My Blog

Not Around on Tribe Much

bbarry — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 11:47:16 GMT

Hi everyone. I'm just around here much any more. Although there is a lot about Tribe that is wonderful I have so many actually-people-that-I-know friends on Facebook that I spend a lot of time there. So if any of you Tribe friends what to link up with me, look here: http://en-gb.facebook.com/people/Barry-Patterson/524124992 also http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Wild-Man-of-the-Woods/115272974621 http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mr-Beetle/98857567161 & my web page is here http://www.redsandstonehill.net you can order both of my books there! best wishes to all, Barry

Summer Solstice 2008

bbarry — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 08:35:07 GMT

Summer Solstice 2008 stand at the edge of the known world at every moment of breath awoken by the sun & moon drawn down by the ocean or sky down into the cloudy wind helter-skelter of twisted smoke to sit in the house with a smiling demon who turns out to be useless & afraid the cliff top path for you! the birds for you, the waves, the morning sun on windows the other day, the other day & your perfect innocence is scary your false perfection is afraid clock hands whirl you around the circle of names & numbers so it goes, so they come & go years, seasons, addresses, streets bus stops, centuries, solar returns solar winds, solar weather, solar power Saturday 21st of June, 2008 Beau Forrest, dare-devil died in a bed, sat on a wall then stepped from the wall into outer space; Paula & Gary spoke their vows to the rainy circle, wrists & lives tied together, for a dance for a feast, for a song, for a life; Edith Morningstar Laxley came forth from Alice & Dan's secret there was blood, there was joy there was a new voice on the phone you fled to the Atlantic & found yourself on the spot as it should be in a world innocent & perfect as this one the cliff top path for you! the birds for you, the waves the morning sun on windows today, today, today, today awoken by the sun & moon drawn down by the ocean or sky a circumference everywhere, come to ground at the edge of the known world Barry Patterson July 2008

Caption Contest

bbarry — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 15:47:13 GMT

Winner gets big eyed bean from Venus! (well my allotment which is a bit like Venus...) Been paying silly boys with the Simpsonizer & the Gimp. So what am I saying? BTW the cat's name is Castor. He had a successful visit to the vet today & is now out, sulking. Closing date next Friday, the 1st of Lughust.

The Wren

bbarry — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 15:26:09 GMT

It is late May's intoxicating drizzle, misty green & you're just walking back & forth, sometimes playing the flute or engaging in conversation with a dusky winged fly Not quite alone in allotment town, you wanted to check up on the squashes & beans & found those mysterious paw prints in the plot that they've been talking about The walking gets slower & slower & silence descends, a noisy silence of rain drum & bird song & the spicy weed shout of soil minerals released into the air The sky, grey, lightening & darkening itself in time with the earth's gentle breaths & the crow returns to her nest on the top of the electricity pylon over there The fallen ash log has a gravity of path distance, the walk gets even slower, to that “nothing but meditation lies ahead,” Zen-Zeno speed, like a surprise The silent power of sitting down, all alone, on the land: its silence is music, its music is silence, its heaviness is light, its light is a heavyweight circle Letting go of the centre, the horizon rushes away like the end of an unexpected dream-moment: you awaken when you didn't even know that you were asleep The wren meets your gaze - her resolute eye meets yours before she dives into the dark lightning-folds of the ivy at the base of the hedge Your passion is a roaring green flame that lances up into the sky like a new bramble leaf that just crossed the threshold, unstoppable in growth-might's call You'd shudder, but you're a mountain-height of tendril nerve constellations, entwined around the flowering presence of the cerebro-spinal rod You say the word, make the unspeakable sound that confirms the lack of an echo, a face reflected in a puddle, a daytime half-moon face turned toward the sun The wren meets your gaze – beyond any idea of speculation or offering of your self, her self, acting out the non-story that completes the circuit & you bow & bury your face into the sweet earth breathing deeply into crushed ground elder & soil crumbs left behind at the end of the ice-age Curled like an embryo in a bird's egg, like a soon-to-be-seen in some secret seed, like a vowel in a word, like an eye in a bird's head, like a man in a garden in the spring. Barry Patterson, June 2008

