These Juxtapositions are just positions

26 July 2024 - for Love will kill what is not Love

I’m a big Leprechaun. Inside of my mind. I am so strong. I am afraid. I can hurt people. With my words. For the words can flow so easily and powerfully. As plenty of people have told me before. That my words have helped. But plenty of people also have told me that my words have hurt, have cut to the bone like sharpened knives, right through to the marrow. For words are sword-like. Double edged. Heavy. Hard to handle. Need to be treated with great care. To defend or to attack. Words of peace are rarely so effective, in the midst of danger, in a battle, when the blood is surging through the synapsis and the heart is raging, fuelled by pain or lust or frenzy or fear.

“The hands of the King are the hands of a Healer” - are words from J. R. R. Tolkien - from his epic writing of The Lord of the Rings.

It’s the part where a common person, a mid-wife in the tale, makes the comment, as the true nature of the character of Aragorn becomes known for all to see.

It’s the nature of a man who has lived a double life, in faith, yet cursed and tormented by the destiny of his birth and lineage - for his line age is of old - so old as to be forgotten, denigrated to faerietale, myth and legend, no longer believed-in, no longer recognised, no longer seen, no longer known.

This strong and gritty character steps through Shadows and goes by the name of Strider, for he walks far, takes deep breaths and long steps, covers great distances, keeps to himself, hooded, craven, silent, watchful, every ready to spring into action.

Strider is the epitome of an “intense” character.

A thousand pages later, it becomes known that this man who walks among the dead, who fights against the immortal Nazgul ghouls, who cares for the little people, who carries such a weight of sadness in those deeply forlorn star-gazing eyes, is descended of the Ancient Kings, from when the World was young.

Tolkien’s imagination filled my teenage mind to the brim, fuelling my world view with a stamina of epic proportions, sustaining my ability to live in Other Worlds than merely the mundane surface shell of school life and home life.

Tolkien’s World also helped to keep me free from religious imaginings, so that those men in black, who preach from pulpits, had little effect on my views of the after-life nor on the transmigration of souls, from life-time to life-time.

My parents were simple salt of the earth type of people, not overly educated, but at least, they were worldly, and had travelled enough to have lived in London for a decade, from the 1960’s into the 1970’s.

I’m the youngest of 4 children, born with asthma, into an emotionally suppressed atmospheric home life environment in the suburbs of Catford and Lewisham, where alcoholism was a necessary way-of-life for Catholic Irish men, working on the building sites, where the wages were paid in the pubs, where all the wheeling-and-dealing was done and dusted by the bar.

And from there, we migrated back to Ireland, back to my fathers’ Father’s land, to buy 5 acres from his brother, to build his own bungalow and become a self-employed carpenter and builder, raising a few calves, while raising our little crew of 4 kids.

We all had English accents, therefore, as kids, and despite being Irish to the core, we got ostracised in school as being English none-the-less. I like to play-on-words, to miss-spell on purpose, in a phone-ethical kind of way, and so, words like ostracise always want to be written as ostrich-sized, as in too big to fit in with the chickens, and so sticks its head in the sand to hide its size and its funny features, to not be recognised, to not be picked upon and pecked at, for being larger than life to the other in-habit-ants of the chicken-farm-battery-hen-prison-pen of modern Nations.

So, suffice to say, we never quite fit-in and we never really tried.

Hyper-independance is a sign of child-hood abuse -efence mechanisms, and although it took a long time to “come out in the wash”, it turned out that Dad had been kiddy-fiddled a little bit by the local parish priest, around the time of puberty, of what the Catholic Church calls “confirmation”. Luckily for him, it didn’t continue on for years, but even so, it sent him off on a rebellious path that had it’s innocence thwarted, and made him inherently distrustful of authority figures.

Only after my dad died, did my Mom tell me that she’d also been touched as a child by the hands of a religious man, at some early age, when she’d lived with her aunt and uncle. My Mom was living with in-set dementia by the time of life that she started to remember these kind of earliest episodes that formed her inner core world views.

So, in it’s roundabout way, what I’m writing about here today, is the Shadow Self reflections in the Dark Mirror of the Psyche, as the shape of things to come in Life, which found their foundations in the first 7 years of childhood. In those first 7 years, children soak up what's in the social atmosphere, and through some process that's little understood, each individual mind somehow forms a self-identity and a sub-conscious “story”, as a background, somewhat buried, beneath the developing foregrounds and psychological landscapes of our journey through this mortal coil, in the tails we spin, in the tales we are told, in the meanings and interpretations that we fix upon.

That’s a strange blueprint that we all live with, though, obviously, with most, it’s an unknown shade, outside of the visible spectrum of the rainbow view of the outside world that we all naturally “take for granted”.

OK, maybe that’s not so obvious to every one, because the Shadow is hidden, occulted, buried, blurred and a-voided, at all costs, like the bogie-man under the bed, and the skeleton's in the closet. We’ve all had night-mares at some stages in our child-hoods, and we’ve all wanted to wake up from those night-terrors, and to be comforted and reassured that those images and scenarios are “not real”.

….

So, here’s the way life goes.
I had to go round and get some milk from the shop.

With my mind wide open with the flow of writings, with words tumbling thoughts as I walked, so when I came back, I recorded this video, to try to show the way things go with the neuro-diveristy in the fey uni-verse-city scapes ….

Things take time, and I spent the rest of the day til dusk working on getting the gardening done for my kids’ granny.

So, here I am, early morning reading back over yesterday mornings rambling, and ambling along, not scrambling yesterday’s half finsihed flow …

I realise that I write can often get very long and wordy in the writings, and I’m usually quite happy that the presentations can be scrappy. I’m not wanting to present as some finished work of art, but moreso simply give in-sight and shine a light into the plight and flight of the poetic mind-fields on this-play in the shadow-realms beneath the surface of communications.

But that’s enough for this morning.

I’ve got to tidy up for Granny, and give back the borrowed tools to the neighbour.And actually, I’ve still got to upload the other writing from this week, which I written on the face book, but not shared here.Like I said in the video yesterday, I’m glad that there’s some folk reading here, who are not on the facebook, cos it helps me kinda speak directly to ye here - especially Aiden and Alison, thanks for the consistant comments and the actual virtual friend ships of active participation, so that this doesn’t seem, to me, like mere paddling in the pools of some deep darkest caves, like the Gollom of stories who’s lost his magic ring of invisibility.