BURA'S BLOGGERY ARCHIVE

THE BURA BLOGGERY

HELLO AMIGOES!

The following is a Foreword that I wrote for George E Moss’s book: SOLUMET. However there are two pieces: the other is THE GREAT FORGETTING. I hope you can make sense of them both and I urge you to email me on ANYTHING that I have written in my monthly bloggery so far.

FOREWARD
To the book on the teachings of
“ SOLUMET”
(2006)

From the Foreword by PAUL BURA on the book SOLUMET by George E Moss.

*******

THE GREAT FORGETTING
(2007 by Paul Bura)

We all suffer from it, and it’s quite a common complaint - though not ‘common’ in the strictest sense of the word. What am I talking about? Spiritual Amnesia is what I’m talking about,‘TheGreatForgetting’.

“Forgetting what? Forgetting where? Forgetting whom?” I hear you question! Why, WHAT we are, WHERE we are going, and to WHOM we are going toward?

Let me put it in poetic sense (or nonsense depending on your point of reference): we are tiny beads of perspiration on the brow of the Infinite created from the Big Bang (s???)! But only to appear again in the primeval soup of so-called reality, about to embark on a journey, a journey so fantastic and so immense that this laptop, or a million laptops, could not cope. For life is eternal, forever, in ALL places: free to be IN form, or OUT of form, yet never bound by form. THIS then is the ultimate in Freedom! (Freedom being the main word in this piece)

However, there is one rule and one rule only:
 THAT YOU DO NO HARM TO ANYONE OR ANY THING, ESPECIALLY SENTIENT BEINGS. THIS IS THE RULE OF LOVE.

Any misdemeanour that you do will not only harm that sentient being, but also yourself and the Infinite that sent you. Why? Because you are an aspect of the Infinite that sent you and this would be termed self harm, for we are all prospective Gods in the making! Of course when I say SENT it seems as if you have no choice in the matter. This is when this element of forgetting kicks in! There is always choice. The Infinite IS the ‘choice’, nothing happens against your will. There IS nothing else but Infinity and Freedom (that word again) and Love and the most magnificent adventure ever devised! And this adventure will teach you that where there is love there is compassion and forgiveness and freedom, even the power of forgiving yourself, for it is inevitable that you will make mistakes - errors - along the way. These elements are all contained in the word LOVE.
                                                           
The universe is alive. Every rock every drop of rain rings and sings with life, there is no beginning and no end to it.  AND ALL OF THIS WE TEND TO FORGET?

 Whenever fear embraces us we go into ‘forget-mode’, we forget that love, not fear is forever. Not tomorrow, not yesterday, but NOW, in this very moment. ‘All There Is’ is contained in this moment, this precious little - or vast - moment and if you understand just a quarter of what I’ve written then you’ll KNOW that!
Of course you will know that, for you are a droplet of the God that created you! A God in miniature: Quantum Mechanics. One day you will realise this…and believe me I’m only just beginning to get my head around all of this and I’ve only had a mere glimpse, merely scratched the surface of this thing called God!

Fear is an emotion, Love (or the Infinite, or Freedom, or God) just IS!

AND NOW AMIGOS THE POEM (YAWN) that you’ve all been waiting for with baited breath:

(From the poetry collection BACK TO BACK on menu bar)

ADIOS AMIGOS
UNTIL NEXT TIME

Paul Bura
April 2008.

*****

BURA’S MARCH BLOGGERY

HELLO AMIGOES!

The following took place fairly recently but the ‘Peter Cushing’ saga took place nearly twelve years ago but I thought it worth repeating just to ram home the thought  that life or so-called
death is indeed a continuum!

NEVER STRIKE A HAPPY MEDIUM IN FULL FLOW
As most of you will know my mumma passed to the 4th dimension (passed over) on the 4th November 2007. It’s difficult to put into words the gap she has left in all our lives. But I shall not repeat the eulogy, though perhaps I should have added (in the eulogy) that in her days off work she could be found either building a green house or re-pointing the chimney…just for relaxation you understand!! That said I would like to report that when she passed it was the night after that I had a dream: she (my mumma) was pulling my bedclothes off of me and showing herself in her mid-30’s, vibrant and young with rosy cheeks and oh so, so happy! The odd thing was that she was surrounded by children, climbing trees, dancing, playing hop-scotch and all the things that children do. I was describing my dream to my sister when it struck me like a thunderbolt…the children were US! She was at her happiest when we were children and that is why she gave a clarion call of complete and utter joy!
            Later on she ‘appeared in the kitchen’. Just prior to that Melly – one of my sisters – wanted to know how she was now and what it was like during the so-called dying process? She said:

             “Tell Melly: the light took me, and I lay in this light for I don’t know how long but I was completely at peace and overwhelmingly happy. Then, another light joined my light and I realised that it was my parents (my grandparents) and I was SO happy to see them, SO very happy!”

            This was not the first time that folk have appeared to me. The last time was quite recent. A friend of mine (she used to be our manager during the Health Food Shop days) contacted me from ‘the other side’ so to speak. She had died of breast cancer and wanted me to tell her husband and children that she was okay:

            “There was no pain to speak of but I was not prepared to go and leave you all. But I’ve learnt here that that’s the way of things. Death (so called) is so easy, John, I was riding the light but for how long I don’t know: it could have been a hundred years for all I knew or it could have been minutes. I miss you all so much but I will still be there with you for a while. I’ll tell you what though: I wasn’t prepared to use the services of Paul. That came as quite a shock. But he is a friend I can trust, and you must trust him too! This is NOT goodbye only a fond farewell…for a while. Trust me! I can’t describe the indescribable but it’s not all harps and angels just …well, indescribable! When your turn comes I can only say: ‘It’s a breeze!’”

            A dear friend of mine passed over. Now he was an ‘old soul’. He was well into the mystical way being somewhat of a mystic himself. He was a 2nd world war pilot flying spitfires and still – at aged 85 – was flying one of those micro-light aircraft and still driving an ancient sports car. He was well into dowsing (one of the best dowsers that I knew) and was an archaeologist. He’d just come back from a flying trip, landed safely but tripped rather badly breaking a couple of ribs (he didn’t crash as some are saying), but true to form he drove the 50 miles to his home (his home in Ashurst, Sussex, next to what was regarded as his church) but couldn’t get out of the car until a neighbour found him. His name was David Russell and he accompanied us on many a psychic quest. He used to attend once a week meetings that I held for Earth Healing and Psychic Development in Sussex and he used to sit in exactly the same settee every time. Now I have to say that I have that exact ‘same’ settee in my office and it was from here that he dictated a letter to his family:

            “I want you to know Paul that I am quite well and to tell my family (including my wife) that I was not happy to go…at first, but then I ‘knew’ without question that this was my time. I could have recovered from my wounds, broken limbs etc. but then I just ‘let it all happen’!
            I was very moved to see you all in Church (I came to regard it as MY Church, I think for obvious reasons) and to see all those that I loved, especially my wife and children together again. Let there be no ill-feeling!
            It was very odd to see the whole Church packed and to suddenly realise that they had all come to ‘see me off’. And such kind words, I really don’t deserve them, but you [by you I think he meant ALL of those that spoke] said them and I’m very grateful, so that is that!
            I think that is all I have to say, Paul, except to say that many of my old comrades were there to welcome me over and I’m truly having a grand time of it! Bless you all. My affairs will take care of themselves. That’s all. Thank you Paul for listening and typing all of this down! It feels strange to say goodbye for this is not goodbye…but it is for now!”