A Year Round

bbarry — Fri, 16 May 2008 16:03:10 GMT

May 2008 This time around I won't be leaving you Beloved May Queen England; This new rain Is a poignant Reminder Of last year's Departure. Goddess green Has flood-sprung Everything in a great wave; Below White Horse Hill We blow Horns Made from sticky spirals of Willow bark. The World-Drum, Heartbeat of Life-Song Speaks; “Everything has it's season Of going away & returning” So I too, spiralled down into Tibet's gravity well, Came back to rain. The day before we left All the little herbs Touched me; They filled my body with Hedgerow delight & innocence & said: “Now wherever you go You can take us with you!” The mountain heavy weight Of the blessing ray source Does not know distance; Our orbits are all Elliptical, Spun out Onto roads & valleys of journey. The living, perfect circle, The company of hands, faces, voices Are freed from time & story; They are singing still, A mantra Charged by the vertical beam Of unconditional Regard. So I kneel & resurface Into green & rain again; Where they enliven The city's tessellation Mind stretched out to scale The flight, the motorway, Older, calmer, stronger, stranger. B. Patterson. A year after our departure for the pilgrimage.

Epic Journey from the Town the the Wild Woods & back again in Five Minutes

bbarry — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 13:07:12 GMT

Their fundamental mistake was in trying to take refuge from their sadness in beauty Mistaking love for some kind of reward in a fanfare of trumpets & horns Turning away from the mind-wind that sings of the instant of awakening They lost the natural opulence of our background radiation that surrenders & sighs Believing that freedom must be found over there on the roadside of the wide, shouting world. & the steps that they took from their doors in the safety of senile suburbia Emptied their minds of entertainment, more terrifying without adverts to distract them Years of eating trash had made them allergic to the taste of green leaves & river water & longing for email or phones or what they called the music of the moment They joined hands & took comfort in the simplicity of discovering that everyone is afraid. Thrown together in a chorus of moans, denied any authority figures Without maps, on foot, they set out to seek their refugee misfortune Pavements became unfamiliar, streetnames, meaningless syllables Hunger was only one of the many kinds of emptiness that they felt inside Eyes reflecting the pale light of a Saturday morning in February. Daffodils, thorn trees, thrushes & crows would bear witness To the human river of in breaths & out breaths steaming in the air Of eary morning, limbs folding & unfolding themselves over grass Carpet of gum spotted concrete, tarmac, leaf fringed lane & all they could think of was what might happen at the end of Story-day. The road lead out of town, out of time, it became older with every twist & turn It was time-travel, through the fields, through the moors, through the woods, medieval, prehistoric Marrow of the hill laid bare, twinkling grains of the ancient desert First song, shouted from an amphibian throat at the sun Buddha of the Carboniferous, all black & gold, worshipped by scorpions. Now the road of the mind's yearning became an evening track on a wooded slope Darkened by centuries of rain growth & green shadow bank Beneath, the sound of cold waters making their merry heathen way to the sea Ahead, the huffing of the wind among the tall grey ash trees on the ridge: Warm rook voices looping overhead to announce the arrival. Stopped by the edge of a gulley, waiting for the moment of transcendent understanding That never came, a shuddering began, a nausea of terror, Skin-wincing recognition of the long legged old deaths dark-curled tightly in their nests Waiting for sunset storms & cries of fear & pain in the night land Wild, hairy old things that everybody knows the look of! They will come out running, in fierce, jumping huge scampers Eyes burning with fires coloured by delight & cruelty Skinny & pale, drumming their feet with impatient hunger Snatching, catching, nipping, biting soft skins: Carrying the chosen to the dusty tunnels of no-return. Then one pilgrim exclaimed & pointed to the wet cliff on the other side The perfect simulacrum, caught-created by the chance-dimming light, Eyes closed as if in sleep or bliss, face turned to her left Breast pointing out from a cloak, hip lost behind ferns: Our Lady of the Gorge, green & golden, Queen of the Inbetween. Round bellied, crowned by pendant holly, face all peace Fallen beech & rowan, ivy clad in an embrace at her feet She loves them all, even the death spiders in their dark webs of pain & sends beams of meaningfulness into their hearts, where they stand in silent awe: Shocked, as if suddenly awoken from an illness of chaos & sweat. It is just a mossy stone in a Shropshire vale, But this recognition does not dwell among trees, stones, clouds & birds Any more than between four walls, on four wheels, on legs walking Nor among dreams of romance about adventure, spaceships or celebrities Nor any golden age in a useless future past. Let us walk on the high hill where the first green is growing With winter gale carnage of birch tree pieces like beached whales To the path, to the road, to the town, singing our song Waving to the children, greeting the gulls in a farmer's field Set free from our fever of searching, into lucid simplicity. Barry Patterson 15-02-08

RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch

bbarry — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 13:57:40 GMT

The rule is that you don't count total numbers but rather the maximum number of each species seen at any one moment so that you don't count the same bird twice. Counting blue tits in the treetops is tricky & it reminded me of when I was an undergraduate. Mind you I can think of far worse things to be doing first thing in the morning. I went out on the common. This is what I saw: 200 common gulls 12 black headed gulls 5 great black backed gulls 4 herring gulls 20 carrion crows 9 magpies 1 jay 30 starlings 2 blackbirds 7 redwings 2 robins 10 wood pigeons 21 blue tits 4 great tits 3 long tailed tits 4 house sparrows 2 goldfinches 2 goldcrests & 1 each of chaffinch, dunnock, collared dove, nuthatch, green finch & great spotted woodpecker I didn't see any wrens, wagtails, treecreepers or hawks. Shame.

Prajna Paramita

bbarry — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 11:41:04 GMT

Perfect Wisdom and the Goddess who shares its name cannot be apprehended by the discursive mind or the senses. She is, however, omnipresent as the essence of all phenomena; thus, she may be encountered in the midst of any experience or activity. To see the world as it is -- a dynamic, fluidic, open horizon of meaning – is to gaze upon her divine body and face. Miranda Shaw, Buddhist Goddesses of India, Princeton University Press 2006

Listening to Last.fm

bbarry — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 11:25:11 GMT

Listening to Last.fm http://www.last.fm It's a great online music resource!

Listening to: Francis the Mute by the Mars Volta

bbarry — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 18:47:27 GMT

Listening to: Francis the Mute by the Mars Volta. Wild metallo-prog with a strong latin, yes, latin(!) dimension. Genius.

Listening to: Seven Veils by Robert Rich

bbarry — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 14:01:55 GMT

Listening to: Seven Veils by Robert Rich Subtle blend of acoustic & electronic instruments, chilled, grooved & with a middle eastern feel to it.

Too Hot to Hold, that Sun!

bbarry — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 19:03:32 GMT

The druid yogi lying naked on the grass has surrendered himself to the power that guides the stars He breathes the complex aromatic messages released by the living soil & dreams a song. Fallen far & well-deep away from now-skin, embodied, emboldened as atoms in a circling storm Toward the central presence around which the unseen machinery of his ancestral tree slowly, slowly rotates. Black Dragon Mother! Ambidextrous, hermaphrodite amphibian, calling out from among the trees Mother of us all, she hangs in time's well-dark, she sends out her bright blood lines of spirit story. A voice presence, her black veined golden eye rises, mirrors the evening Westmill sky soon to gloam Her voice a force to push rolling wave of grassy, hedge lined hill, scudding rain dims away into the north. The family are speechless; the unseen unspoken tale, the self-secret rapture of the deep walks among the tents Smelling of animal heat, cut wood, beaten iron in the forge, maybe making a muted sound of jingle bells as it passes. There is a still moment in the darkness before the dawn & its flute songs, when everyone is dreaming They spin & dance in a tapestry of names & songs & paths yet to be followed through highlands & islands of spirit The faces of the Samhain Assembly find-surround the obsidian warmth of a Black Buddha's samadhi Lit by the kindle gazes of his flashing eyes, the Black Samantabhadra, transparent & silent, still & full. Hidden in the mystery of the body's own night, out of sight between shady bags of gleaming wet organs As secret as a heart string, a blood harp, a chest pipe, a single cell-fire blown to light by a crouching bard The secret exercise is to look into the sun & see himself, his own heart, his own face & all the while in the whorl Of the outer world a sudden arc, an arching river of blaze jumps between the two suns, too big for mere eyeballs & fossilised light beneath the hill, an accumulation of the delights of previous aeons, makes its primal call A magical dance of cellular light & sound, spreading crepuscular rays & beams out to the galactic void So too, back in toward the darker, softer heat of the earth's centre where the Beloved sleeps & dreams of birds & wind He awakens with a shout, like an axe cleaving wood & falls to his feet in an impossible moment of levitation. Ho! Barry Patterson, November 2007

