Aspiration

.... Last Post on Aspiration....

2005-09-29T00:14:00.002+01:00

.. a young man, with dark hair and strikingly intelligent eyes, named Tim said, whimsically that my first three weeks in the new offices was like the arrival of a 'fizzbomb incendiary'....

I burst out laughing... it is the title to this new blog I have decided!

I was starting to think I was becoming creatively challenged today as I felt highly strung and hyperactive - more than usual. Tim's dispirin salvo was intuitively delivered and I felt an honest expose' of how I am.

It is I am sure the same for others too, to try to fit in any place any time for those of us that know solitude in mental silence - even if our outsides are in a combative arena that requires an engaging dialogue of repartee.

As I left the building I saw a message on my phone from my sweetest of friends Carmila, she is a beautifier, in my mind. I discovered her at my gym, and from that earliest of encounters I realised what a forgiving and deeply engaging personality she had. It felt like being sisters, easy, unaffected and unchallenging. She will always make me feel a sense of acceptance and also comprehension, I think it is her intelligent and brightly lit eyes. They remind one of both a child in a tomboy of a woman. Then when she dances in a club setting she seems transformed into a feminine and sensual woman who feels great pleasure from being tuned into the beat and pulsating rythmns that fill the air.

She invites me over and even her quick messages are like her, inviting, bold and straightforward. At times like this, I smile, there is a seriousness in her that belies the humour and racy wit that she uses as a guard for boredom. The is another Fizz-bomb Incendiary!

Stanza from Leopard Eye, written 29 - 09 - '99 by xsapph

... Camouflaged amongst zebra stripes of variegated grasses...
Disappear, reappear in clusters of tea roses, preening and preoccupied....

Photo credit: Photo by Dennis Conner. Courtesy of Snow Leopard Trust.
Photo location: Woodland Park Zoo; Seattle, WA - USA.

Artist's Brushes

2005-09-17T19:29:00.012+01:00

[Howard Sokol's brushes Art Tree]

Field had decided that he could not paint, once his fixed thinking had made up his mind for him, he also determined that he would never be able to draw. He probably could have been a passable artist, or at the very least enjoyed the activity and felt rewarded as many of us are, but somehow on the creative journey he had discovered an obsession that became for him the spiral out of despair.

Intricate lemon laburnum,

Star anise, polished gold wings.

Like a luna moth, he was always searching for the key light, that fired up the twilight. This was an excruciating passion for discreetly collecting the brushes of the artists that surrounded him, when he modelled for them. He wasn’t particularly attractive anymore but his craggy features and generally well-structured limbs, from years of labouring outdoors digging fields, thus his nickname ‘Fields’, made him an easy subject to draw. In his youth, he must have been a handsome man, full of vigour and urgency, a little of this had left its mark for he was a muscular tall man.

He somehow surreptitiously, slipped an artists short flat brush, or filbert brush into his belongings whether it was slipped into the folds of his shirt or trousers as he dressed discreetly behind an easel or whether it was dropped into his rucksack, which earlier had been inconspicuously laid beside one of the artists at work, but one of them would be a brush less at the end of each session.

Acoustic ceremony of fire embers.

Elaborately textured brocade.

No one would have understood why he took the small trophy, but to him it was a significant gesture. Regardless of how much he was paid, this one small artefact was itself payment enough, even if he were starving and being a life study was his only means of income, when it came to his earnings this was the one thing that he wanted more than anything else.

Once he had his treasure, he would guard it until he was in a safe place to unravel it from its secure place. Then he would tenderly wipe the excess paint that clung to it, and not worry that this same colour; oil, or acrylic or water colour might have permanently stained his jeans, or the inside of his rucksack which was already a multitude of rainbow colours and spilt inks. When he had the brush at home, he lifted it to the light and then stared in awe at the finger marks, for each were unique prints that had embedded themselves into the ‘French ultramarine’ paint that had run down its handle.

Like a detective examining it for some specific factual reality, he superimposed his imagination to exact a memory from this specific brush. He was excited when he saw the way the last remaining colour had clung to it as he clung to it now… and that he knew this was a colour that represented a moment he had lived that was captured somewhere on a painted sheet, a representation of himself that he would never be able to afford to buy and perhaps in a lifetime would not see again.

Raised peonies and trailing vines.

Only a child saw the mask slip.

He would allow the colour to rub over his fingers as he flicked the brush end, and remember these colours; cadmium yellow, splodges of cadmium red, with smears of diluted Rose Malmaison, and Winsor green… The same shades that had surrounded him when he had stood painfully still in the cold studio, where his limbs sometimes felt frozen, and the small paraffin heater that had been used for years hardly warmed, until the studio was upgraded to have central heating, and then it was less painful, less cold and more stifling being in the airless room. Long after arthritic aches and pains made him tremble and we positioned him in seated situations, profiling a more sedate study.

The poppy seed oil, or walnut, or flax seed oil, that was being used, to seal the paint, as it was smeared around canvasses, and covered brushes retained its own oily smells, and at times the rancid scents made the small working area feel suffocating.

He never seemed to have made any friends from the studios, They drew his outline, insect leg-strokes, then filled it in and used their tissues to smudge their charcoal, or perhaps with their fingers, or their knives, or perhaps their long, their flat, their round brushes to fill him in and then maybe glaze or leave him opaque… Then he was ignored beyond the reserved smile, or glance perhaps because seeing him in the flesh had now succeeded in alienating him. He wondered if they would be friendlier towards him were he himself more approachable, but he could not change his overall self-expression, which was one of sombre detachment.

I was perhaps the only person that ever spoke to him, with any real interest, or perhaps it was mild curiousity since I was always gratified by connections with those I considered a fascinating mental study. Of course my brushes had gone missing once or twice, but I had noticed immediately as I replaced them back into a makeup brush roll sleeve where each had it’s place and I would have realised easily when one was gone, for me, these were precious for a different reason. I had painstakingly scratched my initials into the handles, with a sharp blade and had lovingly taken care of them since my mother with her hard work and during turbulent times had bought these for me. Therefore my set meant more perhaps to me, then to the student of affluence, carelessly handling theirs less appreciated, since there may have been less attachment emotionally. Hence, when I saw my filbert brush slip inside his pocket, I had cornered and glared at him, then felt surprised at his fear of discovery and why it meant so much to him, for each brush theft was treated as the first time.

Broken bridge between cliffs.

A torn bridal Broderie Anglaise veil.

Eventually, I studied him beyond the moment of drawing or painting him, and one day I asked him if he wanted a lift home, or needed to borrow my umbrella, it was a cold September night, I genuinely felt sorry for his loneliness as I perceived it. He appeared so shy and frigid, I thought of a Luna Moth, it's fragility and short-lived passionate life. His dark blonde eyelashes seemed frozen, his sensory hairs bristling all over his body, sharply frozen, as did his features that day. Now, he looked curiously relaxed and then he smiled, or perhaps it was a shy inwardness that made it appear as if he grinned... Then his eyes squinted as if there was a light around me that was too bright for his eyes. He nodded, and showed how unusual his teeth were, each with a clear gap between them, like old stepping stones across his dark gums.

That particular afternoon he had shared his flask of cocoa with me, and we had sat close together, on deck chairs, his naked shoulders covered with a small blanket, and his 'swimming' shorts a striped pair slightly showing his muscular thighs which we artists had often sketched with vigour. The scene had been one of a beach shot, with minimum props. Whilst the striped deckchairs were being put away one of the artists was brushing up the sand that had layered the floor. As Field wiped his bare feet, and rolled up a small towel that was lent to him he said softly, that he would not be modelling anymore. A slight tremor in his gait, indicated that he was finding it hard to stay so still, and his shoulders appeared more bowed than I had ever noticed before, the liver spots and freckles that spattered his back making him seem more interesting than usual, in terms of texture and depth of colour. He looked small, and discreetly venomous like a monarch caterpillar: striped creamy white, fiery yellow and black dressing gown.

I laughed inwardly at the preposterous idea, and realised how easy it was to misjudge on looks alone. As if he saw my private allusion, he seemed to quell doubts, when he moved his toe, a fraction to allow a scurrying winter awake beetle scurry across the dust and sand, invoking the 'Sheikh', with Field, in a kind of lonely pathos, as he appealed to my memory of such black and white cinematic imagery, a vivid and unkindly cut.

Trapped Luna Moth.

Yet this, the man who died thrice.

He agreed to the lift, and dressed quickly, I could hear his creaking bones, and brittle joints click, and his fingers appearing brittle and bare. As we walked slowly through the fog, he seemed the essence of some quixotic 'Dickensian' character, that made Eton High Street seem foreboding. I felt I was out of place, and an elegant Edwardian, to his darker, cherished Gothic persona. We arrived at my small car; a beautiful polished black mini, automatic, and bought by my brother (the second he had generously gifted me with). I lifted the boot and gently placed my bag of tools, the precious worn, brush roll, paper. Then the larger two damp, 'Gesso-primed', mounted canvasses that I had sprayed across the backs, so that they would be ready the next day, were laid across the parcel shelf, and back seat respectfully handled. Finally, and the large new case I had recently purchased to carry all my past completed work.

When I asked if Field wanted me to put his bag in the boot, he clutched it closely to his chest and shook his head, and I realised he must have acquired a new addition, and winked at him, though I also felt sorry for whoever was short of their brush. He climbed in, and I had a moment to view him entirely differently to the man that stood there like a stone statue for so many seasons, with almost complacency. We all knew every inch of him, yet he was entirely an obscure blank canvass to each of us. As I turned the radio on, the haunting baroque created an underrated atmosphere between us, and the misty waves of the fog that had begun to settle like dark white shadows around us. A reserved man, his single word answers were like mnemonic word devices for something more detailed, perhaps the delicate drifting, emotion that he withheld. He never initiated any small-talk nor did he comment on any of my statements about the heavy eery weather, the coldness of the season, or even the subject choice during our class which was so misplaced, for after all, who painted a beach, spring-warm scene in the middle of Winter?

.... Didn't dare to care, for the first.

'broken-change' vows.

When we arrived at his home, a small cosy terrace, which had a basement to his kitchen; he put his old whistling kettle on and then from within the folds of his old Fisherman's navy coat, he drew out a paintbrush. He laid the brush out on a small table upon which lay a square of brown paper... He carefully checked to see if there were any particular distinguishing marks that isolated it, like those that he felt he had, which isolated him, those distinguishing marks that were invisible to all but him, those marks that distinguished him from others, the fact that he had rather disproportionately average limbs and that he wasn’t particularly well endowed to make the men or women for that matter particularly interested or the scar that ran across his belly where he had been torn open when he had fallen, as a child of eight, from a tree the colour of ‘Paynes grey, raw umber and yellow ochre’ as the sunshine brightened the winter branches…

This left what was deemed an interesting mark that helped the artist who was painting him to recognise imperfections… although sometimes old swirls of cotton or heavy damask fabric would be draped over it to conceal it as if it were too much a distraction.

The life well lived,

Reflected on too late.

He would remember how the fan brush dipped in cobalt blue one side and sap green underside, to create a two tone effect had been held for several minutes in the air, before it touched the stretched canvass. Throughout his class he would have his eye on it, seeing the paint being reapplied, sometimes mixed on the palette other times on the canvass itself, and would try to stay focussed on the nothingness that he had become so familiar with.

[Sketch of a Nude Man (W. 4 recto) Artist: Michelangelo Buonarroti]

As he was painted from all angles, and with colours that appeared to redden his skin on paper, such as ‘brown madder alizarin’, or make him appear almost jaundiced when he was tinted with ‘Naples yellow light’…. and peered at by eyes that acted like telescopes focussing in and out over his angles, his burnt sienna shades and the shadow that may have dripped part of him into a darkness where he melted it appeared to those who had the vision to see his vanishing form into the melting light.

Left a lazy impression

evaporated perfume head-notes

He took the brush and for a moment he held it as he had seen it being held, then he imitated the very way he had seen it move through the air. Just in the way that artist may have held it like chopsticks or perhaps it was a young woman who he had loved so many years ago. She stuck it through her hair bun and sometimes twisted it through the hair at the back of her head as she pondered over which round brush to take up next, and he watched the globule of crimson alizarin drip down the back of her shirt.

He held the white hog brush, stiff: perfect for thick daubs of paint and then brushed his fingers through it, and even though the paint was like dry dust and covered his fingers in a powdery talc like pungent spices needed for an exotic curry. He would for a moment imagine his long gone first love, Her fingers around his fingers as his hand was the brush itself and they were holding hands… Or maybe he would imagine his friend the young male artist with the beautiful black skin, who they called Garlic, because he ate it all the time sometimes raw. Who when he was sitting beside him would be stroking his forehead, where the afro hair was tinged with purple and cream flicks of paint from his brush.

In the middle of a season,

His feelings compounded.

Field would recall the way that Garlic stroked the end of his durable synthetic brushes before he dipped them into liquid white and prepared his board. Garlic always used a thumbhole palette, one which felt comfortable for his stubby thumb, the only disfigured part of his hand, for he had caught it in a car door as a child and it had restrained itself from growing as long or as flexible as his other thumb.

Field would rub the burnt umber crumbling coloured dust, or the chalky white that had been used for highlighting trees and the lake light slices that showed him dipping his form into a stream which he had not even imagined until he saw that the artist named Santini had painted around him with textures that made him feel dizzy as he tried to make sense of what he saw had been done to his form which now had gossamer wings like a dragon flies’ attached to his shoulders and with him half hovering and half submerged into the water that She had imagined him to be surrounded by.

As early lust dissipated.

Like an exquisite luna moth.

That picture had begun his daydreams for he now had absorbed the same vision into his memory and believed at some subconscious level that he had actually experienced this. Those that were less enjoyable, such as when he also absorbed the darker images that he had seen himself drawn into, easily distracted happy thoughts.
From a small box on a sideboard he took a label which he tied around the stolen brush and he named the artist, and the date in small neat writing, where neither the curls or swirls indicated anything more than restraint.

He talked of this and so much more as he made me tea, in old fashioned deep winter cups (to retain the heat) of the tea. Then his veined trembling hands carried a tray, with teacups and saucers and sugar bowls, and cream jugs, and a small teapot warmed and wearing its own tea cosy. For he was now in his elder years and at least sixty or perhaps even more. His skin the colour of stones painted with yellow ochre and raw umber and his whole form appeared to have a translucent glaze that surrounded him, in his small home, a place of simple adornment and comfortable neatness. Being covered with a small handkerchief clean and pressed preciously guarded whatever he read, such an old weathered novel, lay on his side table next to one of his two armchairs.

As he followed my preferences: strong tea, yes some sugar, dark molasses - the only type he served, at odds with the usual image of white sugar cubes. I waited for his usual (almost clicked heels) sombre, military nod that always followed his offerings. He reminded me of the grave reverence a Samurai may have shown a visitor. The mood of subterranean emotions that were deep inside him barely colouring the surface of his skin. Although it seemed as if his skin had been afflicted by a sensitivity; touched by an unseen breeze of overlapping feelings, repressed and now releasing like a mist.

Such short-lived tawny moments

The heart notes scented his way.

