Aspiration

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

2005-09-29T00:14:00.003+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. There she 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

2005-09-17T19:29:00.019+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. He had 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, though I had been assured he had been from Gabby, (Gabrielle) who had painted him in the '80s, wearing dungarees and very little else, she had winked at me lasciviously. Gabby was très bohemian, always in layers of well worn Laura Ashley fabrics, and espadrilles, wet and frayed whatever the weather. Her voice had a pleasant pitch to it and she laughed at her own jokes to the point of crying and wiping her laughter tears on the back of her sleeves or a pretty antique handkerchief that she kept warm and hidden in her decollete. She was in her early fifties, and had shockingly badly dyed hair sometimes more flame orange than I am sure was intended and she would scrunch her curls in a hand when she noticed that you couldn't help but smile at the vividness of her home coloured result. She would describe it exuberantly from her colour pallet, delighting at the attention it drew. One day she came looking alarmed with a head scarf tightly wound around her head like the charismatic and delightful Little Edie Beale, who bore more than a passing resemblance to her in innocent naive gaiety and playful charm.

"What has happened to your hair?" I asked quizzically.
"Oh my dear, it was dreadful, I fell asleep, and left it on too long and it literally seeped into my lovely armchair and look I have a huge patch that is darker than the rest, you will have to cut it out!"

Lo and behold, I actually think I said that aloud! There was a tuft of hair and then another and another jagged like burnt grass mounds along the right side of her head. I quickly pulled out some small paper scissors and began snipping using a comb to try and pull out the length and after a while her hair shades were reasonably compact in their waves and although she did look slightly shorn, there was a gamin look that made her eyes appear brighter and overall I nodded satisfied that she seemed adorable and chic. As others arrived she glowed under their scrutiny, and attention and thereafter she kept her hair short and eventually stopped dying her hair altogether allowing a beautiful polished silver halo to frame her warm features and attentive smile. I had at times assumed that she and Field were 'an item', they certainly seemed to have a pleasant way around each other, soft, and knowing, but she reassured me in confidence that it wasn't so, she said he was simply 'too plaintive for me, dear girl'. Whatever that meant, I nodded as if I understood and promised to look up 'plaintiff', the moment I got home.

Looking at Field now, his sorrowful eyes, full quivering mouth, I was curious. 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. He was known to be able to dig an entire garden in less than an hour, cutting rigorously into the hard earth as if it were rows slicing through a buttery lake. In his youth, I could see 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, although the walls sweated with dampness, 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, softened to his breathing difficulties.

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 labouring with 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. I wondered if they would be friendlier towards him were he himself more approachable, but I doubted that he could change his overall self-expression, which was one of sombre detachment.

I was perhaps the only person (other than the hearty, at times brash, but always affable Gabby) that ever spoke to him, with any real interest, or perhaps it was mild curiousity since I was 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. Sometimes, I would mumble to myself as I looked for them, speak to them like a child with an invisible friend, 'Oh there you are'. Therefore my collated set meant more perhaps to me, then to the student of affluence, carelessly handling theirs less appreciated, since there may have been less emotional attachment. 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.

I had tried to draw him in pencil and dark charcoals, hardly using any paint, in a style that was clearly 'Arthur Rackham', influenced, and for a moment thought how my kid sister's own work was light years ahead from the same influences, but far more original and from a lightness that travelled out of her sensitive elusive depths. I realised that my efforts in such a medium were a bare empty shell of her rare oyster pearl talent.

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, at least he said he would not be back. For a moment I felt an acute sense of pain for him, I wondered what he would do instead, he seemed as part of the studio as its easels, and paint boxes. For a moment I thought of all the dead wasps that littered the small upright lamp shade and the windowsills, we had vacuumed that day at the studio since it was up to us to keep it clean and I thought of him now and blushed when I saw that he had realised I was pondering him.

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 speckled freckles that spattered his back making him seem more interesting than usual, in terms of texture and depth of colour. He looked fragile, small, and discreetly venomous like a monarch caterpillar: striped creamy white, fiery yellow and black dressing gown. Or one of those wasps, dried and crunchy to the touch.

