Moggy's Musings

Introduction

Come see the Fool that dances

In the early morning Light

Watch him as he prances

With juvenile delight.

Listen as he scribbles

Endless doggerel verse

Persistently he nibbles

At the Awesome Universe...

What more can I say?

In this book I wander on the spiritual and contemplative side of Life. The world contains some very odd and conflicting ideologies and religions, and all sorts of people.

In other books, I have already described accidentally throwing smelly garbage onto Sacred Burned Offerings, blocking the view of the Fishing God on the bridge of a ship, and many other Moggy Muddles. No need to repeat that here. Instead, you can share with me the comforting, constant, reliable, passing of blades overhead, the continuous, steady, mellow drumming, as we surrender to thoughts of All Our Mother. And, at night, lie gazing up at the stars of the Milky Way.

Walk with me, hold the hand of a handicapped young black man. Visit sunsets and storms, hope and tragedy.

This book is written for everybody, not just helicopter pilots.

Peace.

Francis ‘Moggy’ Meyrick

Let's ride...

It's early in the morning. It's quiet outside. Such a hush. A thoughtful moment. The calm before the storm. Even the birds are hardly stirring. There's a slight mist. The wisps, those faint threads, that embrace the fields and the trees. I love the peace.

I'm going down the road.

And I'm taking my bike. My 1300. I might be going quick. Maybe a hundred. Or more.

Where?

I have no idea. I shall probably just point her nose into the rising sun. And go like hell.

I might not please the neighbours. Sorry. It will only last a few seconds. Just like Life. And then I'll be gone.

Why?

I feel like riding. I want the wind to tug at my leathers. I want the bike to talk to me. Through the handlebars. I want to feel the tires beating along the road, kicking up gravel and dust. I want to listen to that melody of my Vance and Hines Straight Shots bellowing defiance. And see the world go by. And smell the damp grass.

Who is going with you?

You are. You are with me, my friend. See that bend coming up? Lean with me, into the turn. Good. Never try and lean opposite. That will make us unsteady. Just go with me.

See? Easy, huh? Do you want to try another one?

Why do you call me ‘ friend’, when you've never met me?

Oh, but I have, many times. There is much we have shared together. And places we have seen. I have felt your hand on my arm, and your wise counsel reverberate through my mind. Have we not both tasted defeat? Have we not both felt the weariness that comes of long suffering futility? Have we not both gazed at the stars, and the setting sun, and shadows of autumn, as they grow longer and longer?

But I still don't know you.

I think you do. For I have laid my simple soul bare. You have travelled with me, on long, quiet walks along the beach. You have roared down quiet country roads with me, on my old Triumph motorcycle. You have leaped out of airplanes with me, on long free falls, plummeting through clouds and piercing through ephemeral castles in the sky. You have looped with me in my old biplane, as I foolishly taught myself aerobatics. You have fought alongside me, when I arrested a would-be rapist, tasting the fury and the primitive savagery flowing through my veins as a primitive fury overcame me. You have followed Jeremy, as he struggled to absorb the intensity of battle, and the sensitivity of his true feelings. You have smirked at the young rebel suffering his disastrous first meeting with his girlfriend's parents. You have felt sadness, and compassion, when you heard the fear of the young British soldier, screaming in terror as the burning petrol from the Molotov cocktail enveloped him. And you say you don't know me?

I say you do. For in me, you see yourself. In my yearning, in my searching, in my anger, my frustration, my dreams, my longing and my foolishness... you know yourself.

I make no claim to be a good writer. I don't write to be published. I write, from an overwhelming urge to tell a story. For the sake of the story. To be able to say, one day:

I drank the cup dry. I got my ticket's worth. I rode the bus. I explored the world. I thought. I dreamed. I fought. I was defeated. I stood up again. I was knocked down again. And again. And still I stood up. And, boy! What a story I think I can tell...

Ride with me, my friend. Walk with me. Fly with me. Dream with me. Long with me. Be my reader, and I will tell you a story. Be my listener, and I will paint you a picture.

