The Impulse to Synthesis

At the end of the previous post, I put a snapshot of the booklet handed to participants at an event which was my brainchild and which I facilitated.  The event brought together “scientists” and “artists” with me as a hobby poet acting sometimes as a bilingual interpreter between the two camps. It was driven by the impulse to synthesis, which might be another term for alchemy. The idea was to drop the thought into young minds that these two camps are not opposed and that they can work together creatively. It was a seed thought.

I am susceptible to the impulse for synthesis because of my seventh ray personality vehicle. When I use comparative mind, I see similarities first, possibilities of overlap and not differences. I do appreciate differences but that is not my first port of call. This seeing of differences is in a part a legacy of the outgoing sixth ray of idealism / devotion. Or as I think of it the Gary Glitter ray; “do you want to be in my gang, my gang?” This ray of idealism, at its worst, imagines that it knows best, is ultra-dogmatic and insistent that it does and anyone who does not subscribe to that view is an enemy to be vanquished. It is an evangelical ray that seeks to convert.

I have mentioned being avant garde, and in the sense of my sensitivity to the incoming ray, I am. Others will be incarnate and similarly susceptible; yet more will be born. Someone once told me he experienced prejudice for being brown, until he mentioned it, I had not noticed that he was. Because of this sensitivity I see synergies, where others do not. I see how things could be put into an alchemist’s cauldron of inspiration and stirred over a low flame to create new stuff. Unfortunately, not everyone can follow my ideas nor trust in them.  The phrase “but what if?”, is a real soul sapper. There are some people who think it is “clever” to rip stuff to shreds before giving it due consideration. These are the seekers of holes which they point out with stiletto fingers. Pouring energy onto them is like putting water in a colander.

The seventh ray is the entrepreneurial ray, it brings together to synthesise. On the circle it is next to the first ray which destroys, the seventh brings things back together at end of cycle. It sees worth in all parts and how the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Harry Potter as a notion is a symptom of the incoming seventh ray. All over the world young children play with wands. Expelliamus! I suspect its author has some seventh ray in her make-up, maybe even at causal vehicle level.

For a number of years, I gave workshops on team development. I felt impelled so to do, it was not good for my academic career. I am also pretty keen on planning {present participle}.

If you have any seventh ray “flavour” to you these following quotations will speak to you. You can see that it is entrepreneurial in bent.


From Esoteric Psychology 2 by Alice Bailey & Djwhal Khul


This ray provides at this time an active and necessary grouping of disciples who are eager to aid the Plan. Their work lies naturally on the physical plane. They can organize the evoked ideal which will embody as much of the idea of God as the period and humanity can evidence and produce in form upon the earth. Their work is potent and necessary and calls for much skill in action. This is the ray that is coming into power. None of these ray participants in the hierarchical crusade today can really work without each other, and no group can carry on alone. The difference between the methods of the old age and that of the new can be seen expressed in the idea of leadership by one and leadership by a group. It is the difference between the imposition of an individual’s response to an idea upon his fellow men and the reaction of a group to an idea, producing group idealism and focalizing it into definite form, carrying forward the emergence of the idea without the dominance of any one individual. This is the major task today of the seventh ray disciple, and to this end he must bend every energy. He must speak those Words of Power which are a group word, and embody the group aspiration in an organized movement, which, it will be noted is quite distinct from an organization. A striking instance of the use of such a Word of Power being enunciated by a group has lately been given in the Great Invocation which has been used with marked effect. It should continue to be used, for it is the inaugurating mantram of the incoming seventh ray. This is the first time such a mantram has been brought to the attention of humanity.


The Direction of Ray VII

  “Under an arch between two rooms, the seventh Magician stood. One room was full of light and life and power, of stillness which was purpose and a beauty which was space. The other room was full of movement, a sound of great activity, a chaos without form, of work which had no true objective. The eyes of the Magician were fixed on chaos. He liked it not. His back was towards the room of vital stillness. He knew it not. The arch was tottering overhead…

He murmured in despair: ‘For ages I have stood and sought to solve the problem of this room; to rearrange the chaos so that beauty might shine forth, and the goal of my desire. I sought to weave these colors into a dream of’ beauty, and to harmonize the many sounds. Achievement lacks. Naught but my failure can be seen. And yet I know there is a difference between that which I can see before my eyes and that which I begin to sense behind my back. What shall I do?’

