Weekly Excerpts.


Chapter 1      


The people are not worried.  Not on this night of alien mysteries that silences all fire.  Woman’s hearth, hunter, and camps of the hidden, have no crackling fire.

This evening, as the dusk bringing sun paints green gray illusions across the great expanding plain.  The shadows cast are perceptibly unique, seemingly kissing the edges of the  standing blue stone circles of the many outlying worlds.  None of the naturally meditative people were worried, because so still the night, even the lambs were safe from the blood hungry wolves.  No matter what aggressive kind of  hunters of flesh, the calming veil over the forest, blankets its wild denizens with a mystical peace under the fragmented blinking skies of ever turning wheels.   The cool and murky atmosphere inspires no fires.  No need for the safety of ember popping fires on this sacred evening.  The wolf lies down with the lamb, embracing as one in the cave bear’s den.  All aggressions are dampened this night of silent fire.

Having exhaustively danced nature’s cooperation, not even the naturally dynamic sky would bring forth her mysterious heat lightning.  The moon turned her pale blue fire face from the night, as if to give passage to the stars appearing with so soft a focused brilliance.  The people, mesmerized by the dancing night skies, flew up as one single soul; to the outer rings of life’s influence.  Soft chants raise these powerful souls high to the place of no worldly memories.

The priests worked three months in preparation for the night of silent fires.  This was the biggest event in a land impregnated with strange mysteries.  To live a fire-less night happens only once in maybe 30 years.  It is the time of alignment with stars known only to a few priests working 3 or 4 of those years, to predict when the time is perfect.  When the blue stones sing.  When Lady Crescendjya sings the blue songs of stone.

The singer herself, prepared in baths of herbs and minerals deeply heated by the orbiting sphere’s life bringing breath.  The pool, a great bowl of lapis lazuli gently glowing many colorful hues, reflecting the memory of the full face of the blue fire sky watcher.  The water fall glistening a green and violet sheen of mystic light, flowing long splashing tendrils into the vivid twinkling;  yet calm waters.  Cascading streams of brilliant hues, caressing and hugging the erotically naked stones, as if remorsefully descending into a comparative darkness of unknown depths.  The spirit nourishing waters falling from some world of splendors, unknown to even these people of singing stone.  The moon?  The waters?  Something opened the petals of the deep purple and bright orange d’vang.  The perfume was so intoxicating, only a true blue stone singer could bear it, and breathe it in with every pore.  Only a highly trained and talented blue stone singer can allow herself to so willingly blend her spirit with such a dangerously mesmerizing scene.  Young lithe dancer Crescendjya, daughter of the great chief shaman Mosha is that stone singer.

Musatta, once a singer, gave way to the many seasons that have stolen her voice away.  Now, as it has forever been, for the aging one’s of this mighty station, she serves the beauty of the youthful singer.  Assuring the radiant scene is absorbed through the open heart of Crescendjya.  Musatta, retired singer, teacher, wise handmaiden of the young supple initiate, held out the cloths of absorbing for Crescendjya.   Musatta’s hands knew well the ways of igniting even more sensitivity, more openness to receive the winds of place and time.   With  strong still delicate fingers, Musatta traced the lines of power on Crescendjya’s freshly enlivened, warmed, perfumed, and hyper sensitive dripping skin.  These ritual baths of the bowed moon, cleanses the inward visions of the two woman priestesses preparing  themselves for the ceremonies of the rings of stone.  A long sacred path for others to follow. On the night of ascending spirits, the night the blue stones sing, the night of silent fire.

Tra-aegha, the high chief, stood as tall as the staff that precedes his immensity; his eminence.  The colorful light spears of his inner man shining brightly from a soul that tenders all things living.  Maalsh-aeghai, Tra-aegha’s mirror spirit, as all married woman were known to they’re men, shone a love on him that would drop a sylvan brute to his knees.  As so often it did.  These, a people rare, had no war weapons.  No need.  No army could stand they’re  presence.  No warrior, no thief, no heart approaching this world could pump a single drop of black blood.  The very unmentioned name of this land could bring dramatic transformations.  Therefore, the name be ever sealed away from those who would play with the weaving of fate.  Only on the night of silent fire are the gates opened to the lesser worlds, the  veiled worlds of the struggling material planes.  The very reason for the mammoth blue singing stones.


