The Western Gate

Prologue

It were a strange dream, and a stranger discourse. As I fell to sleep I fell headlong into a flume of veins that became a deep emerald, almost with flecks of turquoise but the more turquoise appeared the deeper the emerald.If I were like Kenneth Grant, and explianed it in terms of tunnls and the like, perhaps I could say I were on the path to Netzach, that sphere of the tree of life, Victory, The Creative Illumination and the flecks of blue, perhaps, that the path above is seeping inwards from Chesed~ that merciful and empathetic light.
At once, perhaps my sleeping body took in a gasp of air, I stood in the gardens of Kensington, where, I knew I would meet one of the characters I had discourse with. I could say Dialectic, but that would mean two sides debating until a question is resolved amicably beyond doubt, but here, I am passive, as much as I pretend to be in control. It’s my dream after all.’Rumi’ appears, there is no quizzical look upon him, instead he opens the conversation simply, “imagine you don’t understand me at all,” he asked, “can you still know? “
I didnt fully understand, of course I didnt, he just told me so.
The dream, as lucid as it was, as clear as if I were awake, or sleepwalking in some gated garden was little more than Rumi wandering about me talking in a foreign tongue. It lasted only a few seconds.
I said, ” It’s all Greek to me.”
It wasn’t Greek, at least I don’t think so, I could have said double-dutch or gibberish. Im not sure what language he spoke. But as I told him it sounded Greek his face flashed in front of me, very close, like a scene from a nightmare and he said, in English, “Told you so.”
With that, I woke up, in the waking world.
As I awoke I distinctly heard again the voice of Rumi. “Tomorrow, you will remember me…”
It was then that my imagination poured forth a strange tale that unwound before me, I stopped myself interfering where the story was going so that it freewheeled …projecting into my mind.
If I went back to sleep I would, despite Rumi’s last words, forget the dream, and perhaps the imagery, so I quickly scribbled down notes, as soon as I began to think logically, of course, all the imagery stopped, my logical mind took over from being a passive witness of creativity, to one of interpretation, of translation, Jerome took over where Rumi had stood. This is what was daftly revealed;-

In the future the evolution of communication is such that people don’t actually make sense.
It all started when every sentence was punctuated with the word “like”.
“Like if I like say a sentence it will like sound like this.”
This erosion of meaning of speech, or language attrition, was further enhanced by everyone speaking in sentences that seemed to be asking a question…e.g.take the sentence ~ ” I’m going out tonight.” Each word in the new variant of speech would be a pitch higher until the last word tailed off as if the speaker was unsure and was in fact asking a question.
“I’m going out tonight ? We’re going to have tons to drink ? I’m going to get so wasted ? like, so wasted ? “
Every sentence thus becomes a statement of insecurity, lacking in confidence, no more a statement than handing authority of the condition over to the listener.

What followed afterwards was at first labelled a trend, as seen/heard by influencers and click baiters , namely people speaking what was called ~ Surreal, international Dadaist. Expression and emotion became the defining factor between people. Unity and diversity established by having no language barrier. We cry the same, laugh the same, anger the same, why should we speak differently. Ok, so the words may still be in native tongue, but the meanings so insignificant, absurd poetry, they could by expression, body gesture, prosody and intonation be understood by anyone.

Take an encounter at the dawn of Dadaism speak, three girls are on a bus. We simply call them the following names;- Fay, May and Avasay.
Fay turns quickly around, shrugs her shoulders, frowns,
“Banjo apocalypse, have your elbows met the new teaspoon at school?”
“Yes,” says May, “He is so pineapple-glorious, I want to juggle sentences at him.”
Avasay interrupts, “But I’ve heard he’s only interested in blonde thunderstorms, that’s so mayonnaise aquarium.”
“Who fed you that accordion?” asks Fay.
“A couple of girls in his class; they said he only looks at lemon-haired weather, I mean, that is so custard Baywatch.”

This format, as Dadaist as it is, can still be understood somewhat.
Compare that fledgling Dadaist speak to the new Surreal speak;-

Fay turns quickly around, shrugs her shoulders, frowns,
“Banja apoclack, dalla elbovas himdim teaspuna schoola?”
“Ba,” says May, “Din pinapa-glori, juggle sentava teetee.”
Avasay interrupts, “Dobbie Doo dun blooom thundara, mayona aquari.”
” accordia?” asks Fay.
“Ri-Ri’s, issi sissy I, I, lemona weathara, Pah so custada fakerake”

Surreal speak would to all listeners and readers be nonsense were we not to follow their actions, be they full-on emulations of the word spoken in displays of drama, perhaps using forms of Makaton and also emphasising by the way the words are spoken, even performing the sentence as an act of the parlour game ~ Charades.

