Monthly Archives: August 2010


Went to see Inception last night along with half the population of England and enjoyed it very much. I’ve never had problems with lack of narrative thrust in a film. My favourites in the past have included The Man Who Fell to Earth and Mullholland Drive, neither of which made any sense at all but nevertheless kept me engrossed-over and over. But Inception is different. It has narrative thrust but in a multi-dimensional way. Not only does the film play with time, it works in dreamtime on three levels. That means that one’s brain has to follow different narratives without any obvious links. What with collapsing dreams, Escher-like dream architecture and a top that has to keep spinning to denote reality, by the time I left the cinema, I felt as if I had aged considerably. A quick look in the loo mirror indicated that I was right. No wonder that in a full cinema there were no more that four of us the happy side of sixty. The young of course have no problems with multidimensionality, what with their parallel upbringing in the virtual world. Thus we can see evolution in progress.

It is not our rational minds that we need to bring to the changes going on around us-the ones leading to the major shift.We need to engage the right side of the brain. Around us is an invisible world that is made up of intersecting rays that hold patterns. What we are being shown in films like Inception is to see that the world is all of it contained in one spot. To enter the fuller reality we must learn to relinquish separation, without fear, and so will enter the dimension of withinness. The trick of perception is that we think dimensions into being. The new world that we are learning to access is all about time collapsing. We are moving into a place where there is no need to measure. Atomic theory has led the way but consciousness takes it from here. We’re all in this together.It is this very fact that makes it such a privilege to be alive now. Culture, as always, leads the way and films like Inception push the envelope(at last I know what this phrase means).

The point is the ever deepening point. We escape the dead end of walled- in thinking via paradoxical thought. Crop circles and Christopher Nolan films have much in common. They are turning perception inside out, so that we can hold the rational and the irrational at the very same time. It is what lies between and behind that will lead us into the fourth dimension. I’m on my surfboard-Wheeeee!



Every once in a while I see a film I love and wonder how I have managed to live my life without ever seeing it before. Holiday is such a film. I’ll see if I can give you a taster and then explain why I like it so much. This will be a technological feat on par with Hepburn doing a forward roll off Grant’s shoulders if I manage it
Yey! I think I’ve done it.
The film looks good and is beautifully photographed. The two stars are at the start of their careers, before the subtle level of self-consciousness sets in, so the patina of the film is silvery and shiny. Both Hepburn and Grant play characters with high energy. They are meant for one another, even though when they meet he is kissing someone else (with vigour unusual for Grant it must be said). It is a love story that works wonderfully because when watching the two of them you know that they are going to have a lot of fun in their life together. It’s a holiday weekend in England and a perfect film to watch if you can.

Living the Law

I am that I am are words of great power. Mighty statements like ‘I am’, ‘I will’ , ‘I did’,  unite each one of us with the great, impersonal power of the universe. In that universe there is but one ‘I’, just as there is only one number 1. The other numbers are only derivatives or multiples of that 1. ‘ ‘I’and 1 are the roots from which all individuality springs. This is a profound thought; the sort of thing that my friend Jean Claude and I spend hours wondering over.

 He came around to see me last night and we spent a couple of hours with cups of peppermint tea, chatting about this and that. Jean Claude and I are both celibate at the moment, so we see things clearly and when we talk we go deep. We are both practising what we call living the law. This means we are each living the life of our dreams and we have made this happen by aligning ourselves with the power of the impersonal universe.

The first time I met Jean Claude he was wearing mascara and falling off his platform boots every few yards. As the years went by he became steadier but he always held on to that orphan energy that I found so familiar and appealing. He knows about things that he has brought into this dimension from a long way away. I think he is my soul son. We understand and love one another, Jean Claude and I and have taught each other a great deal.

Over the years we have each of us separately been led over tortuous routes to some very strange places. Sometimes we have journeyed together, mostly, as befits those with orphan status, we have journeyed alone. But the conclusions we have arrived at seem to be in synch.  In the process we have become masters of our destinies. These days we know the law of our being and we cooperate with it.

Each individual who is given the fundamental principles of the Law, will work it out in their own way according to their inherent nature. The law is about mastery of the inner self and the synchronisation of that self with the Higher Self. Force is never the answer inside or out. The true things are locked within the inner mind and should be kept safe there. We cannot show each other how to do this, each has to learn in his or her own time. Faith in one’s self needs to be built slowly. Miracles happen, for within the inner mind is the strength and ability to have anything one desires, without limit. Inner mind is linked directly with the grace of the total universe, which is impersonal and without limits. We each have a staggering amount of power at our command and all we have to do is honestly and willingly go deep and access that grace with focus. To this end we need to practise the power of intensity, something that both Jean Claude and I find easy.