I laughed inwardly at the preposterous idea. I looked over at Gabby who was at that moment toying with her short hair and at the same time pointing gentle instructions to the younger artists to tidy up and then moving stools all into an ordered grouping by the small kitchenette. I realised how easy it was to misjudge on looks alone. I had thought her rather abrupt and vainly ostentatious when I first met her, in Windsor, we had both reached for the same pair of kid leather gloves in a medium size (my long fingers) and her dainty slim hands surprising in a woman so tall and heavy. She had worn a large voluminous tweed cape in the style of Margaret Rutherford, and a strange half wool, half suede bakers cap. I had no idea that we would be friends further down the road, and almost winced in a little conceited embarrassment that she thought those Edwardian style, hand-stitched grey leather gloves with their delicate half dozen buttons also grey kid-leather covered would fit or even suit her. I then checked myself for being so shallow, and quickly handed them to her and turned away to look at something else, but through the corner of my eye hoping she would drop them back into the display box.

"Oh no, they will never fit, they are yours of course", she passed them to me, and I smiled feeling humbled, and then a broader smile when I had a moment to take her entire ensemble into my view and realise I warmed to her on sight. My eye resting on the garish but quaintly lovely brooch that pinned the scarf part of her cape to her shoulder. It had in its centre of mink a pewter eagle, (one day I would own the same eagle, gifted by her) and I could see that she had make-shift pinned it herself and that it was composed of two brooches, as there was a pearl appearing between the claws of the eagle which in fact was the centre of a mink flower.

It would be almost six more years before I saw her again, and this time it was when I attended the small studio with a friend who had asked me to model for them, and on a warm spring evening I had turned up wondering whether the outfit she had asked me to bring from my vintage collection would work. There she was and in the corner was Field he had just finished the afternoon classes session, and was hurriedly dressing behind a slightly torn but still beautiful padded Japanese screen of silk and drawing pins. I was to model as a flapper, as my hair was shortly bobbed and my face plain enough to slip unnoticed into many different faces with no specially striking features to distract the eye.

Now here we were two years later, my long hair a waterfall of rosewood, shiny with coconut oil, and in a plait that matched the silky rope of fabric we had plaited to soften the edge and strengthen the screen. I wistfully for a moment looked over to it, although we had recovered it with my mothers old sari, and it looked beautiful in its two tone silks of lavender and grey with a lemony gold embroidery. The lamp light changing the fabric and making me recall my mother looking beautiful and nervous as she dressed to take us to the cinema, as children. My young brothers slightly grimy hands as he tripped and fell over, hands out first: marked her sari's 'foil', (hem), but my mother didn't rebuke him. She wasn't that way inclined and although impatient and a powerhouse of emotions and capability she nevertheless had a soft spot for this wild and fiery little boy, handsome with a restless igniting energy.

The sari was very old yet it seemed so perfect for the screen and lent itself to the colours of the room and lighting. We had spent an excited hour pinning it with a staple gun and neatening the edges into an envelope fold as if we were covering our school books. I had felt a contemplative release in letting go of the sari and seeing it put to great use. The remnants were quickly used to make up cushions for the small two seater couch and we folded the remainder with (unfulfilled) plans for the future.

I looked across at Field and thought how still he seemed and watched him abstractedly for a few moments as if he were no more than a mannequin in a shop window, lifeless and cold.

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. It did not escape my notice that a small remnant of my mothers silvery lavender sari had found its way into the sideboard and was folded neatly into a small parcel and tied with string clearly holding within it's folded fabric something of value to him.

He talked of his passion and so much more as he made me tea, in old fashioned deep winter cups (to retain the heat) of the tea. I was surprised having never heard him speak so quickly, and uninterrupted his thoughts overlapped, as he would pause and then take a long breath and turn a corner in his past. 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

2005-07-06T11:37:00.001+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.

This is what she sent me today: - [with her permission copied here]

'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

2005-06-27T12:10:00.002+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

Stand by Me

2005-06-25T22:47:00.000+01:00

Michelangelo Buonarroti, painted GOD...

Ben E. King's (Atlantic) classical beautiful rendition, 'Stand by Me'... brings this site to mind... to reach it click on the title of this article...

I visited this site, thought the breadth of articles was simply amazing, and it's focus on other's interests was humbling... They are based in Canada... isn't it amazing how the internet brings us closer to each other in virtual space!

To my surprise; Mike one of it's co-producers wrote back, and I wanted to plug it because I wish there more self-giving individuals that could be so gacious to consider others as this site inspires each of us hopefuls to do. I was astounded at the largesse of the creators! They have contributions from all over the world, and their willingness to enable this site it's continuity, is just fantastic!

