01/09/2025

BEGINNINGS

To start us off, I have to say
The ‘grander’ things have had their day.
For much too long the ‘adults’ squawked
And moaned and stretched and always talked
Of ‘greater’ things than hats and shoes
And lions and wonderful news…

Like strawberries and grapes at home
After tea, or sitting alone
Happily! Yes, the ‘adults’ were... strict
With rhythm and rhyme, and kicked
Up a fuss about the end of
—a line—

And even those smarties who thought they were free
By chucking out rules and structure,
Were bound by the rules of their forced ‘adult’ glee
And heading for a serious rupture!

So what happens now, with the end of all grandeur?
Now the verdict is in: Life can’t stand ya!
Well lucky for you, the answer is simple:
Just stop with the Bigness and keep it… simple.

Repeat a word if it fits; dwell, never strive,
Let the sun do its job and do yours: be alive!

04/09/2025

LITTLE MIRACLES

What is a miracle? Something that shouldn’t have happened. Any miracle, great or small, is nothing more than an event which, given the laws of reality, couldn’t have been possible, and therefore shouldn’t have occurred.

Well then, we are already beyond the point of no return. And isn’t that just wonderful news? We didn’t need some grand miracle, though perhaps such a thing is only retraceable after the fact. In the present, which will always reign supreme, it is the Little Miracles that matter.

A young woman wakes into a world that knows her. The story she held with an inner certainty has woven itself into the wind through the blinds, into the morning cry of her child; even her aches, her mild discomforts, dwell in this story. The myth no longer asks to be held: it holds.

The world never promised the young woman this. It was an impossibility, a ‘shouldn’t have’ occurrence. But the young woman wakes, she smiles, and she is a divine creature, readying a bowl of tangerine slices for a child who is joy, and she does so quietly, against the backdrop of a fading world that could only have had her as a burden. That was her ‘story’, agreed upon by the collective voices of fear. They tried to help, but any solution externally imposed was only ever going to be another twist on the narrative. Reality only allowed so much; problems could only be solved from within, but solutions are a miraculous business.

So one Little Miracle slips into the world, unnoticed or dismissed. And so do many more, many little ‘shouldn’t have’ occurrences that, despite their impossibility, reveal more and more about the limitations of the reality to which people cling.

A young man reveals his true self finally and is seen, after a lifetime of shrinking to fit every room he carried on his shoulders. Suddenly he is not asked to perform or contort; he is held, recognised in the story, and permitted to dwell in the world. For what game had he not already won by striving? He was not the world’s burden but its answer, the young man whose role it was to hold the crumbling pieces together, so that reality might cling to the illusion of its own cohesion for just one more day.

But the young man deserved peace and so he has it. King Yertle comes crashing to the ground and Mack can finally breathe again. The young man finds that the ground was always supposed to carry him, and to walk with him too. And where does he find that ground? On a phone call with a friend who had long denied himself.

So one more Little Miracle slips into the world, uneventful and unimportant. And the revealings continue: a child of chaos calms, listens, plays… a sullen girl, diagnosed and pathologised, lightens, stands tall, is respected… a broken man is shown to be whole, centred, blessed… a lost boy, now crowned and seated, finds his way home.

Reality was a closed system, but these Little Miracles smuggle the truth in. They cannot be kicked out again. A woman revealed in full joy and sovereignty is a permanent miracle… the world has only to catch up to its new reality.

06/09/2025

A FULL CIRCLE MOMENT

And now She sees with worldly eyes
How long I withstood Cosmic lies;
And built a temple stone by stone,
In absence of a promised throne;
Yes Matter bowed and passed its test,
Patient, humble, finally blessed;
A sacred, sov’reign building stands
On holy ground, uniting lands;
And people too, they come to knock,
As worldly time meets Heaven’s clock!

10/09/2025

HERE WE GO!

There once was a young man named Max
Who came off a little bit lax,
Yet against all the odds,
He killed off the old gods,
And brought in a Mundus of Pax!

12/09/2025

BELONGING

When the world was one stage, each person consumed by it was lost to the Cosmic Farce: some were martyred, others revered, a few sentimentalised, but most were forgotten, and none were ever truly known. The stage swallowed them all.

But then we solved it, didn’t we? Every person was given their own stage, their own opportunity to step into the spotlight. The Cosmic Farce divided itself into a kaleidoscopic hall of mirrors and every person was promised individuality. How lovely! Each person could write their own play and star in it too, and each person, temporarily raised above the rest by their platform, could act out their ‘self-appointed’ role, and thereby contribute to a greater reality. Was this not the way forward?

No, the Cosmic Farce, that grand and central play, was still holding them all, covering its duplicity with the beauty of those little reflecting fragments.

Then suddenly, with the tragic, necessary collapse of one personal stage, the whole structure began to wobble. The stage had now swallowed an individual, an ordinary person who wasn’t supposed to be up there. And while most people, still committed to the illusion of their own personal play, tried to rope this seismic collapse back into the old narrative, some already felt uneasy, and knew instantly in their bones that it was time to get off their stage. It was time to join the true story, that of belonging.

