Norman Allan
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Norman Allan : the story   
for Ezra                            
book two: secrets             
          chapter six: the substance of life
and painting the city         

Chapter 1: Maybe Cynthia
                       Chapter 6: the substance of life and painting the city
Chapter 2: Past Lifes                                    Chapter 7: Three Portraits of Lucky
Chapter 3: Stoner                                          Chapter 8: Creep
Chapter:4: the Sacred                                   Chapter 9:The Psychic Lover
Chapter 5: Spring 2015                                Chapter: 10: the Devil's Story

Chapter 6: The Body Electric : the substance of life : (and the summer 2015)

some anecdotes and insights,


























Now a couple of weeks into summer: Ezra arrives tonight!

As I mentioned at the end of the last chapter: Spring, 2015, money is getting tight, Norman is getting despondent and, fearing "depression"; has started painting on larger canvasses and a new style - working on wet boards in an even more scribbly manner. Do we like it? It's different, that I can say.

Yes I like it. And further, fearing "depression" I have self-published my selected poetry (let me link you to this wonderful work), and… my short fiction and that has kept me from this text (NA:tsfE)

I was going to have a whole chapter on Ted Allan in Spain (TAiS), and in that I would tell the secret story of Ted and the Bethune film and Donald Sutherland's attempt to highjack the project... perhaps here as a footnote? yes, in progress

I was going to write a separate chapter on "genius", 'bout wrestling with "genius", and ego, but that too leaked into the last chapter. ... and you know..."

  ~ It's not much fun being a genius when you've got no one to play with.
  ~ It's no fun being a genius when nobody will listen.
  ~ It's rough being a genius when there are so many important areas of your life
      in which you are incompetent."
Oh and a dozen more...

There are two recent little anecdotes I'd like to write of.,
And of course I should speak of "the doom".

I should start telling the Devil's story…

There are a couple of new insights to write about, and re-highlighting some thoughts that go with these, and, finally, for now, with these    I have come to realise that I have been getting (nearly) everything backwards...      "energy"        "vibe"        "higher"        "quantum"     ...

But first, the ...

First Anecdote: There was this totally perfectly beyond glamorous very young woman posed by the subway, by the newspaper boxes outside, with friends...


























and I thought "I should tell her just how beautiful and artfully fashionable she is!"
       I went into the station a moment to sort out my subway ticket, sort out my belongings - I'm carrying an umbrella (there are dark clouds). Then I went back out to the teens; looked at, made eye contact with each of them (warmly, I though).
      The beauty - she had a tough face, amazingly striking, sharp - she says, calmly, frankly, "Not today, thank you."
      I was, ah... nonplused : that's the word.
      And her friend says to her (a sort of public private thing): "Not today, Satan."
      So I said, "I thought you looked stunning, and just thought I should say so."
      And she says, "We thought you were going to insult me."
      "Oh, no," I said. "I came back to say you look beautiful, and to give you this flier, this link," and I hand her the now somewhat scrolled up flier for TAiS and (this work) NA:tsfE.

Everything backwards?

inside out upside down

what I have accented

think pattern, I've said
don't think "energy"
cause energy is an empty word

don't think "vibe" man, or frequency
think pattern spatially
(vibrations manifesting in matter)
but don't vibes have feelings?
yeah, but spatial patterns   rock

don't think higher is higher
lower is deeper
all the octaves sing

and there is more    surely

and that when folk talk of quantum this and that, I've sneered. "Your quantum logic " I say "is: quantum is a mystery and mind is a mystery. therefore mind is quantum."

And then along comes Emilio del Giudice and the return of the oscillating dipoles!: and...