There was no sofa as if he never expected more than one more person as company. As he offered me a biscuit the colour of Bistre (darkish brown) and gold ochre, where the cream between the biscuit was a buttery colour, I began thinking of each shade in my moment much as an artist would, how my sable brushes would capture the paint before releasing it across the glossy sheet.

I felt guilty as crumbs fell to the floor, and retrieved them trying not to put them in my mouth as I had seen a small child (who came with his mother to the studio that day) do that very day, a child that may once have been this man, for that child appeared to enjoy its small crayons, which were used to scribble with pride, the child’s name, and a pet cat who was adoringly called ‘Poppet’, tabby with white paws, like Field’s cat, which he named quixotically ‘Winsor’, after his favourite colours Winsor blue and green.

[W. Culmer & Sons, (Established 1809) Painting-Brush Manufacturers, Hornsey Roas, London, N.]

He would for a moment close his eyes as he recalled the painting that belonged to the brush he held in his hands so softly it could have been a freshly picked flower. Green eyed, Winsor sitting looking as remote as Field, on his knee, wrapped around his arm in such a way that his tail appeared to me rather like a brush itself, dipped as it appeared in a whitish grey.

Chillingly, she departed

The deeply rich, vibrant Saffron.

When he opened this eyes I noticed for the first time how much they reminded me of the tree colours that we enjoyed at the end of Autumn, as Winter first came and kissed the leaves to death. His eyes were silver grey with a bluish tint, and pale olive flecks sparkled through them, it was then that I realised how pretty his eyes were… eyes that almost always diverted away from being caught by anyone in any painting, so that each artist only appeared to capture his gaze away from the artist. I realised that he had never looked straight at my eyes, and that he always managed to turn away or look at something with an intense or vague look, sometimes indifferent, other times with a close scrutiny as if his life depended upon it.

Violet liqueurs velvet path,

amused his fingertips.

He would eventually show me how each brush would be wrapped in a brown paper wrapping and labelled with the day, and the name of the artist and slipped into a drawer with many, many others…brushes that were tainted by ‘Prussian blue’, or a pale orange the colour of kumquats, or a lemony star-fruit shade, such warm colours brightened the darkness of the drawers where these were kept.

I walked to my car, and the fog appeared to have settled into dark shadows of swirling clouds around the cars. I opened the boot and lifted out the easel that lay across my brush roll. I took out the very brush that he had ‘stolen’ so many months previously, and now I held it for a moment, as I shut the boot. I returned to him and knocked on the window of his basement cottage-style window, and watched him come to the window, framed by damp honeysuckle, peer out nervously. Then he opened the door meekly. For the first time I saw him smile, broad and open, the handsome face of youthful spring in a winter face of aged memories and recollections... I handed him my precious brush, as Winsor slipped past our legs, and padded softly away into the amorphous misty darkness, with a regal air that made me remember my own cats.

Much as a scarf that she left,

so quickly she had gone, Luna Moth.

Field, bent down and kissed my forehead just before, I turned on my heel and left… but not before I heard him say…. ‘Oh thank you, thank you….’

I never placed another filbert brush in that section of my brush roll; in fact I squeezed its replacement into another section for somehow I felt something was missing, even though he did not.

Narrative from a short story: 'Artist's Brushes', by xsapph: 5th September 1999.

...Releasing...the dew from the rose...

2005-09-10T22:43:00.002+01:00

'To understand Humanity and to portray it requires... The sweetest consideration of the ever-changing extremes of tranquillity and disturbances in the sea of relationships we all may sooner or later engage in.... Once contemplated, it begins to inspire change, once acted on, the transformation is complete..'

xsapph

Hector knew what it meant to make sacrifices for others. When I met him he must have only been 33, and as an artist, he often earned very little or appeared to ... to actually live on.

Whenever anyone asked if he needed their help, he shrugged, shook his head and contemplated why they even needed to ask him that question, why they appeared to lack any comprehension of his most simple needs or what could be carried out in some small measure of kindness to him, without requiring prompting. What it really meant was that they did not wish to be put to the test, so the onus was there for him to provide the solution, and if he looked to need their input beyond emotionally detached dialogue, then their sense of fear of being a cent, or farthing, poorer was enough to make their hands sweat... or make them quickly change the subject.

How was it that they needed him to expressly articulate a requirement as if this was too complex a thought for them to act on?
Was he any different to them that he did not need the same sun, air or sky?

How was it that they could listen to him, and then disappear out of his life, back into their own without actively making the smallest sacrifice for him, yet so many times over, he had been known to dedicate his own precious energy, and life force to inject a vitality into theirs. Why would they describe him as someone for whom nothing was too much trouble, yet be described themselves beyond egos and vanity as those for him the smallest real gesture was itself too great a cost to incur.

It appeared to me very quickly that he had no real friendships, that he was simply, not of this world.... That those he had were of transparent superficiality.

What was also quite obvious was that they wanted to think that they were the same as him, and whilst they looked at themselves through his eyes, they believed that by association that they had the same depth as he.

I discovered within him elements that each of us whom have some level of inner pride, would call a truly quiet nobility, for he himself never appeared to need to be asked twice to lay down his shield and become at once unprotected for another whom he cared for, or draw his sword in the fearless battle of those who he presented arms for, knowing they could not.

The sheer depth of activity be it physical presence, emotional support, or downing tools to be there in person for those whose call he had responded to time and time again, could not be imitated, nor could his intensity in responding to the unspoken request that he had answered, even as he knew this would be another distraction, from his difficulties and trying to fill his own wants...

Like the frozen robin in the winter wind, he shivered as if he was dancing alone to haunting Edith Piaf's blues.

..."I am always loyal to you," he heard from the same person that had sat and listened to others attack him, whilst saying nothing more than, "Oh, I had no idea...." Afterall, why bother to expose oneself to anything so sticky as defending the honour of one's friend? He had never heard anyone come to him and say that they had felt privileged to defend him whether he was right or not, but because true devotion was blind. So each time such information or episodes leaked back to him, he could not help but be disallusioned and wonder at his archived history of experiences.

Somehow, I always felt that in some previous life, Hector was a fallen angel, for he kept merciful secrets close to his chest, and those who he guarded it appeared to were entirely unworthy of his sacrifices. He followed through on all his offers, he made good all his pledges, and he was the first and last person anyone might have turned to, in a moment of despair, before they turned to God.

His imperfections concentrated all his energy towards those who fulfilled his need to rescue them, even as he could not be.

Hector spoke of shadows that penetrated his dreams at night and that he could not either overlook or fear because he knew that they were there to allow him the comprehension of knowing himself before all others. If he were to ever hum a tune, or a slow lingering melody it was with a fateful sense of imminent doom and the thought that he was not only acutely aware of his fragile humanity but also what it meant to be mortal, and possibly unable to free himself of what he had read were material concerns. If he ever wanted to be successful, it would have been a definition that was beyond most people’s comprehension, because it was unlike anything they would have understood.

To him, the success of the moment was when he sat knee deep in grass and with a small broken flower opened up each petal, soothingly, to soften it's pain and remind it that it had lived even for a moment explicitly for God. When he lifted it's broken neck, it was as if he lifted a bird in his hand with a broken neck.

When he laid it softly inside a favourite book, to be rediscovered some time in the indefinite future by another's eyes, he knew even as he placed it there, that such a tender moment was explicitly for God.

When he closed the book, and sat staring into space, with his eyes in the middle distance where the air appeared to tremble and he could see everything fading, almost as if he were underwater... even then he knew that these were the moments when he breathed explicitly for God. He knew that with each day, he was slipping into a creative coma, a place where he would eventually stay and remain undetected and eventually stop fading into, for it would fade into him instead and he would no longer have the need for senseless relationships.

Each act of contrition was itself a small step towards closeness to him, but those around him had no intention of ever repaying such kindness, for it was not in their nature to consider the natural laws of recompense… or that the Universe requires from each of us, our fair and just payment for each blessing... and that each controvert act to be resolved equably.

Thus, ‘Nothing in Life (but unconditional love) comes for free’… and the price being paid by each of us was immeasurable.

He felt he had paid his dues and he now wanted out, but it was a gentle whispered expression, not one that required vocalising even.

This was his first stage of understanding himself, accepting that aside of those that he felt an unconditional love and link into, those who through bloodlines he felt an aching recognition that he would miss for all his lives future, and feel in the winds whisper, a longing for... that apart from these very few souls that stepped out of their security for him, that would lay down their life for him, and consistently through never-ending kindnesses, expressed their love for him.... all others would eventually be forsaken and walked past as they became excluded from his inner circle....

As he detached and extricated himself from any sense of owning to disavow them and release himself and they from what he realised was no longer a bond between them. This was a step taken without any remorse, or soul searching, for they did not belong in such a place as supposed soul mates. It was as if some bright light inside him was itself enough of a beacon to guide him away from their darkness. A darkness that surrounded their selfishness and denial of the Universal spiritual energy that he felt humbled by, and knelt in obeisance to. He realised he was slowly losing his language links to them... That the stream of words that had once flowed freely between them was no longer sufficient connectivity to hold them to him, or him to try to confront the barriers he had felt were always there.

Most of the time, his dialogue was the same, one of feeling connected to a spiritual thinking beyond reasoning, to a reasoning beyond emotional attachment and to a symbolic place beyond material acquisition.

What always surprised me were those who questioned him when he had cut his emotional ties to them, and who felt some kind of injured pride first before comprehending how little they had valued him, how it had only been words, and this they had thought was in itself enough, without for a moment considering the true meaning of love and it's 'unalienable rites of passage'... those of sacrifice pure and simple.... When he began to look beyond it all, he felt as if so much he had experienced was merely a tissue of illusions, and as such just a lyric hummed low and lasting only as long as he hummed it.

Such was the growing restraint which he focussed his quiet energy on, that it had already begun to change the subtle flares of shimmering fire behind his eyes... so that the haunting eyes that stared back at you, stared past you and although you were in the presence of an artistic soulful creature, you already knew you were being passed as he was on a journey without you.... Remembering you, even though you were there at this moment here sipping coffee with him, or walking beside him...

It was clear that such unworthy souls were already no more to him than a trickle of rain that slid down the stem of a rose coursing past it's thorns to be part of the puddle of 'living' the material illusion... and leaving behind the soft petals to which the trickle had clung for a moment when it magnified the petals surface explicitly for God, just as he did in his artistic self expression....

Little did he know that they had for a moment in their mirroring him, and their using him also to cling to, merely reflected his surface through their transparency, and that they could not take any part of him with them, just as the trickle of rain took no part of the petal, but it’s dust.

Little did they know that he had been there to allow them a moment of clinging to beauty, before they merged back into their oblivion… a forgetfulness that would eventually lead them to a perpetual stupor that they had a momentary release through his eyes and love to experience through his art.

.... by xsapph

Eye of a metallic silver storm

2005-09-01T10:47:00.000+01:00

Anon metallic silver storm

The Recluse

The recluse knew from the second that he was self aware that he wanted to be a recluse. More than anything else that mattered to him this was his one self-fulfilling prophecy. He did not pray for it nor did he relinquish its delicate hold over him, he just knew that it felt like the first taste of love… It was the one position that he held that had any value for him. He recognised in it that he had become exclusive to himself and to his own point of readjustment, where he did not need to readjust his settings for those around him that he had for so long carried inside on some level.

There came a point in his life, when he decided this was this the only goal he wanted to work towards, and for, suddenly nothing else mattered or was as significant to him. He felt the pull of this desire, one that superseded all others, and even felt as if it were his calling. The sound of the voice that persuaded him was none that could be audibly recognised, for none in the Universe had ever heard this particular voice speak. He knew when he heard it that it was the only path to be taken and that it felt perfect to him, he realised that all points led to this and now it was a matter of how to fulfil it without the pretences of making out it was some kind of spiritual path of soul searching because it certainly wasn’t, nor was it a religious act of faith for him.

It was a timebomb, always ticking inside him.

The seed had planted itself for so long and it germinated in such a way that he felt at times as if roots were actually penetrating the souls of his feet to ground him to his cause. He had no intention he decided to explain this journey or it’s motivation for none would have understood what trigger could have made it his life long initiative.

It began today, and when it entrenched itself in his mind that this was the very day, everything changed, as if connection and reconnections, familiarities and past associations, closeness or investments were now slowly disintegrating, grated cheese that shredded and shredded.

Once he made his decision everything felt whole, he felt whole and segments of vague comprehensions that he had for a short period recognised as something pertinent to his being no longer felt vital to it, considerations and cares that he had played host to no longer interested him and someplace he realised this had been a series of stepping stones that for a couple of weeks had invited him to step across… with each step he had felt a renewed vigour and he had found himself clarifying it sometimes in a moment when he engaged in the kind of rippling dialogue that one would have later contemplated as a meaningful event… From this moment he felt that every meeting or communication from this day hence would be one where he was entirely removed from the subject that he was, to be an object that was. One where there would be no more of who he was up until today, and that person would never be found by another person because from his eyes would stare out a vacant single cell.

Such was his profound and acute awareness of this important discovery that he wanted to share it finally, with one person, and once he had heard his own words aloud, he knew he was never going to discuss it or reflect on it again, for this was his steps into this freedom of expression one that he felt pervading all levels of his shell and then beyond and within.
For the journey for him had begun…. He started by typing dots…………… infinitely……………. until there were no more left.

Couple in Cafe'

2005-08-31T22:50:00.000+01:00

Heighton painted 'Out of Hours'...

At the window table, the couple sit close together enjoying the closeness that only those with such private thoughts can share. ....

.... She nervously rubs her wedding band with her thumb from the same hand, an unconscious habit she seems to have routinely developed since her newfound affair.

So this is it, the time seems to slow down, croissants, warm and soft that lose their shape when they are ripped apart, and he talks between mouthfuls, and quickly she glances at her reflection, and purses her lips together to smooth out her thickly smeared lipstick. She looks afflicted by some kind malady, one that each of us romantics contrives, hopes or dreams of being struck by.

There is a bustling gaggle of shoppers entering that remind her of ducks waddling down a country lane, as they appear undecided and one of their group seems to lead them nudging each towards available seating.

Somewhere the chimes of the Church bells, she is unsure echo across the village.
Sanatorium silence.

stanzas, Cafe' Couple - from the pen of Sapphirex...October 28th 1999

Triple Tangos - fire & ice

2005-08-21T23:11:00.000+01:00

22/23 August [My Mothers Birthday; a dedication]

Tango Argentino painting by Pedro Alvarez

The dance of the devotees of Pan, seems as fiery and fierce as game cockerels, sparring, with tooth and claw, and flame coloured plumes that are as proud as any peacock’s attire.

Nervous imagination had no place where the fire crackles gold and singed grass burns beneath heels, and toes, that sparkle with the metal in their clicking bounce.

A tireless constellation of rainbow coloured planets in an unending turn, that rotates the world around them.

Determined adhesion to the form, the roots of the dance that required stretches, and turns that twist her torso to be liquid and like brush strokes, delicately executed.

He lifts her wrist, with the concentration of a bullfighter lifting the bullwhip handle, before his wrist whips a well rehearsed wave, through their limbs to crackle the ice and setting sun.

