angels speak

Angels speak a middle language not entirely of this world and not entirely of another. Middle language is a prayer to the nuisance of what is. The writer and the poet speak not to the world but for the world. Middle language is the eruption of flaming emotion doused by chards of frozen, winter ice. Matter informs consciousness and consciousness informs matter at the cosmic level of interaction.The internal landscape is as vast as our external universe. It is the world of the eternal kingdom that comes to save humankind from its own self-destructive powers; it comes to show the way of Nature. Words help to construct incomplete images, one psychiatrist says words trigger photographic tin-type images that hold the key to a memory, a joy, or a trauma. We write to see clearly. We are reporters of life as it transforms itself, first in middle earth and with deliberate awareness in our souls. It attaches and moves through everything as waves and particles of energy. We know we are alive. We can feel emotion in the body. We can even move emotions through concentrated breathwork. Words are to humankind what song is to morning birds. They provide directions and choices, choices that come from our multiple authenticities. We are fragmentations of right things, floating in weightless space or a flowing river. The same river is always different, water is a metaphor for life, a poetic image of mountain springs, and frozen glacial ponds. We are puzzle pieces until we finish arranging and re-arranging our animate inner landscape, one piece at a time into a coherent self, a linguistically and intuitively aware connectivity to body and mind of our multiple authenticities. 


(Freud, 1912, p.115)

“The analyst must turn his own unconscious like a 

receptive organ toward the transmitting unconscious

of the patient.” (Freud, 1912, p.15)


I know it’s Freud, but lets give him credit, (1912).

A segway from the unconscious… unconditional love emerges. 

Tune your internal landscape to open,  and 

allow for whatever the universe is emitting to enter 

wholeheartedly, let her in unconditionally.  “Turn your

receptive organ toward the transmitting unconscious.”

Language Acquisition is to human what flight is to bird.

I forgive you,

I thank you, 

I’m sorry,

I love you!

Unsoluble love, Unrequited, Unconditional love,

floating on the wings of a bird, 

effortlessly emerging as

wisdom becomes brighter than knowledge.

“How infinite in reason.” said, Hamlet.

A Paragon of Animals, Like the rise and fall of the 3rd reich, 

   Was Michael the Archangel originally from Ukraine?

I plant white pines.

I help them along,  when I see a bare spot I tuck a sapling in the ground 

not far from where the grandfather stands and will be laid to rest someday. 

Preserving the kingdom for evolution,

my bones will decompose here among the

native furs.

A nazi symbol attaches to a hammer and sickle. 

White clouds and willows rustle in the wind.  

The War of the Roses

Those unconditional cousins 

of the English Monarchy.  

Was it envy, was it greed, was it one of her parts

that killed Mary and not Elizabeth herself that

murdered the Scot. 

Magnificence only goes so far. 

Unconquerable  Love, 

Lust-less love, unfailing love; 

   –unsalvagable love 

Ukraine Love, Unconditional

Blue and Yellow love 

sewed in the liberal pride flag.  

To thee, I sing. 

another Ink-Ling of human development

This Day

Collected Sabbath Poems & New, 1979-2013,

Wendell Berry

1985 (the first and last stanza) FOR: MEL

Not again in this flesh will I see

the old trees stand as they did,

weighty creatures made of light, delight

of their making straight in them and well,

whatever blight our blindness was or made,

however thought or act might fail.

Though blindness may yet detonate in light,

ruining all, after all the years, great right

subsumed at last in paltry wrong,

what do we know? Still

the Presence that we come into with song

is here, shaping the seasons of His wild will.

I had an ink ling. It sounded like an Ode to Spring, so I
played with lines and squiggles instead of words.

April has been everything it can be. I found Wendell Berry someplace in my precious library, and I just love his old American way of hanging on to Transcendendtalism long after the cultural was fashion in America, at its best of years. But, by 1985 Berry saw the evolution of humanity trying to keep up with the evolution of Corporate Capitalism. A new guilded age was being ushered-in by the Tea-Party, twenty-five years later it is inevitable: the corn fields and the wheat fields are turning into sub-urban malls designed to have a short life, left to decay. Not like you, or i, or an old barn returning from Dust to Dust, rather, like steal beams rusting into asbestos and cement seaping through the tar and dripping with toxic paints.

Please Wabi-Saii show me the beauty in this decay. I want to see it. I want to touch it and feel it the way I did when I was ten.

I saw that boy recently. He was four years old. He was gifted to me by a spirit guide named Mel. All I know about her is her given name, Mel. She narrated me down a rabit hole and I fell into my inner landscape, I love it it ther. He was so small, just walking down the side porch stairs leading to a gravel yard (stone, screws, nails and glass) a car park area for the Canadian Style triple-decker that is iconic of the early 20th century.