(note: this is how the dipoles started out before del Giudice analysed them!)

and I'm all agog about     the substance of life...

the skinny: what they been saying, new agey Blavatsky/Theosophy-type people...
about vibrations, higher frequencies: there is a physics... it is there, here, existing
and it goes like this...

and.... I started writing about this here, but then moved it to it's own page/article/posting. It's's a taste, and then go see

"bulk water" is a mysterious and wonderful substance. However, its has recently been discovered that water, where is interfaces other stuff, has very different and remarkable properties. There is, for example, Pollack exclusion zone water. And then there is the work of del Giudice and his colleagues with "quantum coherent domains"... (see, for example Ho)

water, in living systems, animals, plants... water sings! It is a vibrating/pulsing plasma of quasi-free electrons and protons oscillating as coherent (laser-like) quantum domains. Emilio del Giudice looked for the signals, looked at the behaviour of water, and he found "Quantum Coherent Domains".
      We are pulsing electrical plasmal fields. (footnote: Giudice)

      If you want to think about chi and prana, if you want to think about chakras and meridians, think about them, at least, in the context of... interacting with pulsing coherent e.m. fields - electric/quantal water: echoing everything (everything in it, and everything it is in) singing "the body electric".: an electric plasma in water!      quote: "interfacial water should be almost completely coherent..."  think   electric plasma !

Yesterday, at my friend Linda's, just before leaving, I was knelling by the cat, Kliban, my hand touching (but not resting on, not pressing down) over her sacrum, but now with the thought that our (living) flesh is electric plasma, and I reckon I felt and saw (internally) the fields! (as light)

Plants too, an oscillating/vibrating electrical plasma: alive.

so go see

some thoughts on the substance of life (and foundations of consciousness)

I'll leave some of the pictures from this "paper" here though, so

                                                                    just scrool down past them




but beyond  : some thoughts on the substance of life (and foundations of consciousness)

A break from heady stuff...

                I started painting on larger panels: painting "washes" on wet panels... and last Sunday I took an extra panel to the A&LC session to draw "crudely" as a wash...


Second Anecdote:

I was walking down Yonge Street. It bustled. This is a nice multicultural metropolis as cities go, but cities are not friendly, not loving to "life".
     The sidewalk was quite crowded. Behind me the air was pierced by a child, and infant's "ugly" complaint - that ugly screech that, banking on that those around will not beat it silent, compels them, those around, to do something to assuage, to stop this most unpleasant scream. (How shall we write it? "Aeeeeeeaaa!." Loud and vocal; raspy; piercing!)
          ~ Oh, now I've got it, stuck on a bus next to another tot's incessant cry: it's rage, tantrum

     (In homeopathy we have the concept/description of "the ugly child", the brat. We treat them with Chamomila.)
     So, this screech (back on Yonge Street) goes, "Aeeeeeeaaaa!" Then there is a silence, a pause. Then, "Aeeeeeaaa!" again. Silence, calm, a breath. Then the ugly, grating, "Aeeeeeaaaa!"
      I thought, I must see the context of this ugly screech, and I stood to the side to let them catch up.
     A young couple, not particularly noteworthy, the young woman pushing a stroller with a tot, perhaps sixteen months, almost certainly a girl: calm, self possessed, singing to Yonge Street, "Aaaeeaa!" Calm pause and breath. And again, just rehearsing this potent tool, just sing to herself and Main Street, "Aaaeeeaaa!"
      Rehearsing, celebrating, this potent, dangerous songl.

(Is the following a poem?) Tantrum

On the bus another "ugly" child's interminable assault upon the world: and now it seems simple... it's rage... we, in our infancy, rage... "the tantrum"... we rage, till the rage breaks... to poor me first and then to sorrow...
     This is then a crux of the human condition: that as babes we rage till our rage breaks in sorrow...
     and how much of our person is formed in this drama: in the patterning of our tantrums? saint or devil from the passage of our ire.
       Oh, "ire" is misspoken here, ire is cold: and tantrum's chaos. But "ire" sounds good... so better art than truth, and "clarity: would be a truer word than trtuh here but I thought "truth" had wit. And so from "anger", and "clarity" back to confusion... because the days run on...

