Life is a long road and we meet many

travellers along the way. We do plenty of dark

and twisted things in order to find satisfaction –

sexual satisfaction, that is.


After several decades of messing about,

we come to a place where we dedicate ourselves

to the semi-chastity of marriage. Marriage is

a kind of communion with the One Who Is

Creating Us.


Then when we get older, the sexual

interplay becomes less interesting.

Another marriage becomes all important.

That is the marriage between man and his

God ( and when I say man I mean woman

as well).


Then when we have spent some

time in meditative sitting, we still

have questions. And we ask a

question of the void, we throw a

question into the Void.

And if we spend some time in

silence, quite to our surprise – an

answer comes.


The answer comes

in a voice we know is not our own.

The other day I felt quite burdened

because of the Clifftop Writings. I had

spent years writing them, and I knew

that some of the writing was not

done in my own voice.

There were periods of time

when I was understanding the top

of the page, but my hand was

writing the bottom of the page,

words that I did not understood

as yet – words that I might never



Because I was totally focused

on the Nag Hammadi Gospels,

my focus was also on the wisdom

of the Father, the Lord of Hosts,

the person the Gospels spoke of,

who was the invisible presence

upon the cliff with me. I knew

that it was He who was the one

who was finishing the



I have not read all of the Nag

Hammadi Library,

It is a great ocean of truths,

and at times excessive complexities,

which I did not swim across



For that matter I have not read

all my own words, all that was

written in that holy place.


Recently I thought I was

about to die. And my job

was not finished, not by a long


So I prayed to the Father,

the Lord of Hosts, the Lord of

Abraham and Jacob, the Lord of

Israel and Albion, the Lord of the

Meeting Rivers….

And I said, “I don’t want to die

and find that this book is lost,

because of the Grace that is in it.”


I got an answer about a day

later. The Voice said: “Grace is

not contained in any book; it

is the sole provenance

of the Lord.”


Well, that was a relief.

But it also meant I had been

off course in my thinking. I

was getting too self-important



I had forgotten

my own prayer:

“Without you I am nothing.

I am a husk only, an empty  vessel;

I have no strength but that which

you have given me, O Holy One,

God of gods, you who are

creating the world:.

Thank you for your gifts, thank

you for your Grace, thank you for

the strength you give to all of us.”


The teachers have been saying

that God created the world. But this

is not correct. The world is being

created every minute, every second.

Change is an absolute.

And there is intelligence

at the heart of it.




(C)2016 by w.g.milne










Once upon a time there was a train
where people could breath and eat with knives and
forks like human beings and we didn’t have the
urge to kill the fat guy on the seat next to us.
      In those days we didn’t have to behave
like farm animals being transported they
know not where, making the sort of sounds
you hear coming from a barn over-packed with 
goats, chickens and cows.. And the grunts of pigs
and the squeals when a foot or a tail was yanked
on stepped upon.
           No. Those were the days of dignified travel.
When we had room. When there was a certain grace
to the dining car.  When passengers could breathe
and have a few thoughts along the way.
          A person might even feel a frisson of
 romance when he heard the lonesome
whistle of the train he was riding on. Bashing through
the deep snows in the winter, watching the pine
forest up  close to the windows, passing by.
 The trip was fun and alive, and tourists liked
it, too.

        No longer.

        Northerners no longer can travel like
normal people. We must skulk
like addicts in small little groups
in the wee small darkest hours past midnight –
to nab a bus which is not packed with people,
a means of travel where we can breathe

A lot of northerners do a lot
of wood chopping. This makes our
shoulders larger than the shoulders
of many southerners.
        As a result you cannot place two
 northern  wood-chopping
males next to each other in two narrow
seats and expect to achieve any kind
of harmony.
         Someone measured my shoulders the
other night (a sordid story I’ll tell you
another time). I am close to three feet across
at the shoulders if I breath in, which I hope
to do when I’m travelling…And I’m not
considered a huge northerner, just a tad ungainly
in that I resemble a gorilla when
I walk.
         So you put me next to
another 240 pound beast from
the Great White North – say Swastika,
Ontario, or Iroquois Falls… well, we get to 
hate each other in thirty minutes.
There simply is not room in bus
transportation to seat two bushmen
        Luckily, people such as we are
tend to bring libation with us – and
so even though there is no room 
to sit down – there is space to lie
down in the aisle – or  you could throw open
the luggage storage shelf above
and lie down there…
        But I have found this makes
the ladies nervous – taking bets
on exactly when the behemoth will
fall and break their mothers’
corning ware all at once and             ***
once and for all.
Northern women chop wood, too.
And such ladies are quite capable
of knocking a southern liberal out,
if he falls into her lap at an
inopportune time.
      Nope. If the BUS is full
 we’re like BEES in a BOTTLE.
I’d like to know which dingbat
made the decision to remove
trains from the north: the person
who pulled a fast one and turned
northern transportation into a
cruel farce.
      The woman ahead of me
in the bus was making a bit of a
speech to her fellow travellers.
And of course I could hear it 
because I was crammed and
seated in such a way that my nose
was about six inches behind her
left ear.
       She said: “They did it to
punish the north! For not voting
 liberal lately!”
        All the people up front were
talking to her, too, and murmuring agreement.
         “Whoever did it we owe
him one. We’ll wait…!”she called out rather
 too loudly for what they call ‘polite society’… 
but that didn’t matter.
          We were no longer in polite
society. The bus was stuffed like the
Christmas turkey! I was wondering what
the scene reminded me of… and then I knew.
It reminded me of a bus in a third-world
            In Jamaica, when I was a kid, buses
used to bop along from stop to stop,
careening around blind corners with the
horns blaring. But those buses were fun,
even if you were on the verge of getting killed
every second. Because… you were allowed
to smoke and drink alcohol,  stick
your head out the window and shout to people
in the street. You were even allowed to bring
chickens or a goat on board.
         Also, it was warm, so that helped, too,
if the bus broke down… or if seven or eight of
us had to get out and push the bus the last
hundred feet up a hill. That wasn’t so bad
because of the sunny climate. 
         In Canada, of course, you’d freeze off some
body parts if you attempted this

         The woman up front was shouting 
again. It was impossible to ignore her.
          “Yes, we’re going to wait!”
The other passengers were cheering.
          I didn’t hear the whole speech
because the guy to the right of me
was breathing garlic into my nostrils.
However he passed me half a mickey of rye
and said, “Go ahead. Finish it!” And I
did… in two large gulps. So the garlic
no longer mattered to me.         

        The woman was standing now.
I couldn’t really move my head, so I 
had to look right at her ass. Her
butt was big, made her look like the ass
of  a mule in blue jeans.
           But we all have our little problems
so I’m not one to judge.

        “Oh, yes, wait we will!” She
was waving her fist in the air. We’ll
vote the bastards out! We’ll get
payback!  We’ll count the days!”

          There was more cheering,
but I didn’t listen any more.
           My mind had moved on
to other things.