Triple Tango....Fire and Ice ...by xsapph

Cedars and Firs

2005-08-20T22:22:00.000+01:00

...Gary Conway (born Carmody), the charasmatic 'Captain Burton of the Spindrift, Land of the Giants'... painted this breathaking beautiful picture, a scene from his Vineyard...An extraordinary man... able to paint his dreams, and visions....I had a lifelong crush on him!

The sizzling mulled wine, steaming in a punch bowl, cooled now to blood temperature, a darker shade blessed with nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, a Christmassy scent: in this the earliest embrace of autumn.

This last minute beverage, a welcome drink as the evening cooled.

I observed cordially that the smouldering gaze between the couple sitting slightly ahead of me, where the low lamps flickered moth-danced, deepened with intensity.

... from Cedars & Firs by Xsapph - 17th April 1998.

Lance Armstrong Foundation

2005-08-18T22:29:00.000+01:00

Hi All,

James is a beloved Friend of mine who is highly ethical and chivalrous, if you are someone who is generous with heart and wish to make a small pledge towards a genuine interest and charity, then please read the following, and help me to support my wonderful, Friend James. I will ask James to send me pictures of his trip, and would ask you to think about this journey he is making, and how wonderful it would be to help him achieve his goals with our help, wherever you are in the world ... perhaps you can do something too in your corner of the Universe!

Please see below, my Friend James wrote this following:

Lance¹s Story At age 25, Lance Armstrong was one of the world's top cyclists. He proved it by winning the World Championships, the Tour Du Pont, and multiple Tour de France stages. Lance Armstrong seemed invincible and the future ahead looked bright. Then one day he was told he had cancer. Next to the challenge he now faced, bike racing seemed insignificant. The diagnosis was testicular cancer, the most common cancer in men aged 15-35. If detected early, its cure rate is a promising 90%. Like most young, healthy men, Lance ignored the warning signs, and never imagined the seriousness of his condition. Going untreated, the cancer had spread to Lance's abdomen, lungs, and brain. His chances dimmed.

Then, with a combination of physical conditioning and a strong support system Lance's competitive spirit took over. He declared himself not a cancer victim but a cancer survivor, hell bent on living strong. He took an active role in educating himself about his disease and the treatment. Armed with knowledge and confidence in medicine, he underwent aggressive treatment and beat the disease. During treatment, before his recovery, before he even knew his own fate, he created the Lance Armstrong Foundation. This marked the beginning of Lance Armstrong's life as a leader for cancer survivors and a world representativefor the cancer community. Although Lance Armstrong's victories in the 1999-2004 Tours de France aresweet, the battle against cancer has just begun, not just for him, but for all cancer survivors and people just like him who think cancer could notaffect them.

James then went on to tell me this in his email:

My Story As some of you know, I have enjoyed cycling for some time now and I have to admit that Lance has become a bit of a hero of mine and has inspired me incertain ways.

So this September I¹ve decided to cycle coast to coast across the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean with the hope that I can raise money for Cancer Research and the Lance Armstrong Foundation. This will be an organised trip covering 460 miles over 6 days, done with other riders who will also be raising money for their own charities.

I¹ve always wondered what it would be like to ride in The Tour de France,climbing over some of the famous mountains of the Pyrenees that the tourtakes in every year and now I¹m lucky and fit enough to have a go myself. So, I¹m asking if you¹d like to sponsor me for this event as I¹d like tomake a difference even if it¹s only a small one. You can sponsor me in a couple of different ways, the easiest way is to logon to my Peleton Project Profile on the LAF Web Site and pledge with your credit or bank card with the assurance that the site is safe and secure.

http://www.laf.org/siteapps/personalpage/ShowPage.aspx?c=beIKLOOrGpF&b=620179&sid=kgITK2PDKdJJKXNME.

My Peloton Member ID is: 200257900

Or if you prefer, you could send the money to me after the event. All money raised will go to the Lance Armstrong Foundation.
Thank you for your support.

James

James Litten
Fort Dearborn Company UK
Thomas St.Kingston upon Hull,
East Yorkshire.
HU9 1EH
ENGLAND

jlitten@fortdearborn.co.uk

I am pleased to announce that I had an e-mail from James to say that he had completed the journey successfully! We are all proud of him, please continue pledging and being generous to this great cause! This is only the beginning....

Elvis died in 1977... 28 years ago today....

2005-08-16T23:46:00.000+01:00

'A wreck adrift, until we lay tethered by names in the cemetery.
A requiem for Love battling against the tide.

To never take a fearless dive is only for the coward.
To never try to reach beyond fear is something I don’t know.'

Stanza from Sapphire - Aspiration: 27th April 2001

Sunlit Future

2005-08-07T21:51:00.000+01:00

[...For Father's everywhere, who are not deadbeat Dad's and genuinely make sacrifices for their children...]

Whenever the child called Biscuit tugged at the small string that opened her window blinds,

she knew that not only did she let the sunshine light up her room

which was at the top of the attic where she slept,

but that it immediately sent a message like a telegraph wire across the Universe.

A whisper across Time, that opened the portholes on a special ship at sea

and allowed the red kisses

that she painted onto her lips with mothers lipstick...

smother the lonely sailor's ruddy cheeks,

whilst he was lying on his hammock dreaming of being with his true love,

despite the girls who followed him in ports around the world he only had eyes for one...

His heart strings were tugged by invisible strings...
Her vision was an illumination in the slopes of his soul,

Her form and shadow were glimpses he sensed as he turned corners

round the cobbled roads of each port town he traversed...

Someplace he had already felt her close by, but whenever he turned to look, he was alone...

With his hands crossed behind his head and looking up to the ceiling of the cabin,

He watched a small red and metallic black spidar that had shared his journey that entire trip...

Beside his hammock hanging from the ceiling was a small ramekin within a hanging basket of grass,

Inside which was a small seed that would grow into a red blossom -

He felt within it the stirrings of all his hopes and desires...

...and he wanted this to be the gift for this girl that he felt sure he would ...

soon... very soon...

meet...

and then he would yawn...

and sleep... sleep.... sleep...

to dream.

....For Biscuit was sending her Father to be before she was born ..

her invitation to Be...

her Mother's true beau...

Love me a Little... Shoot!

2005-08-06T13:25:00.000+01:00

Anon... painted this lemon golden blossom tree with it's exposed roots ..... on the day that the tree called 'Little Shoot' ... decided to uproot and move ... closer towards it's love ..... a beautiful ... small broken winged rooster ... who it adored ... for the Rooster, was its beloved first true love, after many centuries of waiting ...

The Rooster... could not soar or fly due east... nor could it sing ... well not like the humble nightingale ... nor could it produce it's own perfection from stumbling beginnings like those of the aloof swan...
.
... Yet the Rooster was ... enthralling, proud, and majestic ... it was fearless when the dawn broke ... and it was gloriously passionate, for when Little Shoot, watched the rooster in his romances ... the Rooster would be enticingly dramatic...

Little Shoot watched this fowls uncommitted entanglements from when the sun rose, to nightfall... She yearned for him, but the Rooster only scratched the roots and pecked at the insects and beetles and soft maggots that furrowed at Little Shoot's bark...

When the night fell... Little Shoot rustled her leaves to provide a soft bedding for the Rooster whose abrupt determination was also his downfall, for many a time, he was entangled amongst the roots and struggled to release himself from Little Shoots delicate stirrings and rustlings...

For her love was young, and despite such gentle intentions towards softness, always such was her harsh exterior that evidence of his frequent visits, his expendable, replaceable amours: their fallen feathers and energy in the form of pebble coloured eggshells, would be found mixed with fallen soil sodden petals torn from her branches.

The Rooster had broken his wing when he had attempted to extricate himself from her winding limbs... where the branches were as torn as his feathers...His blood stained feathers would be found staining fallen petals, that also appeared to glisten amber...from her tears.

His solar spun gold chicks would chirp prettily as they awaited his return for each morning without his throaty call the sun stayed captive in the expansive cloudy embrace of the blue gowned goddess of the night......

Already one assertive chick was emulating it's father's cry... and waiting for it's own morning glory...

The petals waved softly, petals that beckoned the butterflies to flutter Little Shoots whisper through the air on a wing and with them; hopes for a way to embrace the Rooster.

And then it happened...

The warm moist grubs that wriggled invitingly half hidden glistening in the warm glowing lemon gold sunshine wiggled their torso's at the Rooster ... His saliva warm and his unsatiated anticipation were faught off as his limited agility rooted to stop him literally collapsing with sheer joy into the bed of marshmallow maggots....

Deeper he scratched and pecked his delicious harvest of worms, as the curvature boughs of the tree welcomed him, leaves that were warm and moist tenderly enveloped his feathers, smoothing them and gentle branches, embracing him as he with fixed determination dove into the earth soil, mossy recesses.... Leaves that were scented with the blossoms perfume, and covered in pollen dust...The sap glistening like tears that had been forgotten in the Spring daylight.

Deeper he searched and pecked away vigorously at the emerging soft juicy bodies that squelched and barely crushed beneathe his toes, and none escaped not even those half hidden by the gently shifting roots...

As the roots slowly moved aside for him and the breeze that lifted his silver grey feathers, the air carried butterflies like tissue confetti fluttering to surround him and whisper ... whisper....whisper... 'This way... this way...' So his clawing toes found softness, and easy passage in the earthy openings... between harsh roots and tubers that were splintered from age...and atrophy.

The lemon gold blossom fell like silky confetti over his shoulder, and he fluttered his wings almost like his cousin the copper Phoenix from the East plateaux... wishing to soar out of these embers of lemon amber petals. The broken wing on the mend, he was ready to try to fly...

Beneath his clawed feet, he felt the earth invitingly warm, and soft, surprisingly moist, and with the smell of rain in the air, he felt himself shiver subconsciously with the memory of other warm, sticky thunder days...

By...... stanzas... from Love me a little .... Shoot!

August 6th 2005

Anticipation

2005-08-02T21:43:00.004+01:00

Art Quote

"Great artists are people who find the way to be themselves in their art. Any sort of pretension induces mediocrity in art and life alike."

Margot Fonteyn

This photo was provided by my Friends Sean and Beatriz, who are the subjects of an essay about Taurians on this website.

It was taken in London, more on this soon (when their little daughter tells me the story of this building as she is had to do a project for school, and her version is the best one... I will explain where you can go to experience this, if you do not already recognise it).

At any rate, it reminds me of a shell's inside the photo makes it appear almost flat... and then of course you realise how deep it spirals. I have so many friends who have contemplated a spiral staircase in their homes, how different it appears to them to make them appear... how 'cool will they look' to others... and how impressed others will be with this difference... As if a spiral staircase will imbue levels of spiralling depths to their otherwise materialistic square angles.

Then how puffed up and sweaty, they do appear when they have to try and get a double mattress up the stairs... or a dressing table... and let's not forget a new bath room tub!

I love the way that this staircase reminds me of imaginative, conscientious Hitchcock films, and there is a kind of exaggerated twist to it, that makes me think of the nursery rhyme... 'There was a crooked house...'

Or a man that decided to climb it when he was four years and as he climbed with stinging knuckles, from which his wedding ring slipped back down to chime like a small falling bell ringing as it disappeared below, whilst he disintegrated to become the final step where his bones crumbled like talc. At each turn he abandoned his secrets in captivity, and only his soul climbed the final steps to Xanadu.

It reminds me of the silver embroidered spirals that were intricately woven and sown into a stunning pale orchid green white, organza cushion, which alway tempted me to sleep, only to wake up and discovered my face was indented with it's sharp imprint, and scratched from the sequins...

Giddy, twists and swivels.... anticipating each turn, and awakening the senses as the smells change from the dark damp to the fresh smog of London as you reach the top...glinting sunlight, through the cracks in an old oak door.

Then a single spidar web thread that faded up into the clouds, through the dark rich...Pthalo blue sky, although it was tied to the door handle, and at the other end a god's aching tooth was waiting to be pulled.

It reminds me of how inneficient such a staircase is for actually it is many times longer to travel along ... when it is convoluted like this, coiled like the inside of a snake, perhaps it is Shiva's snake...

Yesterday morning, for the first time in my life I had a spectacular vision, or dream or something else that I cannot define in words... That beautiful, elegant Shiva awoke and bathed in the Ganges, and as he washed his face, in the perfect stillness of the river which was absolutely still as if frozen — around him, and yet only where he dipped his face... it changed colour to burnished gold and white silver until he lifted his face out of the water and shook his head dry... Yet everyplace else it rushed with renewed passion. From his coiled hair at the top of his head, there was a silver sliver of water cascading down past his eyebrow and as it fell it become more fierce, and as it reached his waist it was as if a faucet was turned on hard. As it fell into the water around him the colour changed to liquid silver, gold all the colours of metals heated white...

On the banks beside him was a giant king Cobra... (My father always dreamt of snakes throughout his life as a young man, and always told us of his recurrent dream)...

A snake who opened his mouth once he had paid homage with gentle humility to our God, and this was what Shiva showed me inside the Snake... I was instructed by Shiva (he put out his hand in its direction as if showing me the way) to walk into it, and within the coiled staircase, my feet which were bare, felt the saliva of the snake eroding the sins of my worldly transactions, physical, emotional, material and past memory, as I did so I felt myself slide down the remainder which was uncurled and out to the sea... I landed softly, with my feet ahead of me there on a small white sand beach. I felt myself sitting cross-legged with my knees close to my shoulders, where I could see each kneecap.

I saw Shiva's smile across the fierce tangerine golden horizon, it stretched across the entire sky, it's edges of golden pink slivers and silver ... and thought it was fine to be the small child I appeared to be, for my knees which have many scars from battles past were entirely healed, so I must have been under four, since from that point onwards the permanent lifelong scars appeared... Scars that I carry with a slight vanity and pride I am afraid. I knew then that there was an after-life or some call it reincarnation, that it would come and it was inescapable. I knew that those who were released into that phenomena, could not fathom it prior to it, and no matter how many deaths one experiences in Life that moment which will come is itself the greatest secret and mystery we discover for ourselves.

I discovered what UG couldn't find in his own lifetime, either the first or the second...
You can obsess about enlightenment or intellectualise via academic disciplines and search many lifetimes but all of it is man's need to make sense of 'non'-sense... And possibly dismissal of what cannot be understood. In the moment when I was standing before Shiva, and the direction I was given, and then the rebirth, and then the experience without ever having saught enlightenment directly, or indirectly, and then discovering only the phenomena was profound, it was simply nothing to do with the religions that have mystified us away from what really is God. I simply understood what lies ahead of me, and my own affinity with GOD. Enlightenment does not change you, yet the clarity that defines you, reconstructs you - if you are an idiot you become a defined idiot... if you were an aetheist, upon enlightenment, your atheism becomes more deeply ingrained and defined... If you were questioning the existence of God then enlightenment leaves you more bewildered... It is like this, if you were a seed with a destructive seed within it, then the sun would allow you to blossom as a poisonous flower... Enlightenment is purely a moment of sunshine. Every thinking being has enlightening experiences, most individuals do not define it as such nor look for any special meaning within... We leave that to the 'artists, (such as I) philosophers, and spiritual academics... etc'.