The Devil's Story

I met a very interesting man, oh a while back, but there is much I need to speak of now. Luk (that's pronounced somewhere between Luke and look) will figure in the devil's story, and I should start to tell that. I met Luk in the park. It was his dog that drew me. Reminded me of Lucky. "Zander" is a cattledog, a blue heeler. Zander is beautiful: and 'minds me Lucky's spirit.
     And Luk is an interesting fellow too. Self-taught (left school at fourteen), knowledgeable and alert. Agreeable. Perhaps forty years old. A stoner. Worshipful, respectful, of the weed. "If the weed doesn't render me somewhat 'psychotic', I know there's something missing!"
      I was round at Luk's the other day, quite stoned as usual, there, of course, and Luk played us a couple of videos. A wonderful Alan Watts piece (about life and dream), and a piece (of philosophy) called "The Purpose of Life" whose thesis was that pain leads to love. "Aeeeeeeaaa!"

        Ah. My father's favorite Chaplin song: "It's love love love love love love love."
        But we've talked before about "The Tyrant's Option" (just take it!)
        And pain, pain leads to anger, frustration, rage, before it leads to love.

Luc shares Zander with and ex: four days with Luk, four days with Jeffie: and that's a source of anger in Luk's life.

Another (minor) insight. I was thinking a short while back that societies and cultures are among the best examples of Darwinian systems: of the change and "evolution" of systems through variance and selection. (Long live the healthy meme!) How force and aggression are often "successful" in the short term (hence all the tyranny that surrounds us). How cooperation is often fittest in the long run (and, indeed, through "natural selection" in animals, might this not be the source of affection?)
       I got into an interesting conversation on the subway! Social Darwinism! More than just tyranny, at least in the long run.

force and anger, "fittest" only in the short term
  but just a downer in the bye and bye   
         cooperation, a survival advantage over the long haul   (hence affection?).
ear, too, is useful,
                          and   while daring is dicey, it can be essential.

A month of summer gone. Where are we going? I took my writings here on the vibrating fields in living systems and restructured them as an article...

some thoughts about
The Substance of Life
and Foundations of Consciousness

I asked a new friend on Facebook (an old friend) to read SoL: John says "Well, Norman....I got through the first line and decided to defer to your knowledge. I have absolutely NO IDEA what it means." I guess that calls for a major rewrite!

Ezra came home late in the evening. A few days ago his reaction to my financial squeeze was that I should get an honest job: I should get up in the early hours and work in a bakery... and how much should a say in answer? I am inquiring at the cafe (and learn they bake from 2am to 6am).
      I discussed with E my involvement with Pablo and work, how Pablo seems to want me to stay sober if he is going to help me. E says "Just don't tell him," but honesty is essential here. I will say more about Pablo and my debacle...    ah (sigh)    below,    below
     I showed Ez the days painting (see just below).
     Ee urged me to smoke with him. I had toked earlier, and better judgment said no, but... an opportunity to hang with E... we sat on the front porch and finished his    ah a sky high little reefer...
     and I read Ezra (from the tablet, at night) my new enthusiasm: some thoughts on the substance of life.

But now, to continue, I will show you, first, yesterdays session at the A&LC (the last before the August break), and then, before we go further, I must speak of the doom...

This is drawing a wash on wetted board, this time relatively dried (dripped and blotted)

not a wash



just a pen line drawing (26 x 16)

the last (of Sunday the twenty what July's)
doesn't quite work, yet
so far, it's a wash

oh, it works quite nicely cropped

fixed it!


