts of beauty through self-suggestion. I know that the earthly stinks, but is she really earthly? Seems like I think so. What, then, am I afraid of, that everything is a dream? No, but I’m shaken to death by the thought of having to re-evaluate everything, again, alone.

 

But if I now, in reality, am alone, well, then that must be eternity’s fate, the meaning of my life. Is this cruel, is it fair or is it a favor? Right now I don’t believe, or know, anything. I can only hope. Sitting here, I also want to know—I demand to know—why something or somebody has so much against me that I’m drowned in uncertainty about her patience, her love and her truth?

 

Still, I cannot believe that Marie would doubt, because by that awful state of mistrust she would kill everything, for real. So, whoever up there listens, please spare both her and me yet another defeat, I don’t think either of us have deserved one. Once again I pray for certainty, at least concerning this life-crucial question. Yes, I mean it. I am convinced that the course of my life is being plotted this very second. As for myself, I can only wait. For answers, for questions, from Marie.

::

But how shall I be able to analyze doubt, when everything flows around everything, above everything, in everything. There’s nothing to hold on to. Not at the moment, anyway.

::

My light owes its strength to the strength of my soul. My longing owes its thirst to the light of my well—where her reflection still smiles. My mute loneliness owes its darkness to my thirst for her. While my dream glides in hidden paths and patterns of thought, plunging this compulsive darkness.

 

My friend, my life, I believe you, live for you, love you. But why do you hurt so? And why do I sometimes relish this pain of uncertainty? To what, I wonder, does this dark happiness owe its strength? All the while I wait, long, rejoice. My treasure, where are you?

 

Illusions, expectations, imaginations have studded this brief life of mine. Yet, I am again born anew, to true knowledge. My I’m too frail, too young. Please help me. I’m suffocating in a world of compulsions. Please, don’t forget. My life.

::

My theory is that all human hardships, well, almost all, can be traced to a mental source. I believe that the psyche influences the physical to at least as high a degree as the physical influences the psyche. It’s just therefore that it is often so hard to solve problems: humanity as such seems to me to be too buttoned up to be able to solve mutually entangled knots.

 

I want to call the main cure awareness, not knowledge or wisdom, but awareness, cognizance in the meaning of understanding, insight.

 

Insight into your own entangled being, and in this case with the eyes of absolute objectivity (how easy is it not to take one’s own side?). And when that prerequisite is met, then it does not matter what the core of the knot is, you can assume that the solution can be found in a shared path of thought. Here you must leave your objectivity and, in fact, assume the other person’s viewpoint, a feat even harder to accomplish. But look, it will be well worth it: all knots dissolve.

::

The inherent proof of conversation. I have through insight of experience seen that conversation therapy, to the degree that it is physically feasible, proves its own efficacy by its very existence. For, assuming mutual honestly, with the spiritually engaged, conversation in and of itself excludes all being other than that of simply conversing—including being crazy or depressed or what have you. In the true exchange of views only one thing exists: the true exchange of views.

::

About relationships: I’m now struck by what I really look for in philosophy. Plato, Huxley, Baudelaire, Fromm, with everyone I believe in and where I feel the echo of truth ringing. I’m looking for the community of the spiritual state, the state where all thoughts are purified. This to corroborate my view of all is the same before questions and answers. Yes, at times I’m convinced that I believe myself to be right.

::

Different thoughts: If high, and I’m caught in its spirit, what does that prove? You must shut up, that’s written in the manuscript fools, or go on blabbing. Write beautiful letters to my wife, and the contents of truth. And so I sojourn in shame. I’m playing a brick wall of impenetrable insight.

::

Today, I experienced the proof that experience is proof.

::

Yes, the spiritual experience is a proof. Someone asks: “What is spiritual?” As words fail me, feelings shift.

::

I realize that I must always begin with a question, within myself; and then I answer myself. My objective, my real, but still influenced being asks, and I find the answer of the soul in the shape of eternal diamonds filled with clear explosive force, and all I need to give for this insight is purity.

::

I feel empty. I long. Where is the warmth? Togetherness? Experience? Today’s poem is not an experience. It is empty. Ruthlessly empty. Cruelly empty while equally wordy. Dying, I am mocked and eluded.

::

While all newly rich payday celebrants are rushing blindly in their chase after satisfaction I sit here with a letter in my hand. Smoking, or about to. And why have the claws of loneliness seized me again? No, I do need Marie.

::

Is everything divisible?

::

One hears about and reads about the rhythms of life, about energy and vibrations. And, sure, they exist, for isn’t everything that’s real a vibration, a rhythm, a music? But that which evidently exists outside this rhythm, this energy, this music, how am I to treat (meet) that, and how will I be treated (met)?

::

“The real joy of journaling my thoughts is to then be able to later go back through them and find that what I have written earlier still holds true, or, yes, maybe even came true.” That said, what will happen when I go back and read this?

::

How am I to express myself, fettered by thoughts? Bound, how can I obtain distance to myself? Immersed, one cannot be objective.

::

A crisis! Yes, I have a crisis to document, a current and very concrete crisis of the soul: I know what is right, but I do what is wrong. That would qualify as a crisis, wouldn’t it?

::

Why must sleep rob me of these truth-filled visions about the all that I now have. Who knows, and I don’t, when I will again reach this apex of view and thought?

::

The thirst for honesty forces me to write.

::

Oh, this horrible contrast among people. If long-time friends cannot foster and maintain agreement, how will we ever unravel knots tied and moistened by the problems of strangers.

::

Ah, I believe in the existence of mental races, races that color thoughts with differently interpreting intellects—born, perhaps, from the soil of different environments, raised by the force of different conventions.

::

Constant opposition. When is Marie coming?

::

If I only could analyze and develop the problem and thought about the mental races. They exist, I am certain of it. And I think it has enormous bearing on the world.

::

I must never lose sight of or forget the identity of my soul, for whoever resides within me, I do know what he wants, what he suffers for, what he wishes and dreams of.

::

A filled night, a dreamed purity. People I know: Hans, H. Oma, Marie. So many, many thoughts. I pray for release from this grip of exhaustion. I pray for release from this net of thought fogs.

::

Imagine children of purity—alive.

::

Am I still myself, molded inside this asylum we call life?

::

My belief in love, my belief in truth, my truly high thought paths, where do they hide now, who is camouflaging them? Wonderful true words.

::

If, as I truly believe, everything lives as proof of freedom from the fettered system, how am I to relate my day? Through events? In thoughts? Maybe through feelings? And by what meaning will I interpret the day? Am I waiting for certainty?

 

The earthly sluggishness is so cruel, moving like molasses, glacier-like toward a brink or sea or hope. Why does nothing of value happen, explode into the now? Wake me in this fever of the soul!

::

Thoughts of words strike me. For there are times when words can sound artificial, tangibly meaningless, untrue. Of course, words would be nothing without meaning, are nothing without meaning, anyone can see that. A simple and practical proof of that is to repeat one’s own name, say twenty times. After a dozen or so times the mind has ceased to associate the word, which then is a name, with its meaning. Then, said a few more times, the word will step forward in its obvious nakedness, letter by letter, sound by sound, and now it’s means nothing, is nothing. It even tastes bad. Try it sometimes.

::

I would like to share a conclusion which sheds light on an absurd situation: human beings need food and water, shelter and sleep to exist and survive biologically. I realize as I’m writing this that things have gotten gotten far too complicated.

 

But do you really have to point out such obvious things for people, to make her aware of, and to eventually maybe realize the width of that thought, the absurdity of what I just said. Still, doesn’t humanity prove to itself, through cowardice and fear of reality that she does not only need food and water, shelter and sleep to live by confusing everything in the search of the fifth factor (the soul). Well, that’s how it is, humanity, these days, exaggerates everything so very way of proportion.

::

The soul is not influenced by intoxication. This is an important fact, and it is incredibly valuable. Everything flows, is its own truth. Am I then a good person?

::

Is it some kind of biological providence that denies me an eternal vision, an eternal sign of the soul? Or is this providence really a burden? Life? Wouldn’t eternal insight actually be death?

::

Am I then chosen? Chosen to absorb the exact ingredients necessary, in their exact proportions, to eventually be able to express truth. Am I chosen? No too seldom, I am inclined to believe that.

::

What is the purpose of my insight?

::

True philosophers (Socrates, Plato, Plotinus, Buddha) will always be “we” with each other. They always have been.

::

Darling Marie, I feel ready to welcome you home now. I am open and accessible for your love again. It has probably, temporarily, been concealed in earthly currents, but I swear, I swear, the core never dies, never. For the core is indeed eternal and eternity itself is a truth after all.

::

It’s not a question of getting people to believe what I say but to get them to experience it.

::

Thought Patterns and Harmony

I could probably use a thousand pages for this thought, but for my own sake, and for that of logic, I’ll try painting instead.

 

I believe in thought fields:

 

One where the physical being compels and drives the thoughts of its tenant—hunger, and you think of food; thirst, you’ll think of water; arousal, thoughts of sex will dominate; pain, you’ll dream of relief, etc. There is no getting away from this (other than death).

 

Another where the influence of society compels thoughts of artificiality, materialism, conventions, supposed-tos, expectations, etc., and this can be as violent and dominating a dictator as the body.

 

And a third where the personality (our personal circumstances based on upbringing, education, experience), like a liquid prism, determines and colors the nuances of what we think, of what we imagine and dream, the pictures we see.

 

These are the three ramparts facing the fourth field, that of free thought. All three, however, seem impossible to entirely scale or break through, but I know that outside these barriers lies the spiritual and pure thought field we can call full certainty or harmony.

 

Therefore, to my mind, the truest and freest state of thought is that after death—freed from both the physical, society, and the personal. Am I the only one who’s experiencing this? Visionary, me? Purity.

::

I have found the connection. All that now remains is to prove it to my fellow humans. The connection is the cognizance of the fourth field, the field and space of free thought—the sphere, the universe of free thought. And the connection is cognizance of this sphere’s unimaginable width, for it is this field, this universal well, this core of truth that forms the pure thought, that is the pure thought. You can call this field, this core, the soul, or the good, or God, etc.

 

Do I really see any limitations within me? Are the any limits for Humanity? The answer to both questions is: No! And the absolute fulfillment in life, of life, is when everything, and I mean everything—every imaginable thing in the entire universe—lives as proof of the core, the soul.

 

And the thought is larger than that, more nuanced. I find truth in Plato, in Baudelaire, in a feeling, in an answer, in a smile, in all being. Everything perceived and known is directed towards the same core, everything is a proof of the pure. And it is when everything gives me impressions, when I absorb everything to clarity, when everything in the entire universe—every star, every molecule—proves the same thing, that we reach fulfillment.

 

That is the Ultimate Truth. That which is proven by every single thing. Yes, I am convinced.

::

 

 

:: After ::

 

A brief 2018 Interlude:

 

This amazing experience—and it was truly amazing: one where the room vanished and light, light, light was all I perceived, or it apperceived itself, for many, many heartbeats—was the turning point in my life. I’ve given a fair description of what happened and what led up to it on my homepage at RowanSongs.com, feel free to visit and read.

 

The early fall of 1968, when this happened, is now almost fifty years ago, and looking back at what happened then, at how I then interpreted the experience, and how it came to affect my life going forward from there, I must draw some perhaps surprising but nonetheless true conclusions.

 

It actually occurred (my certainty is unequivocal on this point) that in the instant just before the eruption of light, just after I silently asked the question “Is there anything outside the sphere of free thought?” someone (an angel, a spirit, a very strong memory, the universe, I just don’t know who or what, but the voice was very clear) whispered in my ear: “Nirvana.”

 

Naturally, if for no other reason than the clear whisper, once I returned to the room (completely amazed and deliriously happy) I assumed that what I had just experienced was, in fact, Nirvana. Little did I realize then that true Nirvana is Emptiness, albeit with potential—an utter stillness. The experience was nothing of the sort, but amazingly energetic and as such was not even vaguely related to Nirvana.

 

More importantly, even, I took the experience to be a confirmation, an answer to my ongoing question of what makes me think. I took it to be an answer, I even said, aloud “Now I know,” when in hindsight I see that it did nothing but raise questions—for I have spent near enough fifty years now trying to discover what, indeed, precisely, happened to me then.

 

There is no doubt that the experience was physical. Yes, the energy was delightful, permeating, brilliant, and utterly, utterly real, but it was physical, no doubt about that.

 

At this point, I have established, and pretty much to my satisfaction, that what I experienced then was the euphoric light and energy (Rapture, or Piti in Pali) of a very strong first Rupa Jhana. Not that I have been able to rekindle the exact experience, but from all I have read and reflected on over the last decade, and from my approaching that First Jhana in meditation I would almost bet my life that this is precisely what it was.

 

Hindsight, always so wonderfully wise, is rather quick to point out that the experience actually had no “meaning” per se, none other than what I, in my delirium, subsequently assigned to it.

 

As I said, when I returned to the room, I said “Now I know” — meaning not only that I knew what made me thing (which I, in fact, did not), but also the All, Everything, the Ultimate Truth, what have you. I knew all this, because the experience was so unworldly that that’s what it had to me. But what I actually, in the cold light of honest reflection, knew was that there was more to life, as far as experience and sensation is concerned, than conventionally assumed. That’s all I really knew. The rest was surmise and, on some level I guess, hope.

 

However, up until about ten years ago (when I became a serious Buddhist practitioner), I still treated the experience as an answer rather than a question. I still assumed that I had reached or achieved some state of knowing far above the norm, while the naked truth is that I experienced an amazing energy for a while, an energy I am fairly certain is generated by the same engine that generates the sexual sensation in most living creatures here on Earth.

 

As will soon become very evident from my writings below, those “after” my experience—trying to make sense of it, and also trying to make sense of people and the world in the light of it—I assumed that I had been chosen, that my mission was to wake people up to an eternal truth that I then “knew” existed (based on the experience). Yes, the eternal truth does exist, I know that now, but the experience on its own was far from sufficient as evidence; it was, as I said, simply a delightful energy bath, if you will—something the Buddha described quite nicely some 2,500 years ago as the pleasure of the first Rupa Jhana—a small step toward but a far cry from Nirvana.

 

Still, it was nonetheless life-changing.

 

And now, back to the fall of 1968:

 

A Spiritual Orgasm

Yes, I finally experienced the ultimate correlation, that space, that light, that brilliant, living, vibrant, warm and permeating light that everything proves and that proves everything. And in that brilliant light I experienced the living correlation between the spiritual and the physical, between spiritual birth and physical birth.