Finally – and this also concerned David Russell – I was given a carved walking stick to sychromatise (a method of receiving clairvoyance by touch). I watched as the mists on the screen of my mind cleared and I saw and felt that this belonged to a man of the theatre, a man of stage and screen.               Suddenly, without warning PETER CUSHING (star of the Hammer Horror films usually taking the part of Doctor Frankenstein) stood in front of me and he asked to be remembered to MICHAEL BENTINE (author of THE DOOR MARKED SUMMER and DOORS OF THE MIND, who David Russell knew) and to give a message to David to say that “Everything that he said about Life after Death was true” and also to say that ROY CASTLE was here with him – another actor, dancer, comedian and musician who had died of cancer a few months before - this comedian was trying to get a message through to his wife (who Michael Bentine also knew!) to say that “Everything was okay and that: the jazz over here is fantastic!”  (Roy was a jazz fanatic and played jazz trumpet)
            I phoned David Russell and asked him to tell Michael Bentine (who also passed a few years back) about the message from Peter Cushing and also to pass the message from Roy Castle on to his wife Fiona. David phoned him and Michael said: “I only met Peter Cushing once and all we spoke about was LIFE AFTER DEATH!”  
            I was watching an old ‘Doctor Who’ movie the next day and guess who played the film version of The Doctor? Peter Cushing! And guess who played his assistant? You guessed it: Roy Castle! A real cosco, eh? (Cosmic coincidence)

          These are just a few of the communications that I’ve received through the years.

            So it gives us (my family and I) great comfort to know that our darling mumma is well and happy and just a frequency away!

NOW FOR THE POEMS,

ADIOS AMIGOS
UNTIL NEXT TIME

Paul Bura
March 2008

THE BURA BLOGGERY

HELLO AMIGOES!

If you find the following piece offensive in any way – in the light of my usual pieces – or a betrayal, then all I can say is you do not in my view possess a sense of humour. The following ‘happened’ and as a writer I feel it my duty to tell it the way it was…with a minuscule or smidgen of embellishment, and if you do not find it in any way amusing, then tough!                                 

A BORDERLINE CASE FOR SURGERY
(A letter to my friend Julian Young in Paris)

DEAR JEWELS:
    Well, I've had the tube inserted up my ‘todger’ [my specialist’s terminology, not mine!] and another up my rectum all for the sake of the X-Ray art of picture taking. Of course they weren't aware of my physical difficulties (no change there!) and the specialist had obviously not mentioned it in his notes (no change there!) as when I was 35-years-old and my arms had become weak because of Post Polio Syndrome (You know that now but I didn't know that then!) and a doddery old Herr doctor looked up at me from my notes, his small, steel spectacles glinting in the sunlight streaming in through the window - the notes went back from my early days of polio - and said:

                                                                                                                                                DOC: "Zo, your RIGHT arm is za strong arm unt your left is za veak        arm, Mr Bura?"                                                                                                                            

ME:     "Eh no, it's the other way round, actually," I said.                                     

DOC:   "Now look here, Mr Bura, it's down here in za black and vite!"                  

ME:     "I don't care whether it's down there in purple with yellow spots," I  said, “They have got it wrong. I do know my own body, you know…intimately!" (Somebody had blundered: no change there then!)

    Anyway, cutting to the chase: meanwhile in the X-ray department they had brought in reinforcements, an extra two nurses! "This is gonna be fun," I quipped. "What we would like you to do, Mr Bura, if you can, is to pee into this bucket”!  (What they call flow control), “what would you like US to do?" "Eh, well," I said, "if you would stand me up and support me I'll have a go at peeing into the bucket!" (Incidentally, I had to go to the hospital with a full bladder and I was busting to go!) I lent on the X-ray table for support whilst Quenton (my nephew) held me from behind.        They waited. I waited. They waited a little longer. "Eh, would you like us to go away?" said a nurse ruefully, "Um, yes," I said politely, prodding my bladder region, "I think that would be best." After all four pairs of eyes staring at you is bound to put a chap off, isn't it?
     
            After I had peed in the bucket they all trooped back in.

            Then it was a case of ‘The lifting of Bura’ up onto the X-ray table.   I asked Quen if he could help, as he's used to me by now. Quen went behind the table and asked whether he could stand on it as the table was rather wide. "NO!" came the strangled cry of the radiologist [or whatever he’s called]. The female doctor waded in. "I've not got a bad back as so many of you have so would you like me to help?" "All for one and one for all, Doc'," I said (No, I didn't actually say that but words to that affect).
            With that they ALL hauled me up and onto the table. "You're lighter than we thought," said a nurse poised to shove a tube up my penis and another up my posterior, "I'm permanently on a diet," I stated firmly. Then they lay me down and got hold of my todger [Did I mention that my Urologist called it that?].

            I’ve never, ever, got used to all this: the cold sensation as the local aesthetic is being applied up my penis followed by the tube and the slight pain as it circumnavigates my slightly swollen prostate!

            Now we were set. "Is there a small camera up my bum?" I asked. "No,” said the nurse, “Well it bloody well feels like it”, I said. “No we are just pumping in air to measure the pressure which shows up on a gauge," they said. "Can you measure this?" I said, and broke wind. [No I didn't actually, but I dearly wanted to].

    They started to fill my bladder up with some kind of dye, a painless sensation but I started to want to pee again awfully badly (naturally). They took a few pictures of them all smiling into the camera with the tube up and under… then they took a few X-Rays! And then - and this was the part that really worried me - they started to tip the table to the vertical, the weight gradually coming stronger on my feet and legs. "SSTOPP!" I cried, “I want to move my feet forward!" I was starting to panic now. They started to lower me back again. "No, no need for that I...I, yes that's better (I moved my feet forward a little thus adjusting my balance), that's it, you can start again now," I said politely but firmly. I asked whether I could lean on the machine (a lean machine!) in front of me and they said: yes. They took a few more X-Rays and then they asked me to pee the dye out in the bucket!                                                                      
            They waited. I waited.                                                                                             
            "Shall we bugger off again?" they said, apologising for the awful pun.                "Yes, that would be nice," I said. They buggered off and I peed. And then they all came back in again.

They turned the table to the horizontal, took the tubes out, got me down and into the wheelchair and I was told to report back when I was dressed.