Above the head of the Magician, and just behind his back, and yet within the room of ordered beauty, a magnet vast began to oscillate… It caused the revolution of the man, within the arch, which tottered to a future fall. The magnet turned him round until he faced the scene and room. unseen before…

Then through the center of his heart the magnet poured its force attractive. The magnet poured its force repulsive. It reduced the chaos until its forms no longer could be seen. Some aspects of a beauty, unrevealed before, emerged. And from the room a light shone forth and, by its powers and life, forced the Magician to move forward into light, and leave the arch of peril.”


Ray Seven

” ‘I seek to bring the two together. The plan is in my hands. How shall I work? Where lay the emphasis? In the far distance stands the One Who Is. Here at my hand is form, activity, substance, and desire. Can I relate these and fashion thus a form for God? Where shall I send my thought, my power the word that I can speak?

‘I, at the center, stand, the worker in the field of magic. I know some rules, some magical controls, some Words of Power, some forces which I can direct. What shall I do? Danger there is. The task that I have undertaken is not easy of accomplishment, yet I love power. I love to see the forms emerge, created by my mind, and do their work, fulfil the plan and disappear. I can create. The rituals of the Temple of the Lord are known to me. How shall I work?

‘Love not the work. Let love of God’s eternal Plan control your life, your mind, your hand, your eye. Work towards the unity of plan and purpose which must find its lasting place on earth. Work with the Plan; focus upon your share in that great work.’

The word goes forth from soul to form: ‘Stand in the center of the pentagram, drawn upon that high place in the East within the light which ever shines. From that illumined center work. Leave not the pentagram. Stand steady in the midst. Then draw a line from that which is without to that which is within and see the Plan take form.’ “

Contradictions and Compartmentalisation

I’ll kick this off with a little quiz;

To whom is this piece of text attributed?


Hermetis Trismegisti

Opera Chemica.


Tabula Smaragdina.

 Verum est sine mendacio, certum et verissimum. Quod

est inferius est sicut id quod est superius et quod est superius

est sicut id quod est inferius ad perpetranda miracula rei

unius. Et sicut res omnes fuerunt ab uno meditatione

et consilio unius: ita omnes res nascuntur ab hac una

re adaptione. Pater ejus est sol. Mater ejus est Luna

Portavit illum Ventus in ventre suo, Nutrix ejus est

Terra. Pater omnis perfectionis totius mundi est hic. Vis

ejus est integra si versa fuerit in terram. Separabis

terram ab igne, subtile a spisso suaviter magno cum

ingenio. Ascendit a terra in caelum

iterumque descendit in terram & recipit vim superiorum

& inferiorum. Sic habebis gloriam totius mundi et fugiet

a te omnis obscuritas. Haec est enim totius

fortitudinis fortitudo fortis. Nam vincet omnem rem

subtilem omnemque solidam penetrabit. Sic Mundus

creatus est. Hinc erunt adaptiones mirabiles quarum modus

est hic. Itaque vocatus sum Hermes Trismegistus habens

tres partes philosophiae totius mundi. Completum est quod

dixi de <illeg.>opere solari.

The answer is of course Isaac Newton…

Now Newton is said to be one of the fathers of modern science and yet this dude was writing stuff like this as well!! {I hope you can read and understand Latin.} He is long dead so perhaps we can at last forgive him his errancy, bless.

People tend not to want to see the whole picture. They latch on to a single thing and are not willing to accept other stuff. There is a contradiction and a compartmentalisation. Newton was an alchemist as well as a mathematician and natural philosopher. Today he would probably have problems for his whacky ideas…nobody would give him a research grant because despite being brilliant, he was a non-conformist and a whacko.

