Thursday, October 4, 2012


        Blind Jimmy isn't blind. He gets that way when he drinks. "Blind drunk", as kids, we all thought this phrase was named after Blind Jimmy, or should have been.
         He rents some of the rooms downstairs, or so we'd been told.

          He came into my office the other day soaking wet. Now my office is not a formal place. In fact. my secretary hs been on her annual vacation for the past 13 weeks.
          But soaking wet! And there were a few people waiting in the outer room.
          He walks in and he says, "Those fuckers!"
           "Who you talking about?"
I ask.
            "Those guys in the highway patrol. They took my car off the road!"
             "Jim, you're drunk!" I say, "You're pissed! Eight sheets to the wind! You're drooling, too! Like a hungry dog, a whipped cur! You're slavering like a beast who has met his doom! You're lucky you're not in the slammer! In fact, I should report you now! Ha! Ha!"
               "You can't drive smashed out of your mind like this --- at least, not any more!"

                He stared at me as if he had no idea what I am, let alone who I am, "No, no!" he shouts, "I started to drink after they took my car!"
               It was starting to make sense to me now. And the truth I was beginning to see was an ugly truth - one I'd rather keep suppressed, repressed, and blocked in my uncobscious. But this was not to be, "You came by boat?" I ask.
                "I came by boat," he said, standing there dripping on my brightly patterned wool rug,"
... only I didn't make it all the way..."
                 "You bastard! You took my boat!"
                  "Yeah, I had to. I wasn't going to walk all the way from town."
                 I'm thinking, "You didn't have to come here at all!"

                   I have a very light weight little eleven foot racing boat, which is really too small to take out onto the water, when the big lake starts to blow and roll.
                   You really shouldn't launch it when the waves are high and white-capping. Unless you really know what you're doing.
                    It's a delicate balance. The boat is wooden and like a feather and I have it dramatically overpowered. I used to have what was called a "20h" on it. And it moved like a bat out of hell back then.
                     But I've since had a fifty horsepower Mercury
 outboard  chopped and shortened and reduced down to almost nothing,  and added a tiny brass prop with evil thin slicing blades, which will cut a finger off a fish at fifty yards.

          This boat has its name emblazoned in flames along its wood-stained sides. Written in flames is the name "Run-a Risk" which should give you a clue as to what sort of fun you're going to have if you choose to kneel on the plywood floor and clutch the wheel and the molded sides and take off towards the horizon.
           If you want to order the little beast, it's called a "Foo-ling". You can order the plans. You have to build it yourself  The bow comes to a sharp, elegant point. It's  3 1/2 inches thick at the tip. The sides are not deep. You're about seven to eight inches off the face of the water at the boat's highest point.
          I highly recommend it, if you can still bend like a sixteen year old, and if you still have the same insane desire for jaw-clenching, shuddering speed that many teenagers share, until their first major crash, that is.
           Some people maintain this need for a bone-shaking thrill far into those later years, when I'm told, 'one really ought to know better.'
          The transom is teak, and all you boaters out there know why. Though I had to reinforce it with an inch of oak, so it could stand the thirty extra horsepower I added only recently.
             When your motor weighs more than your entire boat, you know you may face certain structural difficulties, not to mention legal ones.
           (Boat structure and bone structure can suffer and the fines can be enormously expensive if they ever catch you, which is highly unlikely).
             Still the transom's always threatening to tear off, so I had some  old iron railway brackets screwed into the hull. And then, of course, I added lots more waterproofing, ha! ha! Lots more fiberglass under the wooden carcass of the boat. Mostly to "save the intetgrity of the hull."
            So at least no water boils in from below. But that's not really the problem. You're going too fast for that to happen.
                But when you hit a solid wave the wrong way, you'll  immediately get drenched from either side. And you'll get a smack in the face from the water harder than any human being is likely to slap you for the rest of your life.
                 I have what is called a"dead man throttle" which works on a heavy spring, so when you're thrown loose from inside the boat, at least the motor quits immediately, and you can swim to the boat from wherever in the water you happen to land, when you regain consciousness.
        This is the theory, and I'm not going to lie to you like some kind of craven cowardly snivelling swine and pretend that what actually happens has any ressemblance to what is supposed to happen theoretically. No, nothing usually comes out the way we plan it to -  and I suppose life would be terribly dull if it did.
                Now  don't squeeze the pin and lock the dead man throttle full throttle open at top speed, if you have any intention of changing your kneeling-sitting-cringing position  by even a little. The delicate balance which you've become a part of at sixty miles an hour screaming along the crest of a breaking wave - it really won't tolerate any shifting of your body position whatsoever.
         Think of surfing, except you're riding above the curl rather than below it. And you're travelling at a far, far greater speed in a motorized device.
           Does it take the poetry out of it? No, I don't think so. By no means!

            Though it is illegal. In fact, it's highly illegal and I shouldn't be writing this and sharing it in public... but what a blast it is when you're howling along on the crest of a wave at fifty or sixty miles an hour!
              It doesn't sound that fast compared to some of those cigarette boat ocean racers. But those boats travel four or five feet above the water line. This little wooden platform is seven or eight inches tops above the  waterline.  And you're blasting along with your nose practically in the water. The joy is to find that delicate point of equilibrium between the wave and the boat and the motor and you.
          The engine weighs more than the boat.  You yourself weigh more than the boat. And the wave below you is inexorably heavier than you plus the boat plus the motor, plus any thoughts you might have in your mind.