    The result? I'm a BORDERLINE CASE FOR SURGERY, it's up to my urologist as to whether he wealds the knife or not. He STILL considers that I’m too young!    “Um, one question, Mr Haiku (the name of my urology specialist; well it sounds like Haiku, anyway) “Yes, Paul.” “If I DO have the operation…um, would I still be able to…er…can I still…well, you know…?”
            “Have sex?” said Mr Haiku, obviously having answered that particular question a thousand times.                                                                                       “Um, well yes.”
            “The success rate is 90%!” said Mr Haiku, smiling!

            Needless to say Jules, mon ami, I still haven’t had it done!   
           
THE THREE L's
le Paul      
PS. This was four years ago!

ONLY ONE POEM THIS TIME, AMIGOES!

UNTIL NEXT MONTH, MY AMIGOES!

Paul

Febuary 2008

BURA’S BLOGGERY

HAPPY NEW YEAR AMIGOS!

VICTOR CARASOV
By Paul Bura

It was 1973, and my good friend Peter McKay and his then wife Linda were managing a pub in the Dover area in the county of Kent. I was invited over for the afternoon and was sitting in a sort of garden recess when I spotted him. I say spotted him it was more to the point that I HEARD him before I actually saw him. He had a kind of staccato voice with the edges rounded off, a machine-gun sort of delivery, and he SHOUTED when he got excited, which was more often than not.
           He was wearing a bright pink track-suit and looked, facially, like a bank manager with bright, sparkling, energetic, and above all, intelligent eyes. He was, if I were to guess, in his late 50’s and his new wife (whose name I’m ashamed to say I’ve forgotten) appeared to be in her late 40’s. I was correct with her age, but way off mark regarding his! He was over 70.
            Peter introduced me to him. It was like being verbally plugged-in to Battersea Power Station. Such was the energy of this man’s personality that I was taken completely off-guard. He drowned me. Not in some vicious way, but in a kindly, open way.
            This was Victor Carasov. A small-time hotel thief who had spent over 50 years of his life in jail, 50 years of brutality and deprivation; 50 years of being considered mad at one time and just plain eccentric the other; 50 years of institutionalised banality; a few months on the outside and then IN again.
            From a converted war-ship where he was sent for stealing a bicycle aged 11 to get away from a stepmother who smothered him in religion and God, to jail after jail after jail.
            Do you pity him or despise him? Victor takes no pity. Despise him? You can’t despise a man like Victor Carasov: impossible, absolutely impossible.
            Peter asked him if he could buy a copy of his just published book: Two Gentleman to See You, Sir (the story of a villain). Peter gave him the money for the book as he had asked for the cash in advance. Victor disappeared for three hours. Everyone thought the worse. They all thought that he’d gone off with the money - even me! But he had a new wife and he was on his honeymoon. Surely not!
            He came back in the early evening with the book duly signed: To Peter and Linda. With the money I shall buy some food! VICTOR CARASOV.

            Towards the end he went slightly off the rails. His wife had left him and he was doing a short spell inside. He’d robbed a small hotel. Old habits die hard, yet he had set up a police program where he gave lectures to young prisoners about the perils of crime. No one could tell it ‘the way it was’ better than Victor Carasov.
            I wrote to him in prison and he wrote back. He was very depressed. When he came out, he was in his mid 70’s, and after years of rejecting the God within he embraced Catholicism.

            One day he came to see me at my home in Herne bay, and I learned a little more about him. For instance, he played clarinet. I too played clarinet! And we talked about religion, or rather HE talked religion.
            But he was lonely too, very lonely. He didn’t admit to it, but I knew. Laughing and shouting in my front room was too much for my mother, just TOO MUCH, and she escaped to the kitchen.
            When at last I said goodnight, after driving him to the station, I didn’t think that I would hear from him again. I was wrong. He rang me and wanted to come over. I shielded the mouthpiece of the phone and said quietly: “It’s Victor, he wants to come over!” One look from my mother and that was it, finito! I tried to explain to him about the problem, making up any excuse that I could. It was with a heavy heart that I put the phone down. I felt so guilty. If I’d have been on my own he would have been very welcome, but…
           
            About a year later, I received a letter from two ladies who owned a café. Victor used to come in for his meals. I guess he must have told them about me or how could they have known where to write? I visited the café and the ladies told me what they knew. They said Victor was ill. Then I got a letter from a priest saying that Victor had died and would I like to write something for him in the church magazine?

            When Victor was buried, it was on a Good Friday. The clouds gathered in the afternoon and there was thunder, lightening and rain. At 3 0’clock precisely the sun came out, a shaft of light lit up the church and hit Victor’s coffin, which shone brilliantly: The thief on the cross was accepted into paradise by his Lord!

            I can’t exactly remember what I wrote in the parish magazine, but it ended with: “Death where is thy sting, grave where is Victor?” Arrogantly, I knew the answer to that particular question.

Excerpt from “STEPPING TO THE DRUMMER” available here or by choosing "books" on the MENU BAR.

These two poems were from my
collection of poems BRAND NEW!
Just press BOOKS on menu bar!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, AMIGOS!!!

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER!

Paul Bura
January 2008

BURA’S CHRISTMAS BLOGGERY

AMIGOES

CHRISTMAS AND THE WEIGHT
    OF THE WORLD  

Listen, less we miss the echo in the dark, the dank echo of a month or so ago when the world was chaotic and had charisma and character and was Christmas! When the weight of the world lay at the end of our beds; appeared, when our gentle snoring had at last brought our genie of a father unsteadily up the stairs to listen to us breathe, and safe in the knowledge of our sleeping gently lay his burdens down, fearing to wake us as he lurched and swayed from room to room, his clanking, clinking clutch of stockings reeking of tangerines and tin and the lick of pink sugar-mice. A whiff of a cigar lay dangling on his lips leaving its stain of a smell to mingle with the odour of sherry and pine needles.
            On waking with excitement at about 6 0’clock, the weight of our world at our feet, we’d rummage around nibbling on the mice and smelling the fruit and tooting on our tin, we would meet on the landing and creep down the stairs and into the lounge and make for the forbidden tree of Good and Evil that dripped its silver and winked its lights over forbidden treasure wrapped in colours that were ripe for the peeling. Oh what soft or hard fruit lay within? Then shoving and shushing and giggling we’d stuff ourselves with chocolate not noticing the pad of parental feet on the soft carpet on the curve of the stairs ordering us up to bed again where we contained our overflowing joy.
            Breakfast at last, of Grapefruit, eggs and bacon and buttered toast, our minds already on the prospect of presents: “Thank-you-God-for-a-good-meal-and-please-mummy-can-I-get-down?” We sang this mantra at breakneck speed already half way off of our chairs where we paused, waiting for the ‘yes’ and when it came we scrambled out in the garden to try out the latest toy or test our newly acquired skills at target practice, lost in a world of wonder and ice-coated trees.
            We didn’t want it to end.
            The carols we sang heralded the coming of Christmas and called to us in every shop and alleyway, every corner of every street. We could almost taste the mince pies and Christmas pudding.
The smell of darkness, the smell that always came before Christmas when the evenings drew in sharp as a tack and the still of the evening was pierced with the robin’s tic tic tic warning-call that filled the semi-darkness and the throaty, fruitier sound of the blackbird, the smell of the damp earth with the leaves rotting down in time for winter.
           That was glory for us, real and ‘coming’glory.
           The smell of darkness was Christmas, and as long as I live will ever be!

