All posts tagged Story

William Blake ~ A Critique

Published August 31, 2022 by tindertender

William Blake created his own mythology.

There was a divine creator called Urizen, who represented the rational part of mankind.

Blake wrote the “Book of Urizen”, another collection of illustrated prophecies, about the creation of the universe and Urizen’s children.

And then there was Los, who represented human imagination and emotion:

Here’s a page from the Book of Los:

“Los howld in a dismal stupor,
Groaning! gnashing! groaning!
Till the wrenching apart was healed.
But the wrenching of Urizen heal’d not…”

And to give you an idea of Blake’s sheer imaginative range, consider Milton.

It’s an illustrated poem written in 1810 in which the poet John Milton comes down from Heaven to right Blake’s own spiritual wrongs (and explore how artists learn from their predecessors.)

And then there’s his masterpiece, Jerusalem: The Emanation of the Giant Albion.

It is poetry-allegory-prophecy with no linear plot and characters that are also places and ideas at the same time. Bonkers, brilliant, beautiful, beastly, beyond understanding.

Blake used these strange and mystical works – and his personal cosmology – to explore the conflict between rationality and imagination, the bounds of morality and religion, political ideals and human spirit, and more…

See, to fully understand William Blake you’ve got to know about the Industrial Revolution and the Age of Enlightenment.

He was fiercely opposed to them both…

This was Blake’s artistic criticism of Isaac Newton, who represented for Blake everything wrong with the Enlightenment.

As somebody who experienced visions, Blake felt Newton’s scientific explanation of light and optics was far narrower than what humans truly experienced.

This is what makes William Blake so important and enduringly relevant.

He noticed the potentially devastating impact that technology might have on humanity, and saw through the false promises of politics.

He epitomises that instinctive human distrust of cold rationalism.

Blake was especially aware of how industrialisation could atomise communities and turn cities into living hells.

And he feared that political revolutions had simply replaced monarchism with mercantilism. Money, rather than a single person, was the new king.

Blake’s work – his paintings, prophecies, poetry, and illustrations – were largely ignored in his own lifetime.

He has since become, long after his death, one of the most revered and studied artists of all.

And rightly so.

But William Blake’s prophetic poems are still far beyond us.

And he was a prolific artist – we’ve barely even scratched the surface here. His body of poetry and illustrations is, put simply, colossal.

I highly recommend exploring his work further.

No thread can ever do justice the sheer creative power of William Blake’s mind.

The word unique is overused, but William Blake surely deserves to be called as such.

There has never been anybody quite like him. Perhaps there never will.


The Winter Spirit and his Visitor

Published December 25, 2021 by tindertender

A Native American Folktale

An old man was sitting alone in his lodge by the side of a frozen stream. It was the close of winter, and his fire was almost out. He appeared very old and very desolate. His locks were white with age, and he trembled in every joint. Day after day passed in solitude, and he heard nothing but the sounds of the tempest, sweeping before it the new-fallen snow.

One day as his fire was just dying, a handsome young man approached and entered his dwelling. His cheeks were red with the blood of youth; his eyes sparkled with life, and a smile played upon his lips. He walked with a light and quick step. His forehead was bound with a wreath of sweet grass, in place of the warrior’s frontlet, and he carried a bunch of flowers in his hand.

“Ah! my son,” said the old man, “I am happy to see you. Come in. Come, tell me of your adventures, and what strange lands you have been to see. Let us pass the night together. I will tell you of my prowess and exploits, and what I can perform. You shall do the same, and we will amuse ourselves.”

He then drew from his sack a curiously-wrought antique pipe, and having filled it with tobacco, rendered mild by an admixture of certain dried leaves, he handed it to his guest. When this ceremony was attended to, they began to speak.

“I blow my breath,” said the old man, “and the streams stand still. The water becomes stiff and hard as clear stone.”

“I breathe,” said the young man, “and flowers spring up all over the plains.”