Why is our current thinking so very compartmentalised?  

One non politically correct thing and you are fucked…

What is wrong with having a renaissance approach to thinking?

It is too flaky for us serious retentive professionals…

Must we all live in a tunnel?

Yah, there is only the accepted consensual “reality”. You have to be a member of the club don’t you know…

I think it is time that people begin to open their minds a bit more….

Part 2 of the quiz…

Who said this?

“We knew the world would not be the same. A few people laughed, a few people cried. Most people were silent. I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture, the Bhagavad Gita; Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty and, to impress him, takes on his multi-armed form and says, ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’ I suppose we all thought that, one way or another.”


Excerpted from:

The Mabinogion, tr. by Lady Charlotte Guest, [1877], at

{My dad used to work at her family steelworks in Cardiff. Whenever we go to Palacret and see the weir, I am reminded of this.}


IN times past there lived in Penllyn a man of gentle lineage, named Tegid Voel, and his dwelling was in the midst of the lake Tegid, and his wife was called Caridwen. And there was born to him of his wife a son named Morvran ab Tegid, and also a daughter named Creirwy, the fairest maiden in the world was she; and they had a brother, the most ill-favoured man in the world, Avagddu. Now Caridwen his mother thought that he was not likely to be admitted among men of noble birth, by reason of his ugliness, unless he had some exalted merits or knowledge. For it was in the beginning of Arthur’s time and of the Round Table.

So she resolved, according to the arts of the books of the Fferyllt, to boil a cauldron of Inspiration and Science for her son, that his reception might be honourable because of his knowledge of the mysteries of the future state of the world.

Then she began to boil the cauldron, which from the beginning of its boiling might not cease to boil for a year and a day, until three blessed drops were obtained of the grace of Inspiration.

And she put Gwion Bach the son of Gwreang of Llanfair in Caereinion, in Powys, to stir the cauldron, and a blind man named Morda to kindle the fire beneath it, and she charged them that they should not suffer it to cease boiling for the space of a year and a day. And she herself, according to the books of the astronomers, and in planetary hours, gathered every day of all charm-bearing herbs. And one day, towards the end of the year, as Caridwen was culling plants and making incantations, it chanced that three drops of the charmed liquor flew out of the cauldron and fell upon the finger of Gwion Bach. And by reason of their great heat he put his finger to his mouth, and the instant he put those marvel-working drops into his mouth, he foresaw everything that was to come, and perceived that his chief care must be to guard against the wiles of Caridwen, for vast was her skill. And in very great fear he fled towards his own land. And the cauldron burst in two, because all the liquor within it except the three charm-bearing drops was poisonous, so that the horses of Gwyddno Garanhir were poisoned by the water of the stream into which the liquor of the cauldron ran, and the confluence of that stream was called the Poison of the Horses of Gwyddno from that time forth.

Thereupon came in Caridwen and saw all the toil of the whole year lost. And she seized a billet of wood and struck the blind Morda on the head until one of his eyes fell out upon his cheek. And he said, “Wrongfully hast thou disfigured me, for I am innocent. Thy loss was not because of me.” “Thou speakest truth,” said Caridwen, “it was Gwion Bach who robbed me.”

And she went forth after him, running. And he saw her, and changed himself into a hare and fled. But she changed herself into a greyhound and turned him. And he ran towards a river, and became a fish. And she in the form of an otter-bitch chased him under the water, until he was fain to turn himself into a bird of the air. She, as a hawk, followed him and gave him no rest in the sky. And just as she was about to stoop upon him, and he was in fear of death, he espied a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of a barn, and he dropped among the wheat, and turned himself into one of the grains. Then she transformed herself into a high-crested black hen, and went to the wheat and scratched it with her feet, and found him out and swallowed him. And, as the story says, she bore him nine months, and when she was delivered of him, she could not find it in her heart to kill him, by reason of his beauty. So she wrapped him in a leathern bag, and cast him into the sea to the mercy of God, on the twenty-ninth day of April.