What I know is that when U.G Krishnamurti, will go over to the 'other side', everything became will become clear and most of all the existence of God. Though he will then have no opportunity to share this. In his second awakening he was given every chance to see the miracle of life, and what he discovered fell far short of a miracle it became semantical discourses defining the meanings and motivations of living, and dying, futilities of questioning and most of all his narratives of beautiful systematic logic. He himself lived an austere life witnessing many unusual experiences or events. When his own body carried the wounds of those he clear loved, he offered no explanation other than pointing to the wounds.

I like all those who can love - find it easy to love him through the words I read of him and the direct communication with one who was living with him at the time being a witness to his life.

He always appears to me a child prodigy, who has discovered mathematics and the logics that drive it, and then can relate everything back to such logic. It is simply a beautiful construction and deconstruction of what is in the mind. In his mind, he has discovered his own thinking system, at times crabby, and insolent to the rest of the world, yet in private always respectful of those vulnerable individuals who seek refuge to him. He is superb in both his defiance but also his love of being surrounded by 'questioners/seekers', who he may lightly rebuke with love, humour. I wish it had been him instead of me who had experienced 'Shiva'.

God loves us unconditionally, only the very few love God in return unconditionally requiring nothing more than purely being, that is the true purpose of man. 'I think therefore I am', therefore resonates clearly as what 'being' actually means.

What if a tower and staircase were made entirely of ice, like a palatial ice castle, in Iceland... imagine how breathtaking it would be to climb it's slippery sides, in anticipation of seals that may have been above or below smiling back at you, with their beautiful eyes.

It reminds me of a sombre, isolated lighthouse inside... when the Triffids were a horrific alien plant that was about to be overthrown by the ocean's salty composition.... I feel as if life is often a battle with the Triffids, and yet we were always surrounded by spiritual consciousness, devoid of any ritualistic 'smoke and mirrors', bullshit, but clear, beautiful serenity and yes there is a purpose... Not as one devoid of hope but one of just BEING receptive to God. Not in a religious way that manifests itself with pleading prayer, but by a simple comprehension that we are required to exist purely to express ourselves and therefore, to discover the self for ourselves.

Yul: Reborn

2005-07-22T14:15:00.000+01:00

Michelangelo Buonarroti's sketch of the muscular back of a Male... The energy of life's vitality...

A friend of mine, who has his own business as well as being a Fitness Instructor, has the walk of panther: Yul Brynner, and is one of the most reliable friends I have at present. He is an entrepreneur, and smart! He efficiently responds to problems and issues with a systematic, intelligent, objective approach, worthy of any business manager. His approach to fitness (one of his many talents) is the same. He has a musical rythmn to his personality that is pure Salsa, that same kind of rumba beat, seems to bounce off him. He smiles softly, slowly with a gracefullness that belies his inner strength. His appreciation of beauty in women is on many levels, he does not fall into superficial appearances, nor is he easily manipulated, he attracts women from all backgrounds, and levels of emotion or intelligence.

When I asked him to keep me posted on his life, he ensured he rang me without fail every New Years Eve or Xmas, wishing me best wishes ... he then consistently has remained my platonic friend since I met him almost 4 years ago.

I am writing about him because every now and then you see someone whatever their personal activities, or the complexities in their relationships, their personal treatment of you is such that you feel they have depth and comprehension immediately.

George is one of those people, he is a Taurian, with skin the colour of polished coppery dark amber, and with a beautifully articulated voice, but then this is something I really love about Taurians, their voices always resonate within me.

I met him when I started doing is indoor cycling classes at the Marriot Hotel in my area, I did 5 classes per week with him every week, I think I only missed a handful over the two years he was my instructor.

He was incredibly polished in his approach and he had many a female swooning over him, and one or two going insane over him!

Meantime, he introduced me to his stunning sisters, and his mom, as well as his beautiful daughter who reminded me of myself when I was her age, she went swimming with my nephew, who looked after her and was a complete little gentleman, due to his parents always maintaining an intelligent hold over his antics as he has the machinations of a major-general, and has all of us in his power, thanks to his unbreakable closeness to my Mother: his BEEJEE! (Asian term of endearment for Grandmothers)....

Well George's mom has the face of an angel, she is softly natured, kindly and kissed me warmly when I met her. His little girl, a beautiful regal child, shy, reserved, ladylike: let me hug her and had a warmth that reminded me of her grandmother. His sisters are strong, capable and a force to be reckoned with concerning any men that they have in their power, because these are lionesses!

George, will call me at least monthly, when he meets me, he is so easy to be around, so kindly, so generous and his attentiveness reminds one of old worldly manners. He is gracious, softly spoken yet can create laughter in a few moments with his take on situations which is hard hitting when he chooses to be!

I am so glad we are friends, because when he gives you a hug, it is full of the power of a well-built bull! He is muscular, and lives up to his reputation of being a lady-killer because eyes are upon him. When you compliment him, he takes it entirely in his stride, and he has no vanity in how he presents himself. He literally takes your breath away in a suit because he is polished and impeccable, there is nothing gaudy or arrogant about his persona.

Now my brother always looks fresh, in fact last night, despite a hot heaving day, my brother walked into my Mom's with the freshness of a man who had left that morning. His shirt is perfectly tucked into his suit pants, and he smells as great as when he leaves for work...

Now George is similar, whatever time of day you see him his self pride in his appearance is such that two words come to mind: self-assured, and polish.

I wanted to write a short piece on a friend who encouraged, believed and then invested time in me. Someone who helped me achieve more than I could have without him, and with his help, love and good will, I continue to feel I have a solid ally in my life battles.

I dedicate this piece to him, knowing how humble he is and how he has never once asked for anything in return from me, not even friendship.

I think he is quite remarkable and honestly, I believe that until he is eighty, I will get these lovely phonecalls, where he just is open to listening to me, pays me soul-felt compliments which are always quite special because he delivers them with an earnest honesty, that you cannot help but feel he meant what he said. I genuinely feel on top of the world when he smiles at me and says I am beautiful, or wonderful, yes I know it is superficial but so what!! He makes me feel great about myself on days when like everyone else I am thinking I need to overhaul my ego!

Anyway, if you are looking for a property management consultant - who can also kick your lazy ass into shape with a diligence and patient air of ego-less concern for you, then he is your man!

When you see him, say Hy from me!

George Aird, Fitness Instructor & Business Development Consultant:

Please sign my Guestbook and make a request, I will pass on your details, if you would like to consult with him, he is based at London, and can cover home counties.

Chilled... my friend Mark

2005-07-18T15:45:00.000+01:00

A person had a nose blead and began leaking profusely by the side of the swimming pool, at the Hotel, everyone panicked, and put in their pennyworths. Advice flowed from every quarter, (at a distance, as most people in the vacinity were squeemish).

Luckily I was no where in the area, because had I been I would have quietly hidden my CPR badge, and faked fainting so that I did not have to administer first aid in a situation that involved body fluids!

Mark, a Cancerian, handsome, with beautiful golden brown eyes, and babysoft perfect skintone: the senior resident Fitness Coach, and Sports Therapist extraordinaire, at the Marriot; (judging from his clients responses) was calm ... as always cool in the eye of the storm.

But then that is Mark... he is chilled, (Luther Van Dross passed away recently, well Mark epitomises the soft sensuality of this artists music)!

He reminds me of Steve McQueen - if Steve had mixed race parents, then Steve McQueen was the same physical muscular appearance to Mark.

Mark has a stunning sister, Michele, she is younger and she is as fit as he is, she is athletic, very humble and like Mark, just like beautiful amber, they both glow with the aura of gentle strength and kindness. She twinkles with laughter behind her eyes, and is quick to pay me a compliment and graciously receive one. She said to me once, she could not believe that her brother was so highly respected by so many different age groups, then she laughed and said, that actually she was not surprised because he is like that all the time.

Mark has a way of handling situations that belies his age, since he is in his twenties and quite frankly, he has wisdom beyond his years.

When I recently spoke to George my friend who is Yul Brynner reborn ... well he said the same thing that everyone person who meets Mark says about him... 'Mark, oh he is wonderful, he is a fantastic friend/collegue/support system...'

My mother when she 'saw' him in her way, said, 'I see this beautiful young man, he moves through people with a gentle knowing, and is so honest, and sincere that he wins friends effortlessly.' She said that I was lucky to consider him my friend, because Mark was one of those individuals in Life, that takes his time to select those he considers important to him, but once he is won over, he is a friend for life. I have known him for four years!

I wanted to write about him to hold him up as an inspiration to other young men who in a time when there are so many lecherous creepy guys around: those who have fallen into a way about them where they think it is okay to be a lout or a beer swilling Lad. He is someone who builds the respect of others around him because of his ability to be such a comfort to those that need him without considering each opportunity to meet people as a means to self-promote.

At the gym, there are always the odd trainers, or would be fitness instructors who walk around presenting themselves with the self-promoting, self-serving vanity that is part and parcel of the fitness industry. Mark is the exact opposite!

Like George, Mark has a graceful predisposition towards other's who are less fortunate and do not have the health or physical attributes that these two men have.

I have never heard him boast, show off or show any kind of harshness in any of his transactions. His soft brown eyes look straight at you, and he seems to have an uncanny sense of comprehension of pain, or fear, or uncertainty that he answers these unspoken needs with behaviour that is entirely appropriate to the situation. I consider him a commensurate peacemaker. However this is not to say that he is in anyway a soft touch... He watches and observes situations, and people characteristics with the patience of a dolphin. He knows who needs guidance and he leads you to safety in the same way that dolphins lead fishermen to the safety of the rock free coastline.

Anon: painted Japanese blue willow boat...

Whenever I see him I have an overwhelming need to hug him, he brings out the most affectionate feelings in people who know him and his judgement is unclouded, he isn't woolly or vague, he states his views clearly, and he embraces loyalty and devotion and appreciates hard work in the same way that he in an understated way, lives these ethics himself.

He is generous with his time and patient, he allows you the dignity of knowing that he has listened and cares about your feelings.

I will put up his profile in more detail once I have it, but if you are in Berkshire or surrounding areas of the U. K, and need a sports therapist, or Gym instructor, please sign my guest book and I will speedily forward your interest to his private e-mail. In the meantime, watch this page... It doesn't quite fulfil my need to show how much he means to me as a friend and support system for Mark is one of my heroes, and I love him!

Mark Hokan BSc (hons)Sports Fitness and Therapy

If nothing works - then do nothing!

2005-07-17T19:29:00.000+01:00

A man called Christo’ Clarke remains fresh in my memory as if I saw him yesterday.

Somewhere in the USA is this Librian (the sign of the scales of justice), who became a Muslim and changed his name to Mohammad El Gharbu.

He was my best friend when I studied my Law degree, and he had completed the same course and was in the year above. Like most relationships we lost touch with each other so invisibly that it happened without my realising it. A couple of years after completing his degree, he sent me a picture of his new son, enclosed in a letter saying, words to the effect, "... don't fall off your chair, you may need to be sitting down, I know I haven't written since the honeymoon, but I have news for you, I enclose a picture of our son..."

I did sit down; then I burst out laughing aloud; a bonny beautiful boy: an extraordinary likeness to the man who for 4 years until his visa forced him back to the States had without exception been my best friend. He had lived up to his religious beliefs and saved himself for his wedding day, quite unusual for any man, and I couldn't help but admire his resolution, conviction and his commitment to his new found Muslim faith. He had never spoken of love or romance when we were Friends, because a far more exigent event had overtaken his path whereby Friendships rather than romances had enveloped him.

The way that I met him was quite usual, and then again, perhaps it wasn't.

I love perfume, cologne, and aftershave and can discriminate between a past love's aftershave and any other person in the universe. This comes from years of being around a brother and father who did not allow a day to pass without splashing it on.

I have always sprayed my linen with rose, but my mother's dressing table had beautiful glass vials, and bottles of scents... in fact she became an aromatherapist after retiring. When we were little she would spray Eau d'cologne, its lemony fresh fragrance would make us feel finished. Then thanks to Avon, there were all those unusual names and flowery scents, from Lilly of the Valley, to Charisma, and Peach for little girls.

Well, I was walking down a corridor with the bright November cold sunlight pouring into the hall and as I approached the three steps to where the classrooms for my seminar were, I decided to trot down the wooden ramp, in precarious high heel boots, that was placed there for wheelchairs. My heels grinded down the ramp, and I steadied myself on the banister, whilst reading my mail, just picked up from my pigeon-hole.

I was half-listening with my attractive, tall friend Sarbjit (an Asian girl who would secretively marry an older businessman in Canada within 2 years and have a beautiful family of I think 4 children at the last count), to another student, prettier than the pair of us, (we were unsympathetic, faking interest) whining about the latest drama in her unrequited romance with a typical college 'jock/heel'; a long line in succession for her... and all of a sudden I smelt it.

An aftershave that set off my wheel-spin on a heel, half-swivel and with nose upturned I walked back up the stairs next to the small ramp and almost in a dream state, said very clearly to my girl friends, "Wow, what was that scent, it is gorgeous, where is he - the owner?"

I had to know what it was, and I had to ask the person who wore it!

Just as quickly the scent disappeared and left me standing looking foolish. Sarbjit caught up with me, and asked what happened.

I shrugged, and I followed her down the hall she was about three rooms away from mine, she was studying Social Work. She pointed vaguely in the direction of the canteen, but we had no choice but to get to our classes.

The scent stayed in my mind, for about half an hour.

The morning passed uneventfully, and I became waylaid from my fellow students eventually realising that I was alone in the library. The corridors heavily silent, and even the study areas were unusually quiet; I thought how dark everything seemed.

I could see my own reflection in the windows as I walked down a long corridor where one side was all glass. Unlike everyone else, I never did jeans, I wore forties style suits, with different berets, or felt hats or twenties style frocks, silky slips, for the evening, with little fur stoles: just a phase for me. I wore gloves with everything, whatever the season.

The black night outside was poorly lit, and every so often someone well wrapped would pass the other side hurriedly trying to get into the warmth.

Grimshaw's meloncholy and moody... View of London's Heath Street by Night, 1882...

I remember to this day that I had an eerie feeling of something unusual about to happen: call it premonition.

I felt the shudder of a draught that caught my breath as I walked passed an open window in an area where the air-conditioning was irregularly closeted, and stuffy. Then I wandered down a dark corridor towards my next seminar, where some of the strobe lights were flickering. Already winter was making each evening shorter and at 4 o'clock, it was jet black outside, like harbour lights, old style street lamps lit the pathways as students fumbled their way in the darkness.

I was about 20 minutes early to the room I was due to have a seminar in, and wished I didn't live so far away. I couldn't slip home to an old mansion that was being converted into luxury condos but some of the rooms including an old cottage attached to it were being rented to students. It was almost 10 miles away, north of Hoddesdon, Herts. Most of the other first year freshmen could slip across the field into their student lodgings or halls of residence, but I was a last minute entry, choosing the place for it's visual value rather than it's scholastic history, and I had slept on a friend's floor the first term, she delighted in locking me out or leaving unexpectedly for the weekend and purposely not telling me.

I walked into the room, and then I noticed a tall man, around 6ft 4", he was the twin double of Marc Singer (noted for 'V' the sci-fi series, "V: The Second Generation” currently in production).

