The pathway runs through the fields past the deserted beehives, their empty volumes collapsing and yielding to the arrow of decay that seems to point always in one direction, the same as the one direction of time … always forward, or always decay … but always forward, hot to cold.

It was along this path, actually on the way back, that a seer as an unexpected companion who I met whilst he was collecting wild herbs for the evening meal suggested that we consider syntropy (or negative entropy) as an entropic pause, a consolidation point when order arises almost as pulse, a quest for itself, order as consciousness, awareness of the I Am, a protest perhaps against the constant force of decay, that pressure that is always there even as the flower blooms and youth rises up out of childhood to conquer the world.

Darwin is right overall, but it is not only natural selection that shapes, syntropy rebels as the young do, and adds an extra assist along the way …

This seer had been speaking to me about Heim’s Theory the day before, Burkhard Heim is a madman of mathematics and physics and cosmology and of many other disciplines, a crazy that some have only now begun to understand, a Van Gogh of equations and formulae and of two more neutrinos that are being disputed. They do not exist – but only so far …

All is connected in the Great Entanglement, he said, just as the suspicions in the gut belly of the intuitives.

I agreed, it was great that Einstein was mistaken in that respect, a god that rolls dice is even wiser than one who does not … spooky action at a distance greater than the delivery of the instruction at the speed of light is more Promise rather than Despair.

And that some Frenchmen eventually resolved the EPR thought experiment in favour of the Quantum, or perhaps not in favour of Einstein.

There is more Magic in the Universe this way I said … but the seer was already way past that, why should it have been any different, or less?

We moved onto the paranormal, as we walked, I was looking at the shadows of the Sun, he was pensive and intent on his feet … the paranormal a Science without a predictive model  – as yet!?

But he was not too concerned about it all being Science, that legitimacy seemed immaterial to him, in itself it did not matter.

It matters to me, something that I can clutch on to … but the seer is much stronger, Science is just a path of many, it need not be the everything of Logic, as if Logic is its own and can exist with or without Science or without any other path for that matter.

I think we agreed though that we would rather have the Magic flow, always taking us to the unexpected, to the surprise in any instance of the Cosmos.

And, of course, Intuition, the non-linear disruptive force of invention, that strange energy, out of nothing comes the everything of a something.

We touched on the Jains, well I brought that up as they are fascinating, so early on, without technology, yet such a sense of that which is or is not or perhaps is only a maybe or both.

And then there is the Buddha and the Tao, they arose too, such insights?

The Greeks of course, that goes without saying, rising in the sun of each morning and questing for the counter-intuitive, how the Earth was round and not falling off its flat edges …

The sun was setting as we got back, there by the chapel if I look west, at the expected time, I will see the sun through the bells that hang where they swing.

There were some more shots I had wanted to take but the smart phone battery obeyed its Entropy and ran out.

So, the next day off I went again … well the two of us, without yesterday’s seer, with our tongues with their accent, as we worked them around the words that should have been familiar but somehow are not as smooth and articulated as they should be.

Back along the pathway through the fields, past the abandoned beehives.

I kept thinking of the gelsi, or the gelso, in its singular form, the ones that had been cut some time ago, the oldest in this land that Attila had set fire to.

What is the English word for that damn tree!?

I mean, how irritating it was when I discovered that I’arice is the larch … ? There is something in the one word that suggests the other even if in upside down and scrambled around.

What does the gelso look like?

This time though I wanted to go past the abandoned grown over villa at the end of the pathway.

There is a wall there, I saw it from my horizontal walk by view, but also from Google Maps.

A wall, covered in green, ivy of some sort, too straight to not be a wall beneath the ivy.

But across from it the old farmhouse, with the extended family the generational force extending the walls, from one generation to the other.

And a tree … it seemed as if it had been shaped, Nature has a way of doing stuff like that, syntropy.

The pulse of a moment, even if ephemeral.