And at that time the weir of Gwyddno was on the strand between Dyvi and Aberystwyth, near to his own castle, and the value of an hundred pounds was taken in that weir every May eve. And in those days Gwyddno had an only son named Elphin, the most hapless of youths, and the most needy. And it grieved his father sore, for he thought that he was born in an evil hour. And by the advice of his council, his father had granted him the drawing of the weir that year, to see if good luck would ever befall him, and to give him something wherewith to begin the world.

And the next day when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the weir. But as he turned back he perceived the leathern bag upon a pole of the weir. Then said one of the weir-ward unto Elphin, “Thou wast never unlucky until to-night, and now thou hast destroyed the virtues of the weir, which always yielded the value of an hundred pounds every May eve, and to-night there is nothing but this leathern skin within it.” “How now,” said Elphin, “there may be therein the value of an hundred pounds.” Well, they took up the leathern bag, and he who opened it saw the forehead of the boy, and said to Elphin, “Behold a radiant brow!”

“Taliesin be he called,” said Elphin. And he lifted the boy in his arms, and lamenting his mischance, he placed him sorrowfully behind him. And he made his horse amble gently, that before had been trotting, and he carried him as softly as if he had been sitting in the easiest chair in the world. And presently the boy made a Consolation and praise to Elphin, and foretold honour to Elphin; and the Consolation was as you may see:–

“Fair Elphin, cease to lament!
Let no one be dissatisfied with his own,
To despair will bring no advantage.
No man sees what supports him;
The prayer of Cynllo will not be in vain;
God will not violate his promise.
Never in Gwyddno’s weir
Was there such good luck as this night.
Fair Elphin, dry thy cheeks!
Being too sad will not avail.
Although thou thinkest thou hast no gain,
Too much grief will bring thee no good;
Nor doubt the miracles of the Almighty:
Although I am but little, I am highly gifted.
From seas, and from mountains,
And from the depths of rivers,
God brings wealth to the fortunate man.
Elphin of lively qualities,
Thy resolution is unmanly;
Thou must not be over sorrowful:
Better to trust in God than to forbode ill.
Weak and small as I am,
On the foaming beach of the ocean,
In the day of trouble I shall be
Of more service to thee than three hundred salmon.
Elphin of notable qualities,
Be not displeased at thy misfortune;
Although reclined thus weak in my bag,
There lies a virtue in my tongue.
While I continue thy protector
Thou hast not much to fear;
Remembering the names of the Trinity,
None shall be able to harm thee.”

And this was the first poem that Taliesin ever sang, being to console Elphin in his grief for that the produce of the weir was lost, and, what was worse, that all the world would consider that it was through his fault and ill-luck. And then Gwyddno Garanhir asked him what he was, whether man or spirit. Whereupon he sang this tale, and said:–

“First, I have been formed a comely person,
In the court of Caridwen I have done penance;
Though little I was seen, placidly received,
I was great on the floor of the place to where I was led;
I have been a prized defence, the sweet muse the cause,
And by law without speech I have been liberated
By a smiling black old hag, when irritated
Dreadful her claim when pursued:
I have fled with vigour, I have fled as a frog,
I have fled in the semblance of a crow, scarcely finding rest;
I have fled vehemently, I have fled as a chain,
I have fled as a roe into an entangled thicket;
I have fled as a wolf cub, I have fled as a wolf in a wilderness,
I have fled as a thrush of portending language;
I have fled as a fox, used to concurrent bounds of quirks;
I have fled as a martin, which did not avail;
I have fled as a squirrel, that vainly hides,
I have fled as a stag’s antler, of ruddy course,
I have fled as iron in a glowing fire,
I have fled as a spear-head, of woe to such as has a wish for it;
I have fled as a fierce hull bitterly fighting,
I have fled as a bristly boar seen in a ravine,
I have fled as a white grain of pure wheat,
On the skirt of a hempen sheet entangled,
That seemed of the size of a mare’s foal,
That is filling like a ship on the waters;
Into a dark leathern bag I was thrown,
And on a boundless sea I was sent adrift;
Which was to me an omen of being tenderly nursed,
And the Lord God then set me at liberty.”