“I shake my locks,” retorted the old man, “and snow covers the land. The leaves fall from the trees at my command, and my breath blows them away. The birds rise from the water and fly to a distant land. The animals hide themselves from the glance of my eye, and the very ground where I walk becomes as hard as flint.”

“I shake my ringlets,” rejoined the young man, “and warm showers of soft rain fall upon the earth. The plants lift up their heads out of the ground like the eyes of children glistening with delight. My voice recalls the birds. The warmth of my breath unlocks the streams. Music fills the groves wherever I walk, and all nature welcomes my approach.”

At length the sun begun to rise. A gentle warmth came over the place. The tongue of the old man became silent. The robin and the blue-bird began to sing on the top of the lodge. The stream began to murmur by the door, and the fragrance of growing herbs and flowers came softly on the vernal breeze.

Daylight fully revealed to the young man the character of his entertainer. When he looked upon him he had the visage of Peboan, the icy old Winter-Spirit. Streams began to flow from his eyes. As the sun increased he grew less and less in stature, and presently he had melted completely away. Nothing remained on the place of his lodge-fire but the mis-kodeed, a small white flower with a pink border, which the young visitor, Seegwun, the Spirit of Spring, placed in the wreath upon his brow, as his first trophy in the North.

Why the World Doesn’t End

Published January 24, 2021 by tindertender

“If the way to the center were easy to find—if it were capable of being captured in doctrines or were subject to human control—it would not be the genuine way. If the path that opens the heart and the mind could be found by simple belief, all the true believers would be opening the doors and windows of their hearts with gestures of true compassion. They would readily understand the common threads in the words “Jesus was right,” “Moses led me along,” and “Mohammed opened doors in my heart.” When the great way opens even for a moment the path between mind and heart widens. The heart begins to find the thought of unity buried within it and the mind begins to see subtleties that were impossible to grasp just a minute before. Finding the great way requires a willingness to surrender again and again, not simply a zeal for bowing one’s head in the same old way.”

~ Michael Meade

Remembering, or Hoarding?

Published January 19, 2020 by tindertender

It is said that minimalistic and tidy living spaces are better, or more appealing. I have a friend who is quite tidy and basically unchanging.

I stand in my living room and look around me. These ‘things’ I see are not just things, or clutter.

They are living memories.

I look at each one and remember the story behind it. What I was doing, what the weather was like, who I was with, what was said. At any given moment I can look upon any one of these items and instantly be transported into the past.

I ask myself, presently, what were my motives at these times? What was ‘driving’ me?




A need to waste time …

Or maybe these particular items are what speak to my soul.

What is this story saying?

What values are emerging for anyone to see?

And why do I let no one in to see it?

I think about the estate sales I’ve been to in my life. I imagine the owners watching as people rummage through their treasures, thinking of it all as stuff … perhaps needed stuff, wanted stuff, but stuff just the same.

I wonder why I have collected so much stuff that someone else will most likely have to sift through, or get rid of somehow. I wonder if this is irresponsible, or selfish.

Or maybe I’m subconsciously preparing for a time when scarcity will be a real thing and I’ll want to have things to share.

Or maybe that is an even deeper subconscious excuse to hang onto it all, collecting still.

After all, these are gifts I have given myself. These are the most gifts I have ever received. I love loving me. I learned late in life I’m the only one who can actually love me more than anyone else, and so I practice … and hopefully good over-flows into the spaces I energetically and physically travel to.

I love having memories surrounding me at all times I guess. Yet still, I wonder if sitting inside a man-made bubble of memories isn’t somehow inhibiting future creations of newness.

Real, or Illusion.

Published January 3, 2020 by tindertender

Perhaps the reversal of our words in the anther is the same for you as it is for me. However, you have been aware of it, so you say the opposite of what you mean in order to get your true message across.

Nature has it that when we hear a negative, which is what I hear when going deep, we get defensive, obstinate even.

Yet maybe it is actually the surface message that you mean.

Maybe my reaction is actually born out of decades of emotional response training …. lifetime habit.

It could be that you are not the villain I have imagined you to be.

It’s probable that both friend and foe speak in the anthers at the same time, both residing at polar opposites, further confusing the message.