Fay turns quickly around, shrugs her shoulders, frowns,
“Banja apoclack!” She widens her eyes to show she is looking at something, ” dalla elbovas himdim teaspuna schoola?”, and forms with her hands a model of something so perfect whilst fawning over that imaginary form now crafted in her hands, she gifts it to her two friends, something new to ponder after all.
“Ba,” says May nodding her head positively affirming she knows the subject in question , “Din pinapa-glori, juggle sentava teetee,” and as she says this she gestures with her fingers that her lips must speak to the imaginary object in Fays hand and then she caresses her heart.
Avasay interrupts, “Dobbie Doo dun” she shakes her head, apologising, negating both her friends conclusions, looking downwards and then explains ” blooom thundara, mayona aquari.” whilst pointing at the imaginary object and then points to where his eyes presumably are, she ruffles her hair and points to the colour white on the bus poster, ruffing her hair again and gesturing again to the imaginary figure’s eyes.
” accordia?” asks Fay gesturing to know who spoke these words, her hands pleading to understand who said what.
“Ri-Ri’s, issi sissy I I lemona weathara,” answers Avastay, creating an imaginary box where the imaginary object sits and points to different areas of the box and gestures they are all girls with her hands hourglassing their figures.
” Pah so custada fakerake” she concludes, pointing to the objects eyes and flicking her hair.

The evolution of surreal speak was swift, but not without each variant being formed firstly based on previous language, then slang, and then Dadaist verbs and finally to muddle the words completely.
The intelligent ape now mimicked the sentence, now forgoes the power of the words and replaces meaning with emulation, enacting what is said, the words merely being percussion to the drama. The inference of what is said being dependent on the nature of how the ‘words’ were being spoke, suggested, with anger or laughter or study or critical or dismissively.
Something else happened during this transition to Surreal speak. The human condition and mind that lazily accepted each communication verbatim, began to analyse more, began to be more open to the suggestion of body language, of empathy and thus the human strengthened their deep rooted sense of awareness. This manifested into a form of telepathy, one that is often noted by musicians who seem to know exactly when a drummer, though seemingly improvising will syncopate or appeal to the score with a crash cymbal, accordingly the bassist and guitarist, by more than instinct alone are already equipped to deal with the change of movement. they know it is going to happen, even though it appears to be random.
So it was with the three young girls, the language that they spoke, that I have described together with their corresponding action became less relevant. Language became the mothers humming and murmuring of song heard by the baby in the womb, it became nothing more than rustling of leaves, and the dance of the trees.
Fay, May and Avasay would conduct conversation any of them scrutinising the unfolding drama, without being guided by the actions of each speaker, more’s the time they paid no attention to the mime, and weren’t even looking, nor listening to the intonation of the words, even as Surreal-speak evolved, if each spoke the surreal gibberish in a monotone delivery, with eyes closed, still, they would know what is being addressed.
This wasn’t evolution but a return to Eden. Upon that fabled tower the multitude seeking the one principle divided, and all, in difference diverged.
Before the tribes built a tower to reach an unknown God, that all the tribes would know what bound them, they actually sought for nothing, and all, spoke the same, in gesture and with one mind, for ‘God‘ was within, everything was equal, and that equality that is within all things is ‘God‘. Evrybody knew, because that’s how the mind works. If we force it to accept language as being the condition to which it submits, then to language it will reason. If language makes no sense, it will sense what is true without condition.
The Mouni (one who avows silence) does not speak, but more, does not listen. When the mind does not live by these barriers of speech and listening. What is offered is a true sense of the world.

That which speech cannot express, but by which speech is expressed — know That alone to be Brahman, not this which people here worship.

By whom directed does the mind go toward its object? By whom commanded does the vital force move? At whose will do people utter speech?

Above two verses adapted from Kena Upanishad.

—
ॐ शान्तिः शिवाय अद्वैताय
Om. Peace. Salutations to Shiva, to the non-dual reality.

Afterword:
This all happened on 11/07.

On the 12th, the next day (duh), I went to The Bloomsbury Book Fair. I saw, sitting all on its own a 1912 edition of ‘Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens’ , to many the best illustrated edition, it featured Arthur Rackham’s artwork, and as opposed to the 1906 ‘true‘ first edition included an extra frontispiece and the artwork is distributed amongst the story as opposed to collected at the end, as the 1906.
The stallholder came up to me, “It’s a nice edition,” he said,” I remember you?” he then asked.
I bought the book, and didn’t haggle, I told him what I’d pay, and he accepted the offer. It was a good price, a bloody good price. Synchronicity is akin to telepathy. Told you so.
or maybe I haven’t.

Header Image ; puṣpam. # the Surrealist flower~ Wenborn 2026