Tra-aegha, as with every such  powerful night, stood with the spirit of wisdom on his lips.  His eyes lifting to places unseen, unimaginable, for the many who sat before him on the field of the dull, green grasses of dreaming.  He looked deep into the past of the ancestors reflected on the faces and souls of the people sitting before him.  He watched as the star boats sailed into the vast frozen.  Going only where spirit winds would carry them.  This time, to a blue-green planet.  An azure emerald marbled sphere with white puffs of seeming nothingness floating over its firmament.  As always, they knew what they came for.  They knew an intelligence was involved with the lives found there.

They came to quarry a particular blue stone.  Enough to carry home and erect another, mirroring the one they erected as they quarried.  Yet another circle of blue stone standing in the ever-expanding plane of galactic travels.


Chapter 2.


It was a vivid night.  The sky was brilliant and the illusion on the land was striking.  It seemed the stars came in for a closer look.  A blue sheen surrounded the camps of the hunters and gatherers.  The people noticed a strange peace that fell on them.  Everyone was looking inward.  It might have been the shaman’s dance.  But he danced often, and nothing like this has happened in the past.  The people would know, because the people remembered everything.  They were strong and healthy of mind, body, and spirit.

Mosha, the chief shaman, raised his eyes to the stars so close that night.  He knew something was different.  Mosha checked the crystal he kept in his conical tent.  On the floor, next to the center fire with the flat stone hearth, lied his father’s small ceremonial drum, and his own large deer skinned rattle of spirit calling.  The rattle was a huge gourd, with his ancestors knuckle bones inside, to offer they’re counsel when shaken in a shamanic way.  Shaken to the four directions.  He checked the crystal to see if other camps were experiencing the same conditions of this night.  His vision was clear and powerful.  All people were at peace.  Animals were at peace throughout the land.  He pondered.  He found no meaning and wondered deeply.  After all, it was Mosha who held the safety of the people in his hands.  Ombram, the chief, stepped into Mosha’s tent.  He first cleansed with the sweet burning grass.  He drank of the bitter spirit water that always sits at the threshold of the shaman’s tent.  He prepared himself for a conversation with Mosha.  Such things are never taken lightly.  Nothing concerning the people was a light matter.  Survival demanded absolute awareness of everything.

Deep they went, chanting  into each other.  In spirit, they walked as one.  They walked to the place of dreaming within dreams.  They walked into a stone structure of concentric rings.  This is the place where they take unsettled spirits of disturbing people.  The circles held them while the shaman dealt with whatever might be the problem.  Some were kept forever, some returned to they’re source of birthing, others were dealt with and released.  None was taken lightly.   Tajet, the overseer of the circles was always present.  This is who they sought conference with.  From Tajet, they sought to learn of the night’s strange atmosphere.  They only learned the mystery is deep.  Tajet spoke with the voice of oak trees rubbing their trunks on each other.  Deep and moving, with unworldly authority.  He could reach out far beyond the bounds of the mortal world.  Tonight, he could not reach.  This mystery evaded even he who kept the long record of the people.  They passed smoke and offered prayers to the sky.

Returned now to the people’s camp.  The two dug deeply into they’re minds to try to say something of value.  The people didn’t care, they were already in deep peace, as if a sedative was carried on the winds.

Mosha took up his father’s drum and played and chanted.  The people went to the place of dreams.  It was all Mosha could do.  He allowed for the people to find their own way through this strange night.  No howls from the wilds.  No noisome winds blowing.  No night birds calling.  Even the clicking of the small grass eaters was silenced.  No bugs in the air.  Just a blanket of peace.

Mosha, done and spent now.  Stood and raised his arms to send the power out to the heavens and over all of the Earth.  Mosha froze.  The people gaped.  The sky was rent open.  The stars were gone and replaced with otherworldly wonders.  Great ships ascended.  The people had no concept of ships.  They knew not what they saw, yet somehow, they remained peaceful.