and the sketches for that session

though I think these nudes, below
were later/last of my drawings in this session



I must write about the doom


the doom

May 2014 (a year ago): sitting on the floor on the sitting room, rather stoned. Don't remember what I was doing, drawing, writing, thinking, meditating... there was a sudden pain, the upper part of the abdomen just right of central: "like being shot in the belly with a 12 gauge shotgun," thought at the time. (Later added the descriptor, "or kicked in the belly by a mule.") It lasted, I think, about 30 seconds (a long time). And in my ideation I identified this event, this pain, as a "doom": somehow associated with the "pastlife", with deep spiritual meaning... but what?
     And yes, weve tried to work this up medicinally, diagnostically... but, a year gone, I have not yet a diagnosis. (4)
      It recurred, the severe spasms, though each time a little less severely. It recurred perhaps 6 or 8 times over 4 or 5 months, fading out. Ah, and most important, it recurred only when I was very stoned! but did not cause a moderation of my use of cannabis. (The "whatever" change with toke is so important, so valued - the whatever-it-is that I so value... What is it?) The differential (diagnosis) then shifted towards "irritable bowel" and perhaps the several things I did, I changed, in that regard... Then it, the spasms, faded... other problems came... Jacinta, then Reynaud's Syndrome in January, missed heartbeats in February... and then the visceral spasms returned some... changed though...       Now I can not distinguish whether they are: I think they are a general vagal spasm (5) including spasms of the biliary ducts, colon, heart...

So of interest, perhaps, is my continued use of weed, grass, when perhaps it might be hastening my demise. And that I cannot divine the "spiritual" meaning of "the doom". It teases...

it's a blog, it's an effing blog, Luk said (of NA:tsfE)
(post it as such)


Walking up the "dog hill" in Monarch Park, the other day, I recalled how a few years back somebody spread broken glass in three spots at the top of the hill. It took days to clean most of it up. As far as I know, no dogs were injured, but the intent was there.
      There is malice. Angry folk just throwing spite at the world... two poems, to follow...

first here's Lucky looking towards that dog hill...

looking through my "pet" photo files (for the dog hill) brought again sadness, mourning...where does the time go?

Somebody dumped these tons of rubbish on the park I use!

still there a month later, and beyond (it's somewhere between "thoughtlessness" and malice: an "Eff you, you pick up my mess!")

re. malice: Dostoevsky writes (in The Gambler) "... pleasure is always of use, and savage, unbounded power - if only over a fly - is a pleasure in its way, too. man is a despot by nature, and loves to be a torturer."

Still with "spite"... back when Tee and I were breaking up, one evening, during one of our "arguments", I I noticed a spiteful impulse/thought/feeling, and wrote...

Spite Speaks

I am his own devil
who skews his eyes
and covets the purse
and the pussy
who stifles delight

I am his curse
his I'll be damned
I sour the milk
of all my achievements
piss off

I'm just mean
spike you for spite
spit in the face
of all your longings

I scorn to be soft
I grab for
with fist
to be first
take what's before me

I'm Lord of the Manor
or some angry madman
in gutter cursing
fuck you arse hole
I'm better

did i mention that my ancient "dreamweaver" 4.0 has recently revolted/degraded and I can not longer manipulate table? I was going to put the second malice poem above on the right... but that will have to wait...: meanwhile it goes below...

what's up

what the up
are we chasing
over the moon

of course approval comfort
those things
and the ultimate thrill

sex them genes
live ease swhat's up
all them fancy free
and the devil's backlash

they are chasing hell down here
some of the sad
some of the glad angry devils
scouring our kids

that's what's up
going down!
that's what's up


Two months of summer gone

will I write of one or two minor frictions I've felt toward Ee? but they are not special : why bother us (Oh: put them in a footnote! he gloats (6))

ez and the market painting cityscapes

Ezra spends a lot of his Toronto busking time nowadays in the Kensington Market at a favorite spot on Baldwin.
     A Saturday at the end of August I went to spend some time "hanging" with him. He greets me. Will I draw a picture for him? He points north across the street to roofs, tree, walls, grafitti. "This is what I watch all day. Can you paint me a picture?"
     Of course, there in the light, and in the shadows, he finds God. Can I, I wonder.

I paint almost nothing but faces and bodies. It's interestinh to try something new. I'm grateful for the exercise.

So first a stab at verisimilitude:
representational ism

Not bad for a first attempt


And then two quick impressions. They remind me of Dufy's work, so we'll call them Fauvist songs.