He was wearing a three-quarter herringbone coat with a matching herringbone hat with a very small visor and, also of herringbone button smack on top of his hat. He was heading toward his friends house and I saw his face light up with a glow when he saw him come down the steps that led from his house to the dirt road between them. .

We played in the, Italian Field, among oily street run-off water, the rag-weed and the golden-rods. I remember a bow and arrow, and the arrows had rubber suction cups and you knew you could not possibly hurt yourself or your friend. It was all so safe and innocent.

Then I opened my eyes back into the outer-landscape. I like it in both places.

Nature as the eco and Santa Maria as a guide

Wilderness and Snow converged on New England ushering out January with a right-sized storm.  It brought brilliant night skies and bright sunny days on the lake.  I am a fan of Tom Tompson, the famous Canadian Impressionist, painting the wilderness of northern Ontario. He gave Canada its wilderness myth. I love his work.

It is rugged with no pretense for finery.  He does not let himself be known.  His soul is represented in the casual and deliberate.  He arrived at Algonquin Lake and Region as the self-reliant man, an heir of Emerson, a forward branch of the Transcendentalist. A pantheistic atheist, someone who hears only one voice, listens to one’s heart, and follows curiosity and pursuing pleasure through a less-traveled path through the wilderness or poorly plowed roads of modernity, to where surburbia intersects wilderness.

I admire him and I don’t understand him. He reminds me to love only what I love.  True North.

I love to capture the beauty, the beauty that points even to an illusion of a higher self;

Beauty like in Chant, beauty like hearing a spring bird on a warm day in winter.  

And, sharing my creations along with the chants and vulnerabilities of human experience, these are a few of my favorite things. 

I have diminished my expectations of everything and that has made all the difference

long, deep, narrow & dark

A fresh breeze

A fresh breeze blew in from the west a place of intention, of sorrow, of bliss. It is a place that emits from where love emits.
Perspective blew in on the sacred wind, truth attached to my spirit/body, and connected to my dream quest.
Blowing east, moving forward to where today’s now meets tomorrow’s eternal now. My soul held in place allowing us to flow with the life force–gracefully and with gratitude.

Teach me how to gather,
Let me find forgiveness
Releasing hurt and anger.
Let me heal my body,
Help me find the courage
And serenity of enlightenment
And Wisdom.

Let me honor my sacred promise
To be loyal to my healing quest.
Let me not desert my medicine,
Santa Maria a trustworthy guide;
Nor desert the beating heart within
My breast.
Adapted from Jamie Sam’s
A medicine man.

Books are adept at speaking for themselves.

And, as the days became weeks and the weeks became months it began to feel that life as we knew it would never return; no more than the depression before the war and the spike in the economy post the war was ever to return.

People are transformed when forced by nature to bend in a new direction. We are bending toward an austerity such as we have not seen, perhaps since the Civil War.

It occurs to me that the idea of runs-on-banks might be as much a reality as runs-on-toilet-paper, no pun intended.

Around the time that a global migration was starting to take place, we had witnessed wars and famines, and brutal dictatorships in the Middle East and Africa. We had witnessed wearing face masks by China, due to over-industrialized pollution. The military-industrial state that Eisenhower had warned about was, in large part, occurring and running the world economy in 2020.

Migration insurgencies we’re taking place at our border with Mexico. White nationalism was creeping into our politics and the green, environmental & progressive movement had been voted into 2nd class citizens due to gerrymandering and a multitude of other corruption charges, underlined in the Impeachment hearings and the Supreme Court nomination process.

In the new world order, we have a middle-eastern like Caste System, though granted, with less restrictive boundaries at the fringe. In general, we would see four major classes:
1. The Uber Rich
2. The politico-corporate elite
3. The professional Haves &
4. The poor and working poor.

We are living under the rules of a political regime that aspires to cater to the Ubers and the politico-corporate world-class. The Trump Republican Party since Reagan has moved further to the right and by 2016 was beginning to embrace the likes of Steven Miller, Fox News, and Medal of Honor recipient, Rush Limbaugh.

Republicans had, under the law, stolen two elections, one Supreme Court justice, and had succeeded in manipulating election results in such a way as to create great division between those who have and those who have nothing or very little. The code of law we live under has trouble serving Justice. Along comes a lone maverick, sociopathic corrupt, mob-boss Republican candidates. There had already been a Sarah Pallin, the Alaskan country girl who could see Russia from her house. This was around the time that the political cartoons talked about putting lipstick on a pig.

We had not begun to see the direction this was taking. The lines had been drawn. There had been a nigger elected as president of this great country. It was time to reverse all the gains “The People” had made. The erasure came in the form of eliminating taxes on the Ubers, then enacting a multitude of executive orders attacking everything from clean water to Gold-star families.