"Thank you!
In fact, I have many invalids enjoying the site, including one with ALS, so
we know his days are numbered.
This chap, along with anyone else, is encouraged to contribute "fun stuff",
so he and others see themselves published on a regular basis, even if it is
a joke or story being passed along.
In this way, he is feeling that he is contributing something during his last
days on Earth, helping to make others smile.

Your own encouraging comments were appreciated.

Mike"

at sympatico.ca
http://rghs2004.blogspot.com/

Why did God give us so many neat things to do with so little time?

Stormy Summer

2005-06-24T22:18:00.000+01:00

The Sierra Nevada Waterfall, and lake in California, by Albert Bierstadt

Imagine walking out with your vanilla coffee, barefoot, to such a sight! I wonder how one would write in such breathtaking surroundings on your doorstep!

Today, was just such a beautiful day, I love stormy summer's.... I went out into the garden briefly, because I had left a silk scarf to dry on the line, and it was drenched... and the colour of the light that appeared to be the setting for all that grew was like a greyish, translucent late afternoon shimmer! I think I have an eyeshadow that very colour!

... written by xsapph...

Footnote:
My mother reads my blog, and will then ring me if I haven't been active on it, and reproach me for my absence, today she said that this waterfall and landscape reminded her of her childhood in the Hill Stations around the Himalayas, and how she would shower in similar waterfalls. She said, that in front of the waterfall, there would be a path about 2 metres wide for walking along the foot of the waterfall, the water would suddenly slide across this path, so that it best it was only a few inches high, and dramatically fierce beside you, and then it would start again tumbling down and you knew it would rejoin the Ganges.

Painting: Lake Stream, Canterbury South Island by my Friend, Antonio Guzzo.

Do CPR with Premier.. Matt is a cheesecake!

2005-06-23T09:13:00.000+01:00

Attention: Narrinder
Premier Training International
Premier Training International - Health & Fitness training courses available in the UK from Premier Training International Ltd. Premier's range of vocational fitness training courses ...
http://www.premierglobal.co.uk/

REF: Student Testimony re: specifically Matt – Our CPR Instructor –Performance Feedback

Dear Narrinder,

First of all, thank you very much for the dedicated manner in which you responded to my query, your patience and also the very swift replies to my further questions, I must say that your speed of response appears to be consistent with expectations!

Please feel free to use my letter as a recommendation for your courses, where appropriate. I am very pleased to be able to provide feedback the CPR course I recently attended at the Windsor Leisure Centre with Matt our Instructor.

CPR is one of those subjects where firstly, you know that the minute you have taken it the Universe is going to set you the challenge of applying it, and secondly, that it will involve the one thing not present at the course… Body fluids!

Matt, the instructor: if you met him fits into the tall, dark and handsome category, so for any healthy red-blooded female when you realise he is taking the class you are hopeful to be his subject/object basically any kind of volunteer he wants you to be!

I was happy to be placed in recovery position but would of course have wrapped my arms around his neck until tea-time– but unfortunately, at that precise moment one of the guys volunteered and I just sighed! Later that same guy was my prisoner, I mean my casualty for a particular exercise and I made sure I got him back for his earlier willingness and for spoiling my moment, by a headlock!

Next, we were shown a dedicated, and familiar approach used in many TV programmes… well actually we were shown the exact opposite because what we saw was very efficient, very precise and also so clearly presented that no-one could fail that had a brain-cell ticking. Not what we always see which is a life threatening situation that results in a person miraculously surviving from what look like strenuous and dramatic exertions!

Matt’s classes are very different from Paul’s because of course we all know Paul’s background in the use of firearms, and none of us think that Matt can use anything but a boom-a-rang or a some other ‘Aussie’, didgeridoo instrument, to threaten us with, so it is very relaxed – in fact it is something like an ‘Aussie –V- the rest of the world’… through no fault of his own, it just seems that way… an environment where everyone is laughing so hard that if you should pass by you think you are at a convention for medical laughing gas!

Now I have one complaint about Matt’s training day…. Everyone is shown how to yell for help…. Matt himself frightened the life out of us at least twice! YET – no one – I mean no one from the surrounding areas came to our assistance – despite there being at least 3 lifeguards directly outside our training area!

What this makes me think is that his course is actually bogus, because clearly no one cares that we are screaming at the top of our lungs…. ‘Help! Help!’

His patience with us was that of a watchful eagle, because he pounced the moment he saw some minor infraction to the continuity of the life of the ‘plastic dummy’ we practiced on!

