Francis Meyrick

Materialism of the Mind

Materialism has been defined as an “interest in and desire for money, possessions, etc, rather than for spiritual or ethical values “. I’m sure most people associate the word with cars, houses, and paper dollars.
I suspect there is a worse form of materialism. I think this second form of materialism is much more insidious. It limits Man, confines him, and reduces him to a gibbering idiot, locked -by his own hands- in a small, airless cubicle.

I believe in Science. I believe in Physics. And Chemistry. And Biology, Botany, and many other sciences. I respect them. It is not Hope that provides lift to the wings of an aircraft. Or Prayer. Or wishful thinking. Rather, Lift is provided by the smooth flow of air around a precise shape, defined as an “airfoil “. We have a formula for it.

Lift = half x (rho) x (Velocity squared) x (coefficient of lift) x (surface area)

This dry, unemotional statement of raw physical fact would shock and maybe disappoint the Ancients. They saw flight as some mystical pursuit reserved for the Gods. In paintings and poetry handed down, all the way back to Homer’s Odyssee, we have conjured up for us pictures of amazing winged creatures. Hermes, the fleet footed messenger of the Gods, in their minds was a divine being, quite unbound by rules that ordinary men could possibly understand. The fact that modern day flight basically involves precise aerodynamic shapes, and simple brute force provided by huge engines, and the burning of fossil fuels is in many ways a disappointment. No gods, no miracles, no supernatural forces. Just thousands of gallons of Jet A1 aviation fuel, some basic physics, and a boarding ticket. The (often bored) drivers of these vehicles, referred to as pilots, are not remotely super human.
A great pity.

So much of the mysteries that baffled our ancestors have been explained along the way in terms of boring formulaic dissertations, that I think we are in danger of allowing the pendulum to swing too far the other way. From mystery, the unknown, and winged footed messenger gods, we have swung to pilots half asleep behind their three axis autopilots, passengers grumbling about the cost of inflight drinks, and a rational, scientific explanation for everything. Indeed, things have gone so far, that it is not unreasonable to state the following:

“In the minds of many people today, if it can’t be weighed, measured, analysed, picked up, dropped, photographed or sold for profit… then it musn’t exist. “

That seems to me to be a materialism of the worst kind. A materialism of the mind.
So, some would ask pointedly, what else is there? And that, I would say, is the million dollar question. What else is there?

I have a hunch that there is a lot more. I have a gut feeling that a man who limits himself to the known physical Universe may be guilty of an astonishing smallness of mind.
He may be placing himself in the smallest of cubicles. Surrounded by four cardboard and paper walls, only feet away from his meager little desk and chair. The walls, boringly festooned with trivia from his career and his ambitions, far from reflecting what matters in his life, serve only to hamper his vision. I see Modern Man, pacing his little self imposed cubicle, surrounded by millions of other men each in their own little cubicles.
Often competing like hell with one another…

I’m inclined to suggest that beyond those cardboard and paper cubicle walls… lies our dynamic Universe, and our minds and spirits, fully unleashed.. With Forces and Knowledge and Age that we cannot even begin to grasp. For any man to contemptuously ignore even the possibility of the existence of a Supreme Being with a dismissive, irritated wave of the hand… and to then point blank refuse to research the issue any further… I don’t get it. There have been so many great human beings who spent their lives convinced of the truth of their respective religions, are we saying we know unequivocally better? That we are superior? That all that knowledge, all that searching, all that faith found by so many millions of people, is founded on nothing? And that the issue is dead? Not even worth pursuing? Only the formulas count?
Come now…

I say, let’s tear down those paper and cardboard walls of our self imposed cubicles.
Let’s get to the view. Let’s get to the meat. The hundreds and thousands and billions of miles of view behind those cubicle walls. Distances of space, and distances of mind.
Places we can go in Galactic terms, and places we can go in emotional and spiritual terms.

We have a long, long way to travel, for, truthfully, we know nothing.

Will you join me?

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:09 pm

GOING TO CONFESSION

(a true story, based on childhood memories, that have lasted a life time)

My mother was a devout Roman Catholic.
When I was a child, we lived in Holland for a while, and I was very impressed at the way she went to the big Dutch Catholic church as often as she could. Not just for Mass, but any time we were passing on the way to the shops or whenever. I was sure my friends at school couldn’t possibly have such a religious mother as I had.
I used to watch her pray with interest. She would kneel down, bend her head, and place both hands in front of her face. She would stay in that position for a long, long time, barely moving.
I was only young, had no great understanding of God, but I figured He had to be very pleased at the way my mother prayed. It looked awfully serious and devout to me. She used to go on for such a long time. It seemed like hours would go by.
I occasionally tried it as well. I would kneel down, bend my head, and place both hands in front of my face. And pray like hell. As intently as my mother did.