Wroth Silver

bbarry — Sat, 10 Nov 2007 17:29:28 GMT

Before dawn this morning on Knightlow Hill, Warks, a small group of local people took part in the oldest ceremony on record in the UK. It was described as ongoing in the Domesday book, is definitely a thousand years old & very likely pre-Saxon. Wroth Silver involves people from local villages throwing money into the hole in the stone which is them taken by the Duke as payment to him & his men protect them from "the wild beasts of the Forest of Arden". Then we all go the pub & have a b i g breakfast with milk & hot rum, free clay pipes & a bit of speechifying. Anne & I took this photo two years ago in 2005. Nowadays the mayor is a Lady Mayor - she said that it was the most powerful & emotional thing that she had done in her year of office. A newby, they're called "colts", (the nature of the initiation ceremony has sadly been lost) remarked to me that they thought it was "strange" but personally I think that there is nothing strange about it all. But then I suppose I'm used to getting up early in the morning to stand around in fields doing rituals. ;-) Thank heavens that it has survived.

Listening to Jethro Tull's Passion Play

bbarry — Sun, 04 Nov 2007 11:07:23 GMT

Ah, takes me back found it as a big mp3. It might be a bit long & rambling & some might say it represents the time when prog went a bit too far but I love it! ""Hail! Son of ki-ings Make the ever-dying sign Cross your fingers in the sky For those about to be-e-e. There am I Waiting along the sa-a-and. Cast your sweet spell upon the land and sea. Magus Perde-e, Take your hand from off the chain. Loose a wish to still the rain, The storm about to be-e-e. Here am I (voyager into li-i-ife). Tough are the soles that tread the kni-ife's edge.""

Listening to: Lunar, Hybrid Awaken

bbarry — Fri, 12 Oct 2007 15:27:52 GMT

Hybrid Awaken by Lunar. Chilled groovy electronica with a slightly orchestral feel. Down load for free here, http://www.lunarmusic.net/ I made a donation, it's worth it. Maybe nice for early morning drives to schools in wintry darks.

Three Welsh Theophanies

bbarry — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 17:18:27 GMT

Three Welsh Theophanies 1. Beams & rays of sun & shadow, scattered, spreading From above & behind my falling, floated form Illuminating the murky sea, all around, universe filled with glory. 2. Tart sharpness of a sloe, perfectly round & dark Bittersweet, straight from a bush by the lake, it acts like a drug The hedge roars with virid life, what was hidden becomes visible. 3. Lace-like patterns worn out from the surface of the stone By wind & water over countless unthinkable ages of the sea Are only the foaming froth of a single breaking wave-breath moment. B. Patterson, September 2007

That’s me in the Gompa, Losing my Religion.