One of his skills is that he is superman, he can actually see through your back and knows if you are positioned even a millimetre out of alignment with the process…or you are looking to stab your victim with a biro and about to attempt a tracheotomy!

Basically, this is a course that everyone should do!! I mean everyone, I think it should be compulsory at ALL schools, and would highly recommend that you approach schools and universities, and see if they could make it compulsory.

Whilst it wasn’t the more detailed version of the CPR it certainly wet your appetite for more of the same, I know now that if ANYONE appears to pass out in front of me (as long as there are no body fluids seeping from them), I will happily administer my new skills, in fact I am actually wishing it of those around me, I have tried to trip up two of my neighbours already! I watch hoping someone is going to suddenly drop – so I can test myself!

Finally, you will be very pleased to know that I did pass, despite stabbing my poor partner in the eye with my beautiful large silver ring, and dropping my necklace a rather large ominous cross into his mouth and nearly chocking him, when I leant forward and I cannot wait until I get my badge, (I hope I get a badge), and cap, (do I get a cap?).

I finally did get to give Matt a big kiss, but I think I stepped on his toe, and he may need attention, because I tripped over my bag, when I was leaving.

I should just mention that I am now going to try and do the longer 3 days with Premier… hopefully it will be with Matt again, and I can practice bandaging him! Otherwise, I look forward to the information he is going to send me regarding this.

Again, thank you Narrinder, hope you are having a great day! I am going to plug your organisation on my personal creative website as well as recommend it to the Marriot Hotel Gyms!

Best regarsd

Sapphire

Lizard Lover

2005-06-20T07:33:00.000+01:00

....The liquid lover promises paradise
Techni-coloured lust
His serenade envenoms
Corrodes the hearts crust

9th July 1989
SapphireSphinx

... dedicated to a friend of mine who had an interesting history of choosing completly the worst (losers) men to fall hopelessly in love with, then contemplating vengeance, whether it was to make them jealous or to have a vendetta to undermine their new girlfriends, whatever it took to gain some closure... Now as you have noticed I do not discuss my girly friends on this site, for obvious reasons, do I want a coup d'etait!? NO... do I want them up in arms on my doorstep, waving their copies of downloads of my observations? Certainly NOT! However, I had to write this inspired as I was by her response to her boyfriend at that particular moment in time! She is happily involved (I must add as a footnote because she will know this is about her,) now with a simply gentle, sweet man, someone who cherishes her, and looks at her with loving puppy eyes... I know it is a little syrapy, I tell her that, but she shrugs her shoulders, and just smiles!

To do or Not to Do... that is the question...

2005-06-13T16:26:00.000+01:00

Just as walking is not the only means to the journey, there are other means, like thinking and mapping and following paths or routes or maps even, and the journey is unending and there is no such thing as a journey’s end. Just as a full stop never signifies the end of a sentence when it is rejoinder to and only a pause for breath. So if you did not need to stop to breathe (attached to a cord that bypassed your mouth and just oxygenated your whole body) so you do not need full stops. When you talk to a person you do not have to stop for breath, just you do not have to talk. Silence is golden, but Gold is silent, and when Silver tongues are silent or when they are not they are NOT really silver.

On a scale of things is a teardrop, a pudddle, river, lake sea.. more or less in the scheme of the Universal Energy?

Puddle by MC Escher

If there is a reason to type then I type but when there is no reason to type I may still type in each case the reason to type is not the WHY for typing. The WHY is just sharing, so typing is sharing and sharing is not typing, but something else. The typing is not the way to share the ideas because there are words, thoughts, and feelings as well as events that form the content so typing is just a means to share, but to share or nor share makes the same difference which is no difference because the difference it makes is only to me for doing it, it may be satisfying to you or the person who is reading it. It is equal only to the bubbles that rise from champagne or cola, but the bubbles are the same, in that they reflect the whole room in both cases irrespective of the value of one type of bubble or the other by man’s measurement.

To choose to hang a picture or to not choose to hang the picture is in equal measure of energy and exhilaration, or disinterest. The choice to call it a masterpiece is not merely in the eyes of the beholder it is a masterpiece merely because it is created with everything that has been created by nature even the most synthetic fibres. To consider one piece more masterful than another shows that we have not contemplated how masterful the amoebae is or it’s importance in the scheme of things. The hierarchy that we define as important or superior is itself an illusion.