*******

On the 4th of November my mother died. I wrote this eulogy for the priest to read – a fellow poet – who did a fair job of it, I, you understand, could not go through with it. But I managed to read the poem THE RED KITE without breaking down but when I said to my mother’s wicker-work coffin: “Freedom at last, Mumma, Freedom at last!” it came out as a gasping croak and I crumpled into a blubbering heap! But my brother Kevin took the reins and sang a song for his mother accompanied on his fine acoustic guitar.

EULOGY

PAULINE MELINDA BURA was the hardest working, kindest and most generous lady that you could ever wish to meet. She was the rock on which the Bura Family rested (When they got older they could always tap her for a couple of quid!)

Mind you, she was also shrewd. Up until she died she didn’t owe a penny. She taught all of her children to be shrewd, or careful, if you like.

            She came from a very poor family; her father was in the navy.  And he and her mother were very strict (see LITTLE RESTAURANT ON THE PROM on menu bar). She trained to be a dancer but it was her father who was the ‘pushy’ one – usually it was the ‘pushy mother’! But it was HE that found her first dancing teacher and when she was 15 went on to the professional stage working with such luminaries as Jack Buchannan, and George Formby.
            Her husband was a professional wrestler (what a combination, eh?) and they moved to Herne Bay in Kent to open up their first fish restaurant: THE OYSTER BAR and was the biggest fish restaurant on the South East coast and the first restaurant to serve crinkly chips.
            When she had her children she carried on working like a Trojan. She supported ALL of them: Kevin, Melvina, Josephine, Paul, in their chosen professions!

            She divorced in 1960 but went on working as a waitress and finally as a cook just to help pay the bills as their father had gone bankrupt leaving her to pick up the pieces!
            She also took a job in a pie factory and finally as a ‘carer’ in an old folks home.
            When Paul and a partner (Peter McKay) opened a Whole Food Store she used to bake wholemeal loaves and carried them in an old trolley - still warm - three miles to the shop, she also baked veggie pasties and pies.
            There was just no stopping this unstoppable little woman who was just over 5 foot tall – if the truth were known she was slightly UNDER five foot tall…but don’t tell her I said that!
            She was a human dynamo…AND became a vegetarian at aged 50.
            When most of the family moved to Sussex where Josie and her brother Paul opened another whole food shop, she STILL baked the bread!
            When she was 70 she went into a deep depression and sulked for 3 weeks, you see she just didn’t LIKE being 70!

            She could be difficult and down-right flighty, but that was her nature. But she was the most loving and irrepressible person you could wish to meet.
            “The hills of Wales,” she said, “get under my feet and there are no decent supermarkets, only those that you have to drive for blooming miles to get too!”

            In the last few years she got weaker physically but her spirit was as indomitable as ever.

She and Paul lived together all their lives and will miss her terribly, as they ALL will. When Paul got polio at aged 7 she always swore that she would always be therefor him…well, she very nearly made it too!  

Here’s to you PAULINE MELINDA BURA , may the journey be comfortable and the hills never get under your feet! And remember this always, we all love you and cherish you!
            May the Infinites’ wings carry and protect you and set you down where ever you want to be!

SEE YOU NEXT YEAR, AMIGOS,
MAY THE INFINITE SMILE ON US ALL
AND GIVE US PEACE!

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER
PAUL BURA
Christmas 2007

BURA’S BLOGGERY

AMIGOS!

BUSKING

My then brother-in-law Barry Cole (Jazz musician supreme) and I made our dubious way to London. We had it in mind to do a days busking in old London Town, me on banjo (4 chords only) and Barry on his old trusty tenor sax.
            We filled up with petrol (costing about £1. 80 in those far off days) and set off at about 9-30ish in the morning stuffing my wheelchair in the boot of Barry’s Renault.
            We arrived in London just after 11am just opposite a tube station in the centre of London (can’t remember what tube station off hand). Barry got my wheelchair out and I got in it, he handed me my banjo got his tenor sax out and we set off, me carrying the banjo case and the tenor case on my wheelchair. We found a place (still opposite the tube station) and set up. We started off with me belting out “Whiskey Headed Women” and Barry backing me up. When it came to the ‘middle eight’ Barry was away with the fairies jazzing his little socks off (hell could he play!). We continued like this: “The St Louie Blues” and “Stuttering Sam” (which I wrote) and some other blues standards; my repertoire was rather limited, thank God Barry was there to extend the ‘middle eights’ to ‘middle 32s’ somewhat otherwise we would have been through our set in 20 minutes! Suddenly it began to rain 10p pieces. Two young girls were hanging out of a window directly above us throwing money and then started to clap enthusiastically along with the music.
            A guy with a rather wry smile passed us carrying a guitar case he disappeared down the entrance of the tube!
            In all we made about £1 60 and as we were getting cold Barry suggested that we pack it in. However, before we drove off Barry decided to go into the tube station to see what the guy with the guitar was doing.
            Barry came back and he said: “Stone me, dad, we should have followed that guy with the guitar, he’s making a bloody fortune down there. No wonder he was smiling, AND it’s warm!”

            We blew the £1.60 on a curry…yes, in those days you could get a curry for two for about £1.60!
            We were home by 4pm! 
         

JOURNEY FROM ALPHA TO OMEGA…AND BACK

It is said that when a great soul passes into so-called death that they become absorbed into All That Is. Souls such as the Buddha, Ghandi, Jesus, Krishna but also aspiring souls, such as Treya Wilber, whose story is so beautifully (and movingly) told in Ken Wilber’s great book “GRACE AND GRIT”.

            I wrote a poem years ago, a line of which reads “When I no longer have a name then I too would merge with the Eternal”. This is what I believe but in truth when I have come close to God, to Oneness, and merely touched the Eternals face I have suffered horribly for my pains: after the ecstasy then follows the agony. Yet I still hunger for that moment of bliss. I say hunger; it’s a gentle hunger now, more a sense of: when it happens it happens. The impatience has fallen from me. Yes, let me get a little bit more spiritual awareness under my soul’s belt; then we’ll see.

            Now my questions are these: when we merge with All That Is and finally let go of this 3 dimensional world and all that’s in it do we really lose our identity? Can we still be found in the stillness on a lake; the wind; the rain; the trees and all that grows in silence; the soul of the planet etc? Or can we re-emerge as a single entity again, coming and going as we please in service? And what of the Great White Brotherhood: are these mere aspects of the real masters, each one representing a part of the whole? Or am I missing the point somehow?

