Three. The family often dabbled into the metaphysical world and practices of talking with the other side through tarot cards, spirit guides, crystal balls, ICHING, and channelling, which is the entering of a spirit into one’s body to communicate beyond the dead. There was even a psychic church they all went to, the father, the mother, the eldest son, and the youngest. Around the age of 14, when hormones and ego collide, the youngest son took keen interest in joining the adults at night time for family gatherings to channel. Mainly to learn this skill to attract young girls who found it sexy and mysterious, he took part in the art hoping to one day perfect it. However, in one of the sessions his father brought the spirit into his body, and even looked to change shape, opening his eyes and staring at his son, but as if it were another person, even more muscular, even more bold, even evil. This moment passed, and the spirit had nothing to say, like the passing of a cold wind through an open bathroom window, the room was clear and the tension gone. Following this experience began the torments. Dreams of being beaten, and waking-up physically removed from his bed, yelled and screamed at and scratched, and waking with scratches. So came the white witches, so came the exorcists, so went the problem. However, years would pass and this young boy became a young man of 23 with a 2 year old daughter, and married. Walking down the street one night, with a co-worker who was a slender man named Frank, four men attacked them. He felt his body change shape, he felt his voice deepen, he could see the four men as if watching them from above and could hear and see their every movement. “Come on, if you want to fight lets fight”, he yelled. “You think your tough, you think you have jail experience, you think you can fight, I will show you what it feels like you fucking pussies, I will rip your head off and shit down your throat, I will strangle you here and now and there will be no life left in you, I am going to make you pay for this moment.” They surrounded him in a circle, almost as if in a ritualistic fight, the oppressors had no idea that the man they thought they met was removed, survival has stepped in and out, and allowed for the entry of hell on earth. The first oppressor came from behind, but as if twisting to through a shot put, he punched the oppressor so hard he cartwheeled onto his head, out cold. The second came from behind, getting tossed in a head and arm throw into the cement. The third ran for a car, while the other two began running in the opposite direction down the street as the possessed man began undoing his belt and screaming “I am going to teach you boys a lesson.” Following the one to the car, he slammed the third oppressors head in the car door, put his fingers deep into his mouth, stretched his cheeks, and then shoved him backwards. The laid out attacker dropped the car keys, and these were picked off the ground and tossed onto a building.
The reality is, this shadow came into him to protect him when he was not at his strongest, outnumbers, and down. The same one the tormented him in his dreams, shattering his perfectly constructed persona. Self-sabotage is nothing more than an unwillingness on the part of our higher self to continue to play the role we have assigned ourselves, but also the inability to realise our darkside can often be our greatest asset and advocate. The shadow is there to be found in all of us, for the purpose that we use it depends on whether we embrace our disowned aspects willingly; when we insist on clinging to our persona, our ego, our reality as it appears here and now, the fall-out can be painful and messy. Psychologists call this a mask, which tightens until finally we can no longer be more human than human, a super human, but rather, a dark person. Anger is real, mistakes are real, doing the wrong thing is real, dark criticising, challenging, overpowering notoriously bad, all little and massive indiscretions, that leave others shaking their heads, perplexed with your behaviour, as do you until you notice and find your shadow. You have this shadow like anyone else, it exists, whether its from survival, whether you have tried to forget it or not, whether it has the voice you love so much, or another voice, it is there. Do you remember your first fall from Grace? When was it that there was no more room for breath, and it blows up right? Or maybe this shadow is more subtle for now or forever. Condemning the shadow of ones survival, ones own self criticism, you are setting yourself up for failure. Hiding your secret life from those you love will always end in chaos, or from those you don’t love when they reveal you.
If you want to know what the screaming critic is yelling and swearing at you, believe me its easy, write down and observe what you see in others, good and bad. What good you see, what shadows you finds good, and what bad we see that really is our own shadow’s judgement of others. We are projectors, and light gives shape to matter, put the light on yourself by what you see in others. There are parts of ourselves we try to avoid, if someone gives you an emotional charge, observe and write it down. You say, “What a slob, why do you think that guy doesn’t take care of himself” take note you are projecting your concerns onto poor overweight men you don’t even know. There are so many other things you could focus on, why those traits now.
End of Thought Three
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Two. The stage was quite high today in my lecture and the lights didn’t allow me to see so well the crowd. I started with, “Yes, the World is difficult, but then so is any movement, and this one has in it the same element I disliked in all movements to this date and time – meanings lost in words typed, the narrow views narrowing in on my words, that which makes all words sound like those of a blasphemy, pointed out by the very bigoted machines playing slogans as their sound waves. But even though they do not let us finish what we started to say, and there has been a feeling that we have failed to make that necessary bridge, I feel I have more friends than enemies.”