Tim Field: A knight Of Our Times

2005-06-06T09:14:00.000+01:00

This personal narrative is to explain that one subject I know alot about is fighting, for myself, mainly for others and for any cause I have invested my ethical standpoint in. My Chinese sign is Metal, or King Rat, an instinct for survival in extreme conditions with intelligence are it's key words.

I think also the link below is one that Tim would approve of, a blogsite written by a man called David, a very useful site for those with Teenagers who have angst!

http://104teen.blogspot.com/

At the end of this article are links to help you protect yourself, arm yourself with knowledge, with support structures, and with a comprehensive incredible database library that is Labour of Courage and the Knight and Champion of the Underdog, 'SIR. Tim Field'!

I am always fascinated by the subject of bullying, what incited it, how did it self-generate, and the psychological aspects of it, I grew up on old Hollywood:

John Wayne... Gary Cooper, Audie Murphy, Mitchum, Bogart, Gable, Stewart Grainger, Valentino, Yul Brynner, Tyrone Power, Kirk Douglas, Burt Lancaster, Charlton Heston, Montgomery Clift, Steve McQueen, Sidney Poitier, Cagney, Clint Eastwood, Edward G. Robinson… Rock Hudson, Tracy, Cary Grant, Robert Taylor, Richard Burton, Errol Flynn, Paul Newman, and Marlow Brando.

My Father is very like Shane, Alan Ladd's character, and to this day, I can watch Bruce Lee (my brother and I have all his films) relating to the subject matter, drawing from our own experiences of a darker, tougher time when we were growing up, when Enoch Powell's propaganda, the National Front, and skinheads made us unwelcome and my father often a target.

More than once my father, arrived home - we knew he had been in a fight, but we also knew he was equipped to handle himself. Once, he was assaulted by a bully who unprovoked; attacked him with his wife, and children watching. On one occasion, my father was in the car, when the man pushed himself into the window and started punching him, I was behind and grabbed the mans hair in my fists, and scratched him with my nails; I was about 9, which did not help Dad... my brother was yelling and practically on top of me fearlessly, he wanted to protect his dad, he was so little, with the most perfect nose!

I had a female friend, a puckish smile, sharp witted, cruel at times; who unremittingly exhibited all the tendencies, without accepting accountability, apology, or ownership of her appalling behaviour. When I met her I was the form captain, and many times took her aside, and index finger in her pugnacious scowling face, I myself frowning like the Grim Reaper, stated in no uncertain terms, I disapproved of her bullying poor clumsy, awkward, Shashi! At the same time, I wanted to hug her; something made me think she was herself troubled; she had innocence in her reckless audacity. Her sharp features and tiny body made her a little Hitler! She was only 4ft 10” at a stretch!

I kept forgiving her from our first meetings to the last, but the ruinous drama she created, incited, enjoyed, was bewildering to others. What was fascinating was that she really relished her perceived power over her weaker objects of attention, who she felt an intellectual superiority over. Please note, she is also a wonderful, comedic genius, bright, articulate, intelligent... but I am stating the factual aspect of her dark side...

Yet in a heartbeat, against all my friends best intentions for me, I would put my arms around like a big sister, (though we are the same age) kiss her on the forehead and wish her inner strength and courage to overcome these weaknesses, however she lacks the integrity to redeem herself.

However, perhaps if she reads this and has finally grown up, she can know all is forgiven, and I love her still, but so many ‘spiteful, malicious’ incidents that she thinks were funny, are beyond compute.

Interference in my life was often under questionable motives, when confronted by her own weaknesses she either flew into a rage, or sulked and withdrew sans apology taking on the role of the misunderstood, vilified victim. I will always care for her because I understand her, but it is sad that she lives in this illusionary world where she can always retreat, convincing herself that because a parent bullied her mentally, this is itself the source of her malcontent and vengeance towards those who either love her the most... Or at worst those she considers weak, too beautiful, 'stupid, slow'... old, smelly...anyone is a target for her spite, her physical attacks, and her put-downs'

My background

I grew up in a tough world for a child, ethnic outsider looking in... Where I frequently cracked the heads of bullies picking on my less confident or 'different-square-eccentric-intellectual-friends', one in particular a girl called Rosemund, was always their target. Rosemund was like Kelsey Grammar's character 'Fraser' from TV. I recently saw the episode about him dating a sport instructor, who was harsh on the tubby girl in school, well that girl could be Rosemund. Her experiences as a child were a constant avoidance of sport and bullies. She had a briefcase, brown shoes and looked the spitting image of like Miss. Piggy, with her hair bands and dark gold hair. I liked her mind, she was always plaguerising Hollywood stories, such as 'Arsenic & lace' with Cary Grant: but she was different, she eventually went to Cambridge to study literature so she beat them, by her own success in the long run!