            I suspect that they are still keeping a toe dipped in the ocean of All That Is.They come again to help man/womankind, help in their spiritual struggles, help to become what they are themselves: THE ETERNAL PRESENCE, help us not to trip over, but - if we do - help us to our feet again and lead the way out of this spiritual maze, having trod the agony and the joy themselves, having to come to that searing conclusion that it was all worth while.  

            Having said that, it’s still a wonderful journey that we’re on, because a journey - or adventure - is what it is: an incredible yet painful adventure back to OURSELVES, back to the God that spawned us in the first place!

            We all stand up and fall over again and it’s these wonderful beings from whom we seek instruction and wisdom, these great beings that will gently - though not always gentle - haul us to our feet and point us in the right direction, beings that are always there for us.

            It doesn’t matter a hoot what religion you are, it doesn’t matter if you adjure to no religion at all as long as you serve each other with love, compassion and kindness these are all the tools that you need – though the first and the greatest of these is LOVE! Whether you serve the nature God Pan, or the Sun God Ra, they are all aspects of the One.

            But how do we know what path to take? How do we know what teacher to follow? In my experience, if you truly want it, they make an appearance at the right time and in the right place. A poem could point the way, but it doesn’t mean that THAT poet is your teacher. A phrase or comment in a magazine or newspaper will set your spirit on fire, but that doesn’t mean you should take notice of the whole article; something that someone says or does; the sound of a piece of music; a particular smell that evokes a memory of something or someone that you’ve forgotten. It really doesn’t matter. They are all signposts. And then AND THEN your teacher, as if by magic, will appear!

            Teachers come in many guises: the man or woman next door; a particular author; a composer; a person who, up to that particular time, you had taken no notice of because you deemed him or her not worth listening to, but now you realise they have something to say that is of great value to you simply by something that they said and how they said it. That’s important: how they said it. Or a face in a crowd that fills you to the very brim with compassion and love…but you don’t know why; by listening for the very first time to an aunt or uncle, or your own mother, yes, your own MOTHER or FATHER, those people that are -seemingly - so un-cool. It can take a long time to listen to your folks, to wake up to the fact that even THEY are capable of wisdom and insight!

            But in choosing the Teacher, well, that’s up to you. When you’ve followed all those little resonating signposts (and they will still continue to wave at you) they will all merge into a kind of whole, but if you choose to continue listening to God - or whatever you deem to call this great universal power - through the medium of great poets, musicians, aunts, uncles, etc. you will have, of course, already have cracked it! You have ALREADY chosen! You are recognising TRUTH, and truth is the Eternal One: the God of Love and Compassion, THE GREATEST TEACHER OF THEM ALL!
            Good luck on your journey of adventure, on your chosen path, no matter how cracked and crazy the paving!

NOTE: First published in NEW VISION and contained in the book: THE STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD (Bosgo Press £6.99) on the menu bar!   

And now Amigos a bit of verse:

ADIOS AMIGOS, SEE YOU NEXT MONTH!
LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER.
Paul Bura
November 2007

BURA'S BLOGGERY

AMIGOS!

THE LLANGEFNI HENGE 'ACTIVATED
(Llangefni, Angelsey 9/9/06 3:45pm)

It had been some 10 years since Joy Byner, Leslie and I had worked together creating and releasing light. Also the bonus of working with Terry Monnery, not only did he balance out the male/female and work harmoniously with the girls checking to see whether I had map dowsed (a very rough drawing of the circle) and see if I was correct in my findings of energy, but he also had the job of pushing Bura through thick grass toward the circle in the wheelchair, toward the centre of the henge which had been constructed years before in 1957 for the Eisteddfod in Wales, a druidic ceremony. This stone circle was a comparative youngster in the stone henge stakes!

(The Eisteddfod is a cultural event held in the Welsh language which involves singing - well naturally singing, this country is, after all, dubbed the Land of Song! - recitations, dance, music and poetry. Now, however, all countries, cultures and traditions are welcome!)

Joy, Leslie and Terry visited each stone in turn (of which there were 12) calling out whether the stone was active or not - my map dowsing was, to say the least, rusty. But I was 85 to 90% accurate! (Surprise, Surprise!) I had done a check the day before and counted the stones from the road. However, I couldn't see that the small pointer stone that sat east of the stone circle was in fact 'indented' by about half the distance to the centre ceremony stone and was lined up with the ceremony stone and a larger stone on the perimeter, which sat perfectly (as far as I could make out, confirmed by my pendulum) to the west. We hadn't time to check it out but it would seem that the sun 'rose' over the small pointer or marker stone in the east and 'set' behind the larger stone to the west!

When we were all settled around the ceremony stone I asked if I should begin? All heads nodded. That said I suggested they all stand where they found themselves naturally to be: which was roughly the four cardinal points a fact that I hadn't realised until I had came to write this piece. With the gentle angelic force coursing through me they (the force) made passes with my arms and hands and I found myself smiling. I hadn't done this work since The Bosham Stone [See article on menu bar] and it was ALWAYS so gentle.

My psychic vision is always drawn toward certain spirals of energy where stands, usually stooped over, my 'version' of the Earth Goddess. She is beautiful (of course) and classically dressed in Greek gossamer-type material, high breasted and bare-footed, but stooped. My job is to stand her up again.

For something as awesome as unplugging a blockage that had been in place for thousands of years so as the Earth Goddess could stand up again and give out this pure, radiant energy and knowledge, you'd have thought it would be more violent somehow, more of a struggle, considering this knowledge had been plugged, or sealed, so that the negative forces could not get hold of it!

Well perhaps that was then, THIS was now! I don't pretend to know 'how or why'; just that what we were doing - and Fountain was continuing to do - was important: pouring light and love back into the planetary system where it belonged and encouraging and helping back-up the changes. It is, after all, up to mankind to make the first move!

Leslie's vision (or version) of the Goddess was of a very young woman Her body curled round in the foetal position. Then, during my angelic passes, She began to unfurl and slowly stand up: a very beautiful, naked, young woman (I sometimes wish that I saw Her that way!) with Her arms raised. She was free, free at last!

I uttered words of encouragement in the form of a short prayer, followed by Leslie, then followed in turn by Terry, and finally Joy. "So Be It and So It Is!"

(After that I was pushed toward the little 'marker stone'. Either that stone was trembling or I was: it was like being in front of a small fire only I couldn't feel heat. Terry was with me and felt the same. The girls were checking out each stone, some male and some female, and every one was alive! The next day I dowsed the drawing of the henge and found a connecting Courier Line that ran almost North/South, but curiously NOT through the centre 'ceremony stone'. But then I've learned in this work that nothing is what it ought to be!

JOB DONE!

PS. I had seen the Stooping Goddess for the last nine years and hadn't got anybody to help me with Her plight. The Fountaineers came to the rescue and it was perfect, a perfect Cosco! (cosmic coincidence!).

And now a poem or two: I went gliding for the first time. This was the result!