Sadly I could hear from the darkness, “Siri what is a bigot” of which I heard “Let me check on that, I did not find anything on for “what is a bigot”, says the robotic voice and I realized I do not have to convince this generation or these critics, they are no more here to think for themselves than the words on this page have life without someone reading them.
All I can say is I am glad I am writing this down, I possibly cannot comprehend or not measure the degree of hostility or misunderstandings as well as you do. Those who understand are those who know the work, the work that I have done, all I have explained, all we have done. I hope some of these issues will be resolved in the interview I have on television, its my first interview on the TV. Practically speaking, it’s the psychotic anger and episodes some of bring, war, ugliness, gloom, doom, and hatred in all its effect. For this I would be surprized if all developing people are not brainwashed, programming for the worst by the worst theories of man, not the best, and add war-filled worlds. There are many parts to you dear friend that I want you to keep secret no longer, when I call on you I need you to be there. So many parts of you that are secret and hidden, that in this new public role I thrust on you to speak, which may be impossible and downright militant, but do not believe me, learn it yourself. Before, you faced all the things you have forgotten and why, possibly you didn’t take the time to do this, maybe it’s where you need to start now, for we are discussing that working on raising the quality of human beings would take care of the social evils, and my effort is worthwhile. Take the time to feel connected to the words on this page, connected to the fact your mission is not to give riches, but to show others riches to them. Giving each other the pleasure of a presence, the very foundation for the swallowing up of energy once we edit the experience and depth of what happened, and forget the parts dropped on the cutting floor.
Ok. I must admit, you must be frustrated with the movement, because to start with, we have given no space for you to speak, here we are giving you the opportunity to speak publicly yet we are now taking all the space and time up ourselves. A dream is a dream, and I must admit I have dreamt of you, like snap shots from a Camera going into the transcendence of infinite. Starting with every nook and cranny bursting with colours, a central light, and a crowd of faces of which all look like they are lit by candle. Musically, the world seems to be playing right along side of the first words you say, “We must accept the world as fat, we must accept it as not having one colour, we must accept that it is rich, and we must accept that there are poor, but truly I am thankful most of all for this building of which I can express humbly the matching of all we must accept, and so take a picture because this is just the beginning.” Flashes and bulbs bursting, digital triggers sounding, so many shots of you that posters could flood the streets, the internet, facebook, twitter, blogs, magazines, news publications, with so many more left over for future little work of a documentary of where it all began.
“I like the sound of my own voice”
Say it “I like the sound of my own voice”
Outloud, don’t worry people are going to think you are strange but the entire point of this is its your turn to start into this discussion, your turn to speak and say;
“I like the sound of my own voice. I like the sound of my own voice. I like the sound of my own voice, I like the sound of my own voice.
If you didn’t say this with all the conviction in your soul, assuming of course now would be a good time for you to show that soul and say it again with conviction.
Have you changed rooms? That’s ok, I never did like the idea of documentaries which focused exclusively on the central person, never moving from one room, and with endless talk. Possibly you should include going out to your friends, showing you’re walking around in the real world, possibly sitting in a coffee shop or at a desk, or in a plane traveling to the expansion of infinite possibilities.
So this is your free day, your free moment to talk. Where ever you are, I have the camera here, I have the notepad, possibly an inexperienced sound man, and of course my breasts, my smile, and the overwhelming desire to hear you talk. Tell me the artists you admired, the world that you live in, tell me about your most fascinating friends, inform me of how you feel about War and why. What is your dream, what dreams have you had, and what are their interpretations? Remember, we are childhood friends, discuss it with me, as I have been there.
End of Thought Two.
One. Encompassing the complexity of existence in the modern world in a single pass. Careful to treat them elliptically so as not to meander into separate passes of their own. Music plays motivating the description to follow, an Orchestra that collapses under the weight of superfluous notes, divesting, rebelling, technical activity of the computer that can create anything, recreate anything it hears, unable to make pleasantry or new sounds with a unique idea.
A favourite word, juxtapositions, a word young Ryan’s tutor taught him when he was 6 years old, assisting a young mind to find new words that meant opposing but connected, versus transition. The very essence of complexity. When something is essential, it has the right to exist, whether it makes sense or it is only connected by not making sense, it is essential to the meaning of the situation. But here he’s not meant to be the counterpoint, but rather lines, the several lines of which make up existence in one pass, as linear as possible, avoiding the orchestra and limiting oneself to no more than 1000 words per impasse of this ellipsis as is crucially required by the handbook on how to explain anything in one pass.