 

For orgasm is the precursor to physical life. It has its spiritual counterpart in the orgasm of the soul that precedes the first true breath of insight. This spiritual orgasm is the stepping out of Socrates’ cave and into the sun. It is Rousseau’s flood of ideas. Plotinus’ light. It is spiritual resurrection. Perhaps even Christianity’s salvation.

::

October 1968—Sandviken (my mother’s house)

I look at the small lamp in the room and I am saddened by it. Saddened by its smallness, by its weakness. And I am saddened by the weakness within myself as well as in this small light.

 

Above Us

All the systems of the universe scatter their eternities of light, outside and beyond our eyes. They are not saddened by us shutting them out. They still shine, strong eternal. Forever flowing, dying.

 

Inside

Ceiling, walls, floor, room. Limitations, confinement. Here shines a small lamp, and I’m saddened by it.

::

Physical Morning

Again: words, letters, formed by my pen. What is and what is behind them. Darling people, you have to search.

::

Other Thoughts

Thoughts of logic, big, bigger, yes, absolute logic, that everything earthly (even heavenly) happens by and within itself to the degree it is saved from humanity—unconsciously by nature, or consciously by nature, depending on viewpoint.

::

Maybe only human beings can grasp and hold and experience harmony consciously. And if so, that would be where truth reaches fulfillment.

::

On a Train

Scattered thoughts about fellow travelers, first uninteresting door-face, darting, not to say timid, eyes avert my eyes. Smoking fellow travelers, possibly thinking. In a nightmare? Locked up, after all, for now.

Flipping ash, picking it up. Play? Yes. Paper-reading.

::

The scenes grasp each other, replace each other, force themselves into each other, are braided into moments, hours, lives, forming dead, blind lives. And the movie plays for everyone who looks, everyone who hears. Who directs?

Oh, no one, it is self-developed.

 

The claws of egoism have scrawled this in human blood. And I see this, and I understand this. But this is unfair, for the actors. But what about me? Me? No, I have ceased acting, I no longer have a part, I can stop participating, stop looking whenever I want, without shutting my eyes. But I must help. Maybe like this?

::

Fallback to Writing

Yesterday’s events, so powerful, so telling, so clean, so vibrant. And so, I concentrate, or relax, and the power appears through lead, through ink, through words. Understandable thought-writing.

::

Everywhere, and anytime, anyway, my words come. No longer owned, but presented. As they cannot be interpreted, they cannot be misinterpreted. They are not thought out, not planned. They spring from the eternal feeling’s experience of now. Thanks for my sight, thanks for my strength, thanks for the feeling, thanks for her, thanks for everything, everything interspersed in everything, crystallized from everything, in everything ours, in everything its own. Thanks.

::

Knowledge is the road to certainty. The journey, movement on earth is of no consequence as it, looking inside, takes place within itself.

::

Who are my brothers and sisters, those with equal awareness? How do you judge yourself in situations characterized by equal parts earthly regard and sibling compassion, where you let the earthly regard win and so make for your own advantage? If I only could reach tranquility together with my wife, along with everyone’s truth.

::

Yet another road lies before me. And though I can see it stretch and bend up ahead, within me, in my awareness, it is timeless.

::

A decided and planned span of time lies between us and absolute freedom. And, of course, we’ll see the sun rise anew. But I have to be strong, to now, at last, together with her, endure the scourge of convention. Superman?

::

Time ticks so loudly, so falsely. And it is into these fetters that I’m forced, temporarily. It is within this straitjacket that our will, our strength, our very souls are pressed into the abyss, down from, and away from our pure, tall towers. But, and again but, truth cannot deny itself.

::

Course of Action

It is a question of edifying logic, helping logic. This is the solution, the key to world harmony, including humanity’s. For everybody’s absolute conscience (our shared spiritual awareness) realizes, unreservedly, the eventual downfall (now well in progress) of the current civilization. This, everyone who is what we call literate, have in common. This, to my thinking, is our absolute communion, and it’s from there that the human being must be (re)built.

 

Since parts of the truth is the truth, this gives our communion a sort of plateau, a common ground where we all share the same view and the same opportunities. It is a deep vibration of truth. We look around and see how the opposite of communion—conflict—is the biggest barrier to a public acceptance of any form of higher spiritual thought. A conflict that in its absurd presence within the churches of organized religion assumes truly grotesque proportions, the obviously enormous conflicts within the religious world itself.

 

We only have to look at Sweden. Various evangelical churches disassociate themselves from each other, some churches are so extreme they don’t even want to be seen as evangelical. Then we have the evangelical, free churches versus the State Church. Then we have Protestants versus Catholics. Then we have Christianity versus other World Religions. Conflict seems to be the eternal lot of man.

::

But now that I see, know, have seen the connection, have realized the correlation between all of them. Everybody, and I mean everybody has the same goal after all—the only goal (no one is going to convince me that there are several kinds of heavens, nirvanas, etc., or several ultimate truths).

 

And the solution does not consist of solving social problems about function, or aid to underdeveloped countries. No, now, before it’s too late; now, for the sake of the world (and I must say, it seems to me that the earth, as itself, wants to survive, including all its people), the problem has to be elevated to the plane of reality, (I know that the reality that our society bases its problems on is illusory).

 

We have to reach the absolute and only reality, and there we can all work for everyone’s solution (our own solution, deliverance). The prerequisite for a united effort against the world’s crisis, which in my view is the world-spirit’s fight for eternal enlightenment, for eternal insight, is achieving a united world-wish to reach there.

 

This, theoretically, ought to be the simplest of all simplicities as all the world’s religions want the same thing, have the same basic tone. This is the true truth, the insight.

 

God’s, or the Eternal’s soul is the truth, the only truth that everyone has the capacity to see. It is the truth that everyone, unconsciously or consciously, strive for. But as of his writing we have a long way to go to reach this unity, which after all, and despite the many opinions of the thinking world, is the absolute prerequisite to a solution.

::

Spring 1969—by a roadside in Southern Sweden

This eternity appears cold and windy. Cars rush by, as cold as I am, hurrying for shelter. Nearby trees bend toward me, as if better to hear. It doesn’t rain at this very moment, but it has and soon will again. I am very cold.

 

Still, my thoughts ramble on, for the goal I now carry is problematic, being both earthly and spiritual: reaching for my darling Marie as well as my spiritual sister, my soul mate, both in the same guise. I can laugh at the sun, at the soul, with the soul. I can also swear in earthly disappointment at these car egos that do not stop while I remain freezing, standing, smiling, looking up at the clouds that soon, soon will let loose again.

 

And my thoughts float around Marie. When will I be home again? Earthly goals seem distant by the side of a road. The only nearness I feel here is myself as soul, myself as all souls. The earthly truth is very tangible in this exposed state of cold, wind and bad luck, but despite that, one (read: me) must feel closeness when the gaze falls on rapidly darting clouds, their road stretching out above me, on my stage where my cheeks are blushing under the onslaught of whipping gusts of wind. If I could only avoid irritation, or if I could let go of the thought about my exposed condition, yes, in that case I would live with the rain, wind and sun, and not freeze.

 

But, as I am still, as far as my goal is concerned, dependent on her, I cannot yet experience myself as part of an absolute truth. However, I don’t want to view my entire intention through the same earthly lens. The foundation for it is truth. But now, exhaustion spurred by the cold is weighing heavy on my brow, and my head is bursting with wind. Soon, I pray, my car will come.

::

Filtered through calm coma of crippled conscience, my memories squeeze through, one by one, like vague pulses of missing her, of sadness. My past does not quite know how to die, and so thinly lingers in the now, painting it in a dull emptiness (of the previous summer) that slowly fights for breath, fights for the Marie I loved and now can love again—in the eternal. I long for her again, my cheeks heat, my me dies, but would rather stay unaware of that.

::

Circles, or roads, or paths. Spirals. Without aiming for or in any way claiming beauty, my words are yours, they nestle closer to your heart than any other word and if they carry a message for you can be certain that you already carried that message within you, and that the feeling you experience in my words is simply the echo that rises in unison from the union of two souls’ wish, ours. This is true.

 

This is Possibly a Question

Possibly everything ever written is a question that finds you and that in your true consciousness finds a balance with the many, infinitely many, answers you carry within. What you read, and know when you read my thoughts, are just words, just letters. To be sure, none of these words were mine from birth—I learned them all a little later from my parents, siblings, surroundings, schools, society. Still, I know that what I came to say has found a home in all languages, and in the language beyond all languages. People mostly think in their own language, but every person’s basic thought lies behind and beyond all such language.

 

I know that language. So do you.

 

But the human being is so very hard to help. She needs the purest of love, that along with the basic though exists beyond language, and beyond chemical love. Still, when loved purely, she so often rejects it—or one of its children—as if it were an evil or an incurable disease. It’s as if they were ashamed to receive such beauty, unworthy of such love. As if they lose themselves before this clear and eternal happiness.

 

Still, it is in this light that you must view, without distortions, all acts, all thoughts, and all feelings. My heart wonders why. My heart sees the answer.

::

Born of the soul I am soul and will always be soul. As a medium of the soul, I write with the power of truth. The ultimate meaning of the word provides the soil and meadow for my thoughts. Gone are illusions, falsehoods, and the fear, and the thought. Now there is only this eternally flowing tone of the soul that says: “Travel, see, share the power of the true word. Listen, share the strength of your truth, your song. Be, become, feel and be filled in the light of the eternal soul, Brahman, the All. All, the eternal, all-encompassing All. Without home, always home. Your soul is your dwelling, you dwell in all things. Pure. Become. Be.

::

After a day like this day, I can no longer fear, I can no longer doubt. Yet, the traps are so devilishly many, the trials so very hard. Now I pray that all things might lie down to rest. Now I pray that I might float in the eternal light, where I see all things. Rejoice. Cry.

::

Uncertainty

A word, a word, word, word, that in the silent echo of the soul does not ring at all.

::

Give the King his Due

I grasp this sentence as if to cling myself to safety as I face, with acute doubt, the dubious honesty of the path I now must tread. It is not by choice, not by choice at all. Give the king his due. Jesus said that, at least I think he did. Eternal truths from him, from yogis, from wise men everywhere, all from absolute awareness. Meanwhile, I now tear time into little pieces that I may one day—soon, I pray—reach again. Still, I maintain that I cannot be wrong, that I was not mistaken, and I will grasp at anything as a life jacket in my fate-whipped sea.

::

New and Terrible Trials

My memories, with a diabolical mind of their own, excavate and bring to surface hidden (and near-forgotten) feelings, anguish, jealousy. Empty rooms in burned-out buildings. My world is a thin, dirty matrass in one of them, a broken window and a cold, Marie-less summer’s morning. It is raining outside and much of the rain drip-drops its way onto the floor beneath the sill. Scenes so recently forgotten. Now ambushed by Then.

 

Wrapping a thin blanket around me against the intruding rain, I think back to Stockholm. It’s a dear memory, something to cling to. Stockholm gave me a beautiful farewell. I recall the smiles, the friends, the events, the times. Ah, these fantastic people. Then the day drip-drops back. And now is filled by this rainy remembering then.

 

Here, in this current now, I’m slowly dying, suffocating as this rainy past soundlessly steals into this room, where no rain is in sight. And these memories, sired by a then jealousy and loneliness, now build a nightmare around Marie and makes me view with unbridled jealousy all the years she lived before I even knew her name. And I conclude, not without reason, that no one commits prolonged suicide better than human beings.

::

To quit smoking.

I perceive my (winning/losing) fight against nicotine in a funny way. It’s as if my need to smoke, both physically and mentally, sits like a dark lump in my throat, slowly ascending from my lungs, slowly, slowly, slowly upward for me to, eventually, spit out. Victory.

 

I also feel that a smoke now (which I am just about ready to kill for) would be fought and rejected by this lump. But I also know that in this effort the lump would also slip back a bit. So, in order to derive complete enjoyment from nicotine again, I need to drive this lump back all the way down to the bottom of my lungs, where it no longer can prevent the nicotine in its eagerness to poison my lungs and nerves. Oh, well.

::

How can the working man (or woman) of today completely live his work, how can he perform his tasks or create his products in undivided sincerity and certainty that he furthers humanity’s progress towards purity, towards enlightenment, if he feels that his job, what he produces, is not at all needed—say, glass fiber boats?

 

Isn’t it true that what he produces, or accomplishes, more often than not—and by a vast margin, I’d venture—only feeds the vices of the Western surplus-blessed consumer? Where, in a glass fiber boat, is the purely biological or spiritual need? Where is the need, really, for cosmetics, or twenty pairs of shoes, or five television sets, or, or? I mean, the real life-need.

::

Why do I delve into the past? Over and over. What do these compulsive journeys—after my beautiful light experience—really mean? I keep telling myself that everything is complete, I have arrived. But telling myself is not enough, for proof, life, begs to differ.

 

For everything is not complete. I’m forced by experience to draw that conclusion. Despite my glimpse and insight into eternity, the past insists on remaining—alive and very well. And I believe that the past will continue to remain as long as unresolved problems linger among those days gone by.

::

I Read Many Books

And yes, I find in them that the truth I’ve seen, the light I’ve experienced, is not unknown. I find that my river of truth has run through many countries and languages and has enlightened many peoples, fostered much valuable thought. Inspired and true writings have evidently always existed, and today exist in print. Really, this is quite fantastic. In print. Today. But how to assimilate it all as pure thought, that’s the real question. For what I see is an obscured, perhaps modern, truth. I see what once was so clear muddied by patterns.

 

Can such writers color the sun with views and thoughts? That is what I feel when I try to immerse myself in their words and absorb their thoughts. But I also see: they have seen the sun, their words shine.

::

I must, guided by painful thought, record the following: jealousy is the last, or one of the last, fragments of ego to remain in the higher love between man and woman. But tell me, why can I find nothing on this earth that does not disturb the light?

::

This after having watched a rather strange television program about life and people who live it. The program was an attempt—no, not only an attempt, but a successful coup de grace, an unconscious (or devilishly aware) coup by an unconscious (or devilishly aware) team—to prove that the human being is nothing but an animal without a soul, fighting her way trying to survival in a hopelessly struggling egoism. It was a very convincing program, well-filmed and well-presented. I could see it stealthily paralyze a television-watching population and force-feed them with the poisonous conviction that only death exists.