A tall cool blonde, with a thoughtful philosophical aura about him, I felt the second I laid eyes on him that he was an inspired discovery.

His opalescent quality was that despite how graceful he was he had strong sinewy muscles from hours of basketball practice in the hall on his own. I would know his walk anywhere, anytime.

Suddenly, meditative memories subtle but a puzzle coming together in your mind, I now recalled him. He played for the seniors and left the hall just moments before I arrived to practice with the (male) freshmen. My game plan better suited the boys, so most of my sports were around them, rather than the girls. I remembered I used to smell the same scent then but with a dozen young men leaving together it was difficult to detect the source. Only once before had I really smelt him so vividly, and clearly, even then we did not look into each other’s eyes. He was dribbling a ball, then as he came close towards me with his buddies, he quickly snatched it up, so that it did not hit me, he appeared so tall and distinctive, and yet apart; even in that crowd.

I recalled that many times when I was alone in the library so was he, usually he was seated at right angles to where I sat, the tables were placed rather irregularly, and angles made a difference to your vantage point of observation. At college, romance is a driver that ensures everyone wants to see who is around and where. I would be aware that he watched me but didn’t move his head, walk between the aisles but that as he was so deeply restrained and appeared so cool and distant, I never tried to catch his eyes.

If anything I was remotely distancing myself from coming anywhere near his space. Something made me feel he needed his territory, and I had always tiptoed around ‘it’, shyly as if there were a minefield around him.

I am sure everyone has known someone like him - that elusive man in the corner, watchful without appearing imposing or harsh. He always appeared to look indifferent to me, nonchalant and laid back. Someone that intrigues you because calculative intensity is burning icily in their eyes but they have no agenda.

I remembered him clearly now he always had a basketball with him or was spinning a tennis ball on his index finger. Sometimes in the canteen I would hear his laughter, a deep voice, his head thrown back, and an easy gaze. He would always be sat open legged a way back from the table, just resting his elbow on the corner edge, being tall, as many men with his height do, finding that the furniture was too low and his legs too long for it.

He looked up, and smiled softly, a half-smile, that matched mine, when I told him I had a class there, and asked if it was okay if I sat down and waited. He said it was fine, in an American accent, which was languid and easy on the ear. I shuffled between the closely placed chairs past him (to sit a little way behind him feeling rather self-conscious) clutching my books in front of me, and twisting myself between the spaces. As I did, my shoulder bag caught his open book and knocked it off the swing-table attached to the chair, and it fell, I turned and we both reached for it. For the first time ever, both of our eyes caught each other soul deep.

In that one second, I saw my new Friend.

He reached the book before I did, and said, "That is okay, I got it".

Then I smelt him; I went to sit down waited a moment then summed up the courage to speak to him. I asked slowly, if he had walked past the ramp at such and such a time that very morning. He paused, without looking around at me, he instead looked up towards the ceiling and said, "Yep, my-lady, I did, and I saw you too".

I burst out loud, said, "Oh no, I didn't see you, I smelt you, what have you got on, it simply took my breath away!"

He turned and smiled, paused and then replied, "Ahem, today, it’s Kouros!"

I said, "I knew it, but it smells different on everyone else but you! AND you know what, I am having a deja vu!"

He now turned himself around and we introduced ourselves, and realised that we had similar interests. Eventually people started drifting into the class, and I introduced him to the ones that I was already close to. We arranged to meet an hour later and spend the evening together with two friends in tow. By his feet next to his rucksack was his basketball.

Who doesn't have magical friendships, or meetings that direct the course of one's life, sometimes when he spoke I was keenly conscious that he was speaking to me but I was simply in awe of him, and dimly aware that I was nodding, but not understanding, it felt as if I was absorbed by the rapturous glimpse into his soulful depths.

One thing for sure the way that you meet friends at school or college cannot be duplicated in real life or at work. I think it is because first of all, work relationships can be fraught with social and moral issues, such as the fact that you may be a manager and therefore it can be a sensitive issue, or maybe the man is married and he is weak and over sensitive about others talking, so he appears furtive if he takes you a female to lunch. I mean there are so many issues at stake.

At school, or at college it is perfectly natural to wander around in groups or couples whatever your intimacy it is a normal social convention. Past those times and any platonic friendship may be open to scrutiny in a way that is more about the person judging it than the friends within it's healthy boundaries.

Chris and I would speak to each other daily, 'He would start with, 'what can I do for you today, milady?’ I would giggle, then we would rearrange our lives around each other’s seminars and lectures, whilst he was around, and I felt on top of the world. I actually had for the first time in my life someone I could look up to as my big brother, something I had never experienced because I was the eldest child in my family, and I pretty much adopted him and assured him of that place.

I felt like a puppy around him, I looked up to him and I adored him. He listened intently to me and without judging me he would arrange to pick me up at the drop of a hat and make sure I got home safely, or he would help me to move when my search for a newer place led me to another old manor in Bengeo, that was beautiful, and its residents treated me as one of their own, they were the Savorys. The lady of the manor was one of the last original Debutantes, she bowed to the 'Queen Anne or was it Charlotte' cake. She was a stunning blonde voluptuous beauty from New Zealand that had to have sheep roaming her beautiful grounds, so she could feel her old farmland roots.

Whenever together Chris, the king of one-liners would quip something quite cool, "don't just eavesdrop Sapphire - contribute to the conversation!"

Or, when I wrote in my by now infamous gothic scrawl, on a notice board, 'Nothing works!' below it, he took my pen and finished it thus-> "If nothing works - do nothing!"

Chris had five close friends, all were Muslims, and they had been at school together at the American School in London; for around 7 years they are hung out together. Most of them were the bluebloods of Arab society; one of them had parents who owned hotels in swanky London's most affluent corners.

The year after I met him, he was supposed to go up north with the others to one of the guy's female cousin's weddings. He mentioned it to me, but it was so close to exams for us, that we had decided against it. They had decided to drive up together but at the last moment Chris and one of his friends had stayed behind, because of term papers.

Fate led a drunk driver: snaking carelessly in the inside lane to swing over to hit the boot of Chris's friends car, sending it careering across the lanes into a disastrous collision with other vehicles. All four young men in the car would as a result of that fatal accident, either at the time or within days of it be gone.

Chris withdrew, and I assumed he was inconsolable and grief stricken. No-one knew but for about 3 weeks I couldn't find him.

One night, he turned up at my home, he pulled on the stringy nylon rope that I had dropped from my window (I was on the 4th floor of this old manor), and the small bell on the end of the rope chimed. I leapt up, opened my window and looked down across the turrets. It was dark around 11ish, and I strained to see Chris leaning back and just in the small old type lantern I could see his new beard.

I was so excited and worried, I felt a sickly feeling, I wasn't sure how he would be, and I was an emotional coward when it came to handling other people grieving, or suffering, back then I wanted to avoid such painful recollections with every ounce of my tactical manoeuvres for flight.

I ran down, I was in my pyjamas, it was a cold fresh Spring night, and I had fuchsia pink marabou feathered mules (slippers) on, and a dressing gown that was fluffy, which made me feel like a Hollywood Starlet. This coat was very long and went passed my ankles and it was a stunning aqua shade. My hair had been cut into a bob, a style I favour every 10 years of having very long hair: and I quickly put a turban/towel around it as I had just washed it.

When I saw him I gave him a huge hug, he looked tired and gaunt and he looked as if he had hardly slept, his chin had a slightly styled beard and his blonde hair looked freshly washed too, but then he always looked fresh and he always smelt wonderful...

He asked if I would like to come for a drive, I said "Wait, give me a moment". He came inside and quickly, I went through the same routine that I had followed from when I first met him, I put together a hot flask of cocoa, and grabbed some cookies, wrapped in a napkin.

We avoided each other’s eyes, as if spontaneous self-expression may have exposed the most painful wound, so control was vital.

“Oh this is for you”. He smelt comfortingly familiar that evening. He handed me a strangely unusual handmade mug, (I collect tea cups and saucers particularly ancient ones)...I quickly re-potted a small cacti inside it, that I had been given for Xmas; I have it to this day, with the same cacti.

"Okay, I am ready". I left the damp towel, and slipped on a bright cherry red beret. We went out, me: just as I was, no key as there was one hidden in the plant pot. I have repeated this scenario ever since with friends, to me going out in my pyjamas is perfectly acceptable. I do not consider it strange, if anything it is fun, if the events call for it, and as long as I have a dressing gown over the top and slippers, I think I feel adequately garbed.

If a friend called me out on a mercy mission at night, I would go out just like that, if I felt like it, it started back then with Chris.

We walked over to his car, the chocolate cookies melting in my napkin. He opened the door, he always did that, and the music that was playing was his favourite 'REO SPEEDWAGON'. I watched him walk around to the back of the car, and take out a tartan blanket from the boot and bring it over to put across my knees, "The car hasn't sufficiently warmed up' he said.

I started chatting to him, I knew he didn't want to talk that he was an insomniac and had been for many years, that he just wanted the company, and that his soul was infinitely alone.

He never once questioned my stream-consciousness dialogue, he never one asked me to pause or chose to interject, he had the infinite patience of all truly lonely souls.
He was what I imagined Hermes, to look like, the God of communication and charm.

Where I like to develop themes, ideas, and creatively pursue a point that has interested me, he liked to make simply constructed thoughtful stunningly crafted statements. The power and precision in his support for a friend were immediate, like many Librians that I have known he liked balance, calm and tranquil endeavours. He loved beauty and he was composed with an air of polished possessed serenity. I always considered that he had the charming look of an elegant, regal stag.

I just talked, drying my hair as we drove along in his dashboard heat; and his jaw appeared tense, his eyes fixed on the lane ahead. His grief was frozen in self-imposed silence. Eventually he stopped by a small gas station, he filled up, his breath smoky, creating a mist around his face, and he went in and came back out with a chocolate 'walnut whip' for me. As he closed the door behind him, I shuddered as he brought in the cold with him, and I could feel the cold around his body, even as I sat about a foot away. I shuddered, and pulled up my knees, so that my socks were off the car floor and I was curled on the seat. He reached over and covered my toes with the end of the blanket.

Albert Bierstadt Painted the Beautiful Forest 'Dogwood, USA'.

"Oh, I have cookies too", I said, "Okay", he replied, it was the first time I had a chance to really look at him. Three weeks had changed him, it was subtle, and his face appeared lined with grief, his eyes looked bright and urgent, and his shoulders seemed heavy with the enormity of his personal comprehension of loss.

We drove to a small lake that was close to our college, and we just sat there with the car switched off, and I poured the cocoa, around us were couples or friends just like us. Students just sitting around listening to music or treating it as a safe haven for romance, it was a known watering hole day or night for hanging out. Mainly due the gas station next to it, that was open all night.

We both grinned at each other, (in my case nervously, because I was unsure of the words that one used to comfort such a loss) as most of the cars surrounding the lake were misty. We could hear different music in the surrounding cars, and it made it even more eerie, almost ghostly being there. Across the lake the stunning building was well lit and looked like a large wedding cake.

Then he talked, he told me what had happened and the shock of losing everyone in one go. How he felt guilty that he was alive when they were not, and that he couldn't believe that part of his life had simply vanished, and that he wasn't able to do a thing a bout it. His father was one of Washington's most senior officials at a prestigious bank, so Chris had wanted for nothing; his affluent life had been one of comparative ease.

I asked him if he wanted a hug, and he said nothing, his shoulders appeared slumped forward. He looked so sad, forlorn and alone, and his eyes appeared far off, and I felt for the first time since I had known him to be with someone I cared for who was out of reach.

I put my arm around his broad shoulders, and felt him relax; and then I hugged him for a few moments. Then I sat back, broke off the walnut from my walnut whip and I handed it to him. This is a big thing for me to do, as I usually try to steal these from anyone else's. Honestly, I don’t have that great a fascination with food, but every so often I have a favourite and my most possessive side, wishes to safeguard it!

He suddenly looked at it, then he looked at me, and then as if it was the most single important expression in his life, he popped it into my mouth and laughed, I think he saw the pain with which I selflessly was prepared to give it up, (reluctantly). He said, "I will never forget you!"

I felt a sharp knife struck pain of recognition, I knew I felt the same about him. Sometimes it takes a human tragedy for you to recognise the generosity of love others have for you, when they reveal it. Something that suburban comfort takes its time to expose, but more often then not maintains in contrived sobriety.

Then he held my hand and we just sat there and watched the dark shadows and car lights play on the lake.

We talked for a while longer, his infallible grief and cognitive slow withdrawal from superficial relationships complete. Then he drove me home, Chris liked to think and drive, he liked the windy roads of English lanes and we talked about how the roots below ground and the trees branches above ground girdled and touched and wrapped around each other inseparable despite man's efforts to cut his way through the forest to create the journey.

Whenever I had a crush on someone he was the person I confided in, and all those precious moments I had cherished appeared in that second to fade into insignificance.

I long to find him, (I lost touch when my diary was stolen), and recover him, I miss the drives, along long windy lanes, the seasons a scenic backdrop for our dialogue; just chatting and how magical he made my days, the fact that he was the one in control for a change, and that he made events happen without my being the initiator, and usually the one with the plans.

I miss how he would suddenly call me in the middle of the night and say, he needed to talk and then when we were together actually he wanted to listen, because he would always start by saying, "No, you talk, I want to just listen to you, I missed you - you know". He was an exciting person to be around, because he was unpredictable, and he could surprise you anytime, so he left you with the same trepidation that the first stirrings of spring create.

To be told a person has missed you is always such a flattering remark, and when he eventually said what had been on his mind it was always something just like him, about feeling infinitely lonely, and about his spiritual search (not for love) but for himself. I can only pray he found both!

I found his face illuminated by a blaze of inner majesty, where he had this inner burn that just made him appear like a movie god. He was like the head boy that you look up to or if you had a favourite idol then that was he! He told me once that I was attracted to lonely souls because I was not, that I was complete within myself and therefore, what attracted me was the fact that truly lonely souls can never be fulfilled, nor can their psyche's be resolved, and therefore, I felt free around them, uneeded.

A friend of mine called Beth in Bethesda, Maryland, Christo's home town, said to me once, 'Send your messages to the Universe... '

I can only send this message to the Universe, wherever he is now, and whatever he is doing, I always think of him and miss him.

Grimshaw View of the Thames, London by Night 1882-4

Sunbathing Starfish

2005-07-14T10:12:00.000+01:00

'On Eastern shores, frenzied flame-flies, in oriental sage waxed paper lanterns sway. There are sea drenched tennis shoes left astray, by some young fisherman... with a burnt face, under a peacock blue turban, whose eyes light up when he sees starfish glisten in the sand... face up trying to get a suntan....'

.... starfish... blot by my friend's little girl Alexia who is 7, to illustrate the stanza by me above.

I do not have the luxury of being by the beach, in fact I have never seen a starfish alive, only dried, along with sea horses and anemone for decorative purposes.

Someone who has is a young poet with sweetness and light, if you think you really could use some inspirational thoughts for you to reflect on... A site with a delicate charm enjoy the work of Halle Damson...