Chapter 3


It was the time of demise for the giant mammals. Some still remained. Sloths, pachyderms of a surprising array. Rodents, giant scaled lizards, crocks, and many things not found in the fossil record. Whatever died, was eaten. To the bone, very little escaped a belly.

The large mammals dined on each other, they loved they’re meat. Humans didn’t have much to offer, the people were safe from the giant ones. That is, if they move with the flow of things. If they warred, fought each other anywhere, they would draw attention from their carrion eating friends. Fighting meant death. Death meant easy fixings. And these were not above creating fresh carrion from weakened materials.

Energy begets energy. Anger draws the easily angered from the wilds.  Not a healthy emotion, but a great way to draw oneself inward.  Inward is the road to survival in a shamanic society.  Inward, yet powerfully connected with others, all things.  When the inner eye opens, there is nothing but the people in one’s vision. Or, whatever one wishes to see.  This gave a great peace, and a false sense of security.  The shaman was responsible for the people’s safety.  He accomplished this through ecstatic dance.  The people dance the fire circles around the camp.  In they’re minds they see the fire.  They project that fire around the dancing group.  A fire of protection, a fire of connection.  Now, they are of one mind, one body flowing as a spirit wind.  The shaman joins in, and the dance intensifies.  Soon, the earth is carrying the low tones of stomping feet into the wilds.  Trees are sounding boards that carry tones to the nesting birds and the leaf eating insects.  The earth carries the tones to the deep ground talkers, the giant ones who use they’re feet as ears on the earth.  The whole of nature is informed that the people are dancing, the people would soon be in trance.  The dwellers of the forest are now at peace, if the dance was true.  The shaman held the safety of the people in his hands.  Now, the people could journey to see they’re relatives.  They could find the herds that feed the people the best.  They could go to the herbal world and learn from the over-mind of the green healing helpers.  They could do what they could imagine.

The people survived because they were deeply grounded in the shamanic ways.  They knew science well through the labs within they’re minds.  They knew ways to make a variety machines.  Such concepts came naturally, simply by observing the mechanics of nature.  These things were not treated wholesale.  They were deeply considered, as would be anything that affects the people.  They knew machines could change social structure, that could be very dangerous in these times.  They could not fight over possessions, so they had to share all things, and own nothing but they’re clothes and shamanic tools.  The tools such as drums, bones, rattles, and weapons of the hunt were passed down from generations. Clothes were what someone was buried in.  When a birth was expected, the shaman would make something for the child.  These gifts became the heirlooms since the time of first memory.  The first time the sky opened.

It really was a very pleasent strole.

I Came Alive

Who am I?

I was wondering.

So I Came Alive!


There is you.

Now I have

another drive.


Where am I?

I was wondering,

so I moved on.


Where are you?

Did you follow me,

did your heart lead you?


Who are we?

Are we one where once

there were two?


Look at me.

Am I

the mirror of you?


Oh, but it’s true.

I can not love

without you.


Do you need me?

I was wondering.

So I Came Alive.

The Term ‘Stream of Consciousness’ and the Forgotten Modernist

A little poetic history for you.

Interesting Literature

‘Stream of consciousness’. You may have heard the term, but where did it come from, and what does it mean? The answers are perhaps surprising, and lead us to a forgotten modernist writer whom Virginia Woolf, among others, praised.

It is often claimed that the term ‘stream of consciousness’ was coined by philosopher and psychologist William James, brother of novelist Henry James, in his book The Principles of Psychology (1890). Sure enough, James himself gives us this impression when he uses the phrase when discussing conscious thought: ‘A “river” or a “stream” are the metaphors by which it is most naturally described. In talking of it hereafter, let’s call it the stream of thought, consciousness, or subjective life.‘ But this was not the first use of the phrase by a psychologist, and James was actually borrowing (to put it politely) an expression that had been coined some years…

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Holy Trinity Church at Dunamase

Here’s a photographer with his sleeves rolled up. Muddy shoes too. A kind of photojounalism we should embrace, and learn from.