 

I suffered and left. How, I ask you, how can something like that be allowed? Where is the eternal censor? Doesn’t truth have any defenders? Pardon me for perhaps exaggerating, for painting in extremes, but you can paint a clearer picture with shouting colors, and despite the sharp contrasts in the painted, not a single color is a lie.

::

Word-Flood

Oh, you wonderful word-flood. Flow out of me in a clear stream of truth. Conceal not, and don’t force me to force myself to write. Don’t beget disgust. Simply flow. One word, two, three, four, many. Sleep, cease raising your sleepy head, leave me be. Words, remain with me. Human being, don’t fall, but settle in the light of everything, in the softness of eternity.

::

Morning Again

Here on earth, another braid in my eternal world. And I keep reading: This seeker has high thoughts, but only thoughts. Still, he seems to know and he certainly longs. Out? In? It doesn’t matter. I sense him, feel him. Communion—maybe that’s the word for the basic chord we humans share. And verily, in the light of clarity, everything is in accord. Past—Future? Where—When? How? Facts? Death? Life forever. While those who do not question, remain children of thirst of falseness. Yes, many crave knowledge, but only within the frame of a thirsty, thirsty ego—drink, drink, wonderful person, drink! Soon, even you will demand clarity. Soon the drug, even for you, will cease to be a surrogate. If—When? Always—forever.

::

Logic

Analysis: To interpret: Analytical interpretation = Destruction, tearing down, incorrect seeing as the Ultimate Truth lies beyond both interpretation and misinterpretation.

::

Happiness

My soul’s wishes vibrate and again reach my ears, cross my thoughts, and steep my soul in music. In calm, harmony. I have stopped smoking again. Found—found! In this temporary darkness I have found.

::

A Question

A friend asks me: “So, where does the light come from?” Oh, you wonderful human being, I could tell you, I want to tell you, if only you would listen. If only you would leave your consciousness wide open and receptive to echoes, then everything will be seen. As we all would see. Truth will always, and in the end, fulfill itself. Not through words, or thoughts, but through our own light when we reach our innermost well. My oxygen is softness, truth is soft, in this moment very soft as everything rings true. My inner self swims in harmony.

::

The Trivial

Yes, I hate the tale of the trivial. Nothing but detailed descriptions of nonsense.

::

Swimming

Days swim by—floating changes of light, dark, light, dark. Nights swim by—floating changes of dark, light, dark, light.

::

Thanks

I offer thanks to time’s impotence. It has given me sight. I offer thanks to my truth, and its message and ways and soft waves of telling and not telling and telling again. I cry in sincere happiness. And I bow, reverently, before this wonderful gift: Marie, my true wife.

 

And before my other gifts: my eyes, my ears, my pen, my guitar, my voice, my lips, my tongue, my everything. All this in mine, is ours, is everyone’s universe. Thank You—again, Thank You.

::

Everything will be shared equally—according to everyone’s wishes.

::

I discover that I’ve forgotten: How question the mark look?

::

Sleep

Please encompass my soul with the clarity of darkness—the sister of light.

::

Disappointment

Hashish smoking friends—what happens? I see, I observe, and I wait. And I wonder about my earlier so very true friends—what’s happened to the soul? Smoking hashish is an attempt to strengthen the soul’s vision but is in fact simply forcing a magnifying lens between the soul and its view. Sure you can see, maybe even in greater detail, but the lens will always separate you from the spiritual air of truth, and soon this smoky glass will plunge your vision into darkness, as you suffocate for lack of spirit.

::

Saturday

Light is falling, leaves as well, along with my dreamed after snow. A thick, neutral, but harmonious air fills the warm and cozy room—a front room, bed room and kitchen all in one, not unlike by Stockholm apartment, though larger with a lower ceiling. And in my mind, my beautiful, beautiful summer, so very much alive. And in my life, my beautiful, beautiful Marie, so very much alive. Her soul shines in her eyes. Even so, my yoke remains. Which yoke? Yoke—yoke—yoke. Yes, society lives, blooms, demands my presence, my contribution, for it cannot bloom on its own. Only Nature herself knows that magic trick—giving society a place to be bloomed.

::

Crisis

It is a true crisis when one person’s doubt affects the helper so deeply that his conviction starts taking on water. I felt her doubt—openly expressed for perhaps the first time—as an attack, an attack from many angles, since I, so closely interlace with her, am easily colored by her view. The day was a trial but I will wait, still. And I will always place happiness and harmony in the first room, the only room. Can I then say what a crisis of the soul is? Yes, I know that crisis, I know the one that gave birth to me. And now I am in a position to see it for what it is and help others out of it, including Marie. But the key to that healing power is, and always will be, my own harmony.

::

Poor people—victims, victims, unaware, drifting, playing, dying victims.

::

Society

Now I must teach my soul to weather the pressure of this rotten, earthly merry-go-round. For I am compelled by circumstance compromise my past, and that dilemma has now allowed the once forgotten to rear its vicious and sickening head and in that slow drowning I find myself immersed in society’s farce again.

 

Still, I have a clean and true plateau to rest on, to ground me, from where I can at all times see myself. And as I look, it strikes me that everything is unfolding according to my own thoughts, according to plan, the plan of the eternal thought.

::

As everything is constantly created anew, in the reality of awake awareness, this moment is the only moment that exists. Why, then, should I ponder the past, again? And again. “Because my calling gives me the strength to?” Oh, I don’t know about that. Maybe. But show me the one who masters all of his powers from birth.

::

Marie

I fear loneliness, and I fear of the thought of failure. Is there then no other way of helping her than force-feeding? Must I work and work with her again? Must I risk her balance again? All this, because of my vision. Still, I can accept nothing less if I am to live a full life. I cannot live with someone who doubts me and who doubts the truth I have seen. This is my course across the sea of truth and it leads and beckons as warmly as love ever did. But do I really have to force-feed her, again. Do I really have to hammer and tear at her reality until she sees? No, that does not work, and deep down it does not feel right.

::

The Soul

“Discipline, discipline. Denounce vices and amusements. Denounce passions. Simplicity, simplicity. Live in complete simplicity.” This is what my soul cries. This is what my thoughts cry. This, they say, insist, is the way.

::

Simplicity

My reasoning gropes for simplicity, my soul longs for simplicity. But how can I find it in a country where winter, the cold and fateful, does not allow for or provide shelter for the hermit. How do you live in absolute simplicity in such a country?

 

During the cold months, where else can you live, if not in a house? In my thought and dream of simplicity there are no houses, only pure, cold, warm, nature. Am I then forever bound here, to this winter, to this house, to this complexity? No, only for the time being.

::

Discovery

No one has the right to deny anything in another human being. No one has the right to ever deny anything in another human being.

::

Sleep

In the sweet, caressing night, she silently slings rocks and tired thoughts to death. She is purling atmospheres in nature’s harmony. She gladdens and loves God’s children.

::

Music

Six strings let me escape for a while, though even they lead me toward the same land that all who have seen the truth discover and then long for. The land of heart and vision, the humming reminder to not ever forget. She, my sleeping wife is now lost to me, tangoing away with the Sandman. Me, I hold my music to my heart and let it flow and swing and sweep me along my road. I am so grateful to Mike Heron and Robin Williamson for granting me this respite. Their music sprouts wings and soars and their words, so true, food for my struggle, my climb. Up ahead, the peak I dream of. They have seen it too. And so they sing and share. Marie sleeps. I soar. And I think of all those human beings who, despite decay and bodily death are immortal and follow my journey in their souls. I live in, and for, the garden of truth.

 

And I know that Eden will stand victorious one day. Its leaves will be the only thing alive falling, and each of its own power, in its own wind, across all continents, to forever plant happiness.

::

Silence, the calmest weapon.

::

The Past

To read again yesterday’s thoughts can be cruelty itself as my soul now remembers, very clearly, every feeling, every brush stroke, every breeze of nuance. And reading this I cannot prevent past feelings from hijacking and melting into my present thoughts and spin themselves into my words. And I’m nauseated. Somewhere I vomit from discomfort, laid bare by a past, diseased now.

::

The Writer

As an honest critic of life, as a recipient of impressions, I stand unmoved. Impressions do not color me. I stand unfalsified. Or. I am influenced, directed and driven by every little wind my way. I see me, the human being, and I see me, the actor. And I see me, the writer.

 

When I bare my soul, it is not the soul of roles that is bared, nor is it the soul of the actor. No, it is the soul of the writer that is bared. For he shares the truth in both feeling and thought. He suffers and delights with those around him and finds it in his heart to tell the tale.

 

And now, as I write, I see the world as soul, a seeing and enlightened soul. I dance and swirl among my lines and scenery. I yodel and fire words in all directions, from atop a mountain, across the valleys, in and out of ears and heads and wondering and pointing children. For this is my happiness, my unrestrained happiness for those who see to see.

 

At other times, though, I hide behind the doubt of the soul, and fight my disappointments and ideals under crushing feet. Let me change everyone.

::

Certainty

In truth, had I not carried my certainty as a shield, a defense, I would have been unable to withstand this amazing orchestration of idiocy. But I did withstand it, even if scarred. I have to admit though, he displayed a total conviction in his execution and interpretation of the roles, and he trusted his manuscript implicitly. And, really, if he almost succeeded with me, with my shield, I’m sure he easily succeeds with everyone else—succeeds, that is, in sharing and planting his doubt. For unaware (or devilishly aware) he forces his own doubt upon others. What a cruel and ingenious manifestation of earthly programming of a soul. Is there then no other way?

 

Can you actually climb on stronger and stronger doubts to eventually, suddenly, on the borderline of insanity, find yourself enlightened? Is this the analytical reasoning’s perilous highway towards truth? I strongly doubt that. I even doubt that highway exists. Still, he was very impressive.

::

Equation

Assume that we share our surplus with the rest of the world, would we not then reach a balance? And would this balance not hold true in both the starving and fed worlds? In every now. I mean, on the one hand they cannot more than starve to death, and on the other hand, we cannot more than eat ourselves full. So easily evened out. Yeah, I’m sure that the equation would resolve just fine. A total balance. Well, then there is the question of greed.

::

A Nightmare

Often, like now, I see those in the West as blindly stumbling around in a nightmare, a hell. I see this, but can I share in time, can I convince the world before the end? Before a total spiritual chaos among the population.

::

Apartment

And now we’re planning to move to an apartment. So now, the spiritual hero and savior of mankind is figuring out where to live. How on earth does this tally with my ideals? I am digging myself further and further into the world rather than leaving it farther and farther behind. As we plan, I see my path dwindle. Still, it is not dead. But we have to survive, I mean bodily. I don’t have a choice. It does happen.

 

I resisted the idea of an apartment so much that we ended up moving into a one-room little house where, it was rumored, some had once hung himself. My dad helped pay for the renovation (and insulation) of the house and also helped with some of the furniture. At least we’re not in an apartment, Marie and I, and that, for some reason, feels like a victory to me. I feel more connected to my ideal in this little room (with a stove and a sink and an outside privy), and I am very grateful for that. Not sure I told Dad that, though.

::

Insight

It is the same for humankind as for the individual human being: in order to truly be, she has to realize the truth for herself, the path she took, the lies she holds dear, the opening in the forest ahead, the sky above, the many lives she’s be lost. It is not easy, and neither I nor anyone else can realize this truth for her. It is a very personal thing.

::

The Cultural Snob

He is a sort of living contradiction. He deploys a true medium for a false purpose.

::

Pain

When you hurt, really hurt, you discover that you have reason to be grateful merely to exist without pain; no artificial pleasure needed.

::

Nature’s Soul

We all, deep down, know that the solution (the answer) is not to be found among our subjective, self-created, and artificial, staggering thoughts, but must be seen and understood with the clear, harmonious gaze of nature. The answer must be heard in the sigh of a forest, in the gurgle of a stream, in the glimmer of a shooting star, in anything and everything where nature’s soul has found its peace. Beyond this, a sweet nothing, as nothing exists above the meridian of truth. And everything has it cause, everything has its meaning. And I search for you, I listen, I wait. I will do my best to help. And so, I write and write and write and write and write.

::

Question

But this question rears its ugly head: how much longer must I depend on humanity’s stupidity and vanity and greed to survive? And for how much longer must I continue to carry my wisdom like a vacuum sealed flower through the intestines of society? I must fulfill my struggle. I must reach the sun. Sometime up ahead.

::

Speculation

An act must be seen in its entirety. To dissect it and penetrate only a phase of it is to speculate blindly.

::

 

Dissection

To dissect a problem about will remove you from the core of the problem. Dissect the truth and you will never find it, you will wander into and get lost in the weird trap of meanings. Distance yourself from your earthly “me.”

 

Dissect yourself, and you will be distanced from your core being and there find your true nature—beyond the snug shell that all through your life you’ve learned so tightly to associate with your “self.” There you will find your true nature, where the “me” does not exist.

::

Glass Half-Full

Goals. Everybody, at some time or other, sets himself goals. It’s the human thing to do. Goals to reach, goals to surpass, goals to fall short of.

 

Again, I must delve inside myself in search of answers. To what question? Well, I need to find why I react the way I do. To see how I act before I have reached a set goal, and why. Or before I have failed to reach a goal, and why. There seems to be a difference. And to see how I react after reaching, or failing to reach a goal. Marie made some interesting observations about my behavior, and peeled some scales from my eyes: letting me see new things about my behavior.

 

This concerned an employment goal. It had to do with a job which was not only well-paid, but one that would also have given me a fair amount of time to continue my spiritual search (my first priority, to be sure). For many days, I was elevated by my certainty that I would get this job and so would manage to stay true (relatively, anyway) to my ideal while also paying the bills.

 

Well, I didn’t get the job. This one-of-a-kind job that would have allowed me to pretty much focus on spiritual growth and discovery—the schedule would have been quite flexible. Oh, well. But there are other jobs, right. Indeed. Looking at a very different line of work now, less well-paid, and more binding. I would say, very binding. But I needed a job, that was the bottom line, so my focus now turned in this direction. Here’s the interesting thing though, which Marie pointed out and almost chided me about, instead of comparing this new opportunity to the ideal job that I failed to land, I now only considered and speculated about the advantages of this new job—how good, better even, this new job would be. Steady work. Yes, early hours, very, but I would still have the evenings, and the weekends for my reading and writing and seeking.

 

And this is what I see: I so thoroughly “forgot” my previous, failed goal that I felt no disappointment (except for the initial let down) at having missed it and instead felt quite satisfied, if not overjoyed, with the great possibilities of this new job. I was holding a very half-filled glass in my hands.