E:mail A virtual Mecca

2005-07-13T14:28:00.000+01:00

ART Quote
'Life is short, the art long.'
Hippocrates

Remniscence Archeologique De L'Angelus - by Dali

To start, there is something really wonderful when a friend drops into your mail box that is if you have e:mail. If you do not then the best way to explain how it feels is to imagine Fraser's coffee bar, where you hear the most amazing dialogue between Niles and Fraser and their guests... E:mail is like meeting at a coffee shop, that is personally yours. I have experienced the abuse of e:mail, and the wondrous fact that e:mail is allowing so many to have on-line therapy and emotional support as well as bulletins, and missives in a so many ways and at levels you cannot fully fathom.

When you get a great mail over time you do find that you cannot help yourself, just getting rather used to the standard and quality... Of course after a while it can be taken for granted. We make the same mistakes in email that we may do in real life situations face to face, so you can have misunderstandings, fierce rows, wonderful touching moments of inspirations, and sharing to the degree that there are tears because the written word is a powerful tool.

If you get a mail entitled 'for your eyes only'... you cannot help but feel empowered, hopefully you have the integrity to not then flaunt it around the office floor, print it off and distribute it indiscriminately to the 'Greasy Spoon' cafe, during your lunch hour... or make paper aeroplanes and have these fly out of the company windows onto a red topless double decker bus.

More importantly when you are not just bantering, sharing, and generally updating, it can be a fantastic place to brainstorm, offload, and gain understanding support and consider the dynamics of a given situation you are engaged in.

My favourites at work are not jokes which I really find hard work, but visual jokes are different, they are more instant, less demanding. I like it when one of my friends and I set off these minor battle of wits, invective verbal thrusts.

I love the content of the some of the formidable emails I receive from my alliances, if you are from an ARTY background of course then your emails will have that type of content in and if you are focussed on IT, or some other specific subject then your inbox is full of software information or updates or downloads or newsletters….

I think other peoples personal ‘inboxes’ are always more interesting than yours, a scan of their lineup, is always a great indication of the person's identity, are they people-persons or factually data types... do they enjoy a good joke or some seedy picture that they have handed across grubby keyboards, with the same relish as a blue-magasine being handed around the playground, some people are so genuine in their interactions that their emails reflect the same level of personal integrity and it shows in the way that they receive inspirational links or stories and the fact that they too pass these on.

On a couple of occasions my friends have done a screen print to show me the wonderful title lists that they have waiting to read, to the degree that I have almost desired the same…

I do not enjoy using any kind of 'messenger service' though, because I type like a demon, hyper speed, and I have about twenty paragraphs to the other typists two liners... Also, I like in e:mail to go beyond the realms of standard imagination, I like a written pyrotechnic! I like parrying and jousting, thrusting and jabbing, I look forward to a literary email system of feuding, and cutthroat unsentimental (impersonal, objective) wit, that is razor sharp NOT sarcastic. I loathe sarcasm,(which makes me clench my jaw in irritation) I consider it weak, and pandering to the inability to formulate full sentences. It is more often than not just a way of repeating what was heard with a sly intonation that appears despicable and and purely for affect. Lets face it sarcasm is always about a vain, superiority complex.

Of course it is great when they share sizzling personal moments of satisfaction or they are looking for some guidance and this is of course mutual... The ones I respect are the ones that say, 'send me a copy, you can trust me', and then prove they can be when they say, 'I will copy you...' and they do! Those have a wonderful quality of intrigue, excitement and most of all delicious secrecy about them and who doesn’t enjoy the dynamics of social interactions that involve interpersonal relationships and the excitement that people generate because of all their (me included) imperfections, impressions and finally responses…. Some of which are bound to generate more of the same happy chaos!

But there is warning for skylarking in e:mail increasing our literary invection, the 'SEND' button can wreak devastatingly compounded consequences, irreversible havoc: that damage control renders impossible...

Particularly in work environments where you must be highly sensitive and considerate and of course professional but lets face it diplomacy and persuasiveness are qualities that email can make doubly effective, because it can be a training ground to hyper-speed your buddies to be at the level of comprehension or knowledge that is required of them in any given situation. An example was that a friend of mine needed their CV updated, and certain skills refreshed. It took two friends and myself to work on this small project, I updated the CV the other two friends sent up to date material on the Data Protection acts, for the EU, and information security protocols required for the particular project to go offshore, and across continents.

It was fun, for humour is itself a precious asset: and in the moments when we were helping my buddy, it was magic. How did we handle situations that were similar prior to the internet and email, I have to think really hard. When could you send a cv to a company within seconds of a dialogue? When could you respond to an enquiry within minutes of the thought being expressed? I have had piano pieces sent to me, to listen,voice-memos, or newletters that were in themselves white papers on subjects I was wrestling with, and most importantly photos from friends so far away that to wait for the post would have been endless.

Others have unamused intolerance, and can only manage (barely) two lines, their excuse is that 'they do not do e:mail, it is cold, abrupt, impersonal...' However, even if you do not read novels, or literature in hardcopy, when the writer of the email is particularly talented, then the e:mails are themselves artwork, Kenneth Williams would have been beautifully defrosted by some of the e:mail jocularity that I have been a joyful recipient of.

I have taken a deep breath when a friend, Lilly, for example is masterful in e:mail, she is so spiritually sensual when she is talking (always subjective and emotional in her viewpoint) about her passions.

When she writes about her battles she changes into this wide eyed mountain bear, barely sustaining her calmness (non-existent) as she shares her moment of grave despair, it will start sad, then it becomes vibrant and she ends up laughing, because she has suddenly seen the drama.

One of my friends makes a point of forwarding my more wicked blog pages to his collegues and I am flattered that he thinks that they are worth sharing but I am also amazed that he takes the time out to want to because he is in a quite a key role and it is the type of role where you expect him to be number crunching. He highlights a line or two and then appears to hum it in his head, and then repeats it to me later some time later, when we speak, but he has rhymed it into a limerick of sorts. As a child he loved limericks, and Groucho Marx & Mae West along with the great lord of bombastic invective W.C Fields .

When one of his friends asks for my personal email and replies to me on a 'one-to-one' there is a nice feeling between us because I am thinking, 'this person took the time to want to get to know me, this is more significant because it is purely on a level that directs the mind'. When we worked together many moons ago, he would sound off in a Noel Coward urbane manner, some sequence of events that challenged he visuals to take in all the curve balls that were caught... It was like watching a comedy of manners! E:mail was his domain, I was a pupil caught by the whirlwind of his expressions, and moderately self effacing littany.

When you are at your keyboard, and you link to someone you really care about, you feel as if you are a nose away... and almost as if you are whispering to them in a deliciously 'behind your fan', way at theatre, or court: it is quite frankly a civilisation miracle!

Loss Comprehension

2005-07-06T11:37:00.000+01:00

My Uncle Dave died ... a long while back... He was my longest living English Friend, he had known me since I was 7 and he was my neighbour to the family home that we have owned since that time. Whilst my friends at that age of building their interactions in the playground spent time with their other little girlfriends, I spent time with adults, children could not follow my thinking patterns, they considered me bright, and therefore alienated me.

Boys were easy to be around, because of my athleticism, because I found it easy to compete with them, my brother was the reason for this, because his spirit of adventure was so fierce. Now my brother never competed with anyone, he was and remains a standalone man. He sets his own standards. Bearing in mind that my Mom is not in the best of health, she still does a lot for others, whether it is emails or calls, or her numerous visits she is there for those that need her. I found that this approach of hers also affected me, and directed my own actions.

I am considered a close friendly alliance to eight of my neighbours (all different households, all with different nationalities, religions, incomes: like most roads in the world, an eclectic social group) that surround my home, I can go over to them anytime I want a coffee and an 'offloading' chat, we talk over our fences, share our woes, and card/gift-give appreciatively year in year out... One couple look after one of my spare cats that now lives with them, (she was my beautiful sister's cat) and she lived with 2 other neighbours prior to her current 'pets'. In each case it is with elderly neighbours, who passed away before she moved to her next chosen carers. Her name is Plunkett she is a scrappy silver grey tortoiseshell.

My parents brought us up to believe that we could have friends of the opposite sex, and that if we respected ourselves and our friendships we did not sleep with our friends. Seeing their love for each other we learnt that if we were going to date it had to be for the right reasons and that it took strength to be alone and live your life according to solid values that were based around creativity, productivity, and healthy work ethics. We were not allowed to skive off, or take advantage of others without being aware of the penalties that Life would respond with.

Thus, when we brought home friends we never had to justify ourselves or our relationships. This is an important statement which may mean nothing to Westerners but those with an Eastern background will know how significant this statement is where, any Asian Friends I had at that same age, from 7-18 were not allowed to bring home orhang out with for example a black boy, if they were girls. It was rather like West Side Story, which reminded me alot of my early roots with respect to my friends experiences.

What helped me to learn about reliable, genuine, Friends came from my early experiences with adults, not my peer group of children. Since this site is about friendships, those I have come to know and care for, I had to write about him, I wanted for a while now, but sometimes your immediate joys, and woes take precedence and once people have left your life.. Time can place them far behind you.

I moved around at various times, around England, but he and I never lost touch, my family considered him family and spoke to him monthly. Eventually I moved back to our family home to be blessed with him next door again.

He mowed my lawn, his lawn, the elderly neighbours next door to his's lawn, and the lawn at the bottom of his garden of another wonderful neighbour ... who still climbs over two fences to my garden (I bought the house off my parents as a keepsake), when we need an extra hand... Like Dec my neighbours since Uncle Dave died, some of my neighbours have a kindness that cannot be fathomed.

Anon scorched grass

Scorched summers, when the heat is oppressive, he would rest against his spade, wipe his brow, and turn the soil over, as he mixed compost, feed, handled the soil, trying to allow a little moisture to be held by the earth, that could give the delicate shoots a chance.

Anon painting in the rain...

Sometimes I would read him something from a novel I was reading as he conscientiously worked in my garden, I in a deckchair (that he gave me), other times perhaps doing a watercolour, on a frame which would fall over until he fixed it. The picture above reminded me of one I did that I left on it's eisal and when I returned it had rained - just a little - just enough to leave natures ethereal mark.

He leaves his ethereal mark in my Life, the change in seasons reminds me of his consistent attendance of all that he surveyed.

He was like Betcheman ... a simple, beautiful soulful, spring brook, gentle rainfall that left the garden glistening with jewel dew drops and shiny, the same lustre that covered him in frosty mornings when he shared a cup of tea with me leaning on his shovel, with his sweet Highland Terrier, snowball, Tina, or the other little faithful that he adored that came after Tina.

Uncle Dave, (and Aunty June). ... loved me, Graham his only son told me at the time of his funeral that I was the daughter Uncle Dave never had and he told Graham this and Graham told my Mom who attended the funeral with me.

For some reason, when I write about Uncle Dave, I find that of all the people I know, I cannot talk in Adult Speak. For some reason my language appears to find it's simplest level, and its most lucid and transparent course.

Maybe because from when I was safe talking to him over the fence or when he would climb over uninvited but always blessedly loved for doing so, we spoke together in the same soft carefree trickle of affectionate ramblings, with language that he and I had discovered for ourselves, which is here now.

I would share a worry, he would as most Cancerians I have met, resist the temptation to smile, instead he would seriously acknowledge my 'inner-child' concerns, and then he would advise me with a soft whisper.

... 'Uncle Dave, you know, now that I am ten, I have decided that whatever happens, I am going to be a solid citizen, I saw a film called 'It's a Wonderful Life', and that isn't going to be me if I can help it, because I am going to do everything I want to, but you know what, if I have to just be like him, well you know that is okay because I can do that.'

Uncle Dave was the Angel who got his wings, because that is who he looked like!

CLARENCE, for whom when the bell rang, he got his wings...

I have always lived with chimes since seeing that film and because of the anklet silver chains that had tiny bells on that my parents made me wear as an infant because I would run away all the time, and no-one could account for hours of my time apart from my family from the moment I could crawl.

My frustrations would be the same, as were my weaknesses because I wanted to soar and fly and turn the world upside down.

Uncle Dave told me, he liked my approach: after every interesting transaction I had in my world growing up, after each muddied battle or scarring, that I was soaring. He showed me he was proud of me, because rain or shine he would be out in our garden with me, just him and I ... (in my wellingtons, small plastic mac, and wet hair stuck around my face), crouching in the grass, our hands in wet soil, pulling out weeds, and he was kind to leave the weeds that I thought were pretty and wanted to see more of.

I spent about 3 hours a night in some kind of sports practice, as the fastest runner at junior school wearing down my cartilege, and then when we moved to Sheffield for my brother and I to go to a Comprehensive where they stopped giving silver-cups or certificates for winning! But every time I won some new event, competition whether it was a local paper painting event or the interform Table tennis... Whether it was describing my vaulting experiences in gymnastics and my fastest rope climb, and then later the number of upside down sit-ups that I could do like Rocky ...

I just wasn't used to losing, it took time but we all have to face losses, and when they start to direct us towards new challenges, it helps to have someone around to analyse these. So just as I shared my wins, I shared my many losses with Uncle Dave. It was easy to laugh at failure with him, he did not make you feel small, or inadequate, and I met some coaches that were ruthlessly driven, unlike my first notable Gym Mistress who was phenomenal, but for some bizarre reason I remember everything about her but her name, she looked like Billy Jean King, and has the persona of a Lioness.

I tell people all the time that I love them, I say it and I mean it, if I come off the phone, I always finish quickly with 'Love you.' I tell people that I love them the moment that the feeling envelops me and it can find me within moments of meeting a new potential friend or grow over time. I have never said to a person and not heard them return the words back, regardless of how long they have known me, whether I said it after a matter of days, or weeks...

When I stood on the beautiful sunny day watching the procession move past his epitaph, I realised that for some unknown reason to me, although I spoke to him at least three times weekly for at least a couple of hours, I had never said, 'I love you' to him!

I adore British People, British Black, British White, and shades in between. He was the most English of Englishmen, and the most kind hearted and genuine angel you could have ever come across.

When we all stood around his flowers waiting for the final words, people turned to me - strangers - and told me in front of my mother that HE loved me! As people shook my hand, and some hugged me, I realised that I hadn't really cried.

I mean I think I cried a little when I first heard.

And then it started, the enormity of knowing I hadn't said I love you, to this Friend, father, uncle, Grandfather to me, began to gnaw at me. ... along with it, I realised that I couldn't go out into the garden anymore so I stopped.

For a whole year I did not go out into my garden, to do anything but hanging clothes in the fresh air (I had bought the house off my parents by now).

Strangely, the year he died, the apple blossom on my apple trees stopped flowering, a natural phenomenon, they had some kind of bark disease, but it felt linked.

I didn't say anything more about him.

I didn't think about him.

I didn't go out to my garden, from choice ... sometimes when a ball from the new Neighbours children (they moved in about 3 months after his death) flew over the fence, they would come around or climb over, but I didn't go out there anymore.

Some months passed the grass grew to waist length.

Then one day, one of Dec's friends James, (an Aquarian) climbed over, he borrowed Dec's mower and he mowed down the lawn...

He gave me a hug, he said he understood and then he went.