ADIOS AMIGOS

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER

Paul Bura
October 2007

MY AMIGOES

INFINITE HUMOUR

Spike Milligan 1918-2002

(For Spike Milligan)
On February 27th 2002 one of my heroes died. Sir Spike Milligan: humorist, satirist, poet, novelist, humanitarian, vegetarian, and creator of the infamous GOON SHOW.
He went from this place of war, fear, anger and mistrust.

Spike wasn’t a perfect man by any means but as a clown supreme he was a genius in the art of creating laughter, even though he suffered horribly with manic depression brought on by severe shellshock during the 2nd World War where he served as a gunner. Only in later years did he discover the antidepressant Lithium.
He said, characteristically: “When I die I want carved on my headstone: “I told you I was ill!”  This was carried out – after a two year period - but in Gallic! (His father was Irish)
This piece is not exactly about Spike but rather the Infinites relationship with humour.

Michael Bentine, author of “The Long Banana Skin” and “A Door Marked Summer” - a book of very high spiritual value - (in my opinion) and “The Doors of the Mind” was a close friend of Spike Milligan (Michael was a fellow founder of ‘The Goon Show”, along with Harry Secombe and Peter Sellers, of which Spike was the writer and creator) and more than implied that “laughter, not bread, was the staff of life!” In fact it has been proved that laughter can HEAL: when a patient in hospital (or anywhere come to that) is exposed to laughter, whether it be on television, radio or film, whatever, they heal more readily and quickly. Also when spirit healers are allowed into hospitals after an operation - with the patient’s permission of course - the results are very similar and very impressive.
When I start a poetry reading I always begin with what I call the icebreakers, poems that are guaranteed to make folk howl with laughter (well not always, but 95% of the time) thus paving the way for more philosophical and thought provoking stuff.
EXAMPLES:

THE HIGHWAYMAN
The Highwayman came riding
Over the misty moor,
     He’d had his oats
     In John O’Groats
And was riding back for more!

APPLE PIE MADNESS
        (True account)
Such an apple pie I never saw
   Baked to perfection
Apples piled high with sugar cos
   Of soft browned fruit infection.

When seated in their place of office
   Robed in pastry so fine
Placed in the oven, not the hottest,
   I awaited this creation of mine.

Carefully timed, not a second more,
I gently opened the oven door
Such a masterpiece I never saw
Here was a baker who knew the score…
Till I dropped the bastard all over the floor!

 I’ve been performing this stuff for 30 years or more, so I should know.

Roy Castle: musician, tap dancer, comedian and actor - now, like Spike, in the other world - told this story: He was working at a club, or some other venue, and he had to catch a late train home. He’d just sat down when a man, obviously the worse for drink after some sort of celebration and carrying a briefcase plus an umbrella, entered the carriage. He was rather dishevelled and he had drink stains down the front of his crumpled, though well cut (and believe me he was well cut) suit. He put the umbrella and briefcase in the overhead baggage hold, sat down and promptly fell asleep. He’d been asleep for about 15 minutes when the train came to a sudden halt for no known reason (as they do). With that he woke up, took his umbrella and briefcase out of the ‘overhead’ opened the door and stepped out! Well, being British, nobody said anything. Then a hand appeared with an umbrella in it, and then another hand appeared and he hauled himself and the briefcase back into the carriage. He slurred: “You must think I’m an awful fool,” and promptly opened the OTHER door and stepped out! (Pause for laughter?)

Can’t you see the absurdity of it all? Life is a game and we are merely the players taking on different roles in order to learn but also ENJOY ourselves. The spiritual life is the same. Sometimes we tend to take it all too seriously. Life is an abstract joy as well as a game, a sometimes painful game. It all depends on the way that you play the game.

Spike Milligan suffered too for his humour, after a serious breakdown he decided that the Elfin Oak in Kensington Gardens needed a restoration and overhaul. All those little pixies and gnomes needed repainting and a bit of tree surgery. So, as therapy, after this severe trauma, he set to work.

After a while of course he was recognised, so he put up screens. “He’s just been let out of a loony bin, he’s raving mad,” he heard someone say. This depressed Spike even more but he was determined to finish the task he had set himself…because it was for CHILDREN, and he loved children. Even his own children he used to leave tiny notes under various stones in his garden and tell them that it was from the fairies, he used to write them at night on tiny bits of paper in minuscule writing and put them in equally tiny envelopes. When all his children were asleep, he’d creep into the garden and deposit them.

He loved children and he loved making people laugh, even though at times it was an awful strain. I remember him telling a story about his little girl, Laura, who was playing in the back garden with some other kids. Spike had decided to use their garden toilet. Suddenly there was a knock at the toilet door. “Who is it?” said Spike. “It’s somebody else,” came the reply. Spike convulsed with laughter at the memory: “Only children could say that,” he said.

Spike wrote professionally for children, too. Julian Young, a journalist friend of mine, told me: “I had one of his books called ‘A BIT OF A BOOK OR A BOOK OF BITS’. The book actually did fall into bits as I thumbed it so often. The poems were so unlike anything that I had read at school.”

I miss him terribly, but although he was not a spiritual man in the conventional sense, in a way he was. He left to us a legacy of laughter that is as precious as any holy text - that reminds me: “Where is his missing Q SERIES?” This question is aimed at the BBC - and now he’s going to make even the angels laugh…don’t tell him I told you though.

The Infinite gave to us this unique ability to laugh at ourselves. Laughter is the balm of the Gods; if laughter is not present I, for one, don’t want anything to do with it.

Doctor Krishnan (A Hindu) said: “Open your mouth and say OMMMM.”
(Well, it makes me laugh, anyway.)

(In case you don’t understand the gag - I feel sure that you do – OMMMM is a spiritual mantra.)

ONLY ONE POEM THIS TIME, AMIGOES!

GRANDFATHER A wind-whipped, barrel-bellied Sand-blasted batsman Wielding a toy willow For his grandchild, Child of his first born On the sand In Cemaes Bay. Raising his arms In a mock-sock victory. For the arrow-ball Founds its mark And all that was left In the 3 pocked stump hole Was the tide Creating Another Canvas For Another Game Of Cricket!

 

LUV N’ LITE N’ LARFTER
Paul Bura - September 2007

PS. “Infinite Humour” is a chapter taken from by book THE STRANGER ON THE THRESHOLD. See BOOKS on menu bar!

HELLO AMIGOES!

Humour pays a large part in my life and I sometimes mix it with the spiritual. I’ve always said that if humour AND love is present then so am I. In my book(s) you can’t have one without the other!

I contributed to John Peel's "HOME TRUTHS" on BBC Radio4 and the following are the ones that he broadcast!

* * * *

DEAR JOHN PEEL:

Years ago we (that is Peter McKay and I) saw the legendary JIMMY WHEELER: the fiddle-playing comedian, at the same venue where he was topping the bill: THE KINGS HALL, Herne Bay! Bit of a come down as he used to have his own show on TV.

We were surprised and a little puzzled when he came on at the end of the 1st half when he should have closed the 2nd half, as he was the star of the show and the ‘Top Turn’.