We learned a long time ago that set objectives have to be put in place and then there needs to be form established. The form is generally circular, which means  poles are utilised to set things in motion. All life depends on movement, a lot of it unseen. In everything obedient to the Law, the positive(inner) dominates and governs and the negative(outer) serves. The outer mind needs to be given strict instructions to follow, thus infusing it with the positive qualities of the inner mind.

We are each of us receiving sets. People with no set objectives are tuning into everything and getting nothing, as they are at the mercy of conflicting thoughts. People with clear objectives tune into one thing. Nothing that these people tune into can be withheld. Holding an objective in mind with the intensity of desire,  governs the power with which the force is directed. First we learn how to attain, then we learn how to maintain. This requires the use of the sacred power of silence.The process goes on deep within the privacy of the individual.

Discipline and cooperation are the engines of success. The Power Law often works in paradoxical ways. For example as a culture we tend to look outside and take photographs of what we like, which we then develop and hold the image in our hands. The true way is the reverse. We have each of us the capacity to create desirable pictures within and find them automatically printed in our surroundings. When we learn to do this we have mastery. Our lives line up with our desires and everything feels ‘right’. It is a powerful way to live. Any picture held intensely in mind in bound to come forth. It is the natural outcome of a definite law. Try it!

Happy Ghosts

The crop circle season is coming to a close. The fields are fast being harvested, as the year here in England is on the turn. You can smell it in the early morning air. There is a cold stillness around as if the plants are taking a breather, before casting off their clothes for hibernation or death. The robin has started singing, a sure sign that Autumn is drawing close.

I love this change of season. The mist dripping off the agapanthus leaves fills me with delight. I am glad to be alive, minute by minute squeezing every drop out of the day. Time thrift I call it. The older I get, the more important become the simple things. The colour of the nasturtium flowers, the green of the bamboo that sighs beside the shed. The shed itself with its lace curtain and pottery plate, rescued in pieces from a Majorcan skip.

Season of mists and general thoughts of ghostliness. I wonder which of this year’s formations will leave their  indelible mark on the land. Also I reflect on the ghostly pentimento left behind by the Boy to haunt my days. Memories of nights under canvas on wilderness hikes, the rain pattering on the roof, while the two of us talked excitedly of atoms and constellations, both at the same time of course,  creating a rhythm that was ours and is now well nigh impossible to rub away. Autumn is the time for reflection and of its nature carries   grief. Age will identify in many ways. More and more I suspect.

The September Issue has been on the bookstands for a week or so. I don’t even buy it any more, so irrelevant to age is Vogue. My grandaughter, Laverne, reminds me that it was my magazines by the loo that turned her on to high fashion and in time catapulted her into the world of fashion blogging. She’s off to university in a few weeks time and her fledgling flights this last year have left little time for Grallie, which is exactly as it should be. I miss her but know she’s following me into a life of fun, fantasy and philosophy. I bet she’s even at this moment sorting out her undergraduate wardrobe, just as I did all those years ago.

In the 60’s, armed with the September issue of Seventeen magazine (US edition) I , and my faithful old Singer, constructed a student wardrobe from a pile of quality cloth and a selection of customised Butterick patterns.  There were various skirts, straight and A line, with matching waistcoats, a short silk tube dress for evenings, which I wore with an amazing set of huge beads. Several times they broke in lifts or on escalators and got collected and rethreaded, growing ever shorter until they ended up at graduation as a choker.

I was big on accessories. A long looped black wool scarf wound round and round my neck with a black cloche on my head, which for some reason made me feel like Julie Christie. I had a pair of green suede elfin boots, with a stamp on the base saying “not for outdoor wear”. They didn’t last long, as of course I wore them out, but how I loved them. Then there was the camelhair car coat with a big collar that I wore turned up with sunglasses. Very Holly Golightly that made me feel.  For the rest, it was my father’s ex army jacket and his old college scarf, which was gold and black and therefore much cooler than my own. Make do and mend with long legs and youth on my side, to say nothing of  long chestnut hair worn straight with a flick. The world came and rolled like a cat at my feet!

So I wish Laverne all that and more. I wish her the joy of feeling safe and right in her skin. I wish her the ability to balance her studies and social life and so do justice to them both. I wish her a fine young man, with the potential for growth, to love her. I wish her continued joie de vivre , deep sleep and good friends. Most of all I wish her happy ghosts to keep her company when the time comes to start her own winding down.

Now I am gathering my ripe harvest. A handful of small tomatoes, a courgette or two, a bergamot flower. It’s a good job I don’t have to live on what I grow. The dozen apples would last a couple of weeks and what then? The beans are only just flowering and showing no sign of setting, but they are very pretty scrambling up their wigwams.  My true harvest is within. Rich with memories burnished anew, it keeps me warm and nourished. This could be the best age of all!