The enemy were two girls who had been to Borstal and ended up at my school, one favoured the look of a punk rocker, and the other was a Mod. I eventually won these two over, but it took a year of in fighting, they often boasted of going to football matches with broken beer bottles, which they hurled blindly, into the crowd!

The reason we became allies and they stopped bullying is remarkable, Ted Hughes the Poet, met me at school and chose two of my poems in his school circular, that was to encourage local poetry interest. I wrote their entries as well purely as a favour, and helped them set the rhythm and rhyme... because I love those kinds of poems best! Strange isn't it? Fists failed where a soft word was successful!

A year earlier, one of them spat on my own briefcase, but I would never have run...When the bully spat at me, and it landed on my briefcase, we were walking up the fire escape. I stopped at the top of the flight of stairs, wiped it off on the bully's shirt, and then I pushed her down a flight of stairs when she tried to grab my long hair, and deck me. Another time I had a window seat and was rocking back on my chair, she pushed my table hard into my stomach so I was wedged between the window/wall and table. I flexed my knees, and kicked her so hard she fell backwards, dislocating her wrist, as she landed into a bin!

Unlike Rosemund, a self-professed coward, a funny bright girl who would abandon me when I fought for her, her fat legs found the lightening speed of an escaping, swiftly fleeing ostrich, I always marvelled at how she propelled her tubby form, it was suspicious... She never showed that form in Hockey, or track... AND she was hopeless at any ball co-ordination and would look miserable waiting forever in the sidelines. I was the fastest up the rope, I did gymnastics, mainly vaulting over the horse, somersaults etc, she meantime was sitting cross legged waiting with another note, and a permanent cold, or headache, or some other illness to avoid gym.

I must have fought at least 30 times for her over 4 years! She was an aquarian, who greedily, would put her fork under my arm and steal my chips, surrepticiously, who had no street-wise savvy, she played piano, violin, could not run under normal competitive sports, was the last line-up girl to be picked... and was easy prey for her enemies!

Sometimes, I wanted to slap her myself really hard, 'Rosemund you idiot, not again!' She took risks that led her into dangerous situations, like a bafoon, she would go down the underground when it was dark, I would go over the road, and wait to see if she came out... then I would hear her scream. I would sigh, turn back and run down and she would be standing there actually shaking, whilst surrounded by hard cases, smoking and trying to burn her with their cigerettes. Her briefcase being emptied and laughter at the size of her gym shorts. They would turn to me, and say it had nothing to do with me, I knew it, but I was compelled to be involved.

Yet she never once thanked me, not in all the years I knew her she stopped shaking would pick up her bag clutching it, her knees bloodied or her nose, sometimes she had a bruise on her eye, where her glasses had caught her face! I would sqeeze her shoulder comfortingly, 'You okay?' she would be trembling still.

I wasn't alone I had two friends who fought for me, Jane Erdinc (a Saggitarian, brunette with the Osmand’s smile: the most perfectly, naturally beautiful girl, half Turkish, I have ever met in real life), and Michael Fox (I had a crush on him forever, a Librian, gymnast who could do the crucifix with the rope rings... that was my first sight of him, we will always be friends)...

I had my own permanently attached, bully who later alongside Jane, became my best friend after we had a tough fight. She cut my lip and I bloodied her nose, she was and remains about 7 inches taller than me. Her name was Susan Wharton, she never showed racist intent, with her, she said it was just envy, I was the fastest runner and my athletic prowess as she told me, along with my brains intimidated her... I played sports in teams and individually around 5-6 days per week. I organised a charity incentive, and sang in the choir... I was a loner, who refused the comfort of cliques... instead I mixed with the athletic boys mainly, with whom I played table tennis every day for 4 years - almost every break, or every lunchtime, and the squares-so-called 'anoraks'.

The reason she picked on me that particular day, she said it was because I answered all the questions during a quick fire round in one of our classes.

Like now ... most of my life I have had very long hair, she was the only girl that did not grab my long hair, and scratch or bite! (Like my brother! ha ha ha)... she fought fair - just fists... She was a blonde pretty girl who looked like Lucille Ball! Once we had fought, the next time I saw her between breaks, I said quickly, 'Susan, I am going to really hurt you this time, you think carefully about this, because I am not backing down!'