 

Yes, it seems I have this built-in function: I only look to what is, not to what could have been, or what has been. This function—computation is perhaps the word—is of course also the basis for my optimism, which always sees all situations in a good light (an oftentimes unrealistic light, to be sure, which I think is the point Marie was making).

 

But is not this function, this property of mental adjustment, something that all people can either discover within themselves or develop? And I am quite certain that it would be to their advantage if they did—for does not this outlook (even if naïve) give life a glow of happiness and gratefulness where otherwise there would be none, or simply dark disappointment.

 

It seems that I was born with this faculty intact and fully developed (it might also be a side-effect of a very active imagination, something I’ve always been accused and proud of), but I am sure that everyone is born with it, though few—too busy in their constant drive for success at any price to ever, ever fail, or admit to failure—will let it shine through. And should be forced to admit failure, it’s the catastrophe beyond all catastrophes. That is how you’d kill this light, how you’d darken this living key to eternal progress.

::

Two Faces

In my spiritual fight, what I now suffer from is faces. Two faces. The two faces of the great love that I bear that I know is one, though my thoughts deceive and count them two. One face, Marie. Yes, I love her, my beautiful wife. I love her beyond all comprehension, above all reason—would it be true love otherwise? Yes, this I know: I love her. And still, this other face, God’s (I think) beckons and beckons and as my soul whispers this one word, over and over, I sense in it his will. I discern in it his voice, faint, kind, monotonous, and constant: part, part, part.

 

And every so often, in my mind, I obey my soul. Then I contemplate our upcoming divorce, a parting I see through my thoughts’ window as a much likely future reality, for it is a divorce that my truth and ideal appear to demand of me. You cannot love both woman and the infinite, it they say. And really, is it such a great sacrifice, one human versus the infinite. Yes, I answer, it is perhaps the greatest sacrifice ever demanded of anyone: you’re asking me to bring the highest human love, so sweetly tangible (for both of us), to your altar and there kill it in order to find the cosmic eternal.

 

Wherein lies this sacrifice? asks my soul. In our parting, I tell it, in the letting go of my love and passion for Marie, my need of her as a human being. In my traveling away from her, distant cities, lands, continents, to seek, to find, to confirm my ideal. She will be left behind, wondering what happened to me. Wondering what she did wrong (nothing). Grieving. Still, says my soul, it is a small price to pay, and when it fills my night with the vision of finding my ultimate home, I agree, a small price to pay. Such a small price to pay.

 

I truly wish that I could make her see, make her understand. But how could she ever? How could she ever understand that this is what I see as right—the right thing to do, not only for me and her, but for all mankind. Also, how will she regain her belief in true happiness, natural harmony? I don’t think she can and I think that if I leave she will cast herself back into the pleasure world of illusions and senses, to drown her memory of me. This is a vicious trap and she will stumble into it. Knowing this is the biggest torture of all. The hell I will cause her, masquerading as pleasure.

 

As I love her with the same strength and depth with which I love my found spiritual truth I cannot watch her go under, nor forgive myself for causing a divorce with that consequence. Still, should we divorce—part—there will be nothing standing between me and eternity, I will be free to live a life dedicated to seeing, finding, sharing, helping. I feel this to be true since I will then not have any unquenched desires to satisfy.

 

But then again, who (but me) has placed a heavenly love of a woman between me and eternity? I know this and I feel responsible for her spirit and its well-being. Therefore, I must lift her with me, I must give her the time to see all. Once she has, she will agree, see things from my view, and happily part if that is what would serve mankind best. She will then be strong enough to live and see her way through the labyrinths Maya. Meanwhile, I have earthly duties to perform, earthly steps to take for I don’t know how long—though long enough, I hope, to uplift her to a sure insight. Another question though: can I thereafter walk alone?

 

Or, or will we, together, return to Eden as Adam and Eve, completing the circle? Will we there, in our togetherness and eternal love of God, of truth, of the Eternal, achieve such union with each other that we can then float in the same soul.

 

I am willing to sacrifice everything, everything; I am willing to mortify my body, everything, everything, fast, practice yoga, meditate, everything, everything, to regain the beautiful vision of truth I experienced, the truth about my existence that so surprisingly revealed itself. My body is my truth’s instrument. I know that, I feel that.

 

Then another question arises: would it not be sheer egoism to let go of her now, to view Marie as a barrier? Only to then work towards eternal truth for all? Or, or is it just that I, in my own thoughts and in my earthly mind, fear a divorce because of the pain it would bring me? I say this while I also know that my pain stems from hers. But would I also, and this is important, were we to part I would also feel earthly and animalistic jealousy at the thought of other blind, earthly and completely non-comprehending people enticing her, and at the thought that she, in her weakness, would need and invite them. This would suffocate what’s pure in her, yes, she herself would help to stifle everything, as memories would haunt her.

 

Will she then die spiritually if we part? Does that make me a murderer?

 

Were she to leave, I would remain here, in this little snow-covered house, isolated, alone, thinking, meditating, but above all striving with my living strength of the eternal. Though that would be without that part of my soul that she unconsciously would steal as she leaves. This, in turn, would force me to remember, and to think about her day and night, until she’d return that part of my soul, or until I can steal it back without disturbing or killing her.

 

I know what happened to her in London. The city stole, or buried her soul in slush. People are killed there, in unconscious surroundings, that I know. And if we were divorced, would she not go there again, to be killed anew?

 

And dead center in this circle of spinning questions I stand, among these feelings, illusions, thoughts, pains, I stand, desperate, twisting the strings of my restless soul.

 

Oh, God. My truth, I’m waiting for a sign, an answer. Still, you remain mute. So I must decide on my own—as you always have to do, and as I so often have had to do—and this time with the cruel certainty that I must suffer not only my own feelings, but hers as well. Of course I must suffer her pains as well. I see her thoughts, heavy with sorrow at the thought of parting, knowing very well that I’m causing them.

 

She sometimes feels, and she has told me this, that she stands between me and eternity. So please, I am imploring you: How shall I act, how shall I act? Is my life meant to be higher, does my truth have higher plans? Please tell me, strongly, show an eternal answer in my soul, and you know that I would follow, I must follow for the sake of my own truth.

 

But can it really be right that she should suffer for my sake. Is this truth, or mercy? I cannot, in my mind, let it happen. My truth, do you see how weak I am? No, never in my belief, but in my strength to act purely, in my strength to see what is right for other people, about what is egoism, about what is true in earthly love. Please, you must help me.

 

She has sacrificed her egoism and materialism for my sake. Should I then, in some sort of twisted gratitude, sacrifice her for the sake of truth? What kind of truth is that? All I know, as I sit here and bleed onto this paper, all I know is that I love both—Marie and the Truth—and I cannot see, in my mind, why it would not be okay to continue to do so. Amen.

::

Trials

This is a brutal trial. False illusions of the past invade the clear atmosphere of now. When my thoughts glide backwards they suffers, and this despite the fact that I actually know that the past truly does not exist. Still, I can’t shake this suffering. Why is this a problem? Yes, you’re right in wondering. Why does something that does not exist torture me so?

 

Still, my illusion of the past screams that love was lost then, she had abandoned it for something base and earthly, and it is this loss, this denigration of our beauty that sinks its claws into my current harmony and crushes its heart murderously. But this is also true, love always wins in the now. This I know, this I know. So how come I’m not happy? Why do I think, why do I continually (as if addicted) cast my gaze towards these past and painful eternities, when the current eternity is the only one that exists.

 

Another trial is that when I feel this clean highness of the soul, I tend to leave my surroundings (including Marie) behind, knowing as I leave that she wishes me to remain, to participate in the current, to pay attention, which I find I’m unable to do when I leave in my spiritual flight. This trial splits me, and makes me feel like a sinner—in her eyes or mine.

::

Marie, sometimes I conceive that you really don’t know my spiritual self.

::

Simplicity is born of simplicity, chaos of confusion. Out of confusion rises all the animalistic needs that fill the shared heart of humankind.

::

Simplicity

It still seems to me that I am forming, still adjusting for a life of simplicity, in simplicity, in absolute simplicity. My dear Truth, I hope that this is what you ask (demand) of me. I hope that all your trials will show me that I’m all and nothing.

 

And it is in this sense of adjustment that I feel everything for everyone and nothing for myself. And it is here that I know, really know, that if everyone shared that viewpoint, then everyone would have everything.

::

Giving

This about the absolute schema of giving: Assume, first, everything, all required resources that exist. Then assume, second, all people;

 

(1) Give people an egoistic streak, and they will all fight among and within themselves to keep what they already have, that is: everything.

 

(2) Give them instead the warmth of giving, have them give all they have, and the obvious truth is that they can only give this to themselves, which means that everything will remain theirs.

 

The difference between egoism and generosity is here as hair-fine as it is enormous, the difference which here strides out before my consciousness and takes a bow. Greed and generosity—ultimately, the same outcome.

::

Nightmare

I see this earthly life as a kind of conscious nightmare which we do all we can to wake up from, a nightmare that we ourselves must recognize and wake ourselves up from. Yes, we must wake ourselves up as we can never truly experience waking if this waking has been related by someone else. For who is to say that whomever is doing the telling is not simply relaying a nice dream. Even if the dream is beautiful, it is still only dream, deceptive with all the shadow reality of dream while we listen and nod and tell ourselves yes, yes, yes, we’re awake.

 

As far as I am concerned, I guess I should say that I have woken up to an awareness that the earthly is but a dream, but I have not yet achieved sufficient or constant distance to this dream, therefore, I have not woken up completely.

 

So I separate in an earthly way from this earthly dream, into earthly sleep, just to later wake up to a new dream, this one. Maybe eternity is a series of awakenings from dream to higher dream to higher dream. We should never claim to be awake until we can do so without talking.

::

Contradictions

And here it comes a-crawling, me in sight, for me. I must push it back. As sure as the string for the rolling blinds slowly swings back and forth on the floorboard heater’s updraft, the crawler comes closer and closer and then crawls up my arm and onto my shoulder and whispers the undeniable proof of all my contradictions into my all-too-sensitive ear.

 

It’s a trap. I must rouse myself, scream out, rise into the air, float in time, on time, above time, in order to watch these contradictions file away under me as I escape these myriad terms of worldly facts, rising like a sea, an incoming tide, to drag me down and hopefully drown me. I must escape them, or if not escape, then conquer them by forgetting all their insignificant and idiotic meanings. These are the very facts (oh, so important, can’t-live-without them facts) that make possible the intrigues in the ridiculous one-act play of the world.

 

Why can’t we all be aware spectators instead, peacefully watching the actual play of nature. And what would all these facts be then? Just concepts, strips of flimsy paper-meaning learned from television commercials.

::

Bridled

I cannot bridle myself, or allow myself to be bridled. I must ignore and not be influenced by worldly thoughts of rights and possessions and goals and money and status and mine is so much better than yours when I really don’t believe that the world actually exists. Having said that, these days I’m often terrified that my self-created tensions will one day settle for nothing less than my total participation in the intrigues of this world.

 

I yearn for, dream of, plan, thirst for a life in simplicity, in harmony with nature, but this life seems so distant now, so hard to achieve, so incredibly hard to reach, as we in this land are so rich in thought, as we are burdened by thousands upon thousands concepts, learned and enforced, the vices of the modern man, spoiled by physical pleasures.

 

“Act purely!” cries my soul. And I answer: “How? How shall I act?” And the soul answers: “Listen and follow, listen to the wind, to the birds and to the sun. Follow, follow the dance of the waves, the painted song of the stars, follow the caressing atmospheres of dark and light, follow the laughter of the nebulae and the calm tone of snow. Follow everything that exists in itself, listen, journey and follow. The earth is your home, the heavens your ceiling, and the sea your bed.”

 

And so I wish that Marie and I could learn, learn to live in the simplicity of nature, in pure harmony.

::

Patience

I know that I must be patient and await my time as prophet, my time as preacher, writer or singer, human being. I know that I must wait, wait. But why cannot this wait be happy, holy but happy. It’s so very hard, though, when I know nothing of what my future might hold. I have yet to speculate in duties. I’m waiting for the next whisper, the one that will tell me what to do. Meanwhile, I’m awaiting worldly work from my father. A job to keep us alive while whatever will whisper my future is making up its mind.

::

Metaphors

I often use expressions to amplify a feeling, a meaning, a circumstance. But if my metaphors mirror her way of acting or her thoughts, am I then doing her an injustice? If I use her every day shortcomings as examples of human folly (for all to see) am I then ridiculing her soul? No, I am not. For I need these typical everyday occurrences to illustrate what I mean. She is, after all, the soul I know the best, next to my own.

::

Necessities

I yearn to be high with the highest. High with music, poetry. I yearn for this with all my heart. Still, I cannot reach that far for I’m so often contaminated by the earthly currents in my wife. My darling wife, you constantly remind me how “real” necessities don’t give a damn and sometimes even ridicule what they call my “ponderings.” Am I too unreal for this life?

::

Writing

I try to write myself out of my spiritual malaise. Can this be done? Can one write oneself to a reconciliation with oneself? I don’t know, but it’s all I know how to do: a written conversation between my own foolish shell and my eternal soul. It seems to work. This way I discover, expose, map, and solve personal problems, my human problems. But, and this is so important, does this actually help my fellow human beings? Must not their problems be solved in the very same manner in order for my words to find a resonance in their souls.

::

“No, I don’t think so!” An answer so short, so cold. So without leeway. So without compromise. Like a wall that confines one thought within and one thought without with no path to converse. How do you remove it? How do you break it down? How do you let what festers within gain access to purer air? How can these thoughts once again meet in our eternally flowing love?

::

Love

Is not love the finest way for two people to realize what is true within all people?

::

Time

Time is determined by the thickness of thoughts. That is Time, the earthly measurement of the distance from here to happiness. This I know.

::

A power outage lessens the distance between people.

::

Ridicule

My problem is that I want to share my ideals, my insights, my view of life as holy and spiritual. I want to give this certainty to every living human being. But how can I do this when those nearest to me don’t directly deny me, but drag my ideals down by the doubt and dirt of ridicule? How should I react, respond? I don’t really know. Perhaps the only healing (and linking) thing I can do is to constantly overlook this. As in “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Or is my head just way too big for my shoulders?

::

I turn to paper with those things I cannot solve myself, with those things that are not directly self-solving.