And then a long sad saga with some alcoholic Michael - sad weepy eyes, as much conceit as me - I'll spare you the change

I returned again on Monday to Ezra at his spot on Baldwin. He pointed to house, tree, sky. Said he sees sails in the sky  ...               




Oh, and "Paint me a picture of a wheelchair with wings"



Ezra has scant sympathy for my lack of funds. Of money, he's the master, bossless,
                 his accomplishment     and Bach       and God      rain change     and fiver, tens...
It's a source of pride. "Do you feel accomplished in your art?"
     "And yet you've not tried what I've coached."
     "Last year I sat for two hours on the steps of Trinity St. Paul's. No one, barely a soul, even looked>"
     "Two hours! I'm there all day. And they musy see you drawing, to be intrigued. And you must put out a hat. Take the car. take several paintings. Try different places."
      Tomorrow, I wrote in my note book... Today I type... Ez says I will become a legend in Toronto.... if i put in then hours.
      I'm off to the streets...     to the Annex. To Trinity St. Paul's... street signs and pidgeons...




Okay: that's the cityscapes from my first three sessions on the streets...   a new horizon.

Linda wasn't in love with my Paris piece (behind the study door), wanted something more lyrical, and swopped, pieces and places. Now I hang right their with Norval...

No one is reading my memoir. (If you are, send me an email and I'll continue.) This time I am "depressed" (money stuff/pressure). 27August 2015... big "so what". see you later...

oh, carry on anyway...

Pablo Rodriques' daughter and the missing phone call: Pablo and I were working on a scheme to promote my Practice: to bring me income. He sent his daughter to me for knee and back problems. We fixed them in one session - but a became confused about scheduling of the follow up session, and then awkward... and nothing is transpiring

meanwhile Leery Larry : Leery Larry has been into me for $10 and another $10 and another $10 over three years and then tried to hit me up for another $10: he seemed so sad, so desperate for his fix, whatever, I said, okay but this time I cannot afford not to be repaid promptly... I gave Larry another last chance (a month on and I've managed to recover $5)

and, meanwhile, Ez says: Don't slag the guru. Don't slag anyone. So we are just going to sing Ezra's praise...

Music as Buddhogen

Ee's as complex as any of us
but he spends his days
his life playing music
which lends him some bliss
cause it spills him into wordlessness
highlights flux (the mirror of impermanence)
and makes emptiness easy

music: the void that dances

more (a last word: here) on the doom and suspension...

In March 1070 the baby was a year old. I was in the last throws of writing up my doctoral dissertation. I was coming up four years into being a "head", or "freak": a free toking member of the counterculture. I was also a bit of an asshole in relation to the babies mother, my wife. I was a philanderer still hoping to compete with my father: a would be sword man. Oh, Karin and I would grow into each other; later.
     Meanwhile the marriage was unwinding in my "tune in. turn on and drop out:later hip toke on the world: there was a problem that Karin and I hadn't "tripped" together. We were planning to. That march. We were staying a few days in my mothers flat in London (she was away). Sleeping in my old teenage room. The playpen set up as a crib for Jess.
     But: I got into a snit. It might have been something as simple and stupid as that Karin didn't want to trip with me : and that was important: so important (I couldn't, wouldn't communicate and respect her in the quotidian world. I (therefore) needed something special). I went and camped across the hall in my sister's old bedroom: and sulked.
     I'll drop the trip anyway. And I did. Some while later - tripping - I realised how silly and stupid I was being. It was night now. I weny through to karin and the baby (in my old room). I got into bed with Karin.
    "I'm sorry." We cuddled. we made love.
     The orgasm spilt me to another place - was a switch point - a crossing inot "the other reality." Oroborus, the great worm / dragon that consumes its own tail (infinity), went by and taped me on the shoulder.

