Angels & Demons: Duality & Paranormal Phenomena

"This world of Imagination is the world of Eternity; it is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after the death of the Vegetated body. This World of Imagination is Infinite, and Eternal, whereas the world of Generation, or Vegetation, is Finite and Temporal. There Exist in that Eternal World the Permanent Realities of Every Thing which we see reflected in this Vegetable Glass of Nature. All Things are comprehended in their Eternal Forms in the divine body of the Saviour, the True Vine of Eternity. The Human Imagination..." William Blake A Vision of the Last Judgment

Consider: An encounter with a man whom my friend Terry Robinson wonders if he was actually an angel saves him from drowning. Another poet, and friend of mine, Stephen Morrissey has an excellent blog and series of poems, Dream Journeys that would fit right into this new series I am going to do here! There are also other poems of Stephen and Terry that these gentlemen kindly let me post here at My Favorite Monsters under the "poetry" label-and also by their names.

A young mother notices her 3 year old daughter has run off from the garden where she was playing. The mother looks around frantically and to her horror sees the young girl sitting on the nearby railroad tracks-a train is coming. "As she raced from the house screaming her daughter's name, she suddenly saw a striking figure, clothed in pure white, lifting Lisa off the tracks. While the train roared past, the glorious being stood by the track with an arm around the child...When the mother reached the daughter's side, Lisa was standing alone." Daimonic Reality by Patrick Harpur, pages 37-38.

And what of these incidents: "Or the Petropolis, Brazil, report of October 25, 1957, in which we are told that a girl dying from cancer was saved by a fantastic operation performed by two men who came from the sky. Or the case of "Dr X," the French doctor who observed two strange objects near his house in October 1968 and was subsequently cured of a large hematoma and of a form of paralysis." Dimensions, page 154 by Dr. Jacques Vallee.

And what on Earth are we to make of these encounters/incidents?: "Driving home in a company van the evening of March 17, 1978, Englishman Ken Edwards saw a strange figure on top of an embankment...It descended the steep hill at an impossible right angle to the ground, and before walking across the road and straight through a chain link fence as if it wasn't there, turned to face the van and shot narrow beams of light from its eyes into the cab. A power surge burned out all of the major components, Edwards' watch stopped, and he showed Hough [Peter Hough-a respected UFO researcher] marks on his hands that had been clutching the steering wheel which resembled sunburns. He soon began complaining of stomach pains, and was found to be riddled with cancer, and died at 42. Maybe he would have anyway, if he and something unknowable hadn't crossed paths, but like Barbara, his widow, told Hough, "A thing that can burn skin, stop watches and destroy an expensive radio might well be capable of harming a human being." Rigorous Intuition by Jeff Wells pages xiv and xv.

And this?: "Last July 20, Vince Weiguang Li delivered an Edmonton newspaper that carried a lengthy feature on the Wendigo, "a terrifying creature in native mythology that has a ravenous appetite for human flesh. It could take possession of people and turn them into cannabalistic monsters."

"Li abruptly quit his job and took a bus across the Canadian prarie, where he beheaded and cannabalized 20-year-old Tim McLean. "I just don't know what to think of it, quite frankly," says the pieces author, and Windigo expert, Nathan Carlson. He'd documented numerous cases of people believing they were "turning Windigo" who would beg to be killed "before they started eating people." At Li's first courthouse appearance, the only words he spoke was a soft, "Please kill me." also from Rigorous Intuition pg. xv

And this?: "On 16 November 1963 four young people were walking along a country road near Sandling Park, Hythe, Kent. Seventeen-year-old John Flaxton was the first to draw attention to a bright "star" which seemed to be moving over the woods at Slaybrook corner. The group grew alarmed when the "star" started to drop towards them. As they ran for safety they became aware of an oval-shaped golden light floating above an adjoining field. They stopped running-and the light stopped moving. They felt they were being watched."

"Up until now. the encounter is typical: the anomalous light heralds the advent of some visitation-a ring of fairies perhaps or a blond "spaceman" with a stirring message for mankind. Instead, "the glowing disappeared behind the trees, and the next thing the young people knew was that a dark figure was stumbling across the field towards them. It seemed to be completely black, human-sized but with no head [and]...to have wings of the kind associated with bats...The youngsters are convinced they saw a ghost. Mervyn Hutchinson, eighteen, said it was like a bat with webbed feet and no head." Daimonic Reality: A Field Guide to the Otherworld by Patrick Harpur, page 44.

The 1963 sighting in England, that Patrick Harpur talks about, gave me a bit more of a pause than its very creepy nature would already suggest. It happened 6 days before the Kennedy assassination in Dallas, Texas (or the 1963 coup d' etat for some of us conspiracy researchers!) "over the woods at Slaybrook corner," and involved an entity very reminiscent of Mothman . Now many people who believe in, and investigate such things believe the Mothman is an apparition that presages death, similar to the Black Dog or the White Lady. Maybe my ponderings on this case are "out of left field." However, I do believe in the reality of these (and thousands upon thousands) of other paranormal/Fortean phenomena. I also believe that human consciousness (at all of the levels of existence it can access) interacts like it is a web -spun within and without the threads and skeins of gross physical matter, and other, more subtler forms of matter which I definitely think exist too.