::

Irony

If someone states or suggests something to me that I already consider colossally self-evident, I find the statement so superfluous and such a waste of air that I will invariably show this through irony—by acting exaggeratedly taken aback by the fact that “I had never realized this before,” etc. But if the one who states this intended nothing but good with his or her statement, I will obviously hurt him or her by this irony, and of course I’ll get barbs back like I’ve never learned to consider other people, etc. Why do I do this, and how do I solve this?

::

Reality

I need to view and review the past to see what I have thought and done, and with this in mind I need to view and understand how I should think and act in the future. I need to view and map the chain of events in the long struggle for human unity, and I need to understand it. But, meanwhile, how should I live and think and react in the present, when reality, the one we commonly agree upon, seem so frighteningly compact and distressed, cold and demanding, when compared to the eternally floating free happiness of spiritual freedom?

 

The idiocy of current reality is compact, and I must harness and muster all the strength I can find (within it) to penetrate it with and drain it of its many poisons: position, pride, prestige, etc. Yes, it might seem a drawback to drain reality of these properties, since they are what have brought humanity and civilization this far, but I must realize that every rung down the status ladder is one step closer to insight.

::

Failure

If you have put in a fabulous, great effort, given yourself, given up yourself, yes, maybe even humiliated yourself, but in the end failed, what attitude do you adopt, how should you view the whole thing?

 

How can you bridge the chasm that with every silent moment grows more colossal? You have to unearth the innermost, the most sincerely shared, and from that viewpoint view what occurred. Yes, it simply must work that way. If it doesn’t, I will stand defenseless.

::

The Runway

“Two egos, two parts, everything.” Well, maybe not, I’m not so sure. It does feel a little artificial, perhaps. I know that the beginning of the first letter feels artificial, but after that I’m swept away on the high wind of writing.

::

Non-Comprehension

I don’t know who she is. I used to know her. I think I used to know her but now I don’t know what she says, I cannot decipher what she says, much less feel it. And because such understanding requires decoding and interpretation I leave my soul outside.

::

People

People you’ve met. People you’ve encountered, or run into, or just by chance happened to talk to for no other reason than that he or she just happened to be there, standing next to you in line or some such. All those you’ve heard about, people you’ve read about, or heard being described. Unique people, boring people, different people, different groups of people, different races. Everyone, everyone you’ve met, heard about or read about.

 

But I wonder who do I know, who do I really know. Who I don’t have to wonder about, who I can smile at, and whose smile will purely flow back to me. Who are those hidden people that by virtue of nature exist, near me, in me, and who will understand me. Yes, I wonder who I know.

::

The Past—Again

I know that the past is time’s great sleight-of-hand illusion (time being itself a sleight-of-hand illusion), but even so, I still have a problem with it. And this problem, if indeed I want to magnify the feeling and call it a problem, is that my past (last summer) haunts me. Yes, the past, the gone by, the dead and buried, gnaws at me, rips my happiness into so much shred, washes pain after pain over my loving heart.

 

Yes, yes, I know that this feeling (part jealousy, part betrayal) belongs to the earthly, to the worldly damnation, and I know, as I said, that the past is nothing but a lie. Still, the feeling makes itself no less apparent. I don’t know if I truly suffer in this feeling, but it gnaws and irritates and leers in a way that gives birth to false and very tangible currents within me.

 

Marie left for England in late May with the promise—heartfelt promise, I felt—to stay true to me and our love. We were, after all, engaged to be married, rings and all. And so, trusting her implicitly, I lived with my love for her, and her love for me, as my constant pillow. I was deeply happy in the knowledge that we shared true love and that once the summer was over—she was going to be in London two months, and so due back in Sweden by late July—we would simply pick up where we left off: in true, high, love.

 

So, through the summer (until it was clear that she would not be back by late July) I lived in and survived through that feeling of absolute clarity that love brings when trust is untainted and complete (I would not so far as to say blind). But now, hindsight being that twenty-twenty thing that it is, I see how in truth I deceived myself, how I lived on a false nothing. She had broken her promise, she had made love to another, she had tarnished and betrayed our love, and the fact that I for much of that summer lived a false and only imagined (self-deluded) true love makes me doubt her in the present.

 

Has she then, by being unfaithful (not that I wasn’t, too, in the end, when it appeared that she might not return) killed our eternal love? No, I don’t think that the highest feeling was ever dead, as it is eternal in nature, cannot in fact die, but it was buried, deeply buried within her, covered by glamorous, yet false and transparent, happiness. Far from the eternal. And it is when I think of this, her fall if you will, and also remember how I treasured and cherished and lived in a spiritual bliss waiting for her—while she had discarded and forgotten, that my heart, here and now, again, ruptures.

 

For that happiness was the thread that, for most of the summer, my life, my entire being and harmony, hung on. A thread comprised of these wonderful dreams of truth, of love, true love, which all the while were in fact untrue. True from my side, but then I did not know. I lived in the clouds, in a naïve belief in the good in people, especially in her; in a complete trust in her true being, knowing (incorrectly) she would be too strong to admit the evil of the world. And so, when I remember, although I know that it is wrong to allow memories to steer me, the deceived fool slithers out of the grave of the past and breathes plague and death over the blooming feeling of the current.

 

And, anew, I discover how hard it is to live completely according to the simple art, truth.

::

Plans

I must wake up, wake up from the planned appearance of life and things. For I did own the truth, it lived within me, even if at times it was drowned in my self-serving work.

 

For almost two weeks now, Marie and I have only thought in earthly terms and patterns, as we’ve thought and planned, longed for, yes even longed for, the completion of our new little home.

 

And while actually working on it, scraping, sanding, painting, readying the large one room in this small building, I forget everything about eternity, I lose the clear view of things, my clear self, and in its place I insert another self, a shadow picture of a self, of a life. And now, the only thing I can cling to is that no plans are strong enough, no matter how successful, to crush the truth. They can only hide it temporarily.

 

Still, my truth’s temporary absence leaves my soul hollow, empty. These are after all earthly plans, and by their nature (they entice and bind) they split the one-ness in me.

 

And where does Marie stand in all this? I know that she, too, knows now. I witnessed her rebirth. But she has thick, thick learned shells to wear down or simply throw away. I also feel her shells affect me. When she suffers in her unaccustomedness to the truth, she denigrates its value for she must deny it as the source of her suffering. The truth, I know, is a hard task master, it places demands on people, of honesty and purity. Demands that for her, in her folly, appear evil.

 

And in denying the truth she also denies me, and sometimes I don’t have the strength to listen to my darling.

::

Depression

I am so very tired. Drained. Perhaps this is just lack of will, but I am so very tired. My only hope, my faith, is that eternity will soon find me again and lift me again out of this tired self, tired shell, and so allow me to bloom again for everyone’s benefit. Then I will write songs again for everyone’s heart. Then I will be able to help again, with the true strength of soul.

::

When we are ourselves, we are alone, together, in a very cozy home. Out of the way, yes; from my perspective almost desolate. Outside a small town, in a large hollow, with a small workshop up the hill as my closest neighbor.

 

The snow, the fantastic snow, which covers everything now, foot-deep, should give me an enormous source of true poetry, but as long as I remain shackled to a job I don’t love, constant demands once again smudge the mirror of the soul.

 

Do I doubt? Down deep, never. But when the world echoes, the shells force themselves upon me again and I slip and fall in my struggle. I try to view this as meaning, as eternity testing me, as purifying torture, but that soon wears thin and provides no comfort, gives me no peace. The simplest thing seems to be to simply declare myself fallen.

::

Photographs

Photographs of her, of us, stir memories who then fight their way back again; memories of me as shell, memories of love. Memories that rise and prevent love’s blooming in the now.

::

To exist freely we must accept everything, all surroundings, every pebble, every snow-laden branch, every squeaking mouse, exactly the way it is.

::

My Dream

Words, written in the clear, yes obvious happiness of recognition. Words to convey meanings in the common ground of spiritual experience. Words conveying thoughts to paint everyone’s common truth, everyone’s common happiness, love and light.

 

Yes, this is what I want to create and give in as many nuances and tones as I can. I want to sing about it, write about it, play it, talk about it and act in it. Everything, after all, exists within the frame of the ultimate meaning of the universe, which is the truth of the infinite. The truth everyone feels in his or her soul. This is what I want to share. This is what I want to write about. I want to find and write words that convey this.

::

Sleep

Now I want to sleep. But how? How can I disconnect everything? Besides, I now notice how badly I write. My thoughts are broken again. Doors are closing. Doors are closed. I am closed. Yes, really, I see a sliver of the earth, that is enough. Write badly.

 

Children close physical doors, loudly. Associations in time again. I shake my head and dedicate my thoughts to sleep, beautiful sleep. I think about a new day tomorrow. Ha, tomorrow. A madman dances in my brain, singing, one, two, three, morrow, morrow, morrow.

::

So Many Thoughts

Often, so often, I think about lyrics, about logic, art, words, the logic and meaning of the true word. I believe—no, not only believe, but know—I know what elevates my path, how it streams through my thoughts and out into insight, through letters out into the sun, through doubts and problems out into answers. All the while the earthly thought, the fantastic, the real, the tangible and yet so false earthly thought falls away, little by little. Thus I seek my goal, seek my way. This about thought.

 

Though my aim is not to seek, but as far as possible map keys to locks to doors to ways. In my thoughts I have tried to recapture (and convey) the road I walked last year to wake up from dream and into light that wonderful way. I’m looking for how I did it, partly to allow myself to regain my insight, eternally, and partly in order to share, and offer a workable way to others. And so I try to map: keys to locks to doors to ways to the truth.

 

This is my aim, but I cannot find myself, I cannot find he who must do this. Even though I look everywhere, I cannot find and collect all the many bits and pieces of myself to form a whole to view a path, for the world disturbs; children, wonderful children come up to me, they talk to me, then go away again. Though I cannot express my anguish more clearly than this, still my words rise and cast themselves back at me, my lost, seeking words, throw themselves back at me like lassos hunting forgotten thoughts begotten by lost feelings.

 

And here I glimpse the now, the wonderful now. Found again through leaps of thought, associations of irritations, leaps of thought again. Found perhaps through resignation in writing, by letting everything flow out of me. By not thinking at all. And right now, believe me, I no longer think. The thought is born and dies in the same now as the word, and none of them is producing the other.

 

But there are sounds, my surroundings demand my ear, and when it does it wrecks my trance, my thought, where it seeks to hover freely, and like a bolt of lightning: a cough, as torture.

 

I want silence. I need silence. I seek silence. I seek real silence, the true silence where you can hear feelings, where thoughts vibrate in plain view, where glances illuminate our love like comets from separate thought universes.

::

Stagnation

Will I stagnate in harmony with Marie? I don’t know, but I cannot, when I really look at it, see anything wrong with loving a woman while I also struggle towards my ideal, my eternity, for the human being is endowed with the most valuable gift of all, the ability to love—consciously.

::

Rosseau

There truly is nothing new under the sun. Therefore, nothing should be said, nothing should have to be said. Everything is eternal, so obvious. Rousseau, now, in this stage of my clarity, strides into view, and I know him. He is my brother. He is my soul’s peer. He is my soul. And he saw, talked and shared. And I see the same things as did he. The same simplicity. Of course.

::

Mice

I’m thinking about mice. Thinking, and torn in a spiritually based problem; yes, it really is a problem: I’m thinking about mice, disturbing mice, mice that create frightening and ghostlike sounds at night. There are those who are shaken and tormented, who suffer in the innermost of their nerves at the sound of these small grey animals, and these sufferers cannot sleep; they lie awake hour after hour in the wide-awake bed of cold sweat, and long for the dream the mice chased away.

 

Me, I sleep, I don’t hear them, but I have, through my ability to assume viewpoints, created a living and true picture of the suffering of those awake. And a thought that easily rises within the suffering is to end these unnerving monsters’ squeals by any means possible, preferably by their extinction (the most effective of all ways to create silence).

 

And therefore I wonder, yes, I’m tormented by the question whether a human being actually has the right to kill an animal, even for such an important reason as the regaining of a life-giving night’s sleep. And I find the answer in my soul: It is a crime against love to kill, to kill anything, human or animal.

 

Human beings and animals alike live in the struggle for the eternal nature’s harmony. None of us, neither the unconscious animal or the conscious human ought to kill.

 

Now, when a predator kills (and they do that a lot, all the way from cats to lions), it kills unconsciously, according to the unconscious nature’s harmony, nature’s love.

 

Human beings, on the other hand, have received the most valuable of all gifts, the ability to love consciously, and the ability to avoid killing altogether. And so we are able to truly love humans as well as animals.

 

I really wish that my darling again find sleep, but I still mourn the mouse, and the death of this unconscious, innocent life. The clean, beautiful mouse that only demands the basic necessities of life for his existence.

 

Thank You, Insight, for my insight.

::

Refraction

I find myself constantly refracted by shifting thoughts about my relationship with and to Marie, my true wife. One thing is clear to me, our love is clean, indisputably clean, its honesty, last summer notwithstanding, remains true. But how large are not the problems raised by my insight into life and its meaning? Even though I see no wrong with a pure togetherness, true love between two people, it still feels like a cloak sometimes, covering, smothering, hampering my search and ideal.

 

And often, too, it feels like our happiness is limited to and by the tinge of worldly happiness that this life sprinkles on my search. These days, we are busy building a small world around us, one that seems to have lost most contact with the eternal in us, my ideal, and the stones we use for this building, even though they are love, are nonetheless stones.

 

At times I wonder if this love can even exist in this split and splitting world, so studded by human shells—shells like egoism, selfishness and vanity. They obscure our love and defile it. And then I wish, more than for anything else, that our love would flow unobstructed in eternal happiness, for then, yes then, and only then, would there be no more injury.

::

Celibacy

Here’s a conviction: reaching the ultimate truth and absolute happiness calls far, demands, celibacy. I am convinced and I know that this conviction is based my soul, where I am one with God.

 

I am also convinced that when Marie turns entirely outwards, when her soul turns upwards, when she lets go of all shells and vices, yes, that’s when our relationship will reach the absolute. This is the earthly dream I live in, in this our earthly relationship.

::

Parting

Still, though, sometimes it feels as if the Truth wants us to part. As if it says I must lead a life on my own. And it’s only trying to help, it says. But I don’t understand, how, how can our relationship be wrong, if love is true? If love is indeed spiritual? For then we can share our love with truth, and we can share this love with everyone, and still live together. I don’t see anything wrong with this, and I don’t understand the feeling that makes me want to part.

::

Earthly

Marie, however, is still earthly. You are kind, sweet, thoughtful, loveable, and wonderful, yes you are, my Marie, but you are still of this earth.