This is 45 years ago, and though I'm sure I've written about it a couple of times, I can't find these writings : nor remember a great deal of detail. Perhaps I said something, asked something, perhaps just shift over a little.
"Do we have to?" Karin muttered (from sleep?). And this question had a very special meaning (my trip mind knew). Karin was asking whether we had to survive, had to go on living!
     With this question, I flashed to another space and time: I was an eleven year old Palestinian child in Gaza, on a beach, by a hut, a hovel. I tended the mules. Life was bleak. I did not wish to be there.
     I came back to my room, my bed (a narrow single bed). I understood that this would be my next life if I were to die soon. "Yes," I said to Karin. "We have to" go on living.
     The next long part, happenings, of my acid trip in dream, in fantasy space... I remember nothing more of it until just before the end, the "switch back" place. I was in afield. I was both a gentleman with a shotgun, and a bird, a quail (I think) wondering whether to break cover, to flee, to fly...    it was an important decision!
     A puzzle. An imperative. Then: what? The switch. And, "Something's wrong. Something wrong with the child?" I looked over to the playpen/crib. No. ... wrong with the fire? The gas fire (which was burning, just there beside the bed). I looked at the fire: fine: and there was a flash, something red: deep red.

     I was now fully back in here/nor (there/then). And I was elated. Felt I had sailed through epiphany.
     (The universe a ball of yarn wound round eternity, life's continuing round and round, and I (delusion of grand self reference), I was John Lennon last time around (or next?) ) Never mind.

Three months later: I had submitted my thesis, but not yet "defended" it. We still planned to go abroad, but no longer with Jeff and Margot to Afghanistan - we'd probably travel to Spain. We had bought an old Land Rover when we had more exotic plans. Now we got it repaired and certified as roadworthy. A few days and less than a hundred miles on from that road-worth certification: driving up to London on the Guilford Road, Karin, Jessi and I: something happened, something snapped and we were drifting into the oncoming traffic: fighting with the wheel and no control. We sideswiped an oncoming car. Perhaps that will push us back into our own lane...

I woke up in hospital. The baby, now 16 months old, toddling: deep laceration on her left wrist. 13 years later, in the garden, in Toronto, a little piece of glass, of the windshield, popped out of Jessi's arm. Karin, however, was badly concussed. Edge of life and death a while. And ongoing, a change of personality: she became markedly bipolar, for years, and suicidal.
     The police issued me a summons for careless driving: but, Ted found me a postdoctoral fellowship at York. U. (Toronto) (6) and so the reckoning with the Magistrate was put on hold.

A long year later, and a little bit, I was back in England with an unavailing life: and I was going down to Guilford assizes ion the morrow: and tossing and turning I thought, "What it I got my foot caught under the brake," and an image of this... (I wrote about this, in the last chapter apropos of "false memory", you will remember.) My God, I'm responsible... a little numbing, such thoughts.
    At the assizes, an inspector from the Ministry of Transport approached me and informed me that the suspension had snapped, had snapped at an old welded breakage point. The vehicle should never have been certified, he said. Jessi's lacerate wrist (with tendons) and small scars on her cheek (and chest). My 47 stitches on my scalp. Karin's bludgeoned life.

So, forty five years on: Michael Bell is dying two hours away by was in waterloo Ontario and this short while we've known this I offered to drive Linda if she might want a car, and/or a driver.

Painting the city:   a moment's break for....

Some more cityscape drawings for Ezra. "Paint the tree," Ez asks. "Nice: but where is the life, where is the light of God?"
    In the Waite Tarot Pack (10), I think it is in the Tower, what's her name, the artist, has (at Waite's direction) painted in the air these little golden flecks : "yods" some text explains (for YHVH: for Jah) - the light of God... hence the tree below...







another day

looking west from the south side of Bloor at Trinity St. Pauls'.

In the market I drew Otis and gave the drawing to Otis' people. And so tha man in the juice stall gave me a juice.

In the morning I had drawn Marcelo, and gave tjhe drawing to his Mother: made $5, and a friend perhaps.