Then came Elphin to the house or court of Gwyddno his father, and Taliesin with him. And Gwyddno asked him if he had had a good haul at the weir, and he told him that he had got that which was better than fish. “What was that?” said Gwyddno. “A Bard,” answered Elphin.

Thanks to Arsine, Phosphine and Hydrogen

“Exposure to arsine concentrations of 250 ppm is rapidly fatal: concentrations of 25–30 ppm are fatal for 30 min exposure, and concentrations of 10 ppm can be fatal at longer exposure times. Symptoms of poisoning appear after exposure to concentrations of 0.5 ppm. There is little information on the chronic toxicity of arsine, although it is reasonable to assume that, in common with other arsenic compounds, a long-term exposure could lead to arsenicosis.”

Over the last few days, we have been preparing the kitchen for the electrician and the plumber. This has meant removing tiles and the once “fashionable” kitchen units. There have been a few horrors behind the cupboards but no secret passageways or human remains {yet}. There were plenty of dead flies partially congealed in cooking oil. The electrics are suspect, highly.

About thirty years ago as a young postdoc. my colleagues and I installed a semiconductor growth facility in central Manchester. We had no ISO certification, yet we plumbed in gas lines of arsine, phosphine and hydrogen. The health and safety geezers of today would have shit multiple bricks if they knew. Times were different then and the prospect of a major toxic gas leak near Piccadilly Station wasn’t heavily considered. Though MI5 did check on that Iraqi student.

Thanks to the experience of that installation, I am reasonably confident with methane and propane. I can also do plumbing, to an extent. Having a gammy leg makes getting up and down difficult. But now that old kitchen is in the trailer ready to go to the tip. I am knackered with a capital K. I just need one fitting to cap off the propane gas line and we should be good to go for the kitchen installation. I have already converted the wife into being an adherent of cable ties.

It is interesting to see how slap-dash others have been, putting tile adhesive over wallpaper.  We have got time to make the walls a smooth as a smooth thing on a Nivea day. We are spending a lot on the kitchen, makes sense to do a good job.

We have decamped upstairs. For a while the house was run as two apartments, so there is a quasi-useable kitchen upstairs. Getting the electric cooker up the hill with my gammy leg was harsh. The wiring in that kitchen is Doc Emmett Brown crazy, we could be entering a time warp, soon. Luckily there is a useable socket outside the kitchen.

So, if I don’t blog for a while, I have gone back to the sixties to stop my parents meeting so that I was never born. 😉

Some people might even like that.

Nos da.

Caer Paravel

Dreaming of Aslan and the Deep Magic…


Deep in his musty cavern

he lay out the cloth

drawn quadrants

and he rattled

his bag,

his bag of bones


The time is coming.

Now on the table

the bones they spoke,

they spoke to him.

Soon now must he go

to Caer Paravel


To speak with ancient stones

circled at the place,

the place of power

for this Deep Magic

will need a special,

a special place, a special time


In his Grimoire he reads

to undo oaths

made before time with

the words of liberation

the “libera lachryma antica”,

a most potent charm


“By all the power invested

I set you free.

I hold your oaths

entirely fulfilled!!

Go now in freedom

and think me no more”


“Go now free from

the curse of me

vested upon you

aeons ago.

I hold your oaths

entire fulfilled”


“Never again shall I call

in the vaulted Temple.

Go now in freedom

and think me no more!

By all the power invested

I set you free!!”


It has been years

since he has seen

fair Caer Peravel,

years since he walked

walked the stones round,

millennia since he built them


The Deep Magic

permeates there

and it will be good

to taste again.

A few days hence

and it will be so.

Epithet for an Epitaph

Deep in the darkening forest

the travelling knave

came upon a clearing,

a clearing and a grave


There beside a ramshackle hut

a single mossy stone did stand

and written upon it well

cut by a skilled mason’s hand


Here lies one hand clapping.