 

And I am waiting, and I know what I am waiting for: Marie’s dissolution into the all, where she will join me and we shall be forever united. I have utter faith in Truth: this wait, too, has meaning.

::

Intimate Parts

I ask myself and our commonly adopted reality why you have to use a word like “intimate” about something so very natural as sexual organs. They’re no different than any other part of the body, not really.

::

I have decided to hold my peace and try to lead Marie to insight in silence, and so in silence rejoice in the progress I hope she’ll make.

::

New relations

The physical can be measured, not infinity, nor eternity: it follows as obvious that infinity is the larger, more valuable of the two; that eternity is the longer, more valuable of the two. From that also follows that if the infinite and the eternal were viewed as a single constant, then the physical would be undetectably small.

::

Sexual drive: in drive alone, it is purely animalistic.

::

Love has become a commercialized universal gift.

::

Meditation

It is an immersion in spiritual awareness, in eternity, the abstract reality.

::

Map

What, then, is the meaning of love on this earth? Yes, procreation, that’s a given, but surely there are higher purposes. Our love? Will killing it kill her? And if so, will this be her life through death. My road is a given, it’s as if I have little choice in the matter. I have been given a map, or a hint of one, but I have not studied it yet, not in any detail. There are many parts on this map I need to clarify. With whom, though?

::

Mothers

About mothers and raising children. The relatively recent norms of money and prestige in our society have driven a wedge between the child and the mother, for the child and the home, according to our new values, are no longer good enough as a full-time occupation for her, as the demands of society now require her to contribute to the money-chest. Without it they might drop in status and prestige. Damn the children. Damn the mothers.

::

My calling

Do I kill her by loving her? Am I setting her up for emotional collapse? Is my ideal pulling her away from me, or me from her, for the sake of my calling. But I refuse to let her go. And if I refuse hard enough, will my ideal allow her to stay? The only constant in all this is my calling. It is as constant as eternity, as eternity is my calling.

 

Oh, my wonderful awareness, you the highest, the highest, the absolute, I implore you: let our love speak to people, let it be eternal, let it survive eternity.

::

Society

As the society, from the smallest detail on up, is wrongly constructed (made from what in effect is broken pieces), in order to correct the society, the same path must be trod: the smallest detail must be set right (healed, might be the better word) and then used to build a larger, now clear, unity—the new society.

 

Trying to reform society in any other fashion cold form rifts, which in turn can cause landslides. All that is false, must see the truth and change accordingly. Shells shed, spirits risen.

::

Art

I see eternity in true art. I see eternity in music, in poetry, in paintings. These branches share a trunk comprised of the spiritual call and its insight. Yes, I believe these three roads are the main arteries to truth alongside the more direct clarity of the absolute road (meditation). What matters, and the only thing that matters, for the All is the absolute goal, surviving death: and so, eternal peace.

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Anatomy

Biology, the physics of life, can be gained through study of the experience of generations. Likewise, you can know art from past experience, but in this case not that of the student of the arts, for spiritual experience must be gained by the individual searcher in the now—not through books.

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Religions

We must create. No, not create. Awaken, awaken is the word, we must awaken the still unconscious struggle toward the light that each living being carry within. But then I ask myself: will the connection, the common truth of all religions comprise our foundation? Or are all words of this universe, past, present, and future our bridge? Or are all the songs of nature the only way up? But the answer remains: everything leads there.

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Happiness

To remain true to and within the frame of eternity—despite all influence, all pressure, and all false doors that work to sway you otherwise—this is true happiness. This is the reward.

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Churches

Is not this enormous number of churches you see everywhere wall-forming? Tell me, why must churches have doors, why mortared walls in body as well as soul? Why is it necessary for so many to congregate in order to uphold what they believe is truth?

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Television

Sara Lidman created an excellent program about Swedish mine workers. She highlighted, quite brilliantly, real and acute problems, the seriousness of which perhaps touched, perhaps even shook, the TV watching public. But, as an organ of the state, Swedish Television then ensures, consciously or not, that the television watching public, immediately after this serious program, are fed something to directly quell any chance to sincerely reflect on these issues. And what could be more effective in this regard than a suspenseful and engaging detective story. Whose fault is this? Is this by chance or is it by design?

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Parables

Doesn’t the well-formed parable demand serious thought—undisturbed, purely grown thought? Nurtured by the feeling within the parable.

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Stories

Who is going to teach me to create long, connected, and embroidered word paintings (stories)? Who is going to teach me the art language? Can I do this on my own? Am I mature enough? The answers are killing the questions again.

 

Still, in complete consciousness everything is possible, everything can be made and everything is made. Everything works and everything can be accomplished.

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Thoughts = Poisons in time.

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Writing

While the future never seems to reach me, the past escapes me eternally, adroitly. The stars smile at me, the clouds stuff me in. Water and earth understand, nature sees me for what I am and welcomes me. And the universe applauds my attempts to communicate its truth.

 

The eternal poem, it will never be written, but never will anything be so completely understood. The eternal poem, it has as many names as the harmony of forever, as the chord of truth, as the eternal light. Yes, I carry this poem in song and I try and try to share it with all my strength and awareness.

 

But, do I really want to write in parables? Yes, I think so. It seems to me that parables would be the easiest way to be understood, to not only be read but truly comprehended, as the searcher of insight will always rejoice at a meaning discovered behind the tales of everyday (where I want my parables to live). That is why I want to write that way, why I want to learn how to write that way. But, I also know that I have to mature in this my enormous duty, this, the eternal goal’s call.

 

When born from the love of helping, my book of parables will sprout words and covers to contain these content-filled pages from and about a life. All for the thirsty. I am only a vessel, an opening.

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Thoughts

Who can truly be seen, and what can be felt as completely true? Everything, everything that has escaped the force and constraint of shallow thoughts, as these thoughts spring, or usually spring, from a learned store of knowledge concerning what really does not matter at all; and when this store grows so large as to become a hindrance, maybe in the form of defense of viewpoint, then everything must be viewed again and re-evaluated by feeling, by pure air, with harmony as resonance.

 

But who dares to discard humanity’s store of these self-created truths, ideals and goals? I do. I do. And I shall, along with my open brethren, dance and twirls around in space, singing praise, while at the same time be here, writing, helping you.

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Handel

Sweet, fragile echoes of a genius splatter, sometimes stream, into my awareness. Handel, you found happiness in music. Wonderful person. Oh, such amazing, painting notes. Telling through scales, singing in chords. And never, never alone.

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Alone

Who knows how to be alone? Who has earned the right of loneliness? Who rejoices in loneliness, who rejoices in silence? Who can paint with nothing? Is there an understanding that can surpass the insight about silence? Who understands the power of sound?

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Listening

Often, to listen is to criticize. Listening, it sometimes seems to me, ought to be a comparison of the heard and the truth, which, of course, and purely from a worldly point of view, would be an analysis of people’s talk. What is she really saying? What hides within her? Many never pose the question. Fewer still get an answer. I do pity us sinners.

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Measurements

Can you measure truth? If so, in what, and how? No, the truth itself will never stoop to being measured, ever. It is what it is and it is whole. We can however perceive and estimate a distance to truth, that between a single awareness and the eternally true. This can be perceived as degrees of truth.

 

And when I look at myself, and estimate that distance, I realize that there is still so much more to see, to have illuminated, for me, for everyone.

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Should not the written be like music?

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True Space

Yes, I believe that Baudelaire spoke the truth. As a true artist, you should be able to rise up and into and then rest in the true, you should have the power to reside and create in this limitless pace, to then step down whenever you want to share your impressions and insights.

 

Perhaps one is forced down by earthly trivialities, by unavoidabilities. But only temporarily, for I hope, believe, dream, that eventually, the true artist will remain in this space eternally.

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Our Origin

Most of us, well, just about most of us, are simply put there. Yes, that’s right, put there, find themselves put just there—if they are looking for themselves at all, of course. But instead of seeing and accepting this, what does the self-important human do? She invents a situation for her origin, and gives it a name. A name that she can grasp with her egotistical senses. She invents her own meaning and then, to boot, teaches others the same nonsense—brainwash others, that is. But everybody does it, and this turns into, and is, and remains, war.

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My Duty

Mine is a hard, demanding, but indescribably wonderful duty. The duty to keep two lives afloat and to at times succeed. I can only thank the common basic truth within us. But it is so demanding that maybe and sometimes I find myself in a dead and old shell. But I must never, ever remain there.

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Worlds

A tired thought about worlds saw life today. Fantastical but illusory, illusory, it rose and whispered and said, “When life opens up to welcome everything this life will harbor love, poetry, music, art, all without frames, as everything melts together and together. Laughing.

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Word-Flood

And as I open the tap to this well out flows a wonderful evening with all things I would call ingredients and here I see that to sense is to find. Am I asleep? No, just softly resting, love lingers entwined in the Blues Project and nature feeling good, awareness partly intact and nicely relaxed and de-stressed as far as the nonexistent stress goes. Contact now with eternity, now, yes now, and contact again. Evening, yes evening; warmth, yes warmth, and music truth in music musician. An evening fire emanates its blessed heat through glowing matter. I hear not, fear not, tear not, is not all warmth glowing, are not all feelings indefinable while oh, so real in anyone’s experience—is this connection? Of course it connects, in its own existence.

 

Marie is asleep, nested in love, nested in a wonderful un-dispellable, all-encompassing completely lived and loved love. And there are impulses of rhythm, of laughter, of rising happiness.

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Happiness

Happiness reached and experienced in the moment—its own proof. Living it is proving it, for experience is the only reliable proof there is or ever will be. Happiness is very happy about that.

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Stickmen and Cosmos

This is about sketching, about drawing stick men, with my awareness awake and dreaming. It is about this thin, gray stream of lead flowing onto white, ruled paper. Bob Dylan to my left, the thought floats on. To Marie again and our wonderful true marriage, but am I now fighting against the white, ruled paper’s stubborn whiteness? Shaking harmonica of Dylan’s to my left.

 

Who—no the thought is not here, has not arrived yet, only the afterthought, the logical reasoning seeking little unimportances in thin air. And so the lead flows onto ruled, white paper and there exist only this one now in this one in this one thought-less now and so I float on to Mike Heron to my left and Robin Williamson to my left and still without pause on and on upward to the awareness of everything to the soul of the eternal cosmos.

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The Past

I going over the many yesterdays that have led me to this moment, taking in past reflections without landing on anything essential, for what is essential without thought, and what, really, is thought? I notice, though, that I am still reeling from the aftereffects from my long-ago massive bite of the fruit of knowledge: the compulsion to think ahead to a dinner table and fight with the everyday when I should be smiling; the compulsion to forget love and truth around and in everything. I look at the pen and wonder at its tracing emptiness, truth trailing each letter. Sleep, sleep, relaxation. A stepping down of life.

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Words, Words

So many as yet unborn pages wait in certainty, welcoming my creation of words, words, words, words paper words begin to look like the state, the devil is the state, enemy of state, me? How? No, not reproaching but on and on pleading begging helping writing continually writing without pause writing punctuated visits in the world London Helsingborg continual visits in the world, my movement in space but not in time, not in time.

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Time

Time is a human product after all, born with the first thought, still newly born. I listen to a thought-less atmosphere. Winter outside, darkish warmth within, still, no thoughts, just a cold, snowy emptiness on the other side of this window. The first thought explains itself right now, through the dreams and prayers of its believers. Who is then with me on this journey? You, me, you, them? Of course you. You’re with me in my flight—read, read without interruption, delay not in interpretations: read, read, read.

 

And when I ask myself about message and meaning, I find everything in the question. I find the art of finding one’s home in everything. Listening, I enjoy the silence of my truth. Maybe the parable about nuances is my language after all?

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Claws

The claw of society, what a strange phenomenon, funny even. It has death in mind, a purpose to kill, to slay the actual. But no matter how much they are sharpened, no matter how much its hatred is honed, I can smile in my love, in my certainty.

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Strength

All this pressure calls for strength. The oppressive lies and demands I face call for pure light, to shine and expose and vanquish the dark streams I cross to shore up my fading happiness. Light is all we have.

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The Bite

As long as us humans still suffer the consequences of that long-ago bite of the fruit of knowledge the problem will remain. Thoughts about doubt will always rise from the tension. The pressure of this lie forces humanity down, down, down.

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The human being strives for, and must continually strive for, constant renewal in order to successfully smother herself by the trillions and trillions of lies she nurtures.

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The Ten Commandments, or the Message of the Buddha: a clarification, a parsing of the truth.

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Music

Wonderful, elevating, releasing music, you are the power of Happiness. You are the fantastic universal solvent. This music, this happiness, through its purity, drowns my thoughts and sorrow, quells my speculations, and gives birth to a new truth in their stead. This music catches and deflects my brooding and irritation and makes them seep out into the immeasurable wideness of infinity. My music, my art, my literature, my beauty, I beg of you, caress me, slake my spiritual thirst for beauty. Lead me to the garden where everything alive sways together in the living wind, creating all life together, all breathing.

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Pondering

Can you crush a feeling once shared? No, you can’t, you cannot kill it. Once voiced and seen and shared it will live on forever, even if not seen or felt again. Given this, wherein lies my doubt then? My wicked, evil doubt. And as I look, I see: of course, in the shackles of bound thought, in the poisonous stench of restrained thought. And as I know that this thought is a product of the ego-steeped brain, I also see this as humanity’s fate and sentence. Still, in every heart of hearts abides the knowing: this thought if false, a product of the opposite of truth.

 

I also know that my constant pondering, my constant search for even the smallest explanation by reason, is doomed to fail since the feeling of truth cannot be seen or arrived at by acquired reason. And I see that the failure of the schooled brain to explain our basic (and ancient) love will always have a negative effect on love itself. This despite the fact that this love, the eternal, always flows as a grounding constant in our minds, and cannot ever die or lessen; despite this, these attempts to reason and explain and ponder will cause us to absorb less of this pure stream of happiness, for human logic demands ownership and power and control and reason, reason, and the ensuing flood of speculation and argument will quench the flow, will drain the stream of truth and prevent it from flowing in the groove it once made with its own harmony. That said, our own eternal harmony will still, and forever, guarantee the foundation of the eternal stream of truth within us.

 

My only purpose is to help all people sense and achieve this eternally flowing love: for their spouses, for their surroundings, for everything. I know, and I feel, like so many before me, sorry for the humans among us humans.