I tensed myself, I was not in a good mood, she crossed the corridor and my group of friends alongside hers stepped back, she stood in front of me, and I realised how tall she really was, again I tensed, I put down my bag, and squared up, she put out her hand and said, 'Friends?' and smiled. Then she rubbed the top of my head and picked up my briefcase and handed it to me saying, 'this is as bad as Rosamunds!' I replied, 'No mine is leather, my father bought me this, it has my initials inside and I am not changing it!' She started to laugh and we went off to P.E, where for the first time in 2 years we were on the same side.

I never retreated or gave in, and as my school friends can vouchsafe, caused many a bloody nose, I have never been intimidated by violence or threats, I do not condone violence, but I won't stand there and co-exist with a bully without asserting myself and resolving situations with a planned offensive.

We were always coming home, my brother and I: bloodied, he came off worst, because he was an intuitive, instinctual fighter, he deployed all the tactics available to him, he bit, he scratched, he punched, he kicked... I know because he was always winding me up and fighting me, he was the Transylvanian Devil, a fighting flaying dervish, typhoon when attacked. My mother aptly nicknamed him the Hurricane, if you like James Cagney then you will love my brother... he is exactly like Cagney! ... and me I am the unpredicatable Whirlwind!

Why? Because I turn direction anytime, I can stop turn on my heel and walk away, at any time, the fight has to be worth the sacrifices, the costs, the resources and my personal objective must have been met. I am clear about my mentally drawn line, I never step over it and won't stoop to gain a point, it is a hollow victory, and I don't operate that way.

As my mother often reminds me I am strictly my Father's daughter, philosophical, I would fight clean, with a level of integrity, and fairness and more often then not try to reason with my assailant....

I would literally turn to walk away, they would lie a hand on my shoulder and without any hesitation I punched out, and I can punch hard! I personally never lost a fight, but I resisted being put in the situation. When you are the underdog, called every kind of name from ‘wog, paki, darkie...’ etc you do your best to retaliate intelligently, walk away... when hands are laid onto you it is different.

Years ago when someone started to pick on me, my brother turned to my mother (she told me this) and said, 'He has no clue as to who he is dealing with, right now she is assessing his weaknesses but if he pushes her too far she will turn on him and she is a bitch!'

Ha ha - he meant it in the nicest possible way!

My brother and I had at least a couple of physical incidents each month, often more frequently. We lived in nice areas here in England, but we were the only Asians. We had no one to turn to in terms of peers. In fact I never had more than one other darker skinned face in my class until I went to do my A’ levels... even then I think there were only about 4/30. At university it wasn't much better, again very few like me, with ethnic origins!

Bruce Lee and Mohammad Ali were the first ethnic hero's that my brother found gave us inspiration in our times! Martin Luther King was dead by the time we were fighting for ourselves.

My nephew attends Taikwondo classes for this very reason... to avoid a fight, passive resistance, yet to be armed should he require the skills, mental strength and emotional fibre to have to. We want him to defend the weak, and be a hero in his own right!

My parents were tough, my father was a wrestler as a young man and undefeated for his age (until he was 18). His nickname was Rusthum, (the undefeated Indian/Muslim King of our History). He had a gang, and he was imprisoned for a year during which time he was consistently tortured without leaving scars, to the degree that he had broken ribs, which to this day remain slightly protruding. The reason he was imprisoned was to stop him from eloping with my beautiful mother.

My mother's family were colonial, her Father was a Major-General in Rangoon, Burma, pictures of him with elephants, tiger shoots... showed a sharp, intelligent, strong man.

Her eldest brother was very handsome, a lion-like, stunning man: the senior physician for the Indian Police Force, that covered a territory three times the size of England: an incredibly high office for someone as young as he was. My uncle was a truly wonderful man, he never intended for my father to be tortured but that was just endemic of prison life.

My father did elope with my mother, but he did it intelligently, in an exquisite way.... like everything he did, it was finesse.... planned out, coolly, and demonstrated that he had more than just beauty he had strategy. My mother as a brave, courageous protest, had during his prison stay abandoned her affluent background and moved into a YMCA, run by Nuns, and Nurses. Dad, dressed like an electrician took his fearful cousin, calmly walked into the building and then scoped it out to find her and then escaped with her... The police were alerted and they had to find every type of mode of travel and disguised to get past them, as they fled across three states.