             I once piloted a 32 foot  Botved cabin cruiser from Vero Beach Florida to Orillia, Ontario, and I was crossing Chesepeake Bay in twenty-five foot waves. I wasn't very experienced at the time and I had the cabin cruiser surfing across those waves.
            The boat  could cruise at 32 knots and while I had the boat surfing across the waves, it was travelling half again as fast.  But then when that boat stopped surfing, its bow would dig into the wave in front of it and about two feet of water would wash over the entire 32 feet. One of the cabin windows was open and I soaked the owner in his bed, and he wasn't too happy about it when he finally made it  back up on deck.
           Also the sound of the twin props howling every time the wave behind lifted the stern out of the water, it was a loud horrible sound,
and so at least the owner was awakened and had a chance to guess what was happening about twenty seconds before every inch of him  and all his possessions were inundated.
           Imagine lying almost asleep, safe in you own bed, or so you think, just as someone pours a large swimming pool right through your house.
            But that was a real boat and really dangerous situation.It was a different time and a very different story, but funnily enough it was an experience very close to the one Blind Jimmy had before he showed up in my office just the other morning.
          He drove the bow of my  boat right into a wave, almost right through the wave. He broke the boat right in half, and he rearranged the angle  which his head sits upon his shoulders, perhaps permanently.

           So I asked him quietly, "Where's the boat now?"
            He said, "I got  the bow pulled up on shore."
             "Where's the motor?" I ask.
              "The motor sank," he tells
me. "It's not far from shore, but you can't see it. We'll have to get divers."

               He couldn't see it because forty feet from shore here, the bottom's 120 feet down. And even in the summer, once you dive more than thirty-five feet below the surface, you hit what they call "the thermal." Once you pass through the thermal and go below it, the water temperature stays about the same summer or winter. In winter there's three feet of ice on the surface of the water.
           So, yes, I needed to hire divers and the divers had to wear wet suits and then couldn't stay in the water for longer than about ten minutes at a time at a hundred feet below the surface.
           Luckily the necessary chains are readily available in this part of the world.

          More of this story later. I'm going to sit in a comfortable
armchair in silence and alone. And I'm going to drink a bottle of whiskey or perhaps two bottles of whiskey before I talk to another living soul.
          My only consolation at the moment is it looks as if Blind Jimmy will have to see a chiropractor for a least a year and a half in order to have his neck adjusted until he looks half-way normal again.
           We don't have to worry too much about Blind Jimmy's appearance. He never did look more than half-way normal to begin with.


            The Foo-Ling,  is closer to a surfboard than a real boat. I was used to handling it. Though when you're blasting along with your nose practically in the water, the joy is to find that delicate point between top speed and disaster.
           But if anything should break loose, for example, if a fuel tank starts leaping around in the front compartment, you can't lean forward and attempt to tie it down with the throttle locked open and the boat skittering along wildly and slapping against it's fin in the water.. even if you're in some kind of a race.
         You really only have a few seconds at the time, though it seems much longer later, as you relive the experience  . It's best to make the smart choice, even though I never have managed to do so myself.

         So if any  children are reading this article, slow the boat, even if your're going to get soaked or swamped. Paddle or swim the boat home, even if the heavy waves sweep you twenty-five miles off course.

              If for example a seagull  smacks into your face, and you have to peel blood and feathers out of your eyes, remember to concentrate and don't move much,
and slow the boat down.
              And if that thirty gallons of gas in a bright red tank starts to leap around in front of your nose, don't worry about losing the race.
             Forget about losing the race to some presumptuous fool. Forget the  jackass who had the gall to speed by your dock  at seven A.M. on a quiet Sunday morning, showing everybody he has the fastest boat in seven towns.      
            Be the bigger man. At seventeen years of age, it's easy. Lose the race.
             Don't gun the boat and scream across the water after the idiot. Don't  lean and reach after that flying gas tank, even if you think he's making a fool of you in front of all the women.
             Slowly and gradually reduce speed. Do the sensible thing.  Twenty years down the line you'll be glad you did.
              Or maybe you won't be glad.

              Even though ridicule, hilarity and ugly insurance claims might follow you for the rest of your days... Remember kids, slow the boat down.

              Also, it's best to be sober, when you drive a little monster boat like that.... unless you're like me and your acuity improves with every shot of whiskey you have, in which case you'll be fine.
             In Blind Jimmy's case, drunk or sober, he should never set foot in such a craft. His balance never was good at any time, and his focus is not improving as the years go by.
             The problem with this little boat at high speeds under rough conditions is that it flips.
              Imagine a motor screaming like a banshee at high revs, then screaming even louder because the prop is out of the water, and the boat's doing an arc in the air as it turns over. And you're in the water, too, and the boat flies about 30 feet in the air and then smacks facedown in the water right beside your head.
        And all of a sudden there's silence. Bacause the engine's in the water too, and the howling has ceased. And the silence is wonderful and all the world makes sense.
        (I'm told some of the cottagers along the shore cheered at the sudden quiet.
          I'm thinking of a time quite early one Sunday morning when the lake was calm, and you could hear people talking  from miles away across the water. Both before and after the  crash).

           Anyway, joy is joy, and you've gotta  take it where you can find. Even if half your neighbours look at you sometimes as if they hate you.
            Not to worry, these are the ones who probably just pretend to like you when they smile. As a wife of mine once said to me, "You think people like you just because they smile at you!"
             No longer.


Respectfully submitted, etc. etc.  

Wednesday, September 26, 2012


          The above title is a quotation, I believe, from the German poet, Rilke.
           I found it in a very old notebook of mine. This makes me think I was smarter than I now think I was, when I was nineteen.