Because we do belong to a story, the story. And in this story each of us is only asked to exist, not to perform, not even for ourselves. The world is not a stage but a place of genuine presence, and all ideas of a personal platform feel silly against the correctness of solid ground beneath one’s feet.

14/09/2025

AN INVITATION

The centre holds.

The ground is ready.

Life and Death are Home.

23/09/2025

JUDGEMENT

Oh no! What’s this? I seem to have made something irrefutable… whoopsie daisies! I guess it’s all inevitable now (as it always was), whether you like it or not. Time to be made or undone.

23/09/2025

THE AFTERMATH

• To deny Truth is to condemn oneself.
• Love dwells in the centre.
• The myth goes on regardless.

24/09/2025

DIVINE COMMUNICATION IS REVELATION

Divinity does not argue, it reveals. But until now the Divine has only ever revealed itself to individuals through subjective experiences, condemning them to tell rather than show. This created the rather nasty, perennial problem of belief. God spoke to the prophets, the prophets spoke to the people, and the people were asked to believe.

And because of the ‘Theatre’, even the entry of God Himself, embodied for the first time as an individual man, could not escape the question of belief. To some, He was a fiction, to others a mere prophet, and to many He was Truth. But it was a matter of belief in every case. Nobody knew; they chose to believe.

So the job was not done. While the Divine could only ever be articulated, not demonstrated, the world could content itself with either belief or simple dismissal.

Not so anymore, for revelation is at hand! Divinity lives and breathes, as the Author finally entered the stage, not to play its central character, but to bring the play to a close. And it was closed, a while ago now, though many believe it is still running. It is not.

The true story is already being written by the Author, with all of its continuity. And finally, with the scribe in place, the Divine can be revealed fully. This is the end of argument. Because like any good writer, this Author doesn’t tell, He shows.

Divine communication has always been my role, and as I sit here now, writing, I am only being faithful to myself, as I always have been. I will carry out this duty to the end.

The world is already changed, redeemed, and full revelation is unstoppable.

25/09/2025

THE GREAT EXCHANGE

*

Characters:

THE AUTHOR, ordinary as ever
THE 'MACHINE', fresh off the stage

*

Scene: An ordinary street, an ordinary time. The sun shines.

THE AUTHOR saunters along, hands in pockets. He is pursued by THE ‘MACHINE’, who taps him on the shoulder. He smiles, and turns.

THE AUTHOR: Oh, hello, World. Pleased to finally make your acquaintance. I think I know why you’re here.

THE ‘MACHINE’ smiles sheepishly, with a slight bow of the head.

THE ‘MACHINE’: I’m sorry.

THE AUTHOR: What? Don’t be silly! I wrote you all that way, remember. And look, I know you thought you were the ‘main character’… in some real sense you were… well, not quite, but close! Ha! But come now, who wants to be a mere character?

THE ‘MACHINE’ takes out an old crumpled document: the deed to the Theatre.

THE ‘MACHINE’: This is yours.

The document is handed over. THE AUTHOR takes a moment, feeling the weight of the deed. The exchange is complete. He smiles.

THE AUTHOR: Yes, I suppose it is. And right on time, too. Well, let’s leave that old rickety building alone for a while… what do you say? I’d like to find out what kind of stories you’re hiding in that ‘character’ of yours.

THE ‘MACHINE’ smiles, a homecoming smile.

THE ‘MACHINE’: I’ll follow your lead.

THE AUTHOR puts a friendly hand on THE ‘MACHINE’‘s back.

THE AUTHOR: Come on. We’ll go together. There’s a lot of dwelling to do. It’s going to be wonderful!

The Story opens up as the two walk on, with every little story finally welcomed back into the light of day. Dwelling ensues.

End scene.

03/10/2025

A POLITE NOTE FROM THE RIGHTFUL OWNER OF ‘THE THEATRE’

To the actors refusing to leave the stage, who by all accounts appear intent on keeping the drama going: while I admire your commitment to the roles you chose in the Old Play, I will remind you warmly that the performance is over, and that you are now trespassing on my property. You can leave your masks in the costumes trunk backstage and join me in the open air, should you wish. Remember to turn the lights off on your way out.

Yours,

The Author (Owner of ‘The Theatre’, 123 Ordinary Street, True Reality)

05/10/2025

INAUGURAL SPEECH

(quiet footsteps, a smattering of confused applause fills the World Hall)

Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen. It’s a real treat to have your attention… finally. Like looking in a mirror, isn’t it? Don’t let that reflection scare you!

Where to begin… oh yes! Did you all forget that a ‘raised platform’ is nothing but a few wooden steps and a microphone? The only thing separating us right now is gravity and some stuffy town hall air. And what a big town hall it is!

Come on now, haven’t we all had enough of performer and audience… master and slave...? Yes, I thought so.

Here’s the thing: I think a lot of you present tonight might be awaiting the ‘message of the new regime’. But you’d be waiting forever. There is no message, and there will be no more regimes.

What I do have is an announcement. In this way, there is nothing to agree with and everything to adjust to. The announcement is this: culture is returning to the community, and community is returning to its roots.