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The Bible

And then, seemingly out of the blue, all these wonderful correlations. I’m not sure where is the transmitter, but I am certainly a receiver. Yes, the most wonderful of truth’s correlations. I even realize the value of the Bible, as an example of the basic truth of all religions. Of course, when it comes to the Bible I certainly don’t endorse it unreservedly, but I find echoes in certain living passages. And, in the Fall, a wonderful description of the blood that souls spill.

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My Task

Through the strength of my eternal soul’s light, I not only want to, I must absorb and reflect the glow of truth upon humanity, without siphoning off any of its warmth for myself—not too much, anyway.

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The Intellect

Reason is the blocking door, the draw bridge that with compulsive logic, restricted thought patterns, and blind ritual shuts humanity out from true life. Still, reason could serve as a way, at least for part of the distance, it could be a foundation, but it isn’t. Why, why, does humanity fight and work for her own destruction?

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The Soul

It is so hard to express the nuances of the soul, the waves of the soul, the troughs, the peaks. The mystery that is not a mystery once you open your eyes. This world (and its many languages, opinions, and wars) is too crude, too insensitive, to perceive and detect such nuance, the finer spiritual things.

 

The soul, when truly seen and understood and lived, shines with the pure strength of all forgotten Milky Ways. Yet, the human being steeps (and so quells) this light in worldly and foolish knowledge that serves no other purpose than individual vanity, riches and victories. And now that I see that, who should I help? Who should I lead? Should I lead?

 

I would help and lead those who follow me in feeling and not in the intellect, analyzing. How and when does not matter. Nor do where or why. And we should never ask or wonder about apparent events in the future or the past, nor should we wonder about space. We should never speculate about the past, the dead. And here I rejoice, I rush and soar in happiness over this my certainty.

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What is it that stifles many a poet; what ruins his creation? Actually, this does resolve in the absolutely simple.

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She smiles at me, and I smile back—harmony between our chords that so eternally are and chime alike.

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Flowers

We know that the unspoiled (untouched) in nature is beautiful. We know that the most beautiful flower belongs in nature, in the arms of its mother (Earth), not in artificial vases.

 

We also know that true love, the eternal, exists in the space of free thought, that is her mother, and it is there she blooms. You cannot seize her and force her down into the intellect, for there, like the plucked flower, she will wither and die.

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Ecstasies

We know that the soul experiences various forms of ecstasy: poetry, the soul’s air and blood; music, beautiful and pure; art, in the perfection of the eye; literature, in the association of the roads, all in harmony. And in love, the deeply personal. This is the highest of the soul’s many ecstasies, the absolute correlation between the human and her spirit. Now, if I could only earn the right to talk.

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I await her blossoming. I know that she will follow. I wait, in certainty about the soul’s struggle and goal. She will arrive. She will arrive.

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Memory

I darken my living, my feeling with these many (compulsive) thoughts about personal existence. And then I return to the experience, the evidence. Weak people go back: I am weak. But when I return in memory I see it so clearly again, the experience, the light, and I feel the proof that I am doing right by me and others. But when I look at Marie I wonder what keeps her from reaching, perhaps it’s me? But when she has seen the proof, obtained sight, really seen (at least I think so). Then why does she delay?

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The Sun

In the light of a candle flame, deep in the labyrinth of thoughts, beyond the many pleasant furrows of society, the seeing boy sits and wonders, he sits dreaming. And he asks the sky, his friend the sun, why the city spits on him, why he is not allowed to dance freely in the streets. And the sun and the sky smile at him, as clearly and openly as they smile at everything living being. But as this boy alone among humans sees, no one but he experiences the answer.

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Doubts

Love can, and does suffocate in its detailed planning—money, clothes, food, travel, and such. I must not let it suffocate for me. But in my ego’s seeming conviction that this earthly love of mine for Marie is my only happiness at the moment, it’s already stifled, at least partially. Still, as nothing is ever done nor ever undone in the eye of eternity, nothing can ever be too late. Everyone can and will be saved, eternally.

 

Now it is she, my darling wife, who doubts: doubts my truth, my eternity, and its calling me. And by doubting she effectively denies the eternal love she imprisons behind her doubt. But how hard is it not for her to accept my calling when she is happy, perhaps beyond reason, in her love for my earthly self.

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Ego

Love’s cliché stumbles and fall down inside the putrid interior of the ego. That is where humans are forgiven for the ego was sown in the past and is then reaped in an apparent now. This erected and enforced ego must be exposed and seen for what it really is in order to allow life to bloom in its wholeness.

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Why Me?

Why does it seem that I alone see the truth? Why on earth me? Who or what singled me out? Ah, once again, the question succumbs to the unspoken answer. It must, and of course does die in the answer—as all questions die in their answers. Me, the soul, knows, just like all souls know. The hair-fine difference between your soul and mine is that my reason has basked long enough in the glow of my soul to divine the truth about my spiritual origin, a truth that in turn throws its light on all my thoughts, over everything I think.

 

Do I doubt? Oh, no. Not really. In my thoughts, sometimes, sometimes. Under the pressure of the pretended and the lied, under the pressure of the appearances of existence, under the weight of the imagined echoes of a now that only pretends—in the vice of this misleading and withering world.

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The hysterically obvious reflection that applause rends to shreds a beautiful performance, drowns a beautiful silence of appreciation, will escape many.

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Embraced by dreaming, almost hypnotic music, I take my leave—of the l emptiness of the body, out into silence, not even craving a cigarette.

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Maybe one day I’ll be seen as square or not with it, for I no longer smoke hashish. I have distanced myself from this vice, we’ve become strangers, hashish and I.

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Everything flows: the pen, the head, the room, thoughts hit each other, melt, sometimes bounce maybe, but earthly currents beget and kill themselves on the road beyond the essential.

 

And so the thought is gone, though flight continues, this floating flight towards the higher height: towards what some would term the idiotic. But the flight is born far from idiocy in the clean truth, and it continues, on and on, even if I now put my pen down and rise to make coffee instead, for everything, everything will go on, despite everything and everything notwithstanding, everything will continue, go on, go on. As unchangeably as the ever now.

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Counting, wondering, sorting, wandering. What a joke.

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Barriers

Now that you’ve proven to yourself that you can let go of your mask, that you can step out of your shells, open to the trees, the birds and the sky. Why then not let go of your mask with your closets and most easily won brother in nature: your fellow humans. That’s where the ingrained, learned and enforced form the barriers, but barriers that can be dismantled (talked away) in mutual openness.

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To paint ambiances or paint with ambiances. Which is which? Do you know?

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I’m naturally high on this music—Handel, scales, melodies, constantly shifting harmonies, so wonderfully harmonic, an ambiance of bliss.

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Helping

But when I see our task as helping together, as travelling, speaking, doing, showing, helping. Yes, you and I, Marie, unselfishly help others. We can, and will reach a place where we no longer need help ourselves, and can focus all our love and energies on helping others, through each other.

 

Everything will manifest, everything will navigate within the frame of truth, I know it will. But we must not plan more than the now can carry, and yet, from this angle the future appears as so much pressure. The work, the task, society, the world, the traps, the traps. And so I pray that soon (and beyond that) my true wife will work by my side in this holy deed of compassion and mercy. She will soon realize this, that is my prayer.

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Waiting

I do not want to study or analyze or correct people, much less teach. As I see it, everything should originate within itself, from within, to then grow and penetrate and discard the shells—the shells that exists with everyone except me and my friends, and that as a rule work against us.

 

Does this prevent me from smiling in a crowd, or to rejoice in the street, or to sing the praise of the wind? Am I afraid that maybe the birds and the trees are observing my truth? What a question! But I feel her barriers, deep, tangible, ancient, alive. I also feel her way out. The way that she alone must find. Meanwhile, what can I do, besides waiting, watching and loving?

 

Still, this is so hard for everyone, for all people, and harder still for those who once did see, who once caught a real glimpse of truth, but who now doubt under the pressure of shells. A nightmare, that.

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Our Love

How do I share notions with Marie, and ways and certainties? And how do I do this without disturbing, without rending the fine harmony that in its essence is our love. For it is in this harmony that everything shall be fulfilled. It is in this harmony where we found each other, and it was in that beautiful castle that I some time later found the truth. But is the foundation of this castle strong enough to permit inspection and analysis and, yes, fulfilment without being torn to dust and dead will?

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Helping

The shells, the shells, all shells, all conventions, all fear must be banished from all thought. We must separate true understanding from this vain and pervading thirst for earthly facts. We must exist this terrestrial labyrinth of reason. True consciousness should not have to suffer suffocating skepticism and murdering egoism—only then will everyone reach their highest level.

 

When I look around me I sense, feel different nuances, so many variations on the theme of greed and the purely material, the biological, the physical, the egoistical. And not only the world around me, but I find these currents within the two of us as well. Maybe I judge us too harshly, but our goal is so much higher than these variations on earthly themes.

 

I shudder in this disharmony, for we must climb and reach and reach and find each other up there, time and again, where our elevation illuminates our smiles when hands caress each other, when the echoes of soft steps slowly fall and fall as if to let time and distance be forgotten by our senses.

 

It is there, there that we shall live, be, act, help. We must both learn to sail upon truth.

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Expectations

But what shall I do when Marie remains asleep? These days my thoughts all seem to spring from the unessential. They are no longer even thoughts, but liquid brain substance, slobbered onto paper. I’m writing this at the expense of my sanity and I pray that I may persevere. The claws of the earth have seized me and drags me down, down into the grip of knowledge, into the fetters of society, down and down under the pressure of the crowd, strapped to the rack of expectations.

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Fall from Grace

Let go of the I. This universal symbol of what original sin begot and caused, this the grimmest of all harvests, planted by greed, by hunger, by thirst. Today, the obvious fallout from the most evil thought God ever had. The true fall from grace.

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Thoughts

I seem to be grounding everything in play these days. And this game, which I really don’t understand, appears to me so far from the truth that I can only grasp it by thought, and this thought casts a shadow on my soul. Thoughts, thoughts, born of evil, and evil you remain. So I pray, with all I have to pray with, that nature’s harmony will once again permeate my heart, that nature may once again dismantle my thought labyrinths, shut out my past.

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Jealousy

It is my remembering and dwelling on the past that destroys our happiness. That vivid memory of someone, something; something, like a sleeping wolf, I should let lie and not tease and arouse and set aflame anew. For when it bursts into present flames I must shut my eyes and block my ears for I want nothing to do with this, nothing—all the while keeping it alive. It is jealousy, I think, that feeds these memories, and it is the Earth that has gained a good and firm grasp of my ankles to keep me here, anchored in the shallow and meaningless.

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Our Game

The tender warmth of harmony longs to enter, longs to embrace us both, but we play ourselves blind and uncaring. We know that we act in some sort of sad game, still we act and act and try to hurt each other. We try to stop but cannot. This is so very sad. We play, play, play this game through these nightmarish spirals of compulsion.

 

This we know, we both know, is killing us and the love we hold so sacred, but we cannot stop this game as we cannot find and destroy its deep-down foundation, nor can we harness its intoxicating feelings. Are we then victims? At times, I am convinced of this. Other times I wonder what I have done to cause this. She doesn’t seem to wonder at all, and that is another story.

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Conviction

I have a conviction, I believe I see a relationship, a correlation, a light that will survive eternity. This light will survive eternity for its proof begets the helping light which will awaken humanity, a light that lies at the core of my survival, our survival, everyone’s survival, nature’s survival, yes, even the survival of the universe. And all this light proves is the real strength of truth. The strength of creating and maintaining, which in harmony with all souls is called love—the creating and maintaining love.

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Play

I sometimes ask myself if I really have the right to play the way I do. Because everything I experience and create in this earthly life is, in my view, only a game, and I wonder if that is true. Does the game not deny itself in its constant attempts to copy? And so I wonder. But in the solitude of winter blooms true harmony, and in this earnestness I can observe the variations of circumstance pound themselves bloody in their struggle towards their own destruction.

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Perfidy

I often—despite denying this to myself—try to forcefully identify with my ideals (being a holy man that I am not). This is a deceit that I observe and try to correct in others, for this lie has only one aim: to steal, to mimic, to plagiarize, calling forth pure perfidy to replace truth.

 

Still, I know the goal, and I know the ways. Marie knows them as well, and it’s when I see that she forgets, or denies, or ignores, that I stumble and fall under pressure—of what? I am not sure, but her forgetting creates pressure. Of course, I still try to reach her in our shared truth, and it is in this struggle that I constantly hurt myself since I sense true and justifiable rightness in the earth of my eternity.

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My Task

Can you create workable schemas and patterns and procedures for the salvation of mankind? Many such inventions (religions) have existed and (apparently) worked before I arrived on the scene; yes, their aim was just this: to salvage mankind. Of course, I also observe how society attempts (mostly successfully) to press such schemes into service of society. But tell me, is religion of any use to society? Is true culture (the arts) of any real, tangible use to society? No, the answer is No. Neither religion nor culture will stuff society’s coffers or bring the ever-coveted fame to its practitioners, unless, of course you’re the Pope.

 

Still, I believe in the letters I use and the words I write, even though they’re not really mine, but belong to truth. My wish, though, is to stand up and declare my qualities and position, something I really must do if I want to share my enlightenment and calling, my beautiful experience, in the light of which I am but the tool, the conveyer of words and feelings to point my fellow man in the right direction.

 

Yes, I am an instrument but also an idiot, for I have no idea, really, how to go about this. My message does not aid progress, and anything that does not aid progress is useless—we all learn that in school. So here is the brutal question: If I mean to save mankind from ignorance, how am I to succeed?

 

Yes, I know that each individual soul, the very foundation of each person, is nothing but an eternal ecstasy of joy. But when this world, this Earth, in its own idiocy obstinately darkens everything, how am I to get everyone, even anyone, to see what I have seen?

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Meditation

Meditation, is it not the harnessing of awareness with will, while at the same time resisting clamor and pressures and demands of the non-essential? Now, if we could control our impressions, if we could choose what was to affect us, and how, and if we could absorb all nuances, all impressions, as they truly are, if we could see without the endless distortions of egoism, I think we’ll find that the concept of the non-essential would cease to exist.

 

The problem, though, is that we cannot do this. We always receiving bits-and-pieces impressions, fragments of truths, colored by lies, through the prism of demand.

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Two Worlds

Yes, truth is real. And yes, the world is truth. But, the eyes we view her with falsify her and make her appear completely unreal—the other world, the one we drive cars and drink ourselves silly in. We must learn to assign things their correct value.