When the 1st half was over Peter McKay and I went into the bar for light refreshment and lubrication. We were great Wheeler fans because of his superb ‘timing’. And there he was, standing at the bar, our hero!

Peter plucked up enough courage, fortified by a pint or two, to ask Jimmy why he had gone on at the 1st half of the show and not the 2nd half. Jimmy, with pint in hand, looked surprised. “You want to know WHY? You want to know WHY?” he bellowed, “I’ll tell you why, my ol’ son. Because if I’d ‘ave gone on at the end of the 2nd ‘alf I’d have been SO pissed I’d ‘ave fallen over! Apart from that I can’t play me bloody fiddle when I’m bleedin’ drunk! Aye, aye, son, that’s yer lot!”* And with that he turned around and ordered another pint with a whiskey chaser.

SINCERELY
PAUL BURA

[This was broadcast in 2005 for BBC HOME TRUTHS]



*Jimmy Wheeler's catch phrase!


20/11/2004

DEAR HOME TRUTHS:

The subject of ‘farting’ on last week’s Home Truths always reminds me of that piece of ‘60’s philosophy called the Desiderata (Which, incidentally was NOT found in a monastery in Baltimore in 1845 but was written by the poet Max Ereman in 1926). We always hang this piece of enlightening prose in the toilet for purposes of meditation and contemplation when the strains of the day get too much!

However, my cousin was staying with us one weekend and she emerged from said toilet shrieking with laughter. When she had calmed down we asked her what had made her laugh so uproariously. “Well,” she said, trying to hold herself together, “I was reading the Desiderata in your toilet and it said: ‘Go placidly amidst the noise and haste’, whereupon I let out an ENORMOUS fart! It then said: ‘And remember what peace there is in silence’ and there followed a gentle, but lady-like, PLOP!”

Well you can guess: every time I read the Desiderata after that, I just have to smile. Well you would, wouldn’t you!

PAUL BURA

* * * *

John Peel died three years ago and will be sadly missed but this last piece really tickled his fancy, in fact so much so that he not only broadcast it on HOME TRUTHS but featured it in his PICK OF THE WEEK!!!
Read on:


DEAR JOHN PEEL:

I used to have a holiday job! I was a C.C.C: a Convenience Coin Collector. I used to empty the doors of the cubicles of their hard earned cash, pour the contents into a cloth bag, take it back to the Council Offices and count it.

Now the LADIES toilets are usually ‘manned’ by a woman but on this occasion the lady attendant was nowhere to be seen. I had a job to do so I started to empty the first door; by the time I got to the last door I noticed that the ‘engaged’ sign was up. I didn’t take any notice and started with my noisy bunch of keys on the door. Now I was only emptying the door of the money, I couldn’t get in even if I’d wanted to, but the lady INSIDE didn’t know that and gave out a muffled scream! Quick as a flash, and in my deepest cockney voice, I said:

“Don’t worry lady, it’s only yer money I’m after!” and scarpered as fast as my legs would allow!

PAUL BURA

ADIOS AMIGOES but not before a poem or two:

ETERNAL ONE

7/12/2006

One glimpse
Saturates
The whole of
Your life

You become
Sunburned as
On the
Inside

Bronzed
In the
Eternal
Sun of freedom

Dreaming
The dream
Of
Reality

That goes
Further
Even than love
Itself

For love too
Evolves
In an endless
Stream

The Endless
Dream
Is all/That it is

And dream
Is the stuff
To wakeup
From.


MEN OF THE CLOTH



The tailoring man
Can never say
That religion tends
To get in the way
For the soul that speaks
With a mighty note
Will still be heard
In an overcoat!



QUANTUM MECHANICS

Quantum Mechanics
Is the spirit
Stripped down
To its working parts

And still trying
To touch
The face
Of God:

The mystery
Of all mysteries
The balance
Within the balance

The cogs
Still turning
In the beauty
Of the planets

But reduced
And refined
Like the purest
Of gold...

And there
You have it,
The embrace
Of the spirit

The kiss
Of the soul
Radiating out like
A small child!


ADIOS AMIGOES
LUV N' LITE N' LARFTER!
PAUL - July 2007

-----

HELLO AMIGOES!

 

A few years ago now I bought an old Standard 8 motor car. Mechanically it was okay but the body work needed a bit of attention to say the least! So I decided to 'hand paint' it.

I got to work with a fine brush and the best of paint and soon had it spick and span and gleaming like a brand new two pence piece.

I decided to christen it by taking my then girlfriend for a spin. Then, as a further treat, a Chinese meal and the cinema! (I really knew how to treat a girl in those days!)

I parked the car outside the cinema and we were just getting out, reeking of Chinese food, when a policeman approached:
POLICEMAN: (In a very policemanly voice) This your car, sir?
MYSELF: (Breathing on the paintwork and giving it a quick buff) Why yes, constable! (I said with a certain amount of pride)
POLICEMAN: Are you parking it here, sir?
MYSELF: Why yes, constable, if that's alright?
POLICEMAN: Oh yes sir. ..(He paused) it's just that for a moment I thought you were DUMPING it!

ANOTHER CAR TYPE STORY

About 30 years ago my local in Herne Bay, Kent, used to be THE GEORGE HOTEL. It came to our attention, my drinking partner, Peter McKay and my self (I only drank bitter lemons), that a certain Mr Noon was to be the new owner.

The new owner was a dapper-smart man with a little grey moustache together with his rather chubby, but pretty, wife. They had a son and daughter. The daughter's name I forget but the son's name was Peter. On occasion this 'Peter' used to serve behind the bar.and he was the absolute spitting image of Peter Noon of HERMANN AND THE HERMITS, though he claimed to be his twin brother! My mate Pete and I knew better!

Of course it turned out that in fact it was THE Peter Noon. We became good friends, and we three started to go out together, had Chinese meals together (yes, we were rather fond of Chinese food) and of course a lot of nudging went on as we ate: "It's him, isn't it, its Hermann of the Hermits?" and a scrum of giggling women would tempt the others into approaching our table leaving their men-folk glowering, "Go on, I dare you to go over and speak to him." Peter would smile that boyish smile of his and dutifully sign menus and paper serviettes.

However, Peter the Hermit soon got bored and hit on a jolly jape; a grand wheeze; a cunning plan. As he owned a vintage Rolls Royce he would dress as a chauffer together with peaked hat and all the livery, with me and Pete McKay in the back we would go into a pub and leave Peter to mind the Rolls outside. Then, after about ten minutes, he would stand in the doorway and cough discreetly into his large leather glove; we'd wave him over to have a shandie.or something. Within no time there would be some joker the worse for drink who would inevitably say: "D'you know, mate, you're the bleedin' image of that singer bloke off the tele; wot's 'is name now? That's it: Hermann and the Cavemen." "Don't you mean HERMANN AND THE HERMITS, sir?" replied our chauffeur, in haughty tone. "Yeh, that's the one! You look just like 'im!"