              Here are some other quotations from the same scrap of paper:

              "Every angel is terrible."

               "For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror we can just barely endure."

                "Always distracted by anticipation."
                 "To wish wishes no longer."

              "Not that you could bear the voice of God"

                  Now I'm going to have to go back and study the fellow again... But his story as I remember it is this:
                  Let's say his name was Rainer Maria Rilke. I think this is correct, but I'm not sure. Remembering a time 30 years ago, is for me like remembering a dream.
                  He was a young man, and obviously a genius, so this older woman found him and set him up in a tower. She gave him a place where he could do his work. And by God, he did it!
                   She was right and he wrote magnificent things, like the quotes above.

                    But let's go on in my dream fantasy. I know it sounds like a fairy tale.
                    She set him up in a tower on the side of a hill, overlooking a wide, low valley... and farther away there were other hills.
                     This area was subject to some fantastic storms.
                     And in this tower, lightning struck, lightning in a bottle, he had Mystical Experiences
of the Divine. Now the divine goes higher than the highest star and deeper than the the deepest subterranean cavern, under the lowest hell. It's like when lightning strikes from high up in the clouds
to deep into the earth.
                      This is one way to describe a Mystical Experience, and make no mistakes, in the School For Mystics, a mystical experience is the goal.
                       No kidding around, I honestly believe that mystical experiences are the highest form of learning we can approach as a species, because science and religion, emotion and cold analysis... and a sense of Wonder... all combine in one Knowing.
                        I'm also quite sure that "Awareness"
this is the purpose of mankind. Through us the universe becomes aware of itself,
                         We are not separate from God; we partake of God. God is the universe around us the organizing of atoms bemeath our feet, and the  organising of intergalactic beauty. The Universe seems to be intelligently creating itself.
                          A scientist studying the mysteries of the quantum world knows that his awareness
changes the reality of what he is watching. Through the microscope, his awareness changes the equation, the gestalt of what he is watching. His awareness must be considered to be part of the equation.
                           Mind affects the ever-changing structure of reality.
                            I'm almost positive that our awareness changes what is happening in the sky above us, though our concentration cannot usually focus long enough to see the change... macrocosm
and microcosm. Does one reflect the other? Is the only difference their size.Is their everchanging nature essentially the same?

                            These are questions for Grade Four of the School For Mystics. And I gotta tell ya,  I don't have the answers.
                             The answers are in the Process,
the Flux, the River that Heraclitus said we cannot step in twice.

                              By the way, here are three mystics that all came out of Germany, or the area we now call Germany - Hildegarde of Bingen,
Meister Eckhart, and Rainer Maria Rilke.

                             "I am the living and fiery essence that glows in the beauty of the fields."Hildegarde
of Bingen. (somewhere around the twelth century)
                             This is from memory and I'm getting sleepy again, so please excuse any
misquotations and spelling mistakes.

                               Respectfully submitted.  R.R.
                               Discard nothing. Everything
                               must serve.


Sunday, September 9, 2012


"I have immortal longings in me."

"I will praise any man who will praise me."                                    William Shakespeare
        The doctor who lives next door was shouting over into my yard, when he saw me standing naked with coffee cup in hand gazing off towards the vistas in the East.
         He was shouting and he's usually a quiet man, so this was significant.  He called: "WHO WAS THAT MANIAC DRIVING YOUR CAR OUT LAST NIGHT AT 3A.M? HE GOT SOME FOOL TO PLAY THE BAGPIPES ACROSS THE BAY!"
             Then in a stage whisper  he says, "I was going to call - but some things shouldn't be spoken of... So I'm maintaining silence, as we agreed." Then he said something disturbing, he said, "He looked like some dark Caliban."

             People can get up to some pretty strange things up here in the dark, when there's nothing to do except look at the ducks for entertainment. 
             The bad weather around here often comes suddenly from the east. Quickly lightning begins to strike along the shore, and if you're in a tin boat floating perilously over this deep lagoon, you'd better get the hell out.      
             Actually, so far the lake is called bottomless. The crew hired by the government shows up every four or five years and they try to find the bottom with heavy measured chains - they
have never had enough chains to find the bottom.
             I'm thinking, "In this 'modern age' surely there must be a way to measure depth more quickly. 
             But a family runs the business and I guess they are funded by the federal government, so they keep trying in the old way. I'm thinking, what about sonar? But the chains are too much fun. They provide a Gothic flavor to the whole operation... And who wants to find the bottom anyway? 

             Sometimes sitting the local bar, 1,000 feet down a dirt road from my house, I sit quietly and listen. The people from along the peninsula keep whispering two tables over from me about, "the best place to hide a body."
              I already know, but I'm not about to interrupt the good clean fun of my neighbours.
              This is the land of 100,000 lakes and a million miles of muskeg. Bodies are lost up here even when no one is trying to hide them.
                I also hear them talk about the fresh water sharks that come and go across vast distances. After all, the caverns beneath our lake ( as everybody knows) are directly connected with caverns beneath rivers and lakes approaching the Gulf of Mexico.
                 I heard Suzie, a fine looking lusty lass with muscular thighs and knees that can crack walnuts, I heard her whisper to 3 girls from the northern volleyball team, she said: "In the winter, that's where they go to feed. Those poor Cajuns! Should we warn them?"



                                           Your roving reporter is above superstition, so I merely report this story.