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Nature

This I see: my ego’s mortality. This I see: nature’s harmony. My ego tries to scale this precipice of indulgence while nature’s harmony is a still, clear, not even happiness—it’s higher than that. Happiness is me clawing my way up the mountainside, harmony does not even have identity.

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The Buddha

My thought differs from the Buddha’s when it comes to the creation of this universe. He maintained (I believe) that there was or is no originating god, that, in essence, everyone really have themselves to blame: words, words, words, words. While what I seek is the highest connection, the one between Buddha, Jesus, and myself. Not that I want to lay claim to their fame, but to show that even they were one in eternity, and so to make people see that there is only one truth. That there is a connection between God and Nirvana—for they are the same.

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Eternal Soul

And I believe in the soul of the world, in the soul of the universe. I also believe that I am part of this soul and that I am all of this soul. I also believe that I am the path to this soul—this eternal way. And that I don’t really exist as a person.

 

So, how come the Buddha, who communicated this, direct the monks to look to themselves for insight? Egoism is not the way of the of Buddha.

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Equilibrium

All earthly happiness evokes an equal loss of it when it has ceased. An equal loss of it when it has died: this is equilibrium. This hold true on a physical level as well: the temporary high of a drug evokes and equal low once its influence has faded.

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Marriage

Is not marriage a masochistic impulse to confine yourself, tie yourself down, for someone, under someone, for someone’s sake. I believe that living with someone else (through mutual love) should be unenforced, undocumented, clean, free and yet constant, as you should not lust for your neighbor’s wife, which even the Buddha maintained.

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Ambitions

Lately, and happily, my day does not leave (make) room for the earthly—surrogates of happiness. My day has married wisdom, self-enlightenment. My day revolts when the earth sneaks up on me, serving up false goals of pleasure, goals without spiritual grounds. This is schooling (and living) in the clean purpose of sharing with and teaching others.

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About Religion

There is only one goal: Insight. There is only one goal: the understanding of (insight into) all goals, of life, of interaction and correlation, of cause and effect, of (the eternal) now. Still, the questions foremost in most minds concern death—what happens hereafter, is there even one? So, let me repeat, and let me be very clear, there is only one goal: Insight. Absolute Insight! Insight into life as well as death, for to separate them is unwise. There is only this one goal, and in time every living being will experience this.

 

One problem, though, is that here on Earth there are so many ways, so many paths, so many road signs, and most often (I’m afraid) they seem to point in different directions. But if you view them as road signs here on this global earth, all roads will at some time or other cross each other, and these cross roads prove that all sincere paths will eventually meet. And should they never cross, if they were to be forever separate, then, paradoxically, we find that they run exactly parallel.

 

And so, I ask myself: the Buddha, Lao-tzu, Jesus, Muhammad, all these holy men, while there is only one goal, only one resolution to life. So, why all these religions? Yes, wandering humanity is fond of roads, especially those who deep-down seek the truth—those brave souls who tear themselves away from an oppressive culture—and they need road signs. Love road signs.

 

Where, then, is my religion? Do I have one? No, not really. But I want to help those that sense that something is terribly, terribly wrong here on earth, and within our idiotic societies, but who are too weak, or burdened, or distracted, or fatigued to sit down and really look, listen and think things through to the pure conclusion. For should they not be supported and helped?

 

And we have Christianity, which in my view proves and underscores its idiocy in all its earthly connections (and endeavors): heaven, hell, bah! The truly seeking will never find a home there. For in its many, profitable earthly involvements—mainly politics and real estate—and through its seemingly endless fragmentation, I think that the church of today displays for all to see (who want to see) a near despicable falseness. And I ask, hasn’t the word religion itself acquired a bitter taste due to Christianity’s insane derailment? Really, who can garner faith in such a farce? What we call religion today is pretty much a joke—with far, far too many takers.

 

So, is not the world, the civilized world, and the humans content to live here, ready for a new way, a new hand? Isn’t she ready for a new way to look at things? I believe she is. And I also believe that the modern human demands proof, logical reasoning.

 

Despite that, I would like to say like Hesse, that sure, I can guide the individual human through the veils, the fogs, yes, all the way up to that final gate, but through that gate they must all stride on their own accord, one and one—alone.

 

I can in a cheap parable say that sure, I can provide people an elevator that they can ride for a good while; yes, I can invite her to travel my words—where my feelings speak, but the insight, the true seeing of things, this she has to find within her own tranquility.

 

So, how am I then to function, to work? As a critical observer of life? As a judge? As an advisor? As a pointer? Whatever my capacity, I must also communicate something of lasting and essential value to leave behind. That would be the task of the writer in me.

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Priests

I came from nowhere. I am nothing. I am. Yes, I am also the earthly product of a society—that luckily has yet to advanced so far as to completely control its individuals, its progeny, its product.

 

Yes, this produces many of my thoughts, for I am a product of this society’s learning process. It has shaped me, but so, of course, has my own innated power.

 

This, though, will help my body and my tongue to help you. You who cry when no one sees. You who long for someone to really love, someone to share everything with, someone to dare stand naked in front of, someone who understands. It is you, all who are lost in this shallow, enforced society of “knowledge,” that I want to help.

 

And you shall feel my words as I, like others, have received the gift of true music. I, too, have received the eternal gift that enables me to show and share. And so, you shall read my words, search your innermost, and there find the answers for yourself, for there you’ll be able to trace yourself to true happiness, to your and my and everyone’s highest happiness, the only and eternal happiness.

 

Yes, I sound like a priest, but one without schooling, without frock. I am the real priest. I speak in and of the spirit, I walk the road I have seen by the light of my own enlightenment, and I want to guide you, yes, every single human being, towards the eternal solution of all problems. The problems, after all, are punishment for our vanity and egoistical chase.

 

Believe me, I know all of you. I love all of you, and understand all of you, and no one, no one, can deny my existence or that of my words.

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Life Energy

In search of true understanding, I find this: Life energy. This concept, this truth, deserves and requires a definition, not to be misunderstood.

 

The life energy I have experienced is what Christianity and other theistic religions like to call soul, it is what, according to Spinoza, is the part of the eternal God that exists within us, and which at the same time encompasses infinity within itself.

 

Therefore, the life energy is indeed infinite and cannot be grasped by hands and forced to its knees by concrete reasoning. However, its effects can be perceived, its immediate nearness can be seen by a sincerely searching consciousness.

 

The life energy is constant in all life, in every living being. The life energy is the phenomenon of life. The curious or skeptical then asks: As I see it, I mean logically speaking, there must be more life energy in an elephant than in an amoeba, no?

 

Yes, I’ll answer. Physical body energy, sure. There’s obviously much more physical energy—due to the body’s metabolism: food, consumption, physical energy, excrement—in an elephant than in an amoeba. Yes, of course, the metabolism is so much wider in an elephant. Of course. But when we look at what I mean by life energy, what counts, the only thing that matters, is the fact of life itself, that it exists, not how much of it exists, as the life energy is not measurable—there is no “how much.” It is the phenomenon called life—and the physical circle of metabolism is its offspring. You can view the life energy as the phenomenon of this circle.

 

The body as such, and its energy, is and remains a purely physical thing. As you know, the body eventually dies, at which point its metabolism ceases. We can view the body’s energy and the life energy as coexisting forces (though the life energy is force-less) that together make possible life as we see it.

 

Yes, both forces—though, again, the life force is not a force per se, and cannot be measured, it is a motivation—are required, and eventually we will come to see that these two forces are but two aspects of the same force. The physical energy, the reasoning aspect of the eternal, is needed to enable this circle of conversion, to allow this path to be drawn. The life energy, the eternal, completes the circle, it is the missing link of reason. Life energy is the phenomenon circle, the phenomenon path.

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In these entries have tried to communicate a searching stage of a life, with its joys and sorrows and desperations. In the end, in my search for facts that my human friends would be able to accept and use to their own benefit and salvation, I landed with wide open, reasoning eyes on the coast of life energy, while all the while I sank deeper and deeper away from my truth.

[2018 note: These days, I am a practicing Theravada Buddhist. I did, after much casting about and searching high and low, find a path laid down by someone so much more insightful that me—and I could not be more grateful.]

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Stockholm, Spring 1969—True Poetry

Poetry—the clean, speaking, touching, yes helping poetry—it exists, and has always existed. It was never created, and it had experienced eternity before even the first letter existed to dress it.

 

It lives, floating, high above the dry letters too many today interpret as poetry. Yes, it hovers infinitely higher than the culture that today is formed by unanimous word charlatans.

 

Still, I see how humanity today tries to splinter this eternally formless feeling into both meaning and form, and I ask myself why, and how? Who seeks to force purity down on its knees, and who seeks to force itself into its place? This is a question that any seeking soul poses, in her desperate prayer for answer.

 

In my striving for answers, I have drifted like a dead leaf, blind, and with neither will nor power. At times the winds of success would swing me upward, and at this height I would imagine that this was poetry. In the frenzy of my dizziness I felt a strength which I took to be inspiration.

 

But the strength of conviction changed in the tempest of misfortune, and doubt forced me down again. I lay there for a long time, pressed against the hard, wet ground, in fear of others, jealously regarding other leaves, they who dry and light were carried by other winds. They live, I thought, as I viewed them in relation to myself.

 

However, even these leaves would eventually fall, weighted by the rain and worn by the heights. All leaves followed the same path, all would devote themselves to the wind, and all let themselves be carried upwards and downwards in a touching farce, far removed from own will and feeling.

 

And where I lay, I saw and reflected on this drama, for surely it was a play, everyone had parts, all were dramatizing the wind—without wind, no drama; but everyone had acknowledged the wind, and everyone believed in it as the driving reality.

 

But beyond time, beyond existing conceptions about space, beyond all things agreed upon, in my own stillness, I felt a calm, flowing stream of eternity reach me from the trees, rivers and mountains. I experienced a clean feeling, a happiness breaking through both the smoke from the factories and the egoism of society’s wheels, I felt it drive towards me, up to me, inside me. I felt a clear reality fill my consciousness and I felt the eternal spring of truth opened by poetry.

 

And the sun, shining symbol for true warmth saw me, and I understood that she has always seen me, as she has always seen everything and everyone; and as if I had just woken up from a bad dream and did not dare believe I was awake, I looked around to make certain.

 

My gaze sought the leaves, the wind, to see if they were still there. But everything was new. Where leaves and winds had danced around in their hysteria now lived a light and clear forest, filled with living trees. I was slowly filled with the insight of what I saw, and finally I understood that the trees were people and that I, together with them, comprised this soft forest. I also understood that I earlier had only imagined the leaves and the wind.

 

And it was in this wonderful forest, where everyone lived cleanly and in the now, it was here that I found the source of poetry, and its goal. It was here that I realized how the poem is created by feeling, by the eternal warmth I felt, yes, I understood that this feeling was also its goal and that it reaches its fulfillment in the resonance of this feeling.

 

I saw a new reality in this expanding happiness that pulsed out of and into the trunks of this forest—a breathing in and a breathing out, and everybody, everybody was one in this wonderful unity. Life breathed a silent agreement in this communion: to give the hopelessly dancing humanity its real value through true poetry.

 

But now, when my gaze wanders among the house facades, my inner me wonders where humanity is today. I see how the hypnosis of science forces a more and more concrete awareness, and how this awareness more and more look to the word for its own sake. I see this happening, but I also see why: No one, today, has the strength to halt this enormous downward spiral, sprung from the power of the concrete brain that everyone now declares and believes in.

 

Today, the concrete brain, the concrete awareness of humanity in this our civilization, demands logic, straight contents, things have to be touchable, have to be measurable, must be provable through itself, and when this doesn’t work—for how could it possibly?—logic erects its own axioms, strangers to life, which it then convinces the public about. And after a while, everyone accepts this “new” eternal truth.

 

The further and tighter this spiral is wound, the higher the tension in humanity’s psyche is twisted, and in the end we will break, one after the other. We will, one after the other, in the cozy environment of mental health, be given ample time to contemplate the points where “logic” failed, where “science” didn’t plug the holes with “new truths” fast enough. There we will also suffer the penalty for having sought a truth which has not been stained by the stinking cowardice of statistics, and electric shock and insulin will brainwash us to conformity.

 

These openings, where logic didn’t hold, lead out to something unknown that we, although we experienced it, now are forced to deny just because logic and the public will not accept them. And “science” doesn’t give a damn about what we believe in or want to believe in, or in our feelings. The further this spiral is wound the deeper we will split. And I wonder, can a bigger contradiction really exist?

 

And it is in this spiral that humanity now produces poetry, a poetry that must tally, not within itself but with logic, with the intellect and with sensory impressions. The modern poet is now creating an art that no longer dreams of new heights for the society that produces it but that rather has been forced on its knees and into the service of this society in its pathological pursuit to brainwash its people.

 

Yes, and not only is today’s poetry false, but yesterday’s poetry, often a pure and true poetry, born in calmer times and undisturbed awarenesses, is now being more and more corroded by statistics and science.

 

Logical cause and effect templates have been worked out by “literary science” and its intellects, to force the past into today’s system by endless interpretation and exegesis.

 

This, and everything else around us that works to satisfy the ego in the sensory world, will lead us away from the feeling, away from the reality of poetry, will lead us away from the beautiful forest of life, and soon I won’t even dare to think where this spiral is leading.

 

Sure there are forces, and strong ones, that work for the preservation of the pure poem, but I see that more as noble families’ polishing of its treasures, being only a storage of the form of this poetry, incapable of again arousing the feeling.

 

And today, out of my silent agreement with eternity to try to open and save the twisted psyches of humanity from the grip of letters and forms, I give my feeling through these words, for this is a feeling, beyond letters and beyond ego. And I want to support everyone that searches, that asks for purity and harmony.

 

There is a reality beyond logic, beyond the intellect’s interpretation of the words, and the gates to this reality is poetry, or music, and painting, or philosophy, or religion. Yes, the gate is anything that stirs and wakes one’s consciousness to contemplation and feeling. And there, and only there, can we find our own nature.

 

A poet’s feeling can flow in pure resonance with his reader’s, and from the suffering of the poet we can derive comfort and understanding. In a poem of true feeling we will find a beauty far higher than the current aesthetic norm, for this beauty is felt, within or beyond all thought.

 

This beauty lives in the clear dimension of independence, and for me the true poem will always live. And therefore, as a human being, I know that everyone can experience it, both now and in the future, because I know, poetry will survive us all.

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