Stuff from: THE GENTLE ART OF BEING… Melvyn Grant.



One day an ape was happily swinging in the trees when he came across a tree that was different. He didn’t know it, but he’d found the tree of evolution. But he swung in it anyway. From that day on things were no different… but they were not the same either.

If that’s where man started, where was woman? Was she in another tree, multitasking and complaining of God’s treatment in the Garden of Eden, while putting the world to right and preparing the first semi-vegetarian gumbo with freshly killed serpent, apple and coriander, in the first cooking pot, on the first cooking fire… while standing on one leg wearing a bell on an ankle chain? And…   Yeah, whatever…

JUST A THOUGHT.                                           

I almost had a thought, but it only passed me by. A small and lonely thing, like a whisper in a cry. One day I know it will return and now I’ll be prepared, and I’ll try to reassure it… so we both won’t be so scared.

                                                (Taken from: The Dream of the Paragonoiac Rock-Man.)


One night, I dreamt I read ‘The Book of Everything’ from cover to cover, but I found no reference therein to myself, and I realized that I don’t exist. And that was scary. With the best of imagination I could not imagine, a world without me. Up until that point it had been a good dream. Then as I thought about this, I started to consider all manner of things. Maybe that’s why I keep missing buses, or the toilet roll has just run out. But I’d always believed I was somewhere, not necessarily where I’d like to be, just somewhere. But if I’m not here – who’s the bastard thinking my thoughts and drinking my beer? If there is a space for everything, of course there’s a space for me too.

But what if I’m not part of everything, could I be part of nothing. Not even a shadow, always walking beside everything but never involved in anything something? There must be laws about that, I can’t just walk about in no underwear. I have to be somewhere… or I wouldn’t be thinking about all this. But if I’m not, it comes back to who’s in the space where I should be in the Book of Everything, making me some other thing, nonexistent before the twinkle in my father’s eye that never happened because my mother didn’t exist either? This was not good.

But the Book of Everything cannot be wrong…can it?

YES! Sometimes enough is enough.  Who wrote the damn book anyway?  Who did the research, and what are their credentials? Who gave the credentials their credentials – and… And… Hey! This is my dream. And if the thing offends thee, chuck it out. So I went back to sleep and dreamt a high window and threw out the Book of Everything – and got back into my positive sleeping and a pleasant dream where I was important and my friends are real and love me whatever – and the Book of Everything is just a cover I painted with no damn pages

Spike By Melvyn Grant


Contented Bird sat in his tree. The sun was smiling and his dream was free.
Then a shadow crossed and a flapping came and a creature landed with a second name
Contented smiled and raised his hat, as Second Name came close and sat
“Good day good sir.” Contented said, “What flapping kind of fact are you?”
“A Bird of course.” Said Second Name. “What thinking kind of thing are you?”
“The bird kind.” Was Contented’s claim, “But I note we do not look the same.”
“That is true,” said Second Name “Do you have no clue from whence you came?”
Contented Bird just rolled his frown, as silently his dream hung down
And the look he gave to Second Name was very grave as reason came
Then he sighed and spoke in solemn tone and described the body not his own,
“You are flesh and all in skin, and feeling soft and stretchy thin,
And eyes and mouth and feet to grip, with spreading wings from neck to hip
And you have – feathers and fluff – and comforting stuff.”
“Yes.” Said Second Name, “You’ve got it right. That’s just how birds are made for flight.”
Contented’s face began to fall, “But I don’t look like that at all.
I’m hard and round and bits of flat and cannot move around like that
And I sit in my tree and think a lot and it seems to me, that’s all I’ve got.”
Then his eyes were moist and he saw the truth as before him stood the living proof
And the voice he used was very small, ‘I see I’m not a bird at all.”
And Second Name just hung his head; it was so sad to be misled
And with no more, to do or be,
A thoughtful stone…
Fell from the tree.

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