Friday, August 17, 2012


                   This place has been overthrown.
Everything's upside down. And there seems to be some kind of light flashing from the kitchen.
                    It looks as if a gorilla has run rampant in the place for hours, trapped in some terminal rage.
                    Beside the catastophic mess of broken plates and cement rubble, there's a large road sign with peeling white paint. In the centre of the sign, there are three letters which are not peeling. The letters are black and about one foot high in the center of the sign.
                    On the sign there's one word only:

            Beside the sign there is a large orange traffic cone - one of those big ones they have out on the highway. It's taller than the sign. Behind the sign, that's where the flashing's coming from.
            It's a yellow flashing light from a highway  barricade. That's a relief.
             I was thinking, "Maybe it's a cop car in the alley below. Maybe Blind Jimmy has done something monstrous. Maybe he's
on the floor in cuffs... Maybe they're coming for me..."

              Ugly thoughts for an ugly time.
 I find I'm locked out of my blog once again this morning. Some fool must have changed the password! I'm writing this longhand. I find a note from Blind Jimmy under my keyboard. It's also written longhand.
            The two handwritings are not the same - I want to be clear about that.

             In the middle of the kitchen floor there's a huge primeval  stone, with a massive hook coming out of the top. The damn thing's about a foot thick and almost two feet across. It weighs easily two hundred and fifty pounds, probably a whole lot more.
            I give it a hard shove. It doesn't move a bit. Only the branches cemented to its back quiver a bit.
              "How the hell did this get here?" I wonder. And, "How come I didn't hear them carry it up the stairs?"
                And, "What's the meaning of this hook?" 
             The hook rises out of the center of the rock, like the hook in some demented giant's curling stone, only eight times larger than normal. And darker and more ominous standing in the middle of the kitchen floor.            
                Lucky I was sober. If I had smoked anything strong in a pipe, I know the damn thing would have assumed a conscious presence.
                Already it seemed to know what I was thinking.

Saturday, July 14, 2012


           DRUG REPORT:

          "Name Imust nbort reveak"
          "This is the sort of sentence you''ll write
after taking it."

            "I found a drug that not only makes you
inarticulate in the morning; it makes you
stutter unattractively all through the afternoon."
             "It affects your motor functions;
(you won't be able to ride your bicycle, anywhere
but in your own driveway)."
             "It wipes your memory right out!
I mean completely!"
(It just took me three minutes trying to spell
the word, "please" - and that's a word I use a lot!
Now I'm having trouble with the word, "minute."

          "Oh, yes, it's also taken me over ten
minutes to type this Notice... So it annihilates your
typing skills as well."
            "Though, to be fair, I'm typing in the dark,
using only the light from the computer screen, and
my eyesight seems a  little blurry.There are no light bulbs
in this apartment., and there haven't been any light bulbs
 in this apartment for a considerable time."
             "There was a list here somewhere."
              "I can't tell you the name of the drug
unless we're alone together in an empty
parking lot."

EDITOR'S NOTE: To get to the bottom of the story
your Roving Reporter felt he had to take an extreme
multiple of the recommended adult dose.



         We're at the restaurant.
         I'm meeting with the mother of  my  daughter.
 She sits down across from me at the table. In no
time at all she starts saying ugly things:
          "I've had a rough week!" I say.
         "You look terrible!" she says, "You've aged
twenty years in two weeks!"
          My jaw is pounding. I'd had a bunch
of teeth pulled an hour ago. I'd just finished
the Drug Report  about 4:00 A.M.. My fever's
worse. And I smell some kind of odour
in the place.
         "You look like you're going to die!"
she says.
          "That's about how I feel," I say.
Things are moving in the wall behind her head.
I try not to notice.
         I say to her, "Look, I don't want to hear anything
negative right now, especially about myself. I'm telling
you I've had a rough week, I mean really rough!"
          "I just had six teeth pulled and then the Doc said:
'Come back next week and we'll do the other side!'"
           "Day to day I'm running a high fever. I'm
sweating and my face is red. And it's not pretty,
I'm dripping from  places that aren't supposed
to drip!"
           I look into her eyes. She looks good,
healthy, fine, OK... But these days you can
never tell.
           She says, "You look 80, at least!"
            "80? I say, "I feel older than 80!
 I can't even ride my bicycle.I was weaving all over the
 road. I just clipped a post. A lot of cars were honking.
 And I'd hardly left my yard!"
             I hand her the money.
             She says, "Well... I gotta go."
              I  reach out to shake her hand.
              She backs away and says, "I can't
shake that! God knows what I'm gonna catch!"

               I watch her walk out the door. Then I
get up, stumble over to the exit sign. I push hard
to get outside.
               I walk my bicycle this time
 all the way across town.

                                                       Respectfully submitted, R.R.

Friday, July 6, 2012



      This is how the saying really goes.

      The point that is being made is that in your innermost mind, you are not so different then a saint.

      If you look at the deeper scriptures, what is being said is this: don't concentrate on how different
the Christ is from yourself, concentrate on the Identity between the two of you, ie: "make the two one"
(Gospel of Thomas).

      A monopoly has been made of the Christ - by saying how godlike he is, how unique, what special miracles he performed, how different he is from all of us: but, really, this is not the teaching at all.
Remember the scriptures make constant use of metaphor and symbols:  *

      how he:     walked on water

                                                  Padma Sambhava was also said to sit on water, meditate on a lotus
                                                                               flower atop a lake.