Breaking with our humanitarian traditions America was at the forefront of political and domestic abuse. With migration at the south and our government deliberately harming relations with Canada to our north, with withdrawing from NATO, and the Paris Accord; and aligning with Oid rich Saudi Arabia, we entered an era where the aspects of good and evil were taking shape as definitively as any cultural and religious war had done in the past. Mr. Trump lacked leadership skills, lacked intelligence, and lacked a moral compass. What could possibly go wrong.

86 Sanctuary Rd, Charlestown, Rhode Island, United States

in Canada

It is September of my 73rd year. I am in Canada and along with me is my nemesis, Caleb. He has been with me since reading Ann Rice. Living forever, trading your soul in for extended consciousness, was a delightful fantasy–it sold books, and it sold me.

Always the ‘wanna-be’, that was Caleb’s life. With the arc in plain view, Caleb noticed that he was the same DNA that was once a little boy. As he sat by an open window in one of the townships of Quebec he heard neighbors in the adjoining yard–they spoke Canadian. It all came back to him like a dream. Except now it was Caleb that had COPD and his mother had been dead a quarter of a century. It was not so much the words as the rhythm, the cadence of the language that Caleb admired, as it was the heartfelt language, because it represents a people who had to settle-in to survive; and many did not survive. Those that did respect their antiquity. The culture of French Canada shows that determination. They are a nation that respects the status quo.

Today we would say it was a mindfulness that did not want to be intruded upon. Caleb would be meditating. He would be stopping. He would be absconded by an alien consciousness. This is too esoteric for these Canadians. They know how to be and the land and the history and the culture supports that.


The ride from New England to Hutchinson Island is 22 hours long..that sort of includes the pee stops and the watering the dog stops and the occasional get-a-bite to eat stops.  The EOS convertible is not nearly as comfortable as she is pretty.  The dogs were gracious, the inns and motels were more than adequate, and here we are softly arrived at the biggest moon in decades glowing across the Atlantic like a beacon creating a road to eternity.

It is a Blessing to Be.

It is a Blessing to be here.

It is a blessing to be here now.

It is a blessing to be here now, together.


This Unitarian chant has become a way for us to remind each other that we are indeed fortunate to have a friendship that lends itself to just about anything that we decide that we want to do.  Then later that night we went back to see the moon and it had grown into a giant circle of white light.  I would like to know how many digital pictures are of this particular moon.  It was so advertised as a super-moon that

Scripting…We have sold our house on the Lake to Larry.  He loves it as much as we did.  We rented Roger’s house on the cove and banked the money in a simple CD until we were able to decided what we wanted to do.  We both prayed on it and it seemed that ll we could think about was wanting to live  here and wanting to spruce up the property..We want to  plant a host of traveler palms and we want to add flowers.  And a back porch and a french door from the back bed room and a hot tub….

Manifesting…I am here and David said that they have changed plans–they are going to look for something that is complete and they want to stay where they are until their son grows up…They want to money to improve the house they are in and we are the prime candidate in their minds for us to purchase from them…..

We moved down here in 2012–and my practice is limited to those people that i see over the phone.

it all begins with desire

Psychoanalysis & The Mindful Laws of Attraction:

I am fascinated by the law of attraction, a kind of magnetic manifestation, a drive, a force, that pulls & pushes toward life and creativity. This notion, is essentially activated when desire and curiosity mingle in the mind and create a kind of restlessness toward the idea of more or new. Magnetic attraction is not a disturbance of Peace within; it is a sensation, like libido, that pulls and pushes one in the direction of progressive thoughts and images.

The Image below is just such a manifestation.  The natural beauty of a rocky cliff jutting out into the magnificent Atlantic is the backdrop for an equally beautiful sensation, the deep and abiding love of innocent, gentle children absorbing nature and beauty.  These perceptions, these images of love and innocence stir the consciousness toward the flow of well-being.  In this image the children look out onto the sea, and I look out onto them as they look out onto the sea.

I am gratified twice…..

author: aldussault, co-creator

I Am a co-creator.  The Universe allowed me to live and be born onto this fragile planet.  Evolution landed me here.  I will be eternally grateful for having had the opportunity to live and study and create with a bounty-full of wonderful people who also enjoy the humanistic and spiritual aspects of being an artist.  I am grateful to have been endowed with a sensitivity that allows me to catch glimpses of the eternally aesthetic.  From time to time I have allowed the muse to pass through me; and when I have, I get to share that moment of found beauty, free of original sin.  Truth and Beauty are never sinners.

Original Sin–the sin the Greeks called, “missing the mark,” is an aspect of the piece of work that is man.

“It is glory to have been tested,” Henry James told us, “to have had our little quality and to have had our little spell.”

“A second chance, that’s the delusion, there was never to be but one: We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have.  Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task, the rest is the madness of Art.”