I report on the day.
Ez highfives
(and cackles)



suspension: So to drive to Waterloo, two hours, to say farewell to Michael Bell, Woon (7) and Shirley (8) would come too - a full car. My Echo is small, so I asked Linda if her old Mazda is reliable, and might she prefer that comfort, and we take Linda's car. I will chauffeur...
     It was a crawl through the city down to the Gardner Expressway. A ten click jaunt to the 427 link north, and on the ramp to the 427 I touch the brakes to slowdown a touch, and there are no brakes...

     Oh: a missing relevance... A night or two before, I was round at Linda's (as was Shirley)... perhaps it was then that we were discussing whether to take her car or mine, and LInda said, let's take hers, "...As long as you don't get your foot caught under the brake! (I had told the tale of my accident to Linda, and now explained it briefly to Shirley.)
      So, going to slow down on the ramp, no brakes. I pump the brake, pump pressure back into the line. (I put my hand on, and think about, the hand brake.) We get on the highway, the 427, I test the brakes - no pressure, foot and pedal slide to the floor. Pump pressure back. Tell the occupants what's going on. Wonder, and discuss, how safe and whether and where to pull off the highway. We make the turn onto the 401 east and take the second exit to a street: Hurontario. Not too far north (having passed several gas stations that would seem to have no mechanics on site) we see, on our side, a Brakes and Transmission Shop, and stop.
     Dhillon says he can look at the brakes in fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. We wait.
     Dhillon puts the Mazda up on, what do you call it? is it a gurney? (They go up and down so you can get under the car: your what do you call its.) Dhillon's son is in the car, pressing the brake. And there is no problem with the brakes! But Dhillon has found that the right rear suspension is broken. We should not go back onto the highway. Does he think we can drive home? Yes. Take it slowly. And we do.
     Dhillon spent close to a half an hour on our car. (He topped up the brake fluid for us: it did not take much: there was no problem there.) And Dhillon refused payment.

So I am inclined to think that this was a small miracle: and that it somehow rounds out my suspension karma.

     And the "doom"? Some how relating to the gentleman in the field, the quail in a quandary (and a hundred and twenty baby chicks sacrificed to "science" and hubris): and the doom, I believe, is on hold.

And back in our cityscape: it is drizzling a little, so Ez is under an awning of Baldwin: I am across the road on a covered patio with tables, working a while on a drawing - coming slowly, coming slowly, complex, and will it work... and I'm maybe halfway there: and Ezra comes over. "This I love!" (Ezra has paid me $100 for four more of the cityscapes: the $100 to be dedicated to finding a Yoga instructor the design me a problem for my heart!) "This is one of the four. It is musical! Patricia will love it. I will frame it and hang it in the house." (And for me it was as yet unfinished. And others agree with Ez. They like it.)

a few words
and images
to wind up

summer's almost gone
but beautiful today

I'm off to sit with Ez
and learn from the city streets

Chapter 7: Three Portraits of Lucky



Chapter 7: Three Portraits of Lucky



Stuff, when it is on it's way to happening, is a field of possibilities, but when it happens it is discrete (pixellated/quantal) energies pulsing.

Molecular interactions are a matter of charge, space/form, and vibration/resonance.

Music is (one of) the archetypal vibrational (things) systems.


When wondering "where" consciousness is, don't forget the e.m. fields (bones crystals!).
          and the dimensions within...          and the dimensions beyond...

as a blog: NA:tsfE:aab


what's going on~ CNS iteration

~ resonant phenomena (?)

(with iterations (cf. Poincare's recurrence) are "48", "241" of significance: or are they particular to the particular iterative devise/process Ian Stewart described?)

~ in the interaction of molecules, are only fundamental frequencies of importance, or are musical intervals "harmonies" relevant?

(musical language is not necessarily relevant: e.g. in music the intervals - minor seconds, major seconds, minor thirds, are counting up from the fundamental in twelfths, and in fact: a half of a fundamental is "an octave" (an "eighth'),
a third of the fundamental is going to be "a major sixth" (I think),
a quarter will be "a diminished fifth/augmented fourth"

~ that is at once almost infinitesimally small and almost infinitely large

~ M theories posited another 15(?) dimensions (inward to those?)



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