                       One way of interpreting this symbol is that the master who is portrayed as
                               sitting on water meditating, or walking on water speaking parables**
                                is so portrayed to indicate that this person is no longer ruled by
                                his/her lower passions. The underwater world of birth and death and
                                clutching after things desired is no longer part of this person's life.

  how he:     caused the blind to see

                       The metaphor  being used here is the metaphor of bringing
                        light to the darkness of those who cannot see. Bringing light to their
                         eyes. In other words, bringing  enlightenment.And therefore
                          healing the blind.


how he:       raised the dead  (Lazarus)
                         To shed some light on this metaphor, I'll give you that quotation
                         again from: "The Seven Sermons to the Dead." ***
                         "The dead went forth to Jerusalem, and when they did not find
                           what they sought, they came to seek teaching from me."                   
                          Basilides wrote the  "Seven Sermons to the Dead"
                          Carl Jung ( the great psychologist) got his hands on the
                          Seven Sermons to the Dead and studied them deeply. And so
                          the ancient teachings of Basilides became part of the teachings
                          and psychological teachings of Carl Jung.(*** discoverd
                          at Nag Hammadi, Egypt, 1945 - part of the discovery of
                           The Gospel Scrolls). 
                        Weren't  those early, early Christian teachers/masters something!
                         Oh, that's right!  We've never heard of them! That's because they
                          were expunged from the Bible.  So that what is left,
                           I like to call  the Castrated Bible.
                          There were esoteric Christian teachings. Just because they have been
                          almost totally destroyed does not mean they did not exist.

                           The "dead" were those who were living in the darkness of ignorance,
                            those who had not yet realized. These were the people seeking
                            the teachings of Bsilides

                            When a person who is "dead" has a glimpse.of the vision of the eternal ,
                             that person is said to be 'raised from the dead'.

                             All these  metaphors and symbols (parables) point to one fundamental
                             teaching which is impossible to understand and hard to realize:

                            "He who understands my words 
                              Shall become as I am
                               And I shall become he;
                                And the hidden things will be
                                 Revealed to him."     said Jesus Christ  (Gospel of Thomas)

                                In the east, when a person realizes he/she is Buddha, people
                                congratulate him.
                                        Here in the west, when a person realizes he/she is Christ,
                                 we should do the same.


                               Endnotes:  * Northrop Frye, "The Great Code".
                                                   I had the good fortune to be a student of Northrop
                                                   Frye's for four years at Victoria College, University
                                                   of Toronto,  English Language and Literature Program.
                                                    His lectures on  symbolism in the Bible
                                                    were essential to my learning.
                              ( This is the end of this article
                                  The previous article might be
                                   unintentionally attached. )




        The three words: primordial, primal and preternatural are all words I love. Because when you are taking a psychological expedition all the way up the Psyche into the Heart of Darkness, these are the sort of  words that must be used to express the realities you  find inside yourself.
        It is a process of reaching the arm all the way to the shoulder into the snake barrel of seething human existence, until you find what you're looking for or something screams.

        Space is not the final frontier, THE MIND IS THE FINAL FRONTIER!
         And since it's a long journey within, preparations must be made.
          That's what  "The School For Mystics" is all about - making preparations. The problem is no one ever seems to know what they're preparing for, so it's best to have all kinds of supplies.

           The quote above about "The lake of the heart" goes more like this:


              when the lake of an ordinary man's heart
               becomes pure and calm:
                it is the reflection of a saint
                 which appears within it."

              This saying alone could be enough to start an expedition
               into the heart-mind all the way up-river into the darkness
                of the soul.

               I don't know whom I'm quoting in the passage above written in italics,
but I'm getting the basic thought across.
               The expedition I'm talking about begins with what I like to call "sitting".
But it can be sitting anywhere, or lying down, or dreaming. It's best not to  get
too caught up in the method.
                 And it doesn't matter what medicines or fuels are necessary. There's
no point in getting too specific or judgmental about such things. We are talking about
a journey on the inner river into the core of the hidden continent.
                 We can relax, just as  we relax with friends on the edge of the forest,
when preparing for a camping trip.

                  This is a practical journey and there's no point in thinking about or even
considering other people's judgmental horseshit. We don't care what the name of God is.
God has many names, and it's a sacred matter.
                   It can be a hilarious moment, watching a group of people argue about the
name of the sacred. Sometimes it's best when the sacred has no name.
                   In fact, we are looking for realities at the core of the Mind. We already have
our  names, but perhaps we are looking for our Name.
                    This journey is never anything more than a discovering of the nature of Identity.
                     And when an identity, an ego state, discovers his/her own Identity,
this is when the voyage touches the eternal, the magic and mystery at the heart of things.

                     "The eye through which you see God is the same eye through which
                       God sees you." Meister Eckhart.


                       "The ant's a centaur in his dragon world."  (Famous poet who's name I've forgotten)

                       "Why did you come out into the desert - to see a man
                          speaking platitudes and wearing soft clothing?"         (The Gospel of Thomas)

                         " The dead traveled to Jerusalem, and when they did not
                             find what they sought, they came to speak to me."     (Basilides - early Christian

Thursday, June 7, 2012




Editors' Note:

We are working under difficult conditions here. The notes that fool
sends us are scrunched all  up - as if some madman tried to hide
these writings. As if the moron believed he was being followed -
drunk as all too usual... and the man is supposed to be a writer!.
Well, you won't be a writer for long if you are consumed by drink
and the taking of chemicals.

       But, in our Roving Reporter's defense... And he was a defence
attorney...     ....     ... Given his nature, he could scarsely  have been anything
else.  Hell, how do you spell defence? How do you spell scarcely?
I'm getting pissed off, and I'm not even the writer!
My goodness... in all honesty ( which ha! ha! is our policy) someone
should edit this. Oh, gee, that someone is me.