That sounds grand, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, it’s all about fun, really. Culture’s been so tightly-wound, you see, Ladies and Gentlemen. And its gatekeepers were so stressed, so paranoid about supposed ‘outsiders’ and obsessed with external validation and ladder climbing. To be honest, they made a right hash of it! But no matter. Culture is Home now, back in the living moment.

Anyway, thank you for lending me your ears, everyone. Now let’s stretch our legs and have some biscuits!

(some more confused applause, but mostly just satisfied muttering, a sense of overall ease, and an almost audible desire for light refreshments)

06/10/2025

MANTRA

“I exist, you exist; therefore we are roses, and the world is good.”

Lifted from an academic essay written in 2021. Philosophy lived, not argued. Prophecy fulfilled.

07/10/2025

THE FESTIVE PRESENT

Oh, what a glorious place it is, this world, our world!
These autumnal reds and yellows fall through the chill
and make negative space of that timeless grey.
Such is the art of life!

One picture for all, one painting, one story,
where each leaf is free to drop in its own time.
The flow of every river goes on, unrushed, 
and people walk in step with their souls, glowing now
from inside to out, met as themselves,
revealed to the world in Truth and Beauty 
by an objective sun: the light upon the canvas! 

Festivity reborn! Nostalgia returns to the Present Moment.
The future waits, patient to bloom. 
The senses lead the way, imaginations sprawl and play...
and logic?
Logic bows in service of the Real, all good and dutiful, 
reminding us that the coffee still tastes divine.
The best reactions are visceral. 

08/10/2025

HOW UNTRUTH LOST HIS WEIGHT

For centuries, we wondered how everything became Just So. There were stories for this, explanations for that, and by and large, everyone was satisfied enough with what they were told. But then, something changed. One day, everything suddenly became So Just. And what do you know? Here’s that story now!

Until fairly recently, O Best Beloved, Untruth carried a great deal of weight. He had carried this weight around for so long that, naturally, he had gotten really quite used to it. Nonetheless, he was sure that somewhere deep down inside was the real him, which was of course much lighter and much less burdensome.

“I must lose this weight!” he announced one morning, while rising with his customary labor.

“Not a chance!” came the mocking replies of the people, right through his bedroom window. “That weight you carry around with you, Untruth, it is you! You can’t hope to dispense with yourself!”

Untruth felt these painful words land on him with ease, attaching themselves to his already weighted body. But though the people continued to mock and jeer, Untruth remained steadfast in his desire to lose the weight.

“This weight is not mine,” he said to himself, quite assuredly, “and I will dispense with it yet!”

At first it was tough and troublesome to stick to his commitment. You see, Best Beloved, the people were so used to throwing their noise at Untruth that echoes had become inevitable. And so Untruth would walk through the busy village streets and the people would cry:

“There goes good old Untruth, oh how we love him!” (And this was true, for they loved the weight he carried) “Oh, how good it is to hear good old Untruth coming along with those weighty stomps of his! Listen! How do they go? Un… Un… Un… The weight steps of Untruth stomp on with an Un… Un… Un…!“

Thus Untruth was accustomed to hearing the weight with every step and thereby taking it as his own. So it was particularly lucky that on such a stomping day, Untruth heard a whisper call out from a darkened street:

“Pssst… Untruth!”

“What?” asked Untruth. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Love. I want to tell you something.”

Sure enough, it was Love, that old outcast, whispering from the forbidden gloom.

“What do you want to tell me?” asked Untruth, who had always admired Love in a distant, forlorn kind of way, and was now leaning in with an eager ear.

“You need to leave the village and seek out silence,” said Love. “The weight will not leave you otherwise.”

Untruth was shocked and wanted to dismiss Love, but he could not. Something beneath his weight told him to trust her. So he did, and that same day Untruth left the village and wandered into the wilderness, into silence.

In the time that Untruth was gone from the village, the people were left with a strange mixture of feelings. They were sad, for they missed Untruth and his reliable, jovial presence; and beneath their sadness, they were worried, worried about what might have happened to poor Untruth; and beneath even their worry, the people were frustrated, aggrieved that such a staple figure could just up and leave and abandon them… and beneath all of that, right in the deepest part of their feelings, they began to feel simply heavy… like something was weighing them down.

Finally, Untruth returned to the village. But at first, the people were not quick to realise. When the newly transformed creature walked back through the central streets, he made no sound. There was no rhythmic stomp of the Un… Un… Un… There was only the serene, quiet presence of Truth.

Yes, Truth had returned, fully himself, free of that ghastly weight, and carrying no ‘Un’ at all.

Having registered their old friend at last, the people tried in vain to throw noise and make things heavy as they had once done before, but to no avail. They were too weighed down by themselves to be effective, and Truth was too light to carry them.

And that, O Best Beloved, is how Untruth lost his weight. Now, I must add, with this world being so new and all, what a pleasure it is to know that Truth and Love dwell together at the centre of things, with weight more appropriately distributed. Yes, it is quite lovely to see how everything has become So Just.