Wooing and Wowing

Wowing is a stimulant that allows the femail recipient to indulge in escape happiness (See previous post). She imagines that after everything she has endured finally life, underneath is wildly exciting and that she is cooler, prettier, sharper etc. The effect of this drug is that her esteem goes through the roof. She cannot see straight. She is tuned into the unreal.

Wooing points to the good. It does so directly but gently and is true to expression happiness (See previous post). Wowing points to the false. It's a tempting false though, because it's liberating and exciting

In a wow the man blows his own trumpet through verbal or physical showing-off.

In a woo the exchange is more focussed on her as woman, not as personality, and also on This Now- the flickering leaves on the tree, the warm darkness in the gaps between the radiator slats, the playful knots that have formed on the carpet fray, the play of pressing air together as you come closer, the game of trying to kiss without making a sound, the feel of the space you are in.

Wowing turbo-boosts her to the clouds, then let's her fall to the ground and then absurdly blames her for falling.

Wooing lifts her gently, and floats her along with easy puffs.

Escape Happiness vs. Expression Happiness

What I call Escape Happiness is best demonstrated when somebody you know is displaying an apparent happiness- laughter, upbeat chatiness etc. but also you detect a wrongness, perhaps a new arrogance, even a superiority, you are subtlely rejected you in favour of their new found coolness, sharpness, wittiness. They are lost in a dream of being somebody they are not. This is almost always because their esteem has taken a sharp rise at a rate they cannot cope with. Perhaps they are being wowed by a new boyfriend/girlfirend; they have had the happy coincidence of finding a crowd of people who laugh at all their jokes; they have received a big complement or promotion etc.

In the full intoxication of Escape Happiness the victim imagines themselves to be rather special and great (as they had always secretly wished). Such is their intoxication that they are non-receptive. They are riddled with delusion, tuned into fantasy and falsehood and cannot see straight.Their friends find them a bit up themselves and they start rejecting the good as being boring. The good is not good enough for them because they are worth more.. But they cannot be blamed for Escape Happiness is enticing and giddy and convincing.

Early signs are louder than normal laughing, a slight and new dominance of dialogues and a higher than normal focus on Me. If you are reeling under a bout, yourself, watch out for a feeling of liberation, a sense that finally you have been spotted, and a difficulty in concentrating on things other than yourself.Often Escape Happiness appears for just an evening- a drunken night where all your jokes work. Or for a moment just after a slickly-delivered witticism to a shop assistant.

Expression Happiness does not have a feeling of liberation. It is a feeling of being in the right place, doing the right thing. It doesn't need special circumstances nor people to keep it topped up. It is an impersonal flowing of goodness, from life itself. It has no external cause, rather it is revealed after psychic obstacles are removed.

The trick is to ask if this is Escape Happiness or Expression Happiness that I'm feeling. Why? Because Escape Happiness will always, always lead to delusion then disappointment. Expression happiness is always harmless and joyful with no cause.

Final Tip: Escape Happiness will feel giddy and intoxicating.

Factory Flights

I spent weeks in a factory with only my thoughts bouncing around my head and started to sense that the amalgam of metal was slowly eyeing me up for a kill or a conversion into being it; that I would release my flesh and bones to it leaving just a blob of consciousness which would then be sucked in by the metal. I’d be gone in a second, just like that, and although I knew the moment would pass and I could dismiss it as being a little adventure of a tired and psychedelic imagination I sometimes thought I was glimpsing at my own hibernating madness. But then something happened. The metal contorted and reformed as a giant vending machine which, among the standard collection of sweets, crisps and chocolate bars, also sold flight tickets to Peru for 55 pence. Needless to say, I was quick to pop my money in, and now find myself writing this entry from inside a cloud that has clung itself tightly to the ancient bricks of  Machu Piccu. 

The back of the head

There in the back of his head is a complete expression of a person, his whole essence, the back of the head and neck to the collar line, particularly as he is walking along. I followed people as though I am reading a book that is glued to their neck. The back head appears on some as a featureless slab of ignorance, a strong projection of rigidity, thus encapsulating the whole uncompromising pursuit of that person- being nothing other than what it is, and that what it is being only what it thinks it is using the mind machine as a reference… That hard resistance on the back head is absent in some, at least in my perceptions of its existence. Some back heads seem softer and nothing more than head flesh .

Dark Metallic Pink

Dark metallic pink offers an internal renewal where I can transcend my limitations and vibrate in a different way, it gives a complete psychic overhaul to which I am strangely both resistant and desirous of, and which reminds me of similar stalemate I have with yellow- for yellow pulls at me via the soft velvet strands of dandelions and in the lonely dawn sky and yet somehow I always turn away from it.

Blue 1

One day I just lay back and breathed in deep blue sky air. Oh the blue! Its beauty lays above words and beyond desire. I am in love, deeply in love with blue. My love for it is beyond the me that I know, for in loving it I have become something else, not a truly recognizable persona of the world of people but a form which is still a being but a being of the spirit of blue. I am blue, every blue, my origin, my mission is blue.