                           Please tell me I have not gone mad..
        We always knew Blind Jimmy had crossed the line.
had climbed the wrong apple tree, had prayed at the wrong picture of the
President (Nixon)...  ...  ... Was three bricks short of a load,
was a low watt bulb on a bright stage of spotlights,
was the poor white cousin nobody ever mentioned,
the drooling pervert we thought was locked away forever,
but who just showed up last week on our block...
We called the cops, but that's usually a bad idea in this


May I speak?

It's me again. Your intrepid, truthful crusading reporter. And we are returning to the
the note from Blind Jimmy. We'll call it "Part Two"


Things seem to be exploding in the microwave.
And I fell asleep making my specialty (boiled eggs).
So now I have to eat remnants, this, my other specialty:
"Exploded Eggs."
The beauty of this dish (I can hear the French waiter saying it):
"You must scrape it off the ceiling...
before you have your first taste... delectable!)

Oh God, is there no editor? Am I all alone here?
I can't spell in the evenings.The evening just began
 after my work day... 6:15 AM.

      Have you evr had mornings like this?
Maybe not... ( I just heard some noise. My next
door neighbour is getting his Court-ordered
injection.) This is how I met my wife.

Thank God they're
       I support forcible needles such as this...
But only for dyed-in-the-wool, no hope
repetitive rapists.... not just one poor
guy aroused beyond the limits
of his impoverished brain.... by a really
sexy car commercial.
         You are free to not agree.

          Have you ever had mornings like this?
Maybe not.
           Well, if you're living south of 60,
you probably do not hear the ravens
gurgling pre-dawn through your open
             I'm living south of sixty, so this
shouldn't be happening to me.



        I"M SURE YOU HAVEN'T ( ha! Ha!), but
have you ever woken up facedown in bed,
and looked out through a far too open window
with no screen on it.... And you think this
in your mind, without any previous thought
touching your brain, you think: "OOOOoooooooo,
I'm such an asshole!"

       Now if this has never happened to you,
well, I'm surprised. Because it has happened to your
Roving Reporter many times, and after all,
in my office we believe in truth and  integrity
at all costs.
        Some times  the cost is quite high.
         Sometimes such honesty is so costly
that you'll lose another reporting job.
          Maybe this is why I'm writing you now
for free.

         I just heard a voice and I
looked up suddenly (which is always
a mistake with a hangover). I suppose it
must have been my voice. It wasn't
"The Cat That Someone Forced Me to Take",
because, crazy beast that she can be, she usually
doesn't talk... she merely stares at me in
a most disquieting way.
        I find eye contact disturbing at times
such as this. Especially when I look
in the mirror.
        Now I don't have any mirrors
in this apartment.... Not true! There's one in the
bathroom. But the Big Guy hasn't bought a
light bulb in seven months. Me, I don't need a
mirror. But some of the other personalities
do like to look at themselves.

        I went to the dentist in the middle
of last week. He said, "I'm going to pull
some teeth."
         I tried to say "WTF"! but there were
at least three hands in my mouth and
my protest didn't come out coherently..
          He said, "I'm only going to pull some
teeth from the left side."
           I woke up this morning, looked in
the mirror that wasn't there and said:
"Dear God! I hope the left side
was the right side!"

Wednesday, May 23, 2012



The one you were seeing in the mirror, and staring at for... what is it? twelve hours of torture . He is
still devouring and pursuing you. It is old memories of war, conquests, and agonizing fire that makes you doubt...
yourself. And since you have families,  (No one blames you).
                  And since we have blown the cones, no one but Melissa... will sit here
and know the messages, And she will speak of your agonies and fears.

Saturday, April 7, 2012


People have been asking me if there is a source book for what I have been saying, quoting the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Philip, and the Gospel of Truth. I suggest, "The Hag Hammadi Library",
James M. Robinson, General Edition, Harper and Row Publishers,  San Francisco, etc.
First published in 1981.

For the past thirty years or so, I have been reviewing the texts, and re-writing some of them in a
more modern English.

I suppose you can call what I have done,  a "Commentary." But it is really more than that. At any rate,
I have not yet published my notes, so I refer you to the above publication.

 The difficulty I've found with some of the texts, which have been called "gnostic", I suppose in an attempt
at further derogation, is that many of the passages are extremely difficult to understand.

I worked hard at some of these texts. Actually, I sat with them on top of a cliff in the Canadian north,
and saw if some light would shine through them. The Gospels from the discovery at Nag Hammadi
are not difficult. It's some of the more obscure texts to which I'm referring.

There are truths in this library human kind has not discussed for 2,000 years. And the suppression of the earliest Christians was a deliberate act. deliberate oppression, not only by the Roman Empire, but by
what I refer to in those times as the Empire Church. (see some of the earlier Roving Reporter Rants articles
on this site)

Eventually in 425 A.D., the Council of Nicea decided what books should be in the Bible. To my mind,
it was a decision made essentially by the Chamber of Commerce of that time.

These Nag Hammadi Gospels are not merely gnostic. They are some of the earliest of the Christian

They were discovered in Egypt in 1945, one year before the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls. In my opinion, the Nag Hammadi find  is far more important than the better known Dead Sea Scrolls

Although, thanks to the daring work of John Allegro, we know that there was a Teacher of Righteousness
who came out of the Essene community about the year 65 B.C. He was a great healer and he was crucified,
and it could be we have our dates wrong about the beginning of the Christian era.