Trouble was I got bored.

I was old enough to figure that: “Dear God, make me a good boy “, was a bit wimpish. But I hadn’t really progressed beyond that. I would pray for my mother, and my Dad. And my two brothers. And the uncles and aunts.

“Dear God, please look after Uncle Billy. “
Very generous of me, that one, seeing as Uncle Billy was a cussed old sod who never bought me presents or even talked to me. But fair was fair.
But the list didn’t last very long. The mind would go blank. Now what? Occasionally I enjoyed a real flash of inspiration: “Dear God, please make there be no more wars “. Good one that. Would make me feel really good.
But that sort of inspiration was rare.
More often than not I would start to fidget. Eventually I would slyly peer out past my fingers. Sideways look at Mother. But she would be immobile, seemingly frozen in her devout posture.
That’s going to take hours…
Oh, well… hands back in front of face. No peering. Try and pray…

Fidget, fidget.

Furtively part fingers. Open one eye. Secretive look around. Along the rows and rows of wooden pews. Polished. A dark, solemn wood. Along the pillars. Impressive stuff, those pillars. Each one was like a tower, solid, reliable, ageless…

Fidget, fidget.

A few old women at the front. Why were there always old women at the front of the church, praying away like the clappers? Never old men. Funny that.
Deep sigh…
My arms would start getting tired. Another sideways peer at Mother. Still immobile. Boy, can she pray! Heavy stuff, that.
Oh,well…

Somebody walking up the aisle.
Shuffle, shuffle. It’s old ‘Father Petrus’. I liked him. Everybody liked him. He belonged to some order, and although he was a priest, Mother had told me he was a monk as well. I think. Or something like that. Had to be hard work. He was probably nearly a Saint. And he always wore a monk sort of habit, which was different from the other Dutch priests. With a big cross with beads around his neck. He had a HUGE beard. I was very impressed with his beard. I had never seen such a vast expanse of hair hanging from a face before. It reached all the way down to his stomach. He had big yellow broken teeth, and lots of gaps in his mouth. But somehow it didn’t matter with him. It wasn’t ugly or frightening at all. Because old Father ‘Petrus’ was always smiling. He was so warm and kind, and always went out of his way to talk to everybody. It was a positive pleasure to meet Father ‘Petrus’. He was always happy. I never saw him sad, or even preoccupied. Lovely man. I was sure he liked me specially. More than all the other ordinary kids. I could tell by the way his face lit up when he saw me…
Lovely man, broken yellow teeth, funny mouth, and all.
I liked him…

I didn’t like the gardener in the public park.
The ‘plantsoen’ as the Dutch called it. The gardener had that mean sort of mouth, and we were scared of him. He used to yell his head off if we walked on the grass. We just had to stay on the narrow paths. Silly man. What damage were we going to do by walking on his blessed grass? Prat of a fellow. So sometimes we would get it up for him, and a gang of us would watch and wait until old Misery Guts was at the other end of his domain, his all important ‘plantsoen’. And then we would run across the grass, screaming with delight. He would go potty, and start shouting, threatening us with the Police, and a ‘proces verbaal’. I never quite knew what a ‘proces verbaal’ was all about, but it involved the Police, and it was nasty. So I didn’t want to get caught.
Having committed a dastardly crime, we would leg it like stink.
Great fun. Marvellous.
We would congregate in some alley, puffing and panting. There would be a lookout posted, to make sure the enemy didn’t surprise us. And we would debrief.
Good raid, that…
Only trouble was that I would then have to go and confess.
Bloody nuisance, Confession. Mother made me go every month…

Stifled yawn. Sideways peer at Mother. God, she’s still at it! I give up. Hands down, just stay kneeled, rest my aching arms. Must be hard on your arms being a saint like Mother. Oh well…

I would look around the church more openly now.
I knew you weren’t supposed to gape, but every chap has his limits. So I would gape. And, while I was at it, I’d make a good job of it. Have a nice long stare.
Amazing places, churches. This one was huge. Three altars. The main one, and two side ones. One of the side ones was Saint Mary, and the other one I could never remember. Mother had told me, but it was some funny Saint’s name, and I couldn’t remember him to save my life. I worried a bit about it. Maybe it was a sin. Could be. Oh well. Try and remember for Confession.
I would look around at the confession box things. Funny construction really. A door for the priest to go through. And then, on each side of the door, an opening with a curtain drawn across.
The idea was this:

First I would cycle to the church.
Enter the cool building, usually on a Friday evening. Quick look around. Where’s everybody kneeling? Each priest had his own box, with his name above it. They took it in turns, but sometimes, if business was brisk, and there was lots of sinning going on, there would be two or three of them at it. Then you could choose. But if there was only one, then it was a case of hold your breath until you saw who it was.