I still didn't go out to the garden much for another 6 months.
Then one day, I came home and there were 11 men sitting in my drive, James was there, and Dec ... he had hired a large van, and he worked my garden thoroughly! This was repeated for me many times over the next few whenever he felt that I was mourning Uncle Dave.

I don't speak of Him, very often, because to explain the absence of dragonflies and swallows would be how it is without him.

5 years after he died, I began actually enjoying doing the same stuff we did, together, feeling the wet earth even on rainy days. Letting some of the weeds continue because they had such beautiful flowers ... thistles, or dandelions in particular, encouraging the wild flowers ... simpler than easy.

Then the apple blossom grew for the first time, at least I thought so, because it snowed.

The snow ... it was like apple blossom had cleansed everything with its blanket of petals.

I rang my mother, and I told Dec and his wife Wendy.

The know me very well, and we love each other as is evidenced by the warmth and respect we have for each other's spaces, and lives, the fact that his little boys from the youngest to the eldest call me 'their girlfriend', and that their children's friends - boys also in the same age, also call me their girlfriend ... their ages range from 6-14; very strange I know, but it doesn't appear that way to the boys or Dec who will whistle at me regardless of who is there, and Wendy will support his and the boys affection towards me, by her many acts of kindness.

I mention this because Dec told me when we first met that he had grown up in an environment where Asians or any minority group were considered a threat, (jobs, dole, benefit frauds)... and he admitted there was a great deal of bigotry around him, his children may have been entirely different had he stayed in the area he lived in. Since the London bombings there were news reports of the sense of uncertainty in some communities. I live in a multi racial communnity which adapted well to the changes in in perception over the last 20 years. The bombings left no-one in doubt that these attacks were indiscriminate, and systematic.

I don't think those who knew and loved Uncle Dave, will recover, it sounds strange since it has been about 10 years, but he died so peacefully, he just slumped forward reading a book and the Angel that took his hand, knew it would leave a huge unfilled chasm in my heart for him physically, but spiritually, I never can cry, because I feel his presence all the time around me, I feel it when I drive too fast and then feel the car slow of it's own accord and my hands appear to soften and my car draws into a safer lane, a more controlled speed, and I know I can feel him around me. I cannot explain it beyond this, but the sense of acute awareness of his love around me, is complete.

This e-mail message that dropped into my mailbox today, moved me, because what do you say to comfort a Friend, whose unspoken needs you are at a loss to fulfil?

I decided to write about him today because one of my best friends, someone who is the most sensitive writers, her perception and compassion towards others is like a healing salve, her self expression is always directly from her heart, and she is the only woman who I know that talks ALWAYS from that subjective stance, and without malice, spite, without bitterness, and with the ability to forgive with greatness. I fully empathise with her comprehension of loss.

She lost her gracious, willow-gentle-strength, caring mother, (our Mother, since her mother was a mother to me as mine is to her ... a short time back) wrote this to me today, and I wanted to share it for those who may have lost someone through recent events or due to the Lives we each lead, where a sense of our mortality is felt when something triggers it.

'Hy Sapphire; I know you understand. Sometimes it just makes it a little less horrible when you can speak of it to someone who really DOES understand. I can say things to my family who turn a deaf ear. Forget my sister as she just thrives on others misery. I can speak with my wonderful fiancé' but it is frustrating for him as he can only do so much with what he has in the time he receives it.... Yet despite the challenges he and I faced that tested our love for each other, I am amazed by him as well. It seems the more I need him the harder he tries to help. I know how overwhelming it is for him and yet he is standing tall and coming through. It is wonderful and amazing.

Sometimes it is just easier to let it out, to someone who "knows" and
not have to worry that they will ignore me, enjoy my trouble or cause them
to "have to do something," the only thing any of us really need during times
like this is when we finally do release is someone to listen and just understand.

When my back is against the wall I still try not to "ask" for help. I only
asked my family once, that one time and not once since that time, asked me how
I am doing. It is just amazing to me that my entire family is aware of my
situation and not one of them has stepped forward to lend an ear or just
even a hug. Where did all the empathy and love my beloved, cherished Mother gave to all of us go? I really miss her all of the time but during times like this I am so lost without her. I miss the love and the concern. I really do miss that.
Be thankful you have your Mom (who I know loves me too) she has that special love my mother has. You are blessed to still have it so close to you. Our loved ones keep our heads straight when we turn them upside down and backwards.

Thank you for your understanding, I know, you know, how much that means to me.'

Glowing Reference

2005-07-02T00:53:00.000+01:00

Paul, “Hy, look I have been asked to provide you with a reference from your current (new) employers …”

My brother, “Oh yeah?”

Paul, “Yep, so basically it asks the following questions, just about your salary when you were here, your personality, and your 'modis operatis': method of working habits, also about your punctuality and your leaves of absence, so when you were off work and the frequency”.

My Brother, “Okay, great, so what have you said?”

Paul, “In Brief, that you…. ‘… Were on 4 bucks an hour, you were absent 18% of each month, who knows where you were, because the excuses were countless and showed an absence of truthfulness… that you were a lying, cheating, lazy, thievin’ b*st*rd, who didn’t do a single days work without being prodded, nagged and threatened; that you were gutless and didn’t even tell me you were in a new job, and this is the first I have heard about it, traitor!... in fact I thought you were sick again, for the 3rd time this year, in fact each time you have been ill you took over 2 weeks off and wined and winged so much the rare time you could get to work, scruffy, with a police record for vagrancy… that I was close to firing you several times myself, as for would I want you back, absolutely not, do I look like an idiot? ... it has turned me into a blithering wreck, and I am in therapy as a result, and close to insolvency...”

My Brother, “Thanks Paul, when did you send it off?”

Paul, “Today! So when are you coming back to work for me, I miss you and you are never going to be as happy as when you worked for me!”

My Brother, “After such a glowing, damning and incriminating account… very soon Paul, very soon!”

[... by xsapph ...]

MC Escher, drew these exquisitely beautiful hands, mesmorising as they are for their perfection, they remind me of my Brother's hands, practical, powerful, and competent... He is always known for his polish, his dynamic energy, and his interesting cufflinks, or his scent, or maybe a small puzzle ring on his finger... there is always something remarkably quizzical and mercurial about him....

Storm

2005-07-02T00:20:00.000+01:00

... He would watch Her,

as Her breath quickened with rains first droplets.

An intense look of anticipation on her face as she studied each flower

... that cupped its leaves to catch rain ...

by Xsapph

'Stanza from Rainlove 1993'

Pierre Cot's Storm

... simply sensational...
I love the dark fleshy undertones of the beautiful male, and then the lighter pale angelic innocence of his beloved... quite a remarkable piece. Such a contrast in shades and hues.

Nurtured Wheat

2005-07-01T14:03:00.000+01:00

... Right beside the deep purple blue, Heliotrope that I planted a year ago, I laid lovingly just a few inches away a couple of seeds that I found on the floor of my car! I knew instantly they were flower seeds, they must have flown in through the window, of my car along with insects that I try to avoid swallowing when I drive through country lanes (usually lost because of cross blindness of left and right… so it takes me ages with or without a map, and NOPE I do not have Navigation tools in the car, apart from my poor sense of direction).

For a year they have laid dormant, watered when I remembered to, and sometimes enjoyed my old teabags, which I break open daily and sprinkle everywhere something looks like it needs caffeine... and other times, I cleared the odd nettle that appeared passionately to strangle its growing stems....

I love roses, I would eat them, sleep in their bed, and cover my home with them... I happily let weeds grow until, I know what they are, because some weeds are quite beautiful, particularly thistles...

AND now finally, today, I have the privilege of being able to appreciate the full glory of this wheat stem!

Now what do I do with it, for a start I am allergic to eating it... and here it is majestic and tall, even the Heliotrope appears to stoop under the pressure of standing beside it's proud companion.

Many times, when I watered them or rather over-doused them because the plastic sieve end would fall off and water would gush over them, with the fury of Niagra, I thought, ‘You don’t know how long you have’… In return they shimmied a little mambo together.

Again, I suppose I have to admit that when I planted it into the soft soil, trying not to decapitate what could have been the head or a worm as I tried to push it’s head or tail gently out of the way whilst I buried the seeds in the first place, I did think it was a case of 'Jack-and-the-Beanstalk'...

Of course, my cat like curiosity compelled me to daily stare at it - growing beneath the umbrella branches of 'Bruce-The-Spruce'... (He, if you have never seen him is the Xmas tree that my heroic Fiancé' had planted our first Xmas together, trying to avoid it piercing his ice-blue eye with its spiky pines ...)

But it went into the ground too late for all the needles fell off, the bottom half of the tree, and what he planted appeared to look like a Broom!

I insisted it was left, and it grew to be what it is today, about 3 feet of no foliage, just a broom handle like stick, and then a bushy baby Xmas tree quite round and pretty. Basically Bruce-the-loo-brush-head-Spruce.

I know people laugh and point at Bruce, but for the first time in many years it has pretty purple clematis slowly wrapping itself in snake-like obsession around his bare stick like bark... He responds with indifference but then he always had that appearance even when we put our meagre, and modest gifts around him for our joyous Christmas morning unwrapping.

AND talking about romances....

I dare not cut down the wheat! For clearly there is relationship developing unchallenged between him and the Heliotrope, since their roots are wrapped tight around each other… For what I sketchily supposed was low self-esteem on the part of the Heliotrope I realise with a snap of my fingers, and a bold light bulb of astuteness sparking off, is in fact shy, demure adoration.

Of course my neighbours bemused surveillance of me watering it for the past year, with the enigmatic nonchalance of a renowned, experienced horticulturalist, has been intensified since they saw me clear a circle around it last month when I thought it needed a stake to help it stand tall, during a March-Windy weekend!

Now I have to pretend I meant to all along... and GAWD knows how long before it fathers a few dozen more wheat’s. or to be exact, Wheat-liotropes, since the Heliotrope is kind of needy, always bending the ear of the corn or rather Wheat, by leaning into him letting him know her presence with her subtle scent of enticement! Before long I can see my garden is overrun with scenic wheat! You can depend on the fact that any plant that has at least 20 seeds attached to its crown, is going to go forth and multiply like zealous religious souls who are following tracts true to form and with manic deliberation! It is going to overrun my humble plot rather like my neighbours eager rabbits!

WheatField, Sept1889, by Vincent Van Gogh

What I suppose I really need a few crows, I think they eat wheat... eventually I can see it all ahead of me, I will be dragging out a homemade scarecrow... Seeing ALL that wheat in my back yard is going to confuse the hell out of the Aeroplanes... but well it just can't be helped!

At least what I can look forward to are ingenious and cryptic crop-patterns from Aliens…

Be my guest - Beautiful Sphinx Hawk: Moth

2005-07-01T10:35:00.000+01:00

Art Quote
"Beauty is whatever gives joy."
Edna St. Vincent Millay

In single second moments, I saw a moth beating its wings against the window, whilst the traumatising storm raged around it... Now who the hell feels pity for a moth to open the window and let it in ... so it can rest, and bedraggled lie still on the window sill ... under a large sieve ... where it can breathe but now feels trapped and possibly has close to a cardiac arrest. I look at it, as it flickers its wings, through the holes in the metal dome, and I think, 'Stop flapping, you are going to damage your petals on the metal.' It drops to lie still, because of course it heard my words...

It watches me, I know this. I watch closely wondering if it's heart beats fast, if it thinks, if it is missing the light.

My heart feels as if it is beating more quickly, I am unsure of it's thoughts, does it have ideas?

What do you feed a beautiful iridescent petrol shaded moth, do you slide some of your favourite cotton handkerchiefs to it?

The moth and I are listening, and watching the thunderstorm pass.

Eventually, even the trickling raindrops cease.

I open the window, and release it awkwardly, I do not want to damage it's fragility. It flies like it forgot how to for a moment, clumsy, and then suddenly elegantly obtuse.... I envy it, for each moment it has with itself is without the yearning the rest of us have for more. It only seeks the light, and reminds me of the ghosts that remain somewhere between their journey's end and some place unresolved.

Buttterflies and moths:

See my guest: Sphinx ligustri (Linnaeus, 1758) (privet hawk moth)
Date: 14 June 1970, VC: (Norfolk), UK

Be my guest - Beautiful Sphinx Hawk: Moth by xsapph

...Old Man River... Marked a 'Man's' journey

2005-06-27T12:10:00.001+01:00

Art Quote

"Art is dangerous. It is one of the attractions: when it ceases to be dangerous you don't want it."

Duke Ellington

Old Man River

Paul Robeson's lyrics that evolved, reflecting his monumental life, and vision for the past and future are truly a lifetime achievement. This should be a part of every man from each nation's collection of resonating pieces, and a study piece for every child of every nation.

If I had ever met him, then along with Martin Luther King, I would have hugged him... for a long long...Time.

Art Quote
"Art is the symbol of the two noblest human efforts: to construct and to refrain from destruction."
Evelyn Waugh

I was gently being shaken not stirred, like ice cubes in a tumbler, on a train, aged 22, working in London, it was a cold bleak January, and it was a short term placement, since I am not a natural commuter, I find it claustrophobic, and the jostling, and chronic bad manners, where stubborn shiny suited men have no intention of giving up their seat for women with shopping, or children, never ceases to amaze me!

I had a prose book open and with a knife sharpened pencil (my Dad would do this the old fashioned way), I was underlining, and making my observations, an old habit of mine.

Quite surprisingly for the time of the day, the underground train was unfilled. Everyplace we stopped people were warming their hands with their breath or tensed up pulling collars high, every so often a mist would seem to hang between stations, and the windows felt cold despite the heated train.

We drifted through the atrium passages, opening and closing doors, weaving snake-like underneath London, light, then dark, then reading, glimpsing, fixating on advertising billboards, or flash card posters, of what we really needed to feel fulfilled.

It became more warm and the smell of chocolate that had spilt or melted on seats, and the musty smell of sweat and traffic became stifling, as underneath our seats old dusty fan heaters churned to warm us whilst suffocating us with their single speed heat.

There were about 15 or so of us left within the long train, and then a black gent climbed on. He shuffled on and then sat about 12 feet from me. I could see him through the glass partition windows. He was ashen grey, his matt black skin, looked like ebony with a fine layer of dust. His features were softly passive, relaxed, and I imagined in his youth he was a handsome muscular man full of passion and energy.

I thought this, but knew that whatever he may have been, now he was struggling to seat himself.

His overcoat appeared to look pewter grey: waxed, it was I supposed caked in the city's dirt and grime, everything appeared the same chalky colour, from his hands to his small plastic bag of personal affects to his long overcoat, his tight woollen hat, even his face. I wondered if he were a homeless vagrant.

Title: Depth

Artist: Nicholas Sanders, Leicester, England

I whispered '... There but for the grace of God go I...'

But then those beautifully frightening, scorching pain: eyes that looked at me for a moment settled softly, on my gaze.

Eyes that were hauntingly sad, something in me invites those kind of wretched emotions to rear in people, so that they share this moment of specificity with me, when we look at each other. I have seen so many eyes just like his. It is communicable the world over. His eyes were pewter grey, with yellow flecks, and the whites were almost like an Egyptian: bluey-red-veined ... marbled stone.