So I ask myself, "WTF is going on?" The first image is William Blake's The Ghost of a Flea, painted circa 1815-1820. The second image is one I saw on a discussion forum so I don't know who did it- another mystery! To be continued...

Stephen Morrissey: The Summing-Up

After wo I rede us to be merie.
---Chaucer, "The Knight's Tale"

My life isn't quite
an open book,
but I stand behind
what I've done--
I did what I had to do
to survive. I thought
survival was enough
but it leads to stasis,
and denial of transformation;
I thought redemption
lay in confessionm,
but it can lead to
self-absorption,
or strengths beyond
what others know.

The beginning of wisdom
is in the love of God,
but some people
have to wait a long time
before they learn anything.
I am like the body of a man
found preserved in a bog--
he was removed
from his thousand year long
rest, both legs broken
so his spirit couldn't return
at night to haunt the living
--his wrists
tied with rope
braided from straw

My legs aren't broken
but something kept me here
long after others fled this place.
My hands aren't tied
behind my back,
but I carry the burden
of my parent's life,
unconscious, unaware,
and deflected onto me
to examine. I've lived
on the end of strings,
controlled by obligations,
duty, responsibility
and a rigid sense
of who I am.

In early November
in my fiftieth year,
I lie in bed
by the open window,
sunlight illuminating
autumn's yellow leaves;
ivy around the window
while in the yard
the single apple tree
still hasn't lost its leaves.
The complexity
of every leaf,
vein and fibre;
sunlight traveling
millions of miles
before casting long shadows
across the yard.

Then there is the flight
of birds across a blue sky,
as though synchronized
with the flight of other birds
or the rustling of leaves.
Insects move silently
in the dark soil;
I think of the human heart
and soul, the intricacies
of blood and life,
bone and thought,
brain and muscle.
I am in awe
of all creation,
and love God
as I did when a child.

I certainly hope anyone passing through will enjoy this poem by Stephen Morrissey! It is from his latest book, Girouard Avenue-please read the post below this for more details. Peace and love to anyone stopping by!

Girouard Avenue to Ogden Street

The following is just the beginning to what I hope will be much more and better thought out words to describe the wonderful work of Stephen Morrissey and other authors/poets (and even "wannabes" hopefully) that I have discovered -or in some cases have discovered My Favorite Monsters! As my health and energy levels are really all over the place anymore-I am not online near as much as I used to be-so I wanted to get these very short thoughts in before I post one of Stephen's poems next-hopefully right after this. It has also become more important to me (than it already was) to try and give applause/kudos/bravos -maybe compliments is the best word to describe the writing (fiction, non-fiction, poetry and even blogs) of the women and men who don't have household name recognition -but should-I feel anyway.

There isn't any reason in the world perhaps why anyone should care a thing about what I have to say. The only reason I think I ever got the idea to do my version of "reviews" which are hardly scholarly NYT style material to say the least, is that people over the years-some known very well and some only the slightest of acquaintances have told me I do a good job of recommending things to read in different areas. The different areas also comes in to play in that I have about a million different subjects I am interested in, which can be a blessing and a curse!

The only other things I can say is that with regard to blogfriends and others I have known awhile-I hope to soon be offering the "My Favorite Monsters Money Back Guarantee" on books I am hyped up on (books I have already talked about in the past like Rigorous Intuition, A Walk With An Irishman, Augustus, RVBICON, Gnostic Philosophy, Daimonic Reality and others apply too) Like I say-I hardly consider myself the unofficial Minister of Culture here in the U.S. (thinking of Maecenas at my other blog). This is just one small person's attempt to put a finger in the dike (OMG- no I won't go there:-) to hold back what seems like a tidal wave of "Jonas Brothers" "Formulaic" "Pre-Fab" shit that is threatening to drown the world in its utter banality, puerility, stupidity and other insults I could think of or make up.

I have often wondered-what qualities make the best writers? The best poets? Honesty is a huge one-a huge plus especially I would think in the area of poetry. One idea/image/thought comes to mind with the poetry that I have enjoyed and loved over the years-this is the notion that the author kind of takes you by the hand-and guides you-but not forcefully at all and says "Look-please look at the things that are important to me. Please look at what I have or maybe even haven't learned. This is me-this is my life. These are the things that are HOLY to me." I do not use the word "HOLY" lightly here. I would think that in every soul who has tried to lead an "examined" life to some degree-that you, me-all of us-have these "mind movies" (that's what I call 'em anyway) of things we have done -people we have known-thoughts we have had-even moods that grabbed hold of us that are HOLY to us.