If I was lucky, I’d get Father ‘Petrus’.
Great. No sweat. We’d have a chuckle, him and I.
When it was my turn, at long last, I would get up and enter past the curtain, pulling it across. Kneel down reverently, facing this funny trap door thing. With a sort of trellis frame in front of it. From behind it, you could hear the low mutter of voices, as Father Petrus dealt with some terrible sinner on the other side. You weren’t supposed to, but if you listened hard, you could… But of course I never did, because that would have been all wrong. Mind, sometimes I was very quiet, and then I couldn’t help hearing a little of what was being said. Especially if your ear happened to be rather close to the trapdoor… Interesting stuff sometimes. But of course I never remembered it. I was far too honest to stoop to that sort of level. Amazing what that fat old cow that lived in the next street was gabbering on about. Something about going to bed. Going to bed? In Confession? If you couldn’t sleep, was THAT a sin as well?

And then, suddenly, the buzz of low conversation would cease, and it would be my turn. The little trapdoor would slide open with a firm ‘clunk’, and I would see, in the dim half light, the head and shoulders of my friend Father Petrus. He was nice. He would smile, and, of course, instantly recognize his firm favorite, me.
I would reverently rattle off my lines in Dutch, which boiled down to the fact that I was a wicked sinner, and that the last time I had been to Confession was a month before, and would he please listen to my dastardly crimes.

He would nod wisely, and I would start.
But it would soon degenerate into a laugh. He wasn’t that fussed about us walking across the grass. He wanted to know how far the old gardener had chased us. And then the two of us would end up rolling around in muffled hysterics. I got the impression he thought the old gardener was a pompous ass as well, but he would always end up warning me that the old boy was not too well, and not to tease him in case it upset him. I would nod wisely and understandingly. And refrain from the game for a while.

I liked Father Petrus.
He would always end up solemn, and give me a little lecture, and a penance of course. Confession wasn’t the same without a penance. So I would end up getting one ‘Our Father’ and one ‘Hail Mary’. And I would part with him on the best of terms. I could say each prayer in under a minute, even if I got muddled somewhere in the middle and had to start at the beginning again.
Out of the confessional I would get, reverently rattle off my penance in front of the altar, and off I would go, cycling home happily, a song in my heart.
For my soul was pure again… and I was sure to go to Heaven.

Goodie…

Come on, Mother! You can’t STILL be at it!
Boy, I’ll NEVER be a saint like you if that means I gotta pray like you…

A door would open and close, and there would be more shuffling, and a bit of coming and going. Occasionally I would spy another priest, ‘Kapelaan van Eyl’.
He was different from Father Petrus. He was a funny fish.
He was a lot younger. Didn’t seem to have any sense of humor. He was in charge of the altar boys. I sort of fancied being an altar boy, but I wasn’t old enough yet. Had to be at least ten. One thing that put me off was HIM. Right disciplinarian.

Confession with him was hard work.
You always felt a right blackguard. Heavy duty sinner.
We never laughed. Oh, no. Serious stuff. Once gave me a helluva penance. One ‘Our Father’, and THREE ‘Hail Marys’. Made me feel real bad. Got quite upset. Almost protested. Felt like saying:
“Come on, Father! THREE ‘Hail Marys’!? Father Petrus has never given me that much… “
But I didn’t of course. Just said meekly: “Yes, Father “, and went off sulking. Said my penance, and left. Cycled home well fed up. Not fair. I wasn’t as bad a sinner as that…

Yawn. Come on, Mother…
I’m sure God’s had enough now. He’s probably very busy you know. There’s at least ten other people in church right now praying their socks off.
You can’t hog Him ALL the time, you know…

And I would eventually get up, and wander off around the church. Stuff it, I’d had enough. So I would wander around, and look at the stained glass windows, and the statues, and the candles blazing away. Quietly I would wander around the church, not forgetting to genuflect, one bare knee touching the cool tiled floor, every time I passed an altar. Very important not to forget that. To pass an altar and not genuflect, that was bad news.
Perhaps even a sin. Could well be a sin.

And then I would have to remember to recount it in Confession. It was hard sometimes to remember all these sins. Because it could be weeks before my monthly turn came around again. And you didn’t want to forget anything. Because there was a lot at stake. I wanted very much to go to heaven. I didn’t know what it would be like, but I knew this much: Hell didn’t sound much cop to me… So I had to get the Confessions right.
Very important.