The Viewing Frame

One Tuesday I am almost entirely in my body. I´m watching every thought; I imagine a viewing frame in my brain into which thoughts flow, so that I can see each one, so that I am a separate entity doing the viewing. The viewing frame is like a metal buckle, for some reason painted a powdery blue and strapped tightly. As soon as the thought is seen it shyly vanishes, for has no momentum under such attentive scrutiny and I can sit separate in a thoughless now, feeling the pulsating of my heart, hear my breathing and gaze around at the crackly white walls of my room. The longer I continue the greater the pressure to think bears down and squeezes into the viewing frame; a sneaky thought of obliterating the frame sneaks in, the frame wavers and rocks but somehow holds on while the thought passes into the past.


With a heavy back pack I walk fast through the lonely birch scrub. There are mushrooms and toadstools all around me and rivers you can drink. I stop on the duckboard of one river, the sky is almost purely blue. Something in the luxurious river grass and the twists of the arctic birch and sound of the running water reminds me of another place, perhaps in my dreams which was equally fresh and somehow exciting. I´m aware of the grab for it, to claim it, or to hold it tight to my heart and call it mine.


I run again up the silent road onto a farmtrack and into a dark wood. For moments, only moments, I can stop thinking, feel the pressure to think but not think and for those few moments the curly crowns of the oaks and the flat, fresh cut hay fields are a simple subtle delight. I say subtle for that is my current observation; that profound joy is expression happiness not escape happiness. So it has a softer feeling, an easy-flowing rightness not the fiery high of ego-led delusion.

These Invisible Processes

I sit down in the lit lounge, the roof opposite has turned from a brown red to a hot light grey and the plants are luminous green, there is a well being, a vitality that’s been amiss for a few days. Is it an escape or an expression for I must be careful. Is it merely the sun, unlikely for there was sun yesterday. It must be some shift in me. Has something been decided below, has some long cycle ended. Or is it the newness and excitation of the renewed stab at being a servant to the moment and not to the self, that I am about to embark on a whole new journey. Argh these invisible processes irk me!! These invisible processes run from me; every time I hear their whispers I look sharply around and they disappear and reappear behind me. They are playing with us all like mischievous ghosts.

Wash Me Up

I glimpsed at the morning pile of washing up. It would be good to do it. Perhaps I am to tackle it, for others would plough headlong into it while it would be so me, not to. Perhaps the moment wants the washing up done so I start it. And while my hands are softened by hot water and thick suds there is a sweep of sun across the lawn and I start singing a jolly song with dark lyrics.


There was a little train station just beyond the bottom of the garden, a tall oak at the bottom of the lane, several blustering ash trees, a wild lawn with a fair sprinkling of dandelions, it was a hot day, the task I was involved in was easy but something was wrong, a peace, a deep calm had left me. I was untroubled by my circumstances; there was no worry on board and no circling anxiety, but a loss, a feeling that I had unconsciously undone a good. My place and circumstances had suddenly changed but I wonder what difference is the place, if I am in my body and my reality is the warm vibe of now, what is the place, for it is only part of the filling of now not the now itself, which, on the deepest level, is what I am.

Looking for My Eyes

I wandered around the bare playing field and into the young oak wood and around the lake and somehow the stillness wasn't there. I felt myself grab for it- an obvious error . I let go and lay underneath a young birch. The wind maddened the leaves and from my upward looking view the trunk rotated in the lonely air. There was something hard to the ground, a dry crumbling clay which I coupled in vibe to the shiny window-framed, moulded modern building in the campus behind me. I waited for a rightness, for a warmth to pour in and I waited and waited. The futility of effort. I let the waiting go and felt the shedding , one-by-one of all little mental projections and pushes, and dropped more, every urge forward, kept dropping and dropping and then finally once more I was still, alone and in tune with the luminous green playing field and the distant waving oaks and a something in the space between this thing and that thing.

Around That

This week, sitting the classroom, waiting for my students to finish their exercises, I listened for the silence, the silence in every moment, the field of silence around every tiny event, like when a student picked up a fat grey dictionary, clomped it down again, then sniffed, there was pure silence in every nano of it, so silent and clean- I had to let go of some normal neural labour and instead felt or willed a big release from a hard lump of self, settling in painful waves in my jaw, that sense of trying, stubborn resistance of and yet painful urging for the big here-and-now event. And then in the depth of that silence and sweetness of the escape little bubbles of adrenalin ran up my left side. I nearly gasped from the high vibrating pleasure of it, could have fainted or slipped into beautiful coma.

The Tree

I dangle my legs from the dark olive boughs of the Holm oak. Below the grass is still, but for an occasional flicker. Strange, I consider, that the magic of the stillness is embellished by that flicker, and that flicker seems a call to something so pure and right and homely, just a flicker, a springy judder, for a fleeting moment but a thrill and one I know well, of running away, escaping onto the moonlit plains, galloping bareback on a stolen horse. Let them try to catch me- Yes I´ll steal away in the cold dead of the night. I´ll tip-toe along a creaky corridor with my heart pumping out-of-rhythm and just a flash of starlight through the pane, and the glimpse of the big out there will tip me from death fear to death desire.

And when the flicker is absent I am calm, silent, mindless, soft and open, deep and far-perceiving . I feel the rhythm of all things, the vibrations deep down below, far, so far. I am the glimmer of these sparkling summer leaves. I would wrap those leaves around my eye balls and wedge them along my gums to be closer to them. The wind could roar in my ears, the cold could snap my fingers and I would stay in this tree, in this moment.

I´ll wait here in this tree: the night can claim me, the stars can diminish me into fragmented specks but I would still be in the universe, vibing out my existence.