"Well, I think it's a real insult, me being compared to a mere pop singer!" Peter, putting his drink down firmly on the bar would turn to us both, and, so everyone could hear, would say: "I'll be waiting for you in the car, gentleman!" And left, doffing his hat and bowing, having never been so insulted in all of his life!

THE FINAL CAR STORY

I've told you about a couple of car incidents. Well at the risk of becoming boring (I just don't care!) this one happened on the A28 in Kent. I'd just returned from recording a commercial for dog biscuits in London (Voice-over) and was doing about 75-80 MPH in my bile-green mini when I spotted a car coming up really fast in my mirror. Now was I imagining this or was it a 'Del Boy and Rodney' Reliant Robin van? By the time I was making up my mind it roared past me doing 110-120 miles per hour! "Bloody hell," I thought, "Bloody hell," I said out loud. Immediately I put my foot down and tried to keep pace with it! But it pulled over in front of me and was slowing down and signalling to turn left. And it WAS! It was a Reliant Robin van, only THIS one was blue!

A few weeks later I was reading the Kentish Gazette (well somebody's got to!) and there it was again! The owner had only put a V8 engine in it with stabilizers and wide wheels hadn't he? 'No wonder,' I smiled to myself, 'no bloody wonder!' And resisted the urge to call myself a 'dipstick'!

AND NOW, AS IS CUSTOMERY, AMIGOS THE POEMS:

AND LOVE SAID Material things, no matter how Beautiful and desirable, must not Gain power over you, for in the End you have to leave this planet, And them. Just be a witness to them, Think of them as energies, Frequencies, memories, and then Let them go, for in the end the Whole universe is yours for the asking. Freedom is worth the time it Takes to attain and you have Forever to do it in, the concept of Time However, is just a tool. Use it wisely. THE DREAM NET If I could spin a web Across my sleeping bed To capture all the dreams I tend to forget on waking Would it make me a happier man? Or would those captured dreams So terrify me that I would develop A craving for insomnia?

ADIOS AMIGOES, FOR ANOTHER MONTH OR SO!
LUV N' LITE N' LARFTER!
PAUL - May 2007

-----

HI, AMIGOES!

I used to be able to talk the legs off a snake. Small talk I could offer, if called for, and deliver, as easily as falling off a skyscraper. I was literally bursting with thoughts! Conversation used to stimulate and swamp what is passed for my brain, neurons firing and lighting up like a Christmas tree.

I could also be very quiet, I liked my own company. I could spend days alone with and within myself, just writing poetry or prose, meditating on this and that, enjoying cooking for myself and actually looking forward to the next day when I could create a new menu for myself, create a soup or a meal .or just plain doing nothing at all, staring into space, dreaming!

I never considered this a waste of time, quite the contrary, it was a creative process!

But since the brain tumour was removed (attached to the left frontal lobe and the size of an orange.from what I can gather they usually are, more often than not!) ten years ago, small talk I can no longer do nor cope with. Thoughts no longer come easily; I can no longer join in a conversation wholeheartedly.

Oh, don't misunderstand me, I can TALK, but my mind-cells don't light up like they used to. By the time I've absorbed what a person is saying I can no longer respond as fast as I used to, therefore 'the moment has passed' when I could get in a lightening repost or response.

Oh I can read my work (poetry reading gigs) just as before, thank God! But to do a talk or lecture off the top of my head, even with notes, well FORGET it!

I would go from one subject to the next and expect my audience to keep up with me. To see a load of people with their mouths open, glazed and glassy eyed, with confused expressions on their faces is to: "want the earth to lick its lips and swallow me whole!"

Even if I am taken 'off guard' for a moment, and somebody says something that demands an immediate response I usually answer yes when I mean no, or vice versa, or call them by the wrong name even if KNOW their name intimately.like my sisters' name, I mean how embarrassing is that?

I even have to write down key words when I make a phone call so that the person on the other end of the line can understand what the hell I'm talking about, especially if I'm ordering something! I very often start in the middle, muddle my way through to the end and FORGET the beginning, unless I have the presence of mind to remember, which, thank God I usually do.just in the nick of time.or when there's a confused silence on the other end of the phone.

Now if I'm talking to an old friend on the old 'telling bone' they can jump in and tell me: "I don't know what on earth you're talking about, Bura!" Thing is - at least nine times out of ten - I've forgotten to explain to them the key facts about the conversation in hand and I expect THEM to answer or indeed understand where I'm coming from!

But not ALWAYS, some days are better than others!

It's a real bugger. But I will continue to take the tablets!

Anyway, the above is probably just as confusing as the other crap that I write, month after month.

But, Amigoes, there is always a poem to rescue me; mind you this also is a moan:

THE POST POLIO THING I created a poem the other day Of all the special things I had to say, My arms were the subject as I recall: What if I had no bloody arms at all? It's getting that way: my arms are weaker This post polio thing prevents this speaker From scribbling down the magical verse That forms my trade; is that being perverse? My brain is too fast for my wretched hands Leaving it a mass of confusing strands. The day will dawn when my brain will explode Leaving bits of poems all over the road!

I got to thinking that perhaps the robin saga was telling me something; after all, robins are a symbol of Peace just like the dove of old, aren't they? Robins always seem to appear around Christmas time and yet they are an all-year-round bird but only really prominent around Yuletide. At the moment we have TWO robins that visit us in our home, I thought that ONE was a minor miracle but TWO! Two robins fight like billy-oh; it's in their nature to protect their territory, just like man. sadly.

1ST MAN: Why then can't we have peace
2ND MAN: Because war is in our nature, dummy!
1ST MAN: Who are you calling a dummy?
2ND MAN: See? An innocent word like dummy and you get all upset!
1ST MAN: Put year fists up, you.you.you. dummy!
2ND MAN: Calm down! Calm down! Now that's really my point isn't it, we are all globally just too touchy; the least thing sets us off?


Love is the essence of ALL TRUE religions [I have no religion just in case you were wondering], and all true religions are founded on this love principle, right? It's only we Homo sapiens and our Homo sapient nature that cocks it up. Mahatma Ghandi was a Hindu yet even he recognised the golden thread of love that runs through all - or most - religions, recognised that we are all equal! He abhorred the high and low class system that runs like the river Ganges through his country of India. Even when he was fatally shot he forgave his assassin immediately after he received the bullet that ended his earthly sojourn!

Now that is REAL, unconditional Love at its purest. Yet still that high and low class system exists, even though the Mahatma died for it!

It's all madness isn't it? If we all forgave one another that would be an end to it, wouldn't it, wouldn't it? - given time that is. After all (Yep, I'm one of those who believe in eternity, believe in 'forever-time', that nothing ever dies just changes form and frequency!) even though we've got forever to do it in. why not start right now!?

And now for some more poems :

LOVE'S PURSUIT I will pursue you till the end of time And beyond, you will never shake me off. I will be the shadow at highest noon That you never see the witness of all you say and do Until one day you embrace me as your own.

Paul Bura
February 2007