In the field behind the old farmhouse three men were working, tilling at something, surely representatives of the generations that lived there.

One looked up at us, as we slowly ambled by.

I wanted a picture of the old agricultural wheel-like rusty gadget so we pretended to take a selfie, with the gadget behind us in its total rusty magnificence.

I felt at peace with a Something from the walk of the day before with the seer. We could pull this off, this pretence, as we looked away and the smartphone looked back …

Even as the one who looked at us came out the fields and walked behind us, the confidence remained.

We have these foreign tongues, and also a foreign look in the way we dress – although we are from here, we have the passports too, even if not the fortitude to stare back into eyes that see us from somewhere else and convince them otherwise.

In any case, we mean no harm, so why should we feel uncomfortable with the one behind us.

But the tree was there and we needed to take a shot of it.

Vi piace il gelso, he asked?

Oh, my God, is that a gelso?

Come in, come in and I will show you …

So, we followed Il SIgnore Del Gelso.

I will explain to you about this tree, he said.

His grandfather had planted it, and the first shaping was the work of his hands.

He had cut branches and grafted them strategically.

Then using stays he caused the right angles to grow into strong limbs that would not have been there without a conscious assist.

Once the right angles had formed and solidified themselves into their being the next phase was to right angle them again and send out solid radials horizontal to the ground.

The third phase was the myriad of off shoots that would create the umbrella.

Are we talking about a tree sculpture here, I thought?

Indeed, it was, and he explained how through time and generations the umbrella shape was created.

He told us also about the bianche more too, the white fruit.

The leaves would feed the bacchi di seta.

And then I realised, more and bacchi, of course the silkworm!

So, I asked him about le more nere, the black and purple mulberries, from the tree I knew – what tree was this then if it fed silkworms and had white fruit?

Sometimes the more are black and purple, sometimes they are white he said, puzzled.

And I realised then he was the Lord of The Mulberry Tree, il Signore del Gelso.

This was just another mulberry tree, the gelsi are mulberry trees, as big as they are, like never I had ever seen before, not in the land that I recently come from.

So, it was gelsi that had stained our mouths black and purple in a distant summer twilight when my grandfather had taken us to make hay, with the cow pulling his cart as the stars shone upon its back on the way home.

Us children, we did not make hay of course, we just stained our mouths black and purple with the mulberries that we ate from the trees that grew along the side, even as the scythes of my nonno shaped the twilight of the field …

That is what childhood is for after all, the play before the realities that unfold.

We were spellbound as we listened to the Lord of The Mulberry Tree, who smiled and just kept on talking.

His eyes were Green and eventually instead of looking away I looked back in.

An opaque Green but rich in Life as if within the fractals that swirled in them the secrets of a myriad things …

It was another world then, he said, continuing.

Everything had purpose, Entropy wins the war but Syntropy wins daily battles, for a while at least until it all goes finally wrong.

As I said we were spellbound and we listened to how these daily victories could be achieved in the Great Entanglement.

He spoke of so much but I remember mostly about the cats, how cats clean the bones of left overs, and then how the bones can be crushed and fed to the chickens, so that their egg shells would be laid strong.

They had taken mortar shells from the Great War that had unleashed itself insanely a hundred years ago, the same one that Hemmingway wrote about, and the bones would go into the empty mortar shell and they would crush them therein.

How many lives would a mortar shell have taken and destroyed, yet how many egg shells would it then have strengthened?

Creation recycled out of Destruction.

And the pigs too, they recycled much of what was left over and became salami and many other forms of salumi.

And the bread crumbs are shaken from their tablecloths for the uccellini (the birds) etcetera!

All these little things that reach a collective critical mass of daily victories, Syntropy shining its tiny frail and delicate light in the eventual Darkness …

Her little victories over the Great Disorder ever closer …

Eventually we bade the Lord farewell …

Looking back though I saw his Green eyes …

And he was still smiling the Magic of it all …






















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