Be my partner, writer and reader, and, together, we shall create such outrageous scribbling, such inane doodling, such an intensity of feeling, that our humanity will be beyond dispute. Let the critics roar. Let the cynics sneer. Let the cold-hearted, unfeeling ones, remain haughty and aloof. Who even cares.

It is you, my friend reader. And I.

We... shall ride.

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Sugarloaf Mountain

Up in the Wicklow Mountains, an easy drive south of Dublin, you will find the Sugarloaf Mountain.

It is not a high mountain, but it does have a distinctive peak. After a few pints of Guinness, it almost resembles the Matterhorn shape, although, to be sure, the Sugarloaf is merely a humble, rocky hill by comparison.

As a crazy motorcycling teenager, and as a dreamy student in my early twenties, I climbed the Sugarloaf Mountain hundreds of times. I would scramble the bike up as high as I possibly could, until the slope became simply too rocky and steep, and then dismount and proceed on foot.

I climbed it alone, and I climbed it with beautiful girl friends.

I climbed it stone cold sober, and I climbed it roaring drunk.

I climbed it happily, and I climbed it in moods of maudlin depression. I slept there a few nights ‒ it got cold ‒ and once, gloriously, I made mad passionate love up there. I watched many sunrises from that vantage point. And I recited poetry. And stroked the hair of my true love, and listened to her soft breathing, asleep, trusting, cradled up against me.

I watched the clouds. Wisps of clouds, multi-coloured, sometimes angry, sometimes gentle. Sometimes warming, and other times, disdainful. And then, just when you thought you had seen it all, the sun would suddenly break through dark clouds on a dull day, roaming dazzling beams in rolling patterns of illumination across the lush green fields of Ireland.

Photo Levi Gruber

And your young heart would sing, and you would wish you could reach out and touch those incandescent, fleeting riders of the sky. And be amongst them, maybe even be one with them.

But what I seem to remember the most, is drifting off to sleep there, on warm, sunny days. The bright sun, comfortably outside my closed eyelids, yet still present, warming and comforting, combining with the soft sigh of the wind over Ireland into a soothing lullaby. The wind of the centuries, bringing with it echoes of the past, and distant footsteps. The wind that has flowed over Old Ireland, past poets and writers, thieves and ruffians, hopeful youths and bewildered ancients. The wind that has kissed the hair of scores of lovers, as they strolled, arm in arm, along stonewalled country roads. The wind that frolicked mischievously with the open pages of favourite books. Flicking them over, and back, and over yet again.

The wind, that entity that ‒ outrageously! ‒ ignores stock market profits. And ignores investments, retirement funds, and the Retail Price Index.

Somehow, I remember that emotion strongly. It still, to this day, brings back poignant memories of lost youth, soon-to-be crushed innocence, and a naïve, desperately well-meaning idealism. I was convinced that Life could be good. My life, especially, was going to be fruitful and productive, and I was going to... do things.

In many ways, I never did. I tried, hard, but I never found my dreams. I never found what I really wanted to do. I was always restless, dreaming, aching for some lost cause.

Unless...

... I found my niche, my calling, my deepest spiritual love...

Photo 'Soaring Free' by Ti

...whilst sky-diving, unfettered, free at last, at peace with Nature if not with Man, and shortly afterwards,

...when I became a pilot, flying open cockpit biplanes, listening to the wind strumming the flying wires, and I ended up...

...strangely, by a unique twist of Fate...

...a solitary, wandering poet, a lost soul, bewildered...

...storming those castles in the sky...

... flying alone through space, playing tag with those very same, dreamy wisps of bygone clouds...

As I bank and twist, and climb and turn, they surround me, follow me, block my way, and then yield to me, like a lover,

surrendering herself to me, embracing me, kissing me tenderly, hotly, delicately, and...

Oh!, so lovingly...

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Starry, starry night

At night, after a day's hectic fishing, most of the crew always retired below to their cabins. Oftentimes we would be hove to. Then the ship would rock quietly, and only the distant diesel generators would disturb the Ocean peace, The main engines would be silent.