John Allegro was the British translator of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and he is interesting because he had
no over-riding religious affiliation, nothing that might have skewed his translation. He was discredited
because of his publication of his book, "The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross." Though we now know -
 thanks to many fine courageous scholars who have stepped forward, one of them a Russian -
we know that he  was right all along.                       see



     After the Easter blessing, the poet called out, "O you Christian saints who surround me, O you

Bodhisattvas   and holy ones without name, who share the one goal,

to liberate men from their ignorance and bondage, to show the holy path to them."

                "To open the eyes of the blind, and raise the dead, and let the dead speak, so that we may

listen to them and greet, embrace and acknowledge them, so that they may find home, out of their

endless suffering."

                "I ask you only this, whether or not I am worthy to undertake such a task, aid me as you can,

and as you will, for I know you are undying around me, and I know somehow,

 through some great mystery, you are able still to see and offer aid: and that you are willing

 to speak through me, as part of the Voice of the Lord"

                "May you lend to me your holy strength, for I am weak and nothing and empty, unless

you arise and fill me and make the hills echo with the silent symphony

of your words."

                Every time I call out a greeting like this, I feel I must tell you,  the words come

to me and pass through like a a freight train running through a tunnel at night,

following its one single light, bright beyond compare.

                 Now people visit me in my sleep; and people visit me in my sleep

when they are dying. I have encounters with real  people in dreams.

. And perhaps this has always been occurring, but I simply

have not recognized these acres of paradise, without you as my guides.

I know now, however that paradise exists... within us and outside of us. And there is

far, far, far more here than meets the eye.

                 The prevalent energy of the modern age has been doubt. Because if it is ever

seen among us that within is this wild world of voices and spirits and angels

breath, the walls of our prisons would fall down like the walls of Jericho.  The walls

of the modern day are not physical walls, but brick walls inside our spirit and soul, walling

us off from our Self-Belief.

                 Believe me, there is dancing here already, and spirit and joy. Once it is seen,

that saints and Bodhisattvas, and holy men unknown and unsurpassed exist always in the spheres between

life and death, and that when once invited they will visit us and set us also dancing with

the multitudes of angels on the infinite head of a pin.... Once we have this knowledge,

which holy women  and men have always given us ,

what retraction is possible? How can we ever fall back into darkness again? How can

we ever forget?  When we know what we ought to know, because time and again

we have been told....

               "The holy realms exists.  They have always existed these heavens beyond death.

Did you know we can visit them, while we are still alive?"

               There is no longer an absolute necessity to study the words written in ancient

texts, preserved in the sacred sands of Egypt.  Do you not know that the Living One

is now among us, and has returned to us, through the miracle of the sacred sands.

And after 2,000 years, He is with us once again, as He had promised us, and now

there are mysteries beyond compare.

               How can anyone speak these mysteries? Who is worthy? I don't know

and I no longer care.

               Only know this, the doors of the graves are opening, and those ones meant

to live forever are now capable, willing and able: to greet and visit us and do

a dance with us among the spheres.

                For it is come now, the New Time.

                And I need not be plagued by self doubt for what is not yours only,

and what certainly is not only mine.

As an aside:

                  There is so much nasty, greedy and mind-numbing activity going on on the earth these

days, that it's tempting to jump in and say, "These are the last days." There are signs all over

the earth: earthquakes, and pestilence, volcanoes, tsunamis and genocide.And more worrisome

still is the deranged thinking, the suppression of free thought and suppression of eroticism,

repression of dreams, repression psychologically.

                 The problem is,  if we think it's the apocalypse, we can make it the apocalypse;

we can make it  "the last days " by self-fulfilling prophesy.

                  The human mind is very powerful, and what we think or imagine, we can actualize.

                   This is not some New Age pipe dream; we can really do it! And in this case it's

a bad thing, an unfortunate reality. Because we can destroy ourselves quite easily. We

can imagine Armageddon  and we can bring it about. And this would be a colossal waste

of time

                Do we really want to take ten thousand years to get back to where we are now?

                A wise bush shaman once said to me, " We can actualize anything. But the first duty

of a teacher or a leader is to curb the natural suicidal tendencies of his people."    End of aside.

                   Something very powerful seems to be going on these days.

                   If you are having visions or dreams which are too real to be dreams, in which

you seem to encounter real people,  feel free to e-mail me at:


Thursday, April 5, 2012


        Poets, mystics and players of professional sports all seek out the same flow experience.

It's something that's experienced in the mind, when the body is pumping at peak efficiency.

It's an experience of incredible clarity, when there is no time for thought.

        If you think, your reflexes are slowed. When the full flow of freely associating words

passes through you like a river of pristine water, you can't think, all you can do is scribble

down what is happening, what you're hearing and seeing.

       When you're at the net in tennis, it's best when there's nothing in your mind

but pure attention in the moment. If you start doubting yourself, say in your head, "I can't

do this," then you're not paying attention and you'll miss the quick ball, and you won't

be able to respond because you've prevented the body from responding fast and


        It's the same for the ultimate endeavour, the hunting of the mystic for that

timeless secret moment when you know the answer to all the questions you've been

plaguing yourself about. Rationality leads the old grey rat into the dead-end alley,

but reason will never get him past the impossible situation, the brick wall at the end

of the alley, the paradox to which all analytical thinking leads.

         To me this is the true sport, the ultimate experience of pursuit, the miraculous moment

of Discovery we all know in our genes is the purpose of our birth. In the east it's called

"kensho",  "satori",  "enlightenment".  In the west, we describe this moment we seek

by such mysterious phrases as "the Grail", "the philosopher's stone" that alchemical moment when

the lead within you turns to the gold, when the 'great doubt' turns to the great knowing

experience, when finally we may thankfully say: "It is enough."