I smiled over at him; he barely raised any flicker or even the subtlest variation in his skin creases. Like a large boulder, this man for a second reminded me of Paul Robeson in his late fifties.

His breathing appeared heavy, laboured and his body like a walking corpse or cadaver seemed to be so tired, weary, his shoulders stooping as if to pull in the fabric of the universe and drawn it into his own navel, like a man searching for his own umbilical cord to a far remembered whisper of comfort.

He seemed to be wheezing, as if the very effort of breathing was in itself the dung beetles remaining resort for realising it's final push before it was cut down by the vagaries of life again and the boulder rolled over it and even further below it's journeyed climb.

Stanza from 'Not all that glitters is tin'

"Even so, he is aware, any moment, in wry despair
Burning coal eyes glare, coldly, reflected, wide-eyed, fear."

By Sapphire-X

But what made others vacate, was the smell that emanated from his corner. From the second he climbed on, the stench was incommunicable. It was like rotting meat; it made one literally want to 'heave'. I held my breath, I couldn't be discourteous and move and hurt his feelings. My mother's value system was already ingrained into my own ethical standpoint.

In the end there were just 5 of us, myself, he, two Chinese students, who seemed entirely oblivious, and an elderly man who smiled graciously with a kindly face, he had sympathy in his eyes.

Others that were arriving on the train spied him with disgust, revulsion, and then as quickly climbed off or moved through the chambers.

I could not take my eyes off him for two stations, then it become impossible for those climbing on not to remain on, it was central London so it was busy!

He reminded me of finding smudged and blurred with charcoals, a sketch, of him.

A pristine man aged around forty, climbed on the train, exceptionally shiny boots,polished jet; his neck appeared sunburnt, and he looked healthy and outdoorsy. His hair cropped very tight and he gave the impression of polished urbane charm, intermingled with 'Old Spice', and masculinity.

The minute he did, he went over to the man and he touched his arm, he quickly fumbled and then placed something in the man's hand, it looked like a ten pound note, and then he added, "You must get off at Bakerloo, and go straight to the Samaritans, they will know what to do for you! Can you hear me?"

The elderly man nodded, softly, (perhaps he smiled) heavily, his head stooped with the effort, as if a bowling ball was placed on his head. His powerful appearing hand trempled, as it closed tightly around the gift that passed hands. His laboured breathing was a sharp contrast to the energetic powerful man that leant close over him.

Nobless Oblige!

The man, with the ice-mirror shiny boots repeated his statement, and he added, "Go quickly, here you are, this is your stop, we are here. Don't forget ask for the Samaritans."

Then he went and stood by the doors and helped the man shuffle off, leaning out, and when he saw a railway attendant, he shouted out a command. He needs the Samaritans. The railway-man paused and then nodded.

Everyone looked around, surprised and alarmed; this statement broke their mundane self-contained aloofness and threw some of them into disarray.

I watched this man, watch the old man walking, or rather shuffling away. I stretched my neck and also looked over my shoulder to see the poor thing like a sloth, move slowly, edging himself leaning sometimes against the sides of the walls of the underground, and he appeared to be climbing step, laboured step, up the stairs now. Then the train moved on, and everyone appeared to take a long deep breath, of relief, since clearly we (I included) had held our breaths for much of the duration of the journey.

No-one spoke, I think people were genuinely concerned, polite, perhaps even indifferent.

I then heard a voice loud, (in fact TOO LOUD) clear, and easily recognisable, once that voice has been heard once!

"Why did he smell that way? Why did you send him to the Samaritan's? What was the matter with him? Is he going to be all right? I am ever so worried? What do you think?"

He turned to me.

"Thank you for asking!"

I smiled a crooked nervous smile, now everyone was staring at me. (I do this all the time, I ask a question regardless of where I am or how many people surround me, and often to my great embarrassment afterwards, I realise that unconsciously my right hand is up! Where the hell do I think I am in class? I could kick myself, it is a pattern that I have repeated all through my life, much to amusement of those around me happy to appear stupid, but pretty! Myself, I am mortified at my own sheer audacity). When this man spoke it was crisp, to the point, and with a powerful timbre to his voice, authorititative and with excellent controlled breathing. He seemed so self possessed and dynamic.

"That man is in the final stages of dying, he should be in a hospital bed, in Hospice, he is already beyond relief, you have observed a man in the last moment of his life, and if he is not dead within the hour, or matter of hours, he certainly will not see this day's end!"

I replied, "Oh, I understand. Thank you for helping him."

Then...

"By the way, how do you know?"

He smiled slower this time, he walked over to me, stood in front of me, and then he discreetly flicked open his long coat, like all his movements, crisp and efficient; shifting his rucksack, as his shoulders straightened briskly. Hidden, he wore the jacket uniform of the Blues and Royals: a soldier, he added, "... and (a soft hush pause)... I am a trained paramedic".

I nodded and gave him a crooked smile of acceptance, and noticed again his ice-mirror shiny boots.

His dark blonde, greying slightly hair, like a halo, in my mind, I felt a momentary bond with this stranger, so tall above me, I felt immediately child-like. He stayed by me, holding onto the hand rail, until his stop came and then he flicked his forehead, with the back of his fingertips, in an age-old familiar stroke we know to suggest 'adieu' and with a broad grin to rival 'Joel McCrae'; who he reminded me of particularly his profile, he jumped off atheletically, and bounded off up the stairs.

Then I immersed myself into my book of prose, I watched my pencil fall into the side of the door, lost; and when I saw my own tears drop twice on the pages, I shut the book tied my velvet ribbon around it, and climbed off the train, three stops before I was due to.

I walked up the stairs, up into the winter cold sunshine, and I undid my choking silk Hermes scarf, one my mother had given me especially from her own personal collection; I smelt it for a second, it had her perfume, because she took it quickly from her own coat pocket, and draped it over my shoulder, as I sipped tea and watched her feed my brother's Alsatian 'Major', with her own freshly cooked meat for him.

For as I was leaving, she had said hurriedly, "... Beta (child) keep your throat warm, you always get chills, and you don't want to catch your death of cold!

... And took a long deep breath. I walked the remaining 2 miles to my workplace, crying into it, the whole journey.

Cala-Lillies... I am unsure of the source for this beautiful photograph... apologies...

... There but for the Grace of God go I...

2005-06-26T23:18:00.000+01:00

Journey

A never-ending circle of thought
Where silent scenes are executed.
Invariable themes confuse and delight.
Obscure the desire to change course

Spirited along a preserved path:
Fate signposts.
To comprehend for a moment: Life's
Serene Ambience.

Wait and contemplate the diverse
Hues assembled
There are many moods yet to know
That will perplex and subdue.

To be irredeemably lost
But not forgotten.
Absorbed into the metallic dusk
Where the Fearless tread.

26th January 1994.

Monet's tenderly painted Water-Lilies... even the onset of his blindness, did not blind him to the truth of the Universe... unlike other's!

If you have spare cash, consider MENCAP

When my siblings and I were little, (between 7-10 years of age) my parents would take us to Mencap's hut about 2 miles from our home and dump us there every Wednesday night to do our duty, which was to be able to comprehend other's difficulties, share any spare toys we had no use for and most of all in my Mother's words, 'to gain compassion towards others'.

The 'HUT' for Mencap, was where children, adults could paint, or play table tennis or have a small disco with real lights. Naturally the older ones fell in love. The carers would look nervous given that they felt that the nature of the condition required a certain level of emotional maturity, and there was always a chance that couples with the innocence of cherubs but raging hormones, would abscond off to the fields behind the hut...

When they (the lover's) gave each other a hand painted picture it would be look like 'Monet' to me, swirls of colour and often flowers being the theme...since they composed of mainly just a few colours... So when I was growing up, I always assumed that Monet was a previous MENCAP attendee! It was only when I was much older, that I understood about his cataracts...

Years later when my brother was first learning to be a Deejay... He is proud to say to this day, that his first gig was MENCAP's HUT.... in Slough... I love the people who I know there, they are reflections of the same human condition the world over... each of us working through our destiny.

... by Xsapph

This flower grew especially for you...

2005-06-26T13:01:00.000+01:00

Monet's Nympheas...

No matter whom my mother visits, no matter who she visited, whether rich or poor her humility, her graciousness and her manners are impeccable. When she visits relatives in India, she equally spends time with those old acquaintances that she remembers from her youth, and knowing that they are probably giving her their all, she sits cross legged with them on the floor, and I hold her in the highest regard, because she never for one moment talks of Asians the way others might which is sometimes negatively. Instead you can see the esteem others hold her in because of the way that all her photos show her with arms around her. Wherever she goes there is this need by people to be close to her, to touch her, and to feel her love around them.

When I walk past a 'poor one', a 'tramp', my heart sinks.

I simply feel the pain; the most acute sense of powerlessness and say quietly under my breath, 'There but for the Grace of God... go I'.

When I worked at the Tennis Centre, part-time, after college, there used to be a man who clearly was 'falling down'.

He had lost his wife to a dreadful pain wrenching divorce; she had simply given up on him when he lost his job. She could not forgive him once she realised that he had carried on pretending for several weeks that he still had a position, to the point of taking his briefcase, and sitting in the park outside the Tennis Centre... until his supposed office hours were over.

Auguste Macke's wonderful painting is in the Ludwig Museum. Simply entitled, 'Man reading in a park, painted in 1914'.

Can you imagine this, poor man just sitting there looking into space, disheartened and magnetised to the wood and metal of the bench, feeling the despair of the those looking up from the gutter, a position that allows the widest perspective.

His nervous breakdown occurred due to his unremitting remorse at losing a parent.

The girls at the Tennis Centre (apart from a beautiful woman called Lorraine, a hard working intelligent Sagittarian) sneered cruelly behind his back, and acted appallingly uncaringly towards him.

I would usually be doing some admin. He would arrive, then I would hear their sarcasm, and his voice would stutter, becoming worse as their subtle barbs heightened, tightening his vocal cords with self-consciousness, his entry-wounds bare and exposed.

Okay, so if they thought I was going to stand there and allow it, yeah right!

I would quickly emerge, and ask him he needed a coffee, then get my purse and pay for one from the machine. I would glare at the girls, but not to embarrasse him by drawing attention to their pathetic conduct, therefore validating it.

After he would leave, they would try to engage me in some kind of pitiful dialogue, telling me about his many histrionics, his numerous letters to the police about some imagined persecution, or his (manic depression) fantastic letters to the Town Hall, complaining about some small annoying hole down his road. They would tell me that he had money due to his inheritances, and they considered him a waste of space.

Mostly they laughed at his stuttering and actually went so far as to imitate it.

...There but for the Grace of God go I....

'Weak is as weak does'.

Now here is what they did not know.

This man did not stutter around me, when I was alone, he would come in, and he would buy ME a machine-delivered drink. He was never the nuisance that had been represented to me; instead he was a remarkably intelligent man.

With thoughtfulness he shared his homemade sandwich with me, which I was too polite to refuse. But always, he found me a rose or shrub that had bloomed that very day in the Park.

He carried it in - wrapped in the foil or paper he had finished his lunch in, its damp stem would be covered in soft breadcrumbs, and it would look so limp, as if it had waited too long to be handed to me.

He would place it on the counter for me, then he would point at it's stamens, its pollen as it fell and coated his finger tips, and he would lift it's head as if it were a dead thing, a swan's neck limp. He would tell me something specifically factual about the nature of its hybrid species. He knew his horticulture, then he would with clear dulcet tones explain to me how he felt when his wife left, how shattered his existence was, how he had been an Engineer on so much money for so long, and then in an instance this was taken away from him, and he would then pull a leaf from the flower, and say 'like this... just like this.'

Poignantly, he carefully, broke off a petal; perhaps one that to his engineer’s eye of seeking perfect symmetry, and geometry, he thought it spoilt the design of the object.
Conscientiously he turned the paper from a corner so that the flower was seen from another angle, immersing himself in its flawlessness. He was a Capricorn, he had been born an only child, beloved of his parents, with a bookish middle-class affluence, where his father toiled long and hard in his office and his mother’s sole objective all day was to be there for her son and husband.

He was so grateful to his mother, and his father’s break up from his mother had made him determined to maintain his own marriage, long after it had become toxic.

I would know not to pick up the flower until he offered it to me, because at this point he was using it as a prop to his self-exposure. He would tell me how he picked up his wife's jumper the one she had left in the laundry basket, which she meant to wash, or take. He described that he held it close, and smelt her perfume, which was some thing cheap like 'Charlie'. He had not bought her this cheap perfume, he knew she was with a new man, and it left him betrayed, without purpose and he left his home each morning still all these years... (His misfortune was several years back).

He spoke to me in a well-modulated, perfectly relaxed voice, pitched at the same level and with a similar sound as Harrison Ford. He spoke to me softly, telling me that he was allowing himself to disintegrate. He would describe how he looked in the mirror and inconsolably just wept. He felt the enormity of his loneliness it ached within him and he felt, outside of the world, where friends were few, and countless rudeness from strangers was the one thing he could count on.

He told me that I was the first person to smile at him and to treat him as a human outside of the special services such as the Town Hall, or Police, who were always kind to him and that he could not help trying to gain some attention from them because of his need for human connection.

I asked what I could do to help him. He said, very clearly to me, ‘Nothing, just stay on this pedestal, I have placed you on, just stay there, it is a small measure of hope for me’. I asked what this pedestal was, I did not understand. He replied, that it was like being in love with the unattainable, but that he wasn’t in love with me, just that it was a bit like that.

He was in love with the love he had felt for his wife, in Life’s kinder days. He said that just my smiling at him, and that when I then stopped dead in my tracks and asked him if he was okay, because that particular day he had to sit down he was feeling particularly depressed, and I went to get him a glass of water.

Imagine all he wanted was ‘simple hope’.

He said that when I had placed my cool hand across his forehead, (I remembered that day), he had immediately reached for my wrist, and said, he was fine because no-one had actually shown him any kindness for around 4 years. He said he was so alone, and felt completely disregarded and invisible to the World.

He told me that it was incomprehensible to him how he could have fallen to this point; he had been so successful, with the semblance of a normal life, or so it seemed to him. How hurt he had been when, drifting into a semi-vagrancy but for his inheritance: that his old acquaintances turned their faces from him when he walked by. He seemed to be searching for answers and it occurred to me he was asking the Universe the wrong questions.

BUT not at the time I knew him, because I was too young to know how to guide him if at all, I was only about 20ish.

The only nervousness he displayed was that he would run his long restless fingers through his hair, and when particularly dynamic he appeared to have a habit of folding his arms close around his body, then releasing himself… As if it had been a long, long time since he was last held. He knew he was self-destructive but he wanted to continue doing this because it meant he was alive.

He always varied his reminisces, but he did the same thing each time which was that when he was finished, I knew, because he lifted this corpse of a beautiful flower in two hands and placed it out to me as if I were a ballerina who had just completed Swan Lake...

‘Be a good girl, and put it in water now, it grew especially for you – you know!’

Then he nodded almost clicking his heels to me, as a salute, and as if he had just given me some special kind of formal declaration or missive and left.

...by Xsapph