- Rainbow Albion -

(Fable of the English Orphan)
Serenity grants a peaceful home
In the rainbow Albion, free to roam,
The mind and reverie of skin and bone
Forever together, never alone.
Ghosts of clipper ships which once made their way along the river, materialised themselves to the Orphan as he witnessed a tide rising and retreating as one with himself. Washing up and washing over in the stream of growth and refracting in the motions and histories of the ever-transforming river, the Orphan stood in witness as a city grew. The conflations of worlds which once sailed upon this water indelibly marked the boy. It came to him that nothing exists in and of itself except the sentience of nature and manifestation of energy, spirit and reflection. It led him to meditate upon the cadence of the life in front of him, both roaring up and ebbing away. Latency impregnated the rhythms as everything became inter-changeable. This was the liquid world, where intuition absolved and reformed; where the concentric nature of fire and water carried the soul of continuous creation, liberated in the absence of self, identity, memory and divergence. Lineaments became indistinguishable in this state of perfect liquidity; the mind became the culmination of all things, of all experience.
The English Orphan never let the reverie distract himself from the fact his world was material. His reality became what he believed as the mind exists to know. It was an inevitable circle of fate which played over to the same conclusion, the same seeds which caused beginnings to arise anew. With innovation we build our own kingdoms, ideas consume themselves; existing worlds breakdown to create new ones. The reverie began in contemplation of the previous multimillenea of ten thousand years, where technology became more nimble to biology’s plod. Culture evolved amidst fits of fantastic musing that in all this time, all time became caught up in him and the cut of his cloth. A permanent acceleration of evanescence bought the whole cosmology, the history of the mind and the history of the man, into ever clearer focus. The spirit kept on. The Orphan, so versed at the heart of reality, lit his own guidance. He engaged in the language, in the world, in the imagination; in the promise and lure of the encirclement as the culture imitated each new and consuming rampage.
We owe unto ourselves that we owe to each other. As the sentient self becomes the energy in the atom at the heart of the flower, it too becomes the energy at the heart of the bee which hovers above, and the energy transfixed in the eye which spies this bee moves toward the deep blue sky of an existence itself amid existences of themselves in whorls of particles passing through. The Orphan pondered over Blake’s Auguries, of the heaven in the flower, in the grain of sand. He pondered over Jerusalem and the apex of a civilisation as the point which permanently moves us on. The Jerusalem he found in the river was the euphemism for the liquid existence, transforming with motion and time; he was at the cusp of the creative liquidity of the unthinkable and unimaginable origins of the soul which in their exultation and affirmation gradually become the sensual life. Intuition became capital. He found an apostle to perfect refraction in the brim-full of the freshly-poured drink, and he found a disciple in the empty glass as messages came and went. The Indo-European conflation was bound up in him, bound in the fabric he wore to inch-perfect precision. The amalgamation of words and worlds which existed before him materialised the ghosts of clipper ships. This was undoubtedly England. He was on the river. This was the rainbow Albion.
Under the aegis of meditative insight, the Orphan transcended the somnolent tread of the distributive modern world and its deference to vocation which passes from man to man; and it protected him too from the confusion of emotional impressions which isolate the soul from itself. It was in this world that money mimicked its own liquidity. Here the Orphan could be remote, but never unresolved in the gradual progress the spirit made in experience to dematerialisation and to re-birth. The Indian’s had a word for this cycle, and although the English were more pragmatic of the samsara, it meant the same thing. Awakening was not a religious experience of a god manifesting itself, but of reality; within this reality is one’s self in approximations of kinship. The nature of things may languish temporarily, but they never die; generating in the ever-alternating polarity, in the apprehension and comprehension of reality. In his rarefied and wrought atmosphere he escaped into the timelessness of ideas, art, liberty, fashion, creativity and progress without anguish, contrivance or vulgarity; becoming both independent and universal. He made it new. He raised himself in first nature. Reality was not an abstraction, not even in the harried world of events, passion, and instinct. This fable is not a story as such; it’s an account of the history of occurrences in between the pictures and the words. As time passes by, it’s as much an account of the creativity of the dress-maker as it is anything, and the form of the garb he imagines.
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