Why are you here to witness this? Why is he? Ryan can you tell them? “I can” says Ryan.
But are they ready to hear it Ryan? Well I can’t start if you are talking at the same time I am supposed to begin, says Ryan. Well than who will be the voice? “Well there can only be one voice, and since you have asked me to tell them it would be the most tedious of requests if I can having to talk to them and it says that I am saying everything versus just talking about me and them, versus you having to keep to refer to me. So this dear voice, is where I ask you in my Mother’s native Irish tongue to shut your trap.”
So we find ourselves alone at last, with some silence to discuss this feat in a rather unilinear composition to escape and back to open rifts in the continuous narration of this explanation. One. As it is my turn to start, you have opened a box, and hold within your hand a box, although it looks relatively small and thin, this is the universe. What looks like pages is actually material, what is depth within this paradigm, is the fact that the thoughts from reading this page exist more than the pages themselves. The thoughts you are having right now listening to my words spoken or reading words written by the computer choosing from 26 letters and several punctuation considerations, is real only when you read it to its full depth, beyond the words, condensed, but the expansion from this page and into the mind. Imagine this box opened and the effects of these few lines or a single page, of several potential pages having such an immediate profound effect on you when I say, all is a box, all is a sentence, a page, and the depth is our ability to expand it and retract it into measurements. Do not expect to find architectural balance, or for a secret, or even for examples that make up presents packed in a box. The point of reading his is to a. make sense of one, and to do so through following the polyphonic nature of a compact read, with really the only substance being what you make.
Voice: “Let me interrupt, so firstly, I just want to point out I do know a little bit about you, the values of which you have had, and how they have disintegrated over the years, your reason for wanting to be part of a self-help book, and the main character of it, since you need it the most, and well trying to supply some ideological key.”
Ryan says “ Back to me being Ryan again I suppose, nothing better than the World telling you why you are trying to do something, and to be honest, it could be complete rubbish, possibly you are the centre piece, you are the focal point, it’s you I know the best, as if a close friend at your burial.”
Voice: “Is there an illustration of one grand idea or not?”
“No more voice for now, as I am almost finished with what I would say is just the beginning, that truth and anything grand cannot be one idea, but it can be dealt with in one polyphonic pass where everything is happening at once, and held together simply by the very notion of its existence.”
Improvisations are a cheap trick for the lack a direct statement of thought, and a philosophy, and for this time we have to realize we are the trilogy; philosophers, readers entrapped in intellectual exercises, and the subject. In relation to all positions, it’s important that we deny all shit, we take responsibility for nothing that happens to anyone or ourselves, and we venture to a place where rational thought may or may not be accessible. Critics love to say shit about alchemy, so first off we deny this. Rather it’s about simply covering an expansive topic of all things in one pass. How can such desperate elements be united? Shall we speak of dreams, of secrets, and who is going to tell us. The running of fingers can tickle hairs and sensations, it triggers soft memories, turning the deep and warmer origins and organs, like a soft undulating, throbbing, penetrating, miracle the first time. We deny it existed, but it did, we argue that it never existed, it represents an enormous revolution, an unfettered imagination, no requirement any longer for class and room to be one, for they are spaced for the full effect of where you are not taking yourself.
After digesting this, after following instructions, you are ready, “Close your eyes and try to remember all you have been forgetting and why.”
End of Thought One.
For all the time in the world to always love it is not easy,
Unless you try and let go and let the sorrows fade away,
Be a good person to yourself and remember I am here,
I will always surround you with love and will always care,
I know, I know it’s hard. I know I know those cards.
I have been dealt that hand too, and I thought that I lost,
And the toll on my soul and my body was the cost,
Because of you and the love of those around me,
I found the way back to being happy, happy as could be,
And I vow to you now as I have done for myself,
I commit to spreading my support and love as this is my wealth,
I know, I know it’s hard. I know, I know those cards.
Take the pot, share the pot, do what you want with your winnings,
But it’s what you need, what you have is these new beginnings,
Open up your heart to me and it will never stop to flow,
For I will always be here and I will never let you go.
I know, I know it’s hard. I know, I know I’m ready if you are.
By Ryan Anthony Gibson
The lonely road
Heads down the ravine,
Away from where I stand,
To further solitude,
Disguised as a path,
To the bottom of the earth,
Out of reach of the moon,
A path that needs no light,
For my heart knows it well,
Just having been.
By Ryan Gibson
The people who walked holding hands,
Like our grandparents before us,
Stuck in their soul like the shoes,
They wear from the generation before,
The way of their times of being a man.
As I walk with my daughter,
I can see him in her life,
Inevitably.
