Ode to father – part 1

dad2

Scars are my tattoos, I pride myself in them but I don’t go out of my way to get them.
No ink and colour to express myself, feel comfortable in or beneath my skin. I learned this from a more exemplar man. I look at my father’s hands. He’s real bad ass, doesn’t need tats.
The fabric of the earth perfumed with his blood, yes, that olive tree still wails for him. Forty years after he traversed the earth away from it

Because his blood runs through the earth’s veins and when he gently prunes the roses twelve thousand kilometres away, the rose stems bend to him and becomes a bashful girl in the arms of her lover. The soil which nourishes that rose courses through from the olive tree beneath the Cedar Mountains of Lebanon and finds him in an Australian garden.
He treads lightly on the earth like God describes the believers in the Quran. Treading lightly meaning both literally, forward bent, head bowed in shame not of anything or anyone but in awe of God, nomadic movements without foot print and he moves spiritually by not burdening its resources and he is infatuated by Gods beauty made manifest through his creation, thus treating it kindly and with love as one does his maiden love on their first night.
His actions are gentle and loving but his hands have strength and power, the earth, winds, water and fire are summoned and rush to his aid in obedience to God’s promise, “When I love him, I am his hearing with which he hears, his seeing with which he sees, his hands with which he strikes, and his foot with which he walks…..”, simply because he practises what he knows and one need not know much to practise more.
No, he doesn’t have ink stained skin but he has a love stained and scarred heart. He has scars for tattoos and he taught me that they are tougher than ink tattoos, far more expressive, tell a thousand stories more and have oceans of character deeper than a cheap monetary exchange for a murial stabbed into your skin just because you chose so. You can’t decide to have character, you earn it. You can’t buy toughness, you suffer for it.

Want to be tough? Show me the fabric of your soul, the mettle of your make-up, not the bill for your ink.

My father is pure like the earth. A man of knowledge said of sages being like the earth, ‘Dung is flung on to the earth and flowers spring forth’, so too do sages get put through the worst of trials and tribulations, yet only beauty comes out of them. My father is purer, he is the earth embodiment, true to his nature, he knows the land, and it haunts him, always reminding him to come back. His love affair with it is not because of a leisurely hobby like fascination, it’s not on his Facebook likes, it’s because he knows where he came from and he knows where he is returning. He can take life’s blows because he’s already felt the earth’s cry, had the blood of saints and prophets beneath his feet and all he will do is continue to blossom until his time it is to re-join the elements.
My father doesn’t have tats, he has scars, he has soil beneath his nails and he sweats an earthly perfume from his brow. Those men, those women who know this way are few and far between. I implore you, find them, learn from them, eat a mouthful from their hand, lest their state may be passed on to you and you carry on this tradition.
I started by telling you about my scars, but I only have scars because I was allowed to enjoy myself by engaging in my passions, my leisurely activities and hobbies. My scars are lame compared to my fathers. My scars are from play, his scars are from life.

We are raised to believe that scars are ugly, they make perfect skin imperfect. They make handsome features grotesque or feminine soft skin tough and masculine, as if to stigmatise these at polar extremes to one another, unable to reconcile them as being able to exist with one another. Scars are the absolute distilled definition of beauty manifest. They tell stories of work, love and labour. They tell stories of struggle, pain and endurance. The scar on the heart of a person who has loved is not the same as the person who only speaks of love but never had their heart broken and had to mend it again. There is a reason why a scar is a physiological adaptation to stress, and forms the way it does. It makes the area more resilient, it toughens the area making it oblivious to further damage whilst at the same time increases its threshold. The body intelligently knows that to become stronger, it must change its basic structure. A scar is the beautiful and intelligent way the body naturally reforms itself. A scared heart is one that can now take more, love more, feel more, see more, share more, understand more, endure more, persevere more and be more patient. A heart devoid of scars is just an organ. But it takes incredible character and wisdom to allow a scarred heart to remain open and flexible, not closed and tight.

End: part one.
-ME

Tread lightly

existence

Whilst everyone is busy making their mark in this world, somewhat proving they exist, I’m trying to figure out how not to leave any trace of my existence, no footprint or burden on the earth and it’s inhabitants to accuse me of anything when my corpse is fed back to the earth, lest they extract their rights from me.

-ME

 

What matters

what matters1

I have come to the realisation that the most

important thing for me to do as a human

being is to arouse the deep seated

conviction and belief of the insignificance of

my existence. As a man the goal is amplified

by the reality of it having to be aroused as

quickly and early as possible in life.

As such, my children will learn to be better

human beings by acknowledging their

inferiority from a very young age.

There is no chair available for ego at

the dinner table in my house.

-ME

No one owns your happiness

With sixty dollars I bought my happiness.

With sixty dollars I bought your misery.

My intention was not your unhappiness.

But by no means am I miserly.

You see, you cannot control my happiness.

And if sixty dollars was all it would take,

I’d buy it over and over.

In accident I lost your sixty dollars.

But I bought my freedom from your disdainful glare.

I bought your shackles.

Now you feel bad and you ponder how I turned my negative situation into your negative situation.

Sixty dollars unshackled me but imprisoned you.

What a small price to pay.

The etiquette of men,

Is not to make,

Mention.

Had you followed suit,

You would have been set free

By your,

Generosity.

And I, not knowing any better would have remained ignorantly,

Happy.

 

-ME

The struggle to believe.

uighurs

You claim to be a non-believer,

You deceiver.

I can prove you are a believer of sorts,

Of your thoughts,

Of your retorts,

Sharp as a whip on the flesh of the slave,

You can’t quieten your ego and behave,

You choose the false pretence of freedom,

But don’t know freedom…… is in being a slave,

Not to that ego of yours,

Worshipping yourself,

Without any help,

Proud and arrogant,

Ignorant and blind,

Unkind,

To yourself and mankind,

As you conjecture yet another mental axe to grind,

Pretending to be a searcher,

But you cannot find,

Your mind,

Forever entangled,

Entwined.

My friend that is not the way,

That is not the wine.

Love is the way,

God is love.

Release your ego,

Like you release a dove,

Let your soul soar instead,

To the heavens above

Stop claiming you’re a non-believer when we can see your struggle in wanting to be one.

-ME

Coarse Courses are not a Curse

Alone____by_LeMSC

The curse of the course is that it can be coarse.

The beauty of coarseness can only be appreciated by those who have travelled the course.

Is it then really a curse?

There is only one type of person who has travelled the course.

He alone can show you the beauty of coarseness.

He will most certainly lift the curse.

-me