Mind, if I was lucky, I’d get Father Petrus.
Then I’d be all right. He knew me. He’d always put in a good word for me with God, I was sure of that.
I liked Confession with Father Petrus.
Good bloke to have on your side.

Guess I was happy in those days. Me and God were okay.

Anyway, He was bound to be a lot like Father Petrus…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on October 9, 2009, 1:59 pm

Separation

(to the music of the Main Theme of “Missing you ” by Vangelis)

Have you ever…
been in a crowded, smoke filled bar? Surrounded by people, all of them, glass in hand, talking their heads off?
Have you found yourself withdrawing inside your mind?
Wondering how they manage to all talk at once? With energy and enthusiasm? Their eyes shining? Seemingly enjoying themselves?
Did you listen to the conversations? And feel guilty, because they seemed so shallow and nonsensical to you? And you felt it must be you, and not they, who was at fault?
Did you perhaps try to join in? Did you try to emulate the cocksure swagger of people talking with supreme authority about subjects they knew nothing about?
Did you stand outside your group, in which you were trying to participate, and find your self crying quietly inside?
Did you ever…

suddenly want to escape?

Then I say, ride with me, across the mountains, on my Triumph motorcycle.
Hang on to me, silently, unspeakingly, communicating clearly with me and the road. Communicating clearly with the wind, and the sky.
Wordlessly, we shall accelerate into the curves, leaning over in unison, our bodies clasped together in a silent leather embrace. We shall listen to the music of our engine, beating a defiant message to the world. We shall smell the rain on the air, and watch the birds wheel below the clouds. We shall see the cumulus clouds building, the giant unseen columns of ascending air building castles towering above.

Then I say, fly with me, in my old open cockpit Starduster biplane, with the mismatched repair patches on the fabric, and the oil stains, and the fifty year old engine. Hunker down in the front cockpit, and I shall sit behind you, and fly us up into the heavens.
Wordlessly, we shall gaze out through the flying wires, and watch the world below.
We shall bank smoothly, and the wind will whip your silk scarf, and the sun will play through the arc of the propeller.

Then, I say, walk with me, quietly, along a deserted beach along the coast of war torn Angola. Past the concrete pillboxes, and the old SAM missile site. Past the signs that implore us not to disturb the turtle nests. Past the barbed wire, and the guard post.
Walk with me, I ask you, and listen. Listen to my soul. Listen to my longing. Listen to my aching, restless mind.

Then, I say, gently, put your trust in me.

And we shall talk, softly, of wonderful things.
And there will be hope, and longing.

In sharp contrast.

But always, always, there will be the pain of knowing our separation

we sense, but cannot find…

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 11:12 am

Beating on the glass wall

I found myself
beating crazily
almost hysterically
on the glass wall
invisible but invincible
that our society
from birth
surrounds us with.

We are men
our role models abound:
John Wayne
Clint Eastwood
Donald Trump
Ken Lay
and all the other shining examples
of virtuous chivalry
stiff upper lip
brawn and guts,
and never,
ever,
show softness.
Tenderness
compassion
or hurt.

Only girls cry
men just bite their lip
suck it up
and plow on;
a good fist,
a strong biceps
and deadly accuracy with a Magnum 44
or a fat bank account
and you’re in good shape.

You might be fat and ugly
conceited and boring
old and vulgar
your name might be Hugh
but if you’re Heffner rich you can still be sexy.
The brain dead, peroxide blond bimbos will still swoon at your feet.

Such… rubbish.
Such unadulterated, cinematic, clap trapping
boon doggling, ga-ga absurdity.

I say
for what my little voice is worth
astride the dark horse of a violent past,
no stranger to lethal force
who can strip and re-assemble his weapon, blindfolded
in under forty seconds
that a man
is not a man
until he has truly wept
in sorrow.

A man is not a man
until he has tasted
the gentleness of the woman he loves
the trusting head of his first born resting, fast asleep on his chest
and the untimely death of his closest friends.

A man is not a man
until he is brave enough
to distance himself from our consumer society
our world gone rampantly materialistic,
not just in wealth
but also in thought, and spirit,
in Art and creative writing.

A man is not a man,
until he has looked the devil in the eye,
and not flinched.

A man is not a man
until he has forgiven not only his enemy
but himself.

Yes, they would surround us with a glass wall
list for us our goals
our values
our priorities.
hint at what can be discussed
and what cannot.
They expect us to conform, so we can be molded and controlled.

But I say spit on their glass walls.
Tear down their paper mansions.
Refuse to be a small cog in their money press
Shake off their clutching tentacles
Think for yourself …

And let your spirit roam free.

F.M.

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on December 28, 2008, 10:45 am