To Sharon Hancock
I can hear the most wonderful laugh inside my heart from you,
My ears warm with sensations of pure angelic fun,
Giggling and carrying on like little kids, of which we are two,
Tea time while the traffic passes with the fading sun,
Contemplating all the people in our lives and spirits,
Initiating thoughts that a moment of silence merits,
In loving memory of the vibrant life we shared day to day,
Our love for you will never ever go away.
By Ryan Gibson
With the most sincere love to my friend Sharon Hancock who passed away this weekend of the 2nd and 3rd of October 2010. I will miss misbehaving and hearing your wonderous roaring laughter. For every smile I brought you, I cherished the ones in return for we had so much fun together. My mother and I wish we were there with you when you past away but in spirit we were always with you. It is hard to believe you are gone, for it was only yesterday.
*I have put much time and money into the Cancer societies globally, and I encourage others to do the same.
Scrambled Eggs and Cucumbers
I recall a day when I heard your voice in the walls
“Daddy – Bottle”
“Daddy I want my Bottle”
When you were gone I would awake in the morning,
Sometimes out of the reflex… yelling,
“Coming Cala, Coming Baby Girl, I love you.”
Only projections of of her voice in my mind,
The room and house, empty.
In emptiness I often yearned to hear,
A little voice reply to my yells in the air,
“Caaalllaaa, Caaalllaaa,I love you my baby girl.”
Of which I would imagine you
Telling me that you love me
“I love you Daaadddyyy”
I can hear it now…
Often I would find my solace in Scotch,
Sometimes in Guinness or wine,
Sometimes in a poem.
Uncertain of the future, often still and opaque,
As time past, our time together came,
Summers, Easter, and Christmas,
Those cries for a bottle changed,
To scrambled eggs and fried potatoes with ketchup,
“She can’t have eggs every day” her mother would say,
How does she know?
When we watch TV, it’s cucumbers, vinegar, and salt.
My father only knew how to cook an egg or make cucumber,
An immortalized family trait,
I suppose what I am trying to say is that I grow with you,
I cherish the passing of generations of love,
The voice is loud for me again,
Time is forgiven for the past as for what is now,
And what the future brings for us,
Your eggs and potato are almost done,
So come sit with me my baby girl,
I love you Cala, I love you.
Another year has passed,
Another length of grass,
From which field you grow honestly and green,
In excellence, I watch not a baby or seed,
Passed single integers to double integers,
A young woman full of vitality and life,
My little woman.
Once who followed my lead,
Now cares to lead herself,
Who once relied on her parents for happiness,
Now finds Happiness in herself,
Contentment, rooted in her field,
Comfortable inside of herself and on the ground,
Owning the earth she stands on,
But knowing I stand in this field besides,
And if you bend, bend into me,
As I will keep you erect and in the sun,
Photosynthesised by the attention of God,
And the goodness that brings to you, in you.
By Ryan Gibson
Poem 1
Your aura was the first I saw
Full of flowers, especially the rose
Even in the night pedals bloom in awe
To move my hand in the air, open and close
As to attempt to feel the presence
The majestic and unordinary essence
Of pure unhindered sunshine
A star in the eye of mine
Which always remains
In sight but out of touch
Poem 2
I proposed marriage to the air last night
For your essence lingered afloat in passing
As for a moment I could grasp a bushel
Of pure essence of love in your fragrance
Where the ethereal takes some physical form
Materialized by genius of being
A mist of casual release
That in a failed attempt to bind I asked
Would you stay with me forever
Which only left me a faint trail to follow
Poem 3
What lines of love I carry across the earth
And songs I sing and praise of love in Johannesburg
The places I have seen far less entice
Then her curves, her mountains, valleys, and springs,
Dark natural beauty, the source of beginnings,
I place my heart and faith in your city
Which so designed has taken all I have to spend
And all I have to give
In return, I can hold onto its jewel
Far more precious than rare metals of a star
Shining with greatness so as one can see from afar
Makes the burden of feelings carried a weight of worth
The songs I sing and praise of love in Johannesburg
Poem 4
I wish to tremble with your touch
To desire, to fly in emotion in flames
Feeling the burning and seeing the bright
So as when I finish I return from wood to ash
Completely run through with embers so as
Remains of which no life could be
Distinguished by the black resin of
Passion extinguished for the excess of
Air that fed the last morsel of life inhaled
The Tree No More
I decided to move out of the trees
Pinocchio nor raw wood no more
For I was tired of being written on
Of truths amongst trees of things that fall
Of which the world has no care for at all
Among them I had more than seen enough
Many of the same thing discussed anew
Of which I choose the rank and folly,
For a better view of humanity
Of which chaos is a great refuge for sanity