(delightful ghost credit to Lisa Blonder)

Angelic Visitation

“Bugger Pi,” Aunty Mu said to me over the weekend, when I asked her if that was what had kept her awake in the night. You might remember that she had told me that she enjoyed seeing how many decimal places she could work out before going back to sleep; a sort of intellectual sheep counting. I always thought that it was wonderful that a woman of nearly 99 can be involved with the world at that level. But no, this time it was the orchestration of her television console that was bothering her. I felt I probably couldn’t help much as her system seems complicated to me, even though I’ve got the advantage of sight. She maps her way around by feel and instinct and still enjoys Wimbledon even though she can’t actually see the ball and then of course there is her pleasure in the neat backsides of the French rugby team. Don’t ask me how she manages to intuit them.

Anyway I’ve had my own technological challenges  to face since my last post. My computer crashed and a few hours later I nearly followed , as I had a blow out on the M5 heading down to Aunty Mu. I’ve never broken down on a fast motorway before, so it was quite an adventure. My main problem was fear that something would happen to Tottie in the back of the car, while I protected myself behind the barrier. It took the recovery vehicle 45 minutes to reach me, so I had plenty of time to distract myself from contemplating my position and enjoy the wildlife at the side of the road. There were crickets, blackberries, ragwort, and butterflies galore. I also had time to mull over the arrival of a new electrician to wire my cooker that morning. Six foot four and handsome with a huge toolkit, in he came full of chatter and good energy. He was a traveller and we connected instantly the way travellers do. He told me about teaching scuba diving in Papua New Guinea. We compared notes on the dangers of spraying one’s body for years in Deet, a chemical now banned. I confided in him my computer difficulties. No trouble he said I’ll take a look when I finish this. He fixed it in moments and off he went, scattering angel dust in his wake.

My motorway saga ended with two new tyres in Bridgewater, a town I never willingly visit, having been towed there by Angel Mick. I arrived at Aunty’s seven hours after setting off on a two hour journey. She made me fish and mash and we sat down to share IT nightmares. Mine were turned into miracles with no trouble at all, her’s had to wait until the next day. Then it was my turn to put on the angel wings, don’t ask me how. It’s a mystery, I don’t know the first thing about technology.

” Bugger pi” she might have said but as I was left driving home after the weekend, I pondered the imponderables. In a universe that has orchestrated everything with astonishingly complex simplicity, is it not most surprising  that the way to calculate the circle(the basic form after all) is an irrational number. Doesn’t that indicate that it is we who have got the numbers wrong? And that if Pi was a rational number God would be beyond question?


“Something doesn’t add up”, the cover of this week’s New Scientist proclaims but I didn’t fall for it. I know that the numbers don’t add up and I know that ‘they’ don’t yet know why, so I walk past, the £3.40 safe in my pocket, for a while at least.

A number of men have passed through my hands this summer. There’s Andy and Jock, Shane and Zac; all of them employed to please me, courtesy of the insurance company covering my claim over the flood that descending on my kitchen in June. It pleases me that they have arranged and delivered a freshly papered and painted kitchen, with gleaming new hob and cooker. All that is needed is tomorrow’s electrical connection and then it will be cakes and cookies all the way to winter.

I wonder if I will then feel balanced again. I’ve been feeling decidedly off kilter since the flood, which released a deep insecurity in me. First I wondered about moving and as soon as the possibibility was broached , my  back, which has a lot more sense than my thought processes, went into a mini- spasm. Ohho, I thought, time for some growth and sure enough I’ve been hobbling ever since, grateful that it doesn’t hurt like sciatica but aware that it is the sciatic nerve that is being tweaked. Old griefs, Culpepper puts it down to.

I’ve had a lot of trouble with my left side over the years-the female side, caused by a dominant male presence in my adolescence, no doubt. So when life throws in a little grenade,  my left side is the first place to be affected. I am very much in touch with my body and I hope this stands me in good stead as I age.

The first and most important aspect of my health regime is to keep away from doctors, hospitals and drugs as far as I possibly can.  Next I keep the vibration in my body as high as I can manage with positive, loving thoughts and actions. I stay away from the news, with images of catastrophies I can do nothing about. I am convinced, as is Dr Hulda Regehr Clark, that it is parasites and pollution that make us ill. She has developed a complicated mechanical zapping system to deal with them. I deal with them by raising my frequency via the powerful act of intention. It’s that simple. Parasites cannot exist in higher frequencies, as they thrive on stress, fear and despair. If I can’t manage to raise the frequency enough myself, I have a marvellous kineseologist who can.