Ed Mooney Photography

Holy Trinity (1)

I have visited the Rock of Dunamase on a number of occasions over the last few years, each time has always been a pleasure. So on my recent trip around County Laois, I decided to have a look around its much over looked neighbour, The Holy Trinity Church. No it is not the usual ruin that I would normally explore, in fact it is not even a ruin, but considering its close proximity to The Rock I wanted to have a look around. The small granite church and graveyard which are both still in use today, was built back in 1845 after the church at nearby Dysart was destroyed by fire. It belongs to the Church of Ireland and was never consecrated until 1849, supposedly  due to the famine. I always wondered, was there an older religious site here? Considering  the historical significance of its neighbour this would be quite…

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Classic Footage of Famous Writers – Mark Twain and Leo Tolstoy

Some think these videos disturbing. I find a closed mind disturbing.

Interesting Literature

Did you know Mark Twain and Count Leo Tolstoy were captured on film? Although they’re associated with the nineteenth century, both writers lived until 1910 and would be filmed in their final years when the technology was still in its infancy. (Mark Twain, who had been born two weeks after Halley’s Comet appeared in 1835, died the day after it next made its return in 1910 – something he had predicted would happen.)

As a Friday treat, we thought we’d share these two videos of footage of these classic nineteenth-century novelists.

First, Mark Twain, in 1909, filmed by none other than Thomas Edison. The footage was filmed at Stormfield, Mark Twain’s estate in Connecticut.

Second, Leo Tolstoy, author of War and Peace, in 1908 when he was an old man of 80.

Disclaimer: We share these videos here on a share-alike basis, since they have been made freely available by…

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It was a long shot.

She looked too good.

I had to try hard,

I hoped she understood.

That I’m down now,

but I will regain.

My control over

my personal pain.

It’s not that I’m shy,

I just felt down.

I’m the kind of guy

who likes to fool around.

Since she was there,

I jumped in her game.

If she were someone else,

would I have played it the same?

So now we’re rapping.

It’s really not hard,

to talk to her now

that I’m in her yard.

Let me say

it’s not cool to be shy.

Just say; “Hello”.

And be a natural guy.

Long Long Ago

This is a story of long ago.

The one where the man

stepped out of the wilderness

for the first time.


He looked around and thought,

hmm, this looks pretty good.


Then night fell.

He could not see the sky.

Could not find the stars.

This made him sad.


He went down to the river,

he could not drink the water.

He would not wash in the water.

He did not want to smell like that river.


He walked through the canyons

of glass and steel.

The air sickened his spirit.

He found no good foods growing.

This made him even sadder.


He came upon a young man.

He said; “Sit down with me son,

and I’ll tell you a story”.


I’ll tell you a story

of Long Long Ago.


When rivers ran clean

and the sky was all aglow.

When mountains and forests

were sacred places to go.


He turned to the young man

and said; “Now you tell me a story”.

The young man, still lost in wonder

had no words.

Just stared at the holes in his shoes.


I awoke into a dream.

It was the night the moon

fell from the sky.


The Moon


A strange pastel orange

rolled as a great wheel

across the garden royal.


Rolled, eclipsing the castle facade.

Having crushed the great paper

red roses bearing witness.

A red stained icon of her passing.

Leaned her great dark

against the too brown battlements

retiring her mystery

beneath the twinkling colors

of uniform stars.


The River


Tired of rushing unmoving,

stopped her pure blue manic

flowing to some mysterious

unknown place.

Living only in a child’s mind.


Romeo Screaming


Lent mirth to the disruption of all things.

Hysterical peals through a scattered land.

Chaos loosened feet, colors flying

through piccolo voices resounding from everywhere.


Ah, but Juliette.  Fair Juliette


With a single turn,

in the grace of angels,

stretched out her sequined arm.


Ah, Juliette.  Fair Juliette


With a single cry,

muting the flutes of Avalon.


Out sang the heavenly choir

accompanying the falling moon


By her single voice,

I slept out of my dream.


Daddy, Daddy, did you see me?


The house lights went on.