          Words will not get you there, to that pure land where you need to go.  Thinking

sure will not get you there. Thinking can only lead you to that place where you

must stop thinking.  And images we use as signposts along the way to realization,

these images must dissolve into that formless place where there are no images.

           In the west we call that place by names such as "the plenum void" or  "paradise"

"heaven", or that place from which all definitions come. The meaning of this place we describe

is what the early Christians used to refer to as "eternal life," and the place the zen people refer to

as the foundation,  your original name.

           These are things that are said when you are in that place: "Before Abraham was, I am."

            Or, "Between heaven and earth, I alone exist."

            Through us the earth comes to know itself.

             Through us, the universe realizes its own Mind.

              Names don't matter.  What matters is that all great explorers and searchers, those who

risk death, and step beyond the village gates, all of us seek the same place that is beyond time

and place. All of us, whatever the religion, we all seek the same thing, call it  divine,

if you wish. Call it home.

              This place is found in the zone.

               Space is not the final frontier. The inner ocean of the human mind is the final frontier.                                                          

Friday, March 30, 2012


ROVING REPORTER RANTS: MASOCISM IN SPORTS IN TORONTO:                 HOW DEPRAVED WILL IT GET?         How low can we go? How deep can we sink? How twisted will we become?          This...

Wednesday, March 14, 2012


ROVING REPORTER RANTS: PURITANS! EUROPE IS LAUGHING AT US!:                     They think we are a bunch of Puritans! Even my native friends think we're a bunch of PURITANS.... well, mostly the wome...

Saturday, February 11, 2012



        "The eye through which you see God is the eye through which God sees you.
 Meister Eckhart

        In deep sitting an experience takes place in which it is said:  "It's just like a mirror."
Now of course, no actual mirror exists, but various schools like to use this image. The zen people
are particularly fond of  the image, and they use it to express experiences approaching  'satori'.
        This mirror-like experience is also what Meister Eckhart was describing with the above words.

         When you think of Christian mystics, almost no one comes to most peoples' minds. This is because
the church of most eras did not like to discuss the mystical experience; such experiences were reserved for the clergy only; and best not talked about with the common folks.
          The fact that the clergy was  busy selling forgiveness and taking care of the many  temporal, physical church demands, meant the clergy itself was not very much inclined to focus on the mystical. There was so little time!
           As anyone knows, anyone who has run a large business, thoughts of the Union with God
are not the first concern you face at 7 o'clock in the morning!

            Because of the religious right these days in North America and it's moronic, simplistic obsessions,
most intelligent people, scholars and certainly mystics do not want to be associated with the church
or with Christians. And you can scarcely blame such people for being reticent! Right wing politics!
             Jesus! Contraception! Gay marriage!  Who cares? These are not religious issues, nor are they
spiritual issues: and they sure as hell are not mystical issues!
             What is needed is for men and women of good faith and of mystical experience to come forward
and rebuild the tradition of Christ. A system of mystical initiation and congratulation is needed.
              Whoops!  Got a little off topic, once again.

               "The School For Mystics"has got nothing to do with the pulpit.  And thank God for that!
               No, no!  In the school for mystics we're allowed to have a little fun! Or what's the point?

                OK.  Let's name a few Cristian mystics.
                 Meister Eckhart is most definitely one.  And another one is Hildegard of Bingem:

                 I'm quoting freely from memory: "I am that living and fiery essence that glows
                  in the grasses of the fields."

                 Oh, let's not forget another mystic who thrived in the Rasta-Biblical tradition, Bob

                  Marley:  "There's a natural mystic flowing through the air."

                   There is also Balsilides of Alexandria. It's easy to forget about him, because he's been deliberately stamped out of our history. He was an early Christian teacher and master. You can read about him in: "The Nag Hammadi Library" ed. James M Robinson: 

                    "The dead went to Jerusalem and did not find what they did seek. And so they
                       have returned to ask questions of me."

                    When the early Christians (also sometimes called "the Gnostics" ) refer to the dead and raising people from the dead, it's a particular turn of phrase. The dead are those who have not yet risen to know. The blind are those who live in darkness, because they have not seen the light; this is why they need to take the path to be "enlightened."
                     Once the dead have risen to see, they are no longer dead.
                      Once the darkness of the blind has been enlightened, their blindness has been cured!

      "He who finds the interpretation of these words will not experience death." Gospel of Thomas

                      What I like about the study of the early Christians and these new gospels discovered in 1945
by the Nile River, (ancient gospels preserved by the dry sands of Egypt),  there is actual discourse between master and disciple. It is a series of question and answer sessions, very like the early days of Zen Buddhism,
where there is also much confrontation between master and student.

                       To quote Christ, the teacher, another mystic: "Cleave a piece of wood, 
                                                                                             I am there.
                                                                                             Lift up a stone and 
                                                                                             you will find me there."
                         Another phrase which cannot be understood intellectually or rationally but which can be used
as a Mindshock during sitting is:  "Before Abraham was, I am."

                        Every time the Universe within shakes our sandbox, new sacred geometries occur.
                        " Within you, jewels are hanging from the trees. Pearls and rubies of worth
                            beyond imaging."

                        "I see the same view through an electron microscope as I do through a
                           powerful telescope.  Inner is outer - literally!"

                        "In the fructifying Mind of the Multiverse, crystals and diamonds
                          twist in the galactic wind."       (Notes from an ecstatic experience).

                           Sometimes you have to go a little crazy... in order to join the dance.
                           "Some people never go crazy. What terrible lives they must lead."
                              (Charles Bukowski).