Now sheltering against the storm

the knave did enter the hut forlorn

and as the candle now burned bright

strange things came swift and into sight


On a lectern carved of finest oak

Their lay a wizard’s velvet cloak

and beneath that mantle rare

lay a tract on all secrets fair


A Treatise on the Art of Solitude.


He ran his fingers o’er the book

with bated breath began to look

easing back the leather bind

a tale before him did unwind


Sat now in the wizard’s chair

he brushed the rain from out his hair

there he sat in the silence of the storm

to learn of things beyond the norm


Blessings upon you pilgrim reader.


Harken close to read my tale

which speaks to you from the veil

care though for these words will chain

and this shack will be your own domain


For should you pass beyond this page

then ‘twill be you, who now the sage.

A curse it is for shoulders new

this is my warning given unto you.


Warnings for you oh pilgrim lost.


At these words the knave did shiver

he did not want to swim such a river

and so with much a hasty pace

he closed the book away to race


He ran out the hut and passed the stone

quick and into the fast falling dark

for he did not want always to be alone

best sleep with trees on a bed of bark


When dawn stretched its welcome arms

he sped off to the village near

there spoke of the strange hut of charms

whilst others heard his song with fear


Back in the darkened wood

a lonely ghost began to tread

dressed in his magic hood

to lay again his marble bed


Here lies one hand clapping.

The Dweller on the Threshold

In the deadly nightshade of digitalis dreams

the pupils closed so atom tight

n’er to let a single photon pass

to live a life in camera obscura


Where nefarious necrophiliacs line all the tombs

to languish lurid in gloom and shadow

each sepulchre tainted by the ochre fading sheath

which sheds the mamba skin scales

both as autumn leaf and lost leper’s fingers


Blessed with those primordial cataracts

in the labyrinth subterranean tunnels

ever to walk the fateful string in the penumbra

lest the retinas are scarred by even faintest light


By chance the weary Dweller stumbles on

tripping toe-wise onto some carved out stairs

harsh cut deep and in the cavernous wall

a sense of archway, doorway, door

how did he sense the Angel’s spoor?


The umbilicus of the vampire darkness

sucks the belly blood fast from him

the succubus’ pull of the old familiar

whispers warnings close his ear

“Step not beyond your cloying fear!!”


Sweet honey wafts winsome in the wind

borne hummingbird happy on busy wings

where golden dapples the translucent,

faint feathers of a mountain stream trickle

far from the land of morbid doom and her sickle


One more step through that golden gate

and the snap of tripwire seals his fate

a trumpet calls the amphorae of the Gods,

the pilgrim takes a diamond dusting shower

he washes wet in radiance of an infinite hour


Far beyond the spectrum of man’s open eyes

he feels that subtle shine of wisdom wise

soothed and healed and now soothed again

he hangs for aeons in the gap between

for dark he knows and light is as yet, unseen


The Dweller takes yet more a single pace

to earn the crown of olives, for his race

his heart now facets rainbow light delight

and into the utter radiance quiet easy strolls

the magma of white magnificence does him, now enfold


The mellifluous melody of ecstatic shining white

washes the cobwebs and decay of the Lord of night.

He the Dweller is yet a boatman too

he has been both vessel and its crew

between the clashing rocks, the portal

has squeezed him self, a simple mortal


Yet further the now enlivened Soul

he marches onwards to his goal

in the pure and white, white radiant stream

at last he has fulfilled his dreams.

The clear-spring clarity now does him fill

he has gained this by both his act and his will


Bows before the triumphant triangle, golden ore

he waits as the rod strikes a new lightning sight

it sears his being deep into his very abstract core.

He has earned this most rare and Holy rite

the Rod of Power him has total changed

and all his atoms are most re-arranged.


There is The sacred emanation font

where source of stream it can be found

There is not much that needs or wants

for he has sought the simple and the sound

his heart hears what others fail to see

the only block knows he now to ever be


The Dweller was always him

and he had sat on the Threshold for,

 … … an endless


… … …eternity.