bbarry — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 08:45:21 GMT

That’s me in the Gompa, Losing my Religion. With a gentle, almost sexual sense of opening I see through the crowd of red faced pilgrims & garish plastic chinese signs to an indescribable absence of meaning I’m overdosed on giant golden statues paid for by peasant pain for years of devoted ignorance under oppression, layer upon layer of filthy, rancid butter slime on the floor Did Buddha really teach religion at all & what would He say to the privileged few who believed that they were meritorious because they spent their riches on His image? I’m not a 24 hour a day mantra clicker, bowing before a King or some other Powerful Personage in the hope that they will bless & not curse me I don’t need anyone to dominate demons on my account, I wrestle with the tanned lionness strength of the high altitude hills all around us myself & she roars & rolls over & flings about her dusty limbs, arches her back in anger & lust but she really doesn’t exist & I’d be laughing at myself if I did either I am, but not - just a man on a bus, witness to the rapidly approaching empty heart of the world - the final circle an inescapable event horizon sky I’m not bowing to you, I’m not bowing to myself, no one is prostrating themselves or placing their head on this ancient piece of floor because they have to Delight, not fear is the motivation; unborn, wildly fertile mind-nature makes the sound of bells & drums & words that fold in on themselves Undoing themselves within their own meaning, a built in obsolescence & the black hermaphrodite who isn’t really walking by my side doesn’t really wave her hand about & tell me that the secrets of my own empty heart are world systems more numerous than daisies in a spring field in Somerset or sand grains on the Tsangpo valley floor None of it is there but it is charged with meaning & purpose until its natural transparency is hit upon without wavering or denial & the last grasping hand-mind, mind-hand lets go of the blue turquoise bead of stupidity & religion becomes pointless & yoga is a waste of time That’s not the end of faith, it’s exponential devotion to the Great Mother Love Explosion in a final moment of uninhibited recognition & we all laugh & cry or get born & die & the sun shines & the moon hides in clouds & the dreamer rises into the scorpio night sky with a shout of freedom. B. Patterson, July 2007

Listening to: Yungchen Lhamo: Ama

bbarry — Sat, 25 Aug 2007 15:12:00 GMT

Gorgeous vocals in Tibetan, great music too. A hit with me right now!

Listening to: Blues for Allah by the Grateful Dead.

bbarry — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 17:03:07 GMT

Blues for Allah by the Grateful Dead. Not necessarily a well known Dead album. It was 1979 when I bought it on vinyl. I only had a greatest hits album of some kind at the time & wasn't prepared for this amazing album which for me has the flavour the long live jams for which they were famous. I regret never having seen the band live but there is an interesting couple of historical notes I will add. The Dead, in their wisdom said don't bootleg the studio albums but do what you will with the live shows, & they did. So a load of wonderful live tripped out Grateful dead jams are out there on the net just waiting for you. My mate Andrew told me that there's a 50 minute version of Dark Star fabled to be out there. I found one that runs in at about 30 minutes which isn't at all bad. Well if that's your sort of thing. "there's a band out on the highway, they're high steppin' into town, it's a rainbow full of sound..." [live transcription from Barry's world.] Woo-oo-ooh!

More Tibet Pictures up

bbarry — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 16:54:03 GMT

Go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/9070942@N06/sets/ The new set is A&B: Dratang, Nyemo & Langkor. This pic is captioned: Dratang: scary door to a strange place. Least said the better, but it's a great image.

Listening to: UeNN

bbarry — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 19:18:11 GMT

Listening to Silence by UeNN. Groovy, engaging, chilled electronicka.

Dzipa: the "Tibetan Green Man"

bbarry — Mon, 23 Jul 2007 13:54:02 GMT

Photo taken at Langkor, Southern Tibet.

Great Bedwyn, Wiltshire

bbarry — Thu, 19 Jul 2007 18:20:13 GMT

After a good day with a performance at a local school this morning & exploring the local antiquities this afternoon --pauses, this is a first for me-- I'm actually online on the pub's wifi, which is a nice way to catch up a bit. Spent much of the time at Avebury this afternoon - actually really exploring to make up for my previous flying visits. Found a good spot to meditate under a big ash tree.

More Tibet Pictures

bbarry — Sat, 14 Jul 2007 11:57:28 GMT

I just edited & uploaded more pilgrimage pictures to our Flickr page. There are some great pictures of Zangri Kangmar, which was at the heart of our journey. They're at http://www.flickr.com/photos/9070942@N06/ I just uploaded the sets titled A&B: Samye and A&B:Zangri

Listening to

bbarry — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 17:16:54 GMT

Eyes of the World by Darwin's Radio http://www.darwinsradio.co.uk/ http://www.myspace.com/darwinsradiouk