Let me tell you-my good friends "Girouard Avenue" by Stephen Morrissey is a HOLY book. I say this unabashedly, without apology and in the spirit of dignity. I would also like to say that 'round the net and other works of poetry I also consider HOLY. I am awestruck by the honesty and courage and talent of Stephen and other poets who bare their minds and souls and take us by the hand to "lead us to higher ground."

The "Ogden Street" part of the post title comes from the street where I spent the first twenty years of my life. Reading Stephen's work has brought so much back to me that was already there and put it in a glorious new light-and at times a breathtakingly melancholy and wistful light-and taking a cue from David Leavitt (gosh I hope so -don't want to look stupid you know:-) "A Place I've Never Been." Needless to say-as long as I draw breath (and have a 'puter and net access:-)- I will talk more about Stephen's work. I am already wanting to order "The Yoni Rocks" and other of his books of poetry.

My insomnia is making my mind wander so I had better finish with this as I still want to post one of his poems above this post. BTW -before I forget Stephen's blog is on my bloglist by his name and his "Reincarnation" poem is also on the 1 January 2009 entry for poetry on my blog. Now a few words about Girouard Avenue from a much much brighter star than myself-to show you I am not leading anyone astray. These words are from Laurence Hutchman, author of Reading the Water (Black Moss, 2008) and also Professor of English, University of Moncton, Edmundston, New Brunswick: "...The poet accurately portrays the individual ties he has to his brother, mother, grandmother, and aunts. He expresses a central sense of loss, as well as a recuperation of the essential qualities of his father. In elegiac poems, he defines these relationships through appropriate language, original imagery and strongly felt lines..." History, family, ancestors, the spirit of place, and the legacy that one generation leaves to the next -all expressed beautifully in Girouard Avenue from Coracle Press by Stephen Morrissey!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: The Day Is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist.
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like the strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And comes like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

This is one of my mother and I's-me's ? (eyes:) favorite poems. I will also add a link for Mr. Longfellow Here Then I will give a link that goes to some of Stephen Morrissey's wonderful work Here I love both his poems, "Reincarnation" and "The Yoni Rocks." Some day I hope to have money to buy some of his books and benjibopper's work and others I either know or link to at MFM! The image is of the Triangulum Galaxy, also known as Messier 33 (M33). The galaxy is one of our closest galactic neighbors-about three million light-years away. So the light we see today from this galaxy left it almost three million years ago. It is a smaller mass spiral galaxy than either our own Milky Way (est 100 to 400 billion solar masses) or another neighbor even closer and more massive than our own galaxy-the Andromeda Galaxy (est 200 to 1 trillion solar masses)-astronomers think M33 has about 30 to 40 billion solar masses. Small but beautiful-link Here I hope everyone is having a beautiful weekend (and that my links and the poem don't need corrections this time:)-this is turning into quite a project! Peace and be well anyone stopping by!

Stephen Morrissey: Reincarnation

We meet again, again flesh

and blood, again bone, tendon

and memory. Events of old lives,

clothes divested as I diverted

the past in meeting you,

in meeting you again

and again and again

into infinity

Forty years of waiting for you,

a dark delirium of the soul,

we met apparently for the first time

but home is where we are together

in this room, this house,

the two square feet we occupy

in a single embrace. The embrace

of memory, bred in muscle, eating

or favoring one side in sleep,

falling asleep in your arms.

The arms of many births,

deaths, incarnations of

gods and goddesses,

Bardic voices, Druid's potion.

Listen, we share the sounds and sights

of a summer's evening. fireflies

across a field seeming

distant but as close as

a hand before your eyes,

breath on the back of your neck;

or is it the darkened field

and firefly lights

repeating their journey

between this life and that?

With you I have

returned home, not a place

where walls enclose silence,

but soul meeting soul

in the ancient movement of time

I lie asleep on the floor

ear pressed to the darkness

and hear the hum of earth,

the generations of families, priests,

and existence of all living things

like listening, ear to a pregnant

woman's belly, baby's rapid

heart beat; shadows fall hundreds

of feet, listen into the soul

of man preparing for its journey

of final sleep, we came

from here and return, forgetful

of our origins, or of the father

and mother who created us.

I hope you enjoyed this beautiful poem found once again by my mother. It was astonishing to me as I began to read and really listen to the words the poem is trying to speak, very well I think, because I think this poem is tied in directly (through its words) to my relationship with who I refer to as "Diego" in my writing. I have obviously not even decided what reincarnation 'is' or what might cause it. But I am now one-hundred percent certain that "Diego" and I knew each other from somewhere else previously. It is also interesting because "Diego" made an odd reference to me one night some time ago that should have hit me on the head like a ton of bricks that relates to 'my story' of the feelings that brought me towards belief in reincarnation-so it is indeed kind of a double whammy so to speak. I must tell 'my story' of what started this cascade of feelings very soon-perhaps I will start the next time I post. I will also be trying to do other things here, so no worries for anyone who is getting bored with this-it is very important to me for some reason to tell this story. Peace, best wishes and happy new year to anyone stopping by!