Music...

An awesome photo by Phillip Bell

Lapping of waves. The odd, startled, sea bird, confused by the artificial lights. A false sun...

A rhythmic diesel hum. And across the waves, delicately, soft chords playing.

Starry, starry night...

As likely as not, I alone would be up on deck. Pacing. Dreaming.

Often I would climb up to the helideck. And lie there, gazing up at the stars of the Milky Way, and faraway Galaxies. Across the Space fabric of Time, my small and groping Spirit would wrestle with the enormity – for me – of what I was doing out there. And I would ponder the equal enormity of my insignificance on the Cosmic Scale.

I would stretch out along the top of the floats, and use my jacket as a pillow. I would spend hours upon hours alone up there, my little mind churning restlessly.

Who am I?

I would ask the question as if I thought I could find the answer.

Why am I?

I asked the question, almost convinced there was a reason. A good reason.

Am I alone?

I would speak the question softly in my mind, careful to send the tiny thought on its way with kindness and patience.

I don't expect an answer...

There would be silence, save the hum of the distant generators, the lapping of distant waves, and the strange resonance of thoughts transmitted out, thoughts received, and deep, deep heartfelt longings. Dreams...

The middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a calm and clear night, is – in a mysterious way – a place where a Quiet Enlightenment is available for those of us tiny mortals who seek the honest humility required to glimpse it. I say glimpse, because that is all we can do. You'll never find it. Hold on to it. Tie it down. Lock it up.

Not in our, busy, frenetic, blurring world...

Some people would call it Prayer. Others, offended at the very thought, and instantly hostile to any concept of a Deity, would call it Meditation. Others still, cynics perhaps, unbelievers in everything that cannot be touched, tasted, measured or seen, would sneeringly refer to it as the ramblings of a half crazy Irishman. But for me, there was a dynamic, hurting, confused sadness, matched, tended to, consoled if you like, by a deep and reverent awe. The Universe out there is inspiring, endlessly beautiful, and oh!, so accusing to us Mortal Men. How can we be so stupid? How can we be so selfish and greedy? So materialistic? In terms of our hunger to acquire possessions? And worse, materialistic in terms of our Cosmic blindness? Do we really think any more...?

In my little scribblings, for that is all they are, I have repeatedly returned to the imagery, the symbolism, the metaphor, the theme of the cubicle. Four walls. Made mostly of cardboard. In which we tend to sit, supremely satisfied. In charge. Of our domain. Our Universe... We like to think we are important, and that we are in charge. Regardless of our occupation. I do it. We all do it. We all have this tendency to voluntarily restrict our view to our immediate surroundings. Make order there. Stick terribly important notes on the cardboard wall. Memos. Computer print-outs. Work programs. Bank statements. Retirement fund statements. University degrees...

Dude...

I say this to myself. Often.

Slow down...

That band of light, bright, incredibly prolific stars... that's the Milky Way.

My favourite road. Leaning over hard, throttle wide open.

It's a swirling, raucous, irreverent, cacophony of stars. Totally out of whack. The most haphazard, botched-up job of putting lights in the sky you can possibly imagine. Who the heck did that? No system. Just a massive stellar orgy.

Oh well...

But it's home. Our galaxy. We're just an insignificant pair of Dreamers, you and me, on a very minor planet, sailing steadily around a relatively small sun. There are millions and millions of suns out there. The number of planets is unfathomable. The distances are beyond comprehension. And Time itself blurs our every attempt to measure it. So many of those stars out there are sending us light, that has been travelling through space for many years. It is only now reaching our retinas.

And we think we're important?

There are catatonic explosions going on out there. We see the distant rumblings, but have we any idea of the passion, the intensity, the creative and destructive cycle? Have we any real concept of how big Life is, and how small, how finite, how limited we are?

And yet, we are, each one of us, important.

