(Photo is of Exmouth, Devon.)

Well, this is not the post, I had planned. I had something erudite and scholarly, yet post modern – the musical roots of this, that or the other.  The ongoing political injustice of so ‘n’ so, the joy of Japanese cinema, P-funk, Count Basie, Nu-metal and why we all need to know how to grow a vegetable. I will do that another time and will always have plenty of topics to explore in the ongoing 10,000 things of the Tao.

But right now I’m feeling dreamy, and a bit devil-may-care.

Ever get to a point in your own routines, where you feel, (despite the best will in the world and with all good intentions), in a bit of a rut? That your content schedule, practice regime, professional goals and habits are feeling somewhat rigid? Are you forgetting to savour life? Like Inchworm, ‘measuring the marigolds’ have you forgotten to actually smell the flowers that your creative life and soul has made it it’s business to create?

Small signs can be a giveaway and are in fact a gift from the subtle realms and from your own subconscious. Listen to them, for if you ignore them, bigger signs (illness, exhaustion, tantrums) can ensue. Unexpected internet crashes, flat phone batteries, sudden rebellions against the expectations of others or  self-imposed regimens. A sudden swerve into a much slower mode. Sometimes, in the midst of ‘busyness’, allow yourself to do things at a reaaaallllly laid back pace. You may notice a funny thing. The more slowly you work – you will still have time. And you may just do it better and with more presence and consciousness. As an artist, and as a human, it is necessary to dream. I’m not talking here about sleep dreams, or even the shamanic mode of lucid dreaming (both awake and asleep) that I cover, on occasion, in this blog. I mean…just trust yourself to drift, to muse, to meander, to potter. Have faith in the twilight mode – it’s a supremely rich soul landscape. Surrendering to it seems counter-intuitive for highly functional, motivated, speedy, successful people. But take a moment to remember where your art, your music, your poetry comes from. The soil of this playful, fruitful, non-rational, non-linear, right brain place. Here is smell, memory, free association, being-not-doing, love (lost and found) the murky contradictions of death and sex, decay and novelty, poetry, slang and broken vows, topsy turvy priorities, being enraptured (no, seriously…paralysed with pleasure) by the sunset. The still, yet thunderously present voice of nature, and the deep self that always, always knows and will tell us which way to go, if we just listen. The pregnancy at the funeral. The odd ache of pain that accompanies joy. The deeply intuitive, mystic profanely profoundly sacred mode, and sacredly rebellious, bilious sometimes libellous mode. The solace of silence. The open throated roar. The flood of gut wrenching sobs followed by manic laughter. Sheer bloody release.  The breaking open of the shell of the life you have created to bring forth a new phase. It can be frightening, inconvenient, yet exhilarating and clarifying. Especially if it brings social disapproval.

Once, long ago, I had a rebellion against my routines, against the containers (cages) I had set around myself. Late at night, in a deserted country lane, I lay down on the ground, in the road and took time to communicate with a passing black cat. We spoke, played and romped and I made animal noises. Slightly crazy. But to me, it was a break through back to true sanity and reality. I also have been known to leave relationships because I hear the (piercing, soul-calling, non-negotiable) voices of seagulls speaking truth to me. Let yourself walk in dreamland and receive visions. You can bring these fruits back to the daylight and thus is your art fertilised, revitalised. Descent and return – the eternal cycle. Honour it. Let it have its way with you.


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