It IS time to open the imagination, freeing it from preconditioned thought forms, attached to emotional residue of the past.

Yet then again, this could all simply be an illusion …

Precious Woman

Published January 2, 2020 by tindertender

Written by Maria Palumbo,,

The women who struggle in relationships the most, the ones who have a hard time finding someone they can trust, are truly some of the most:



Loving souls.

Perfectly sensitive. Unendingly kind.

But they do not always see this.

They tell me they are broken. That no one will ever love them. Yet to know these women is to love them. They are easy to adore despite years of programming and dating advice telling them to be stronger:

“Just love yourself.”

“Don’t be clingy.”

“Don’t be needy.”

“Be mysterious.”

“Just be more: alluring, submissive, feminine, sweet, gentle, interesting.”

“You can make him into the man you want if you try harder.”

“Don’t whine.”

“Don’t be a pushover.”

And when I hear this, when she begins to tell me these stories that were pushed on her, I want to hold her face. Her hands. Her heart.

And ask her:

How can you be anything but precious?

Can you see these wounds as beautiful because they are yours?

I am offering not a ten step program of how to get a lover. But a loving witnessing. Holding a mirror to your heart so you can see more and adore what you see. Understand. Awaken. Nothing to change here. Only more tenderness.

And when it hurts. When the stories get louder, respond with more tenderness.

Selling Stories

Published December 25, 2019 by tindertender

When I was a child, my uncle went away to fight in the Vietnam war. He sent to my cousin and I, three small ‘gold’ bracelets … we were very young at that time.

Recently, I discovered they were not gold at all, but a gold ‘colored’ tin.

I am thinking on this, this early morning, and I wonder how many times we are sold on a story that has no basis in the truth.

He may have been told they were gold. He may have believed he was sending us a precious metal gift. (The gift was precious, despite the fact it was not what we were told).

How many other stories are sold to us as truth? My story about these little gold bracelets is quite minor, and I am certain there are plenty more of these falsehoods being ‘sold’ to the public which are quite a bit up the ladder of falsehoods, shared by those who dwell in the upper rungs of this ladder.

Nothing is as it seems.

Being harassed is one thing, being lied to, or having the truth purposefully omitted is another.

Pay attention. Investigate. Listen to the questions. You might just realized those who claim to know, really do not, for if they knew they would never have to ask.

Ironic …

How sometimes certain actions are steered through purposeful misleading by those who lack honor.

Full Moon 12-12-19

Published December 13, 2019 by tindertender

What does one do on the last full moon of the year? I decided to go to The Grotto.

I was a little confused as to why they had the children dressed in black for singing their Christmas music. Strange “color” for the festivities.

I sat in the church and wondered about the murals. I had to call a friend and ask who the lady was that Jesus and God we’re crowning. He was shocked I did not know, especially concerning my “age”. He said it was the Blessed Virgin Mother Mary, being crowned by Joseph an Jesus. Still doesn’t make much sense to me, but it is beautiful just the same.

There were many murals and statues. These are only a few.

I walked along enjoying the scenery. There were so many lights. I imagine the bill for this display over the month will be outrageous!

I’ve been so oblivious to religion and the whole history of it I wonder if this is why my life has felt like a living hell for much of my experience (and I’m aware that it can alwys be worse, so am grateful for the joys and friendships I’ve been blessed with).

What I do know is the basics, and that the higher ups are pedophiles … and I am confused by them, for how can they be godly and do such things?

I dreamed last night of the drug pushers of my youth. I dreamed they said my car was dangerous to drive, so they took it away. I was ‘stuck’ there. But when I couldn’t get what I wanted, I grabbed my rolling tool chest and hitched a ride back home. My tool chest wouldn’t fit in the car, so I pushed it over onto its side, flipped all of them drug pushers the bird, and hopped in the rear seat of the car for my ride, elsewhere.

It feels as though I’m having a non-religious/religious crisis, and it’s no wonder twilight zone is so near.

Even after 17 years sober.

God help me … God help We.

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