I feel that, very strongly. Despite the fact that I'm lying here, on the helideck, pondering the mass of our very own galaxy. It's between four hundred billion and one trillion solar masses. The disc of the Milky Way spans more than 100,000 light years. But it's not very thick. At the nucleus it's only about 13,000 light years thick, and then it fades out towards the outer edge. Our part of the galaxy, where I'm floating in the middle of the Ocean, on this peaceful night, is roughly 1,000 light years thick. Not too bad.

Now, cruising at a hunnered an' twenty knots in my Hughes 500, that should take me...

Duh. Quite a frickin' while, Jimmy. And don't you just wonder what the blue Ocean blazes is going on out there?

Is there anybody else out there, pondering the same musings? We're roughly 26,000 light years from the centre of the Milky Way, so if I wanted to take a gentle poodle to Milky Way City centre, who would I meet on the way?

Our lives are so important. They matter. But to measure success only in terms of numbers in a currency, or standing amongst men, seems to me to be a wrong turn. Sure, that stuff matters, but then again, how does all that stand up to...

Wow... Look at that! It's a satellite, streaking across the sky!

It's only out here, far, far away from Man's pollution, and his Slick City lights, that you can easily discern the satellites passing over. They are totally, totally different from airliners. We don't actually get much commercial air traffic over at all. But lots and lots of satellites. If you keep a watch for them, you can spot them regularly. They will positively erupt over the horizon, and perform this amazing arc at breakneck speed. Up, up... over... and down the opposite horizon. It's nothing to be able to follow them the whole way. Pretty awesome.

Neat...

'Planet beam' is bright again tonight...

The city dwellers, the rabbits in their hutches, carefully chewed together with the best straws they can find, grab or steal, are all able to recognize mere 'moonbeam'. Not that they would be really very interested. People don't read much romantic poetry any more. Many people don't really read much more, period, I'm thinking. Although they fancy themselves as educated. Such a pity. Maybe it just takes a romantic soul, a dreamer soul, to be awed by 'planet beam'. Swing your head left...

... moonbeam ...

Swing your head right...

... planet beam ...

A more faint track of light, but, nonetheless, clearly, across the living water, comes a path of light from rising Mars.

Neat...

The truth is complicated, and yet it is simple.

We don't know much.

Heck, no...

We think we do, but that's an illusion. We think we are in control. But we're not.

We weren't born to hide like squinting moles behind the protective cardboard walls of our cubicles. We weren't born to grip tightly to the corners of our desk, littered with self important papers. Those cardboard walls blot out the view of the stars beyond. They blot out the mystery. They reduce the Cosmic Search to the ramblings of some voice in the wilderness.

Dude...

We are stardust...

We were born to dream, and to let our minds wander through the Universe, and sense the Power of Creation.

We were born to seek. To ask. To puzzle. To confront... our doubts, our worries, our longings, our fears.

A meteor lights up the sky. Particles of interplanetary debris. Endlessly recycled. A dramatic entrance, a flash, that lights up the sky, all eyes turn... he is the greatest!

All hail, the great leader...!

Poof...

All gone...

The way it is. The way it should be.

I can see clearly now...

For we are not Gods. We are just men. Specks of dust in a Universe of Galaxies, seconds in Eternity, and perhaps, the breath of the Great Architect. Beloved, for all our frailty, all our pride, and all our innocence.

We matter. We, the seeking ones.

Stardust...

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The Vistas of Cosmology

While I bumble about the place

I love to ponder aerospace

I love to wonder at the stars

Whilst peering past my prison bars

I've lived too long with shuttered mind

Along with most of humankind

But Science now has gifted me

The vistas of cosmology.

I've stood upon the Martian plains

And strained to see a humble light

A speck, a dot, a tiny mite

The echo of my dragging chains

Our home, our fragile biosphere

So far away, and yet so near.

I've hovered underneath the rings

Where Saturn's shadow gave me pause

As if I heard some gentle strings

That hinted at celestial cause.

There, shielded from the solar glare

Entranced into a distant stare

Again I saw our tiny world

Among a billion stars unfurled.

I love that tiny, hard pressed sphere

Where tyrants seek to domineer

Where brutish tends to soon outsmart

The lute strings of a gentle heart.

But Science now has gifted me

The