Chance? Who might find out?

I am on the threshold of the silver door, That is in The Second Half of Life: Opening the Eight Gates of Wisdom. And yes I know that strictly speaking, I might not be in the second half of life, but after watching lasts night's Quantum Physics programme I recognise that all calculations are to be questioned.

Not so the exquisite Mandelbrot formula f_c(z) = Z²+c which gifts us the ever-repeating beautifully artistic fractals. Yes, you are right to notice that our teatime television viewing has taken a cosmic turn, which I personally think is for the best, as Pangloss from Candide himself might also have said.

Isn't life really all about gaining wisdom, about cramming as much experiential learning into our life as is possible? That's not to say there isn't space for no thought between the thinking thoughts, No, Eckhart is right, we do need to visit that space of conscious awareness, fairly often I would say, I don't know for certain what Pangloss would say about it, but yes, probably: it's for the best.

I have taken a substantial decision on my rewriting of Yorkshire Love Poems and Other Desperate Stuff. Having spent a fair amount of time encouraging other poets to become more proficient in introducing their poetry, I am going to also bite the introductory bullet and pen some scene-setting words before every poem.

I calculate, yes I am in quantum light mode again, that if I complete one poem plus its set up, every day, then in three to six months the book will be completed. And wouldn't that be a book worthy of the effort; I for one think so, even without a thought, or even with no thought, I still think so.

See what you think, here is the prelim plus the poem:

My work work frustrates me. Every day I find something, or more usually someone that irritates me to such a level that I have to begin offering explanations.

Or worse still I show off my, not inconsiderable, knowledge to people who ought to know this.

You know the sort, the chancers who happenstance, or breeding, have placed into positions well beyond their capability.

How do I know these sort you may ask, well it takes one to know one doesn’t it, and I have often plunged myself in way deeper than any capability I might have had, or may ever have hoped to have.

Of course one wonders whether a relationship is balanced, or fair, or true, or any of those other fixed-up, fanciful words the so-called experts in personal psychology use nowadays.

But yes, in the office, or Portakabin as it really was, and alone, yes always alone, then one does reflect perhaps a little too much.

Does he really come around to see her too too often, do they spend too too much time together, am I encouraging, or intensifying the situation.

I am good at self-reflection, I have done it for as long as I can remember, and in that cabin, out on Dartmoor, I did reflect more than ever before.

Inconsistency

The same old, famous old

Bold and dangerous inconsistency

Always in the game, always the same old

Infamous, continuous inconsistency

Continuing without conscience

Always along, always with doubt

On the same old, irregular regular road

First to incredulity, then to paths way beyond

Segregated, separated; why then to write

Egress spills outward, in your wasted words

Released from your pent-up, sent-up world

Unleashed from deeper than the forgotten depths