So I’ve spent the summer, weak in the calf and the Achilles heel, contemplating health and my approach to it , helped along the way by Dr Hulda’s book that came to hand in a charity shop.It’s called The Cure for All Diseases and is full of wonderful and wacky insights into self healing. Everything in the world of matter has its own frequency and  bandwidth. In general she says that the smaller the organism, the lower the frequency and the narrower the bandwidth and provides complicated number charts to back up her theories. I prefer the simpler approach of my kinesiologist who says that as he has progressed through his career he has come to the conclusion that simplicity is the answer. Look to the spiritual and emotional inbalances and the necessary healing will take place.

Some toxicity has hit my system and so I will raise the vibration and aim to clarify the white light that on the left hand side of my body that has been compromised. I raise the frequency through exercising love and forgiveness.

Something that the crop circle community could do with exercising. All hell has broken out in Wiltshire, with some very poor examples of the phenomena over the summer and factions at war. The numbers don’t add there either and there is some very parasitic energy involved. Maybe it’s the same every year but this year it seems to be coming to a head. Zap it with love, I say. The truth is ultimately very simple. It’s just we can’t see it for numbers.

So now that the kitchen is restored to order and my inner life has settled, I fully expect my leg to strengthen. I’ve been through this process before and every time it happens it is less troublesome than the time before. There is no reason to fear that it will get worse as I go on. Age is just a number after all.

My Grandmother’s House

I’m back from the country with a jar of marigold seeds, picked from somebody’s hedge and a large marrow to make my grandmother’s marrow chutney. My head is full of my Welsh grandmother this time of the year, although she is long gone. I remember her scuttling like a beetle between her kitchen, where we all sat around the only source of heat in the house, and the back scullery, where she used to concoct all sorts of culinary magic on a rusty old gas stove, with her chopping block balanced over the bath. As soon as the jars were filled, they would be placed with great pride on the shelves in the pantry and there they would sit diminishing with the days of winter, the turmeric-tinted chutneys, the pickled onions, the fruit jams and the preserved tomatoes, glinting like the jewels of Jaipur, although that was an image she would probably not have understood.

My grandmother always wore black, with a silver brooch at her neck with the Om sign sculped on to it.This fact came to light only when I inherited it. My grandmother was not into alternative religion, so I don’t know the brooch’s provenance. Nor was she more than self- educated. As the eldest of eleven children, she was out of school, helping, more than she was in. That didn’t stop her learning to read and write however and she kept a fine recipe book in her beautiful hand. She also played the piano well enough to later accompany the local male voice choir, where she had the pick of the lot as a husband. Clever.

 Sometimes she added a white lace collar to her dress. Always in the daytime she wore a pinnie. She worked hard all day long to keep her family fed, warm and nurtured. Just inside the door that linked the kitchen with the scullery was the teatray, sitting ever ready with its teapot, tea caddie and fine china cups and saucers. Although my grandmother was by our standards, poor, she was by her own, rich and kept them up.

When she wasn’t in the kitchen being creative (never scivvying) she was out the back, tending her roses,carnations and shallots with a mother’s care. My grandfather did the potatoes and the cabbages and potted in his shed, from time to time coming back to check that his world was still moving steadily around his sun.

I learned a lot from watching my grandmother; more than I’ve ever learned from the books that I so intensely scour for answers. I learned the importance of keeping one’s space, however modest,’ tidy’. I learned the importance of hard work and keeping on top of the day. I learned the importance of the teatray and the sacred nature of hospitality.

But most of all I learned thrift and the nature of sharing. For as many of those pots and jars went to passing neighbours as went into our bellies. My grandmother saved everything from elastic bands to paper bags and was a great natural recycler. Nothing went to waste. She would have been appalled by the supermarket culture and would no doubt have quietly wondered where the point of living might be with so much so easily on tap. But she would have said nothing out loud and what she saw and thought would never have affected what she did.

Which was to live her simple life with great dignity and leave a trail of effects in her quiet wake. We grandchildren still make her yeast cake and her Welsh cakes, as do her great grandchildren. I guess that is a kind of immortality. And now with the aid of a technology she knew nothing about, I’m giving the world her recipe for marrow chutney. She would have loved the idea of that. For love was the root and stem of my grandmother’s life.

Ma’s Marrow Chutney

2lbs chopped marrow soaked in salt overnight, 2 lbs cooking apples, 1 lb dark brown sugar, 2 teaspoons of turmeric, 1 lb onions, 1 pint spiced vinegar, salt to taste.

Drain marrow of water and cook with other ingredients (except turmeric which should be mixed with vinegar and added midway through cooking). Simmer mixture a long time until a chutney consistency is achieved. Put in warm jars. Cover. Place on pantry shelf!