Some final words...

Sweeping out the wood-chippings - and any other carpentry-related parallels one would like to make. Last-minute thoughts, things spinning round my head, raggedy old draft of an essay I was attempting from ages ago, and whatever else.

The Carpenter is closing shop

This place has served its purpose.

To be and not to be - that is the answer

"We are not born in to this world. We are born out from this world." Alan Watts
Everything is born out of this world. Look all around at the growing things, all springing up and growing out, reaching up and spreading. But only so far as the fruits and leaves die and new ones take their place each year. Each growing thing reaches its limit.

This spherical earth is a rolling, broiling, seething, mass. Each plate heaving and turning, rock and mass rising to the surface, moving, and being dug under - the earth turning itself inside-out, outside-in. Topsoil turned continuously by the worm. The agony and the ecstasy. Being fertilised and giving birth. Living things spring from this earth. Seed is planted and life shoots forth.

Some say there are galaxies in clusters like grapes on the vine. On the earth life burst forth, all various kinds of living things blooming like grapes on the vine.



And mankind born like a piece of fruit on the branch, grows and expands, mostly water. Some fruit falls early, some when they are old and bruised, and are mulched back in to the earth and regurgitated. Nothing is wasted.

The carpenter is branching out...

I have decided to publish a new occasional blog. Read about it here. A carpenter from Nazareth will still be active, but the other site will be a bit more...niche.

The stowaway

Halt your vital search elsewhere for that great illusionist, God. Turns out he was already on board all along.

He is in the cargo hold, hiding among the baggage.

Relax - you're already dead

The individual life is wafer thin. Hours and minutes and seconds are peeled off like sheaves of paper and blown away in the breeze. Looking back everything is a distant memory. We can barely remember anything, and what we can remember we struggle to remember accurately. We are only left with residual feelings and emotions, and even these may not be true. We are casting an eye over our own demise.

What is the purpose of life?

Life has got itself in to a spot of bother. It has turned down a blind alley; got itself in to an endless loop; it is a stuck record, skipping on a scratch; it needs to sit itself down in a corner and give itself a damn good talking to.