When I see this picture it reminds me of my Mother, and my Father:
...La Belle Dame Sans Merci painted by John William Waterhouse.

They eloped and once the deed was done, my wonderful, forgiving gracious Grandmother - Beejee, forgave them, and accepted Dad. She said many times to me when she was alive that he was simply the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. She smiled softly a 'Buddha-like Goddess'. She was an inspiration in forgiving, in love and in intelligence. She always said, 'Do not sit silently like a foolish person, if you have an opinion, share it aloud, if you do not understand ask for clarification, but never sit there looking pretty, you waste your most powerful asset – your brain, and you are then missing out in learning!'

My parents have taught all their siblings to defend the weak, we have never been instructed to walk away from a situation concerning a bully 'beating up emotionally/physically' another weaker person, and this just isn't a part of my identity.

My Father taught us to plan our approach and find a route intelligently through battle; my mother inspired us to consider the heart & soul of the weaker person. My brother and I in particular would never have come home and tell her that we had stood by and allowed another person to be hurt and not helped; she would have been appalled.

On two separate occasions my kid brother was close to being beaten up at school, luckily I was within 100 yards of the incident... I would run back, and go hell for leather... ‘don’t you dare touch my brother! ' and then ended up in a fight. One time my best friend Julie, a Capricorn, saw my little brother being attacked by two boys in the year above... I ran over grabbed the pair of them, swing them free of my little brother, pushed one of them , hard enough that he went through a small office window, which had special glass and came away from the frame but didn't shatter. Julie told my kid brother to run... He did! (HA HA, left me the tyke)... I picked up a chair and hit the other one (I had seen too many films), and then I (not them) was hauled off to the vice principals!

No one I mean - no one hurts my brother!

Outcome, I am standing in front of the Vice Principal: getting a dressing down, because the bullies have come worse off! Now nothing that idiotic niave man said to me at that time made me repent. His wife owned a business next to my parents, and when he escalated it to my mother, she fully supported my decision, particularly as usually when we were attacked it was 2-3 others, and at the time my fiery tiger-bro’ was little, cute and they were usually bigger than both of us.

Being Asian in an ALL white comprehensive, which at the time boasted 3-mile long corridors and was featured on a documentary, was hard! My brother and I cut our teeth the hard way, and I have to say it held us in good stead, because we have never been the types to suffer for long at the hands of another person's insanity.

... But let's face it as you grow up, you cannot use your fists situations become more complex, there are so many situations where you feel defenceless! Sometimes you have to find an inner resilience, to stand true, steadfast and look for the reason to withdraw your sword and fight. If you are looking for inspiration then this site is for you, if you are the finding you are the person such venom is being directed, or you know someone else who needs advice, support…

'Accolade' painted by John William Waterhouse.

Tim Field is a living breathing, Knight Of Our Times, find him at: www.successunlimited.co.uk/bio.htm.

If you need to find a plan - learn how to protect yourself at: www.thefieldfoundation.org

Both situations led me to consider Tim Field's site, and his personal emails to me a great source of inspiration, comprehension, understanding and forgiveness. He was fighting his own battles at the time but found time to be there for me.

Please add his site to your 'favourite links', and forward his links to your friends, family and anyone you think or believe is being bullied, are a bully or is suffering in silence because like my friend they lack self-awareness.

Tim Field graduated from Staffordshire University (formerly North Staffordshire Polytechnic) in 1975 with a First Class Honours degree in computing science, after which he spent nearly twenty years at the forefront of computing in programming and systems support and development. His technical expertise was complemented by a commitment to user support and customer service specialising in designing and delivering training programmes for users with little or no knowledge of computing. He became a regular speaker at user group conferences around the world, including UK, Switzerland, Sweden, Australia and USA.

Drawing on the experience of being bullied out of his job as a Customer Services Manager in 1994 and experiencing a stress breakdown, he founded the UK National Workplace Bullying Advice Line in January 1996 and was first featured in the Independent on Sunday, 28/1/96.

Tim's Advice Line has logged over 10,000 cases similar to his own. During 1996 he wrote, typeset and published Bully in sight which was the first book to identify the sociopathic serial bully in the workplace.

In 1997, recognising that he couldn't sustain the level of telephone demand indefinitely, he set up a web site Bully OnLine which went live with six pages in January 1998. In 2004 there are over 400 pages and the one site has expanded into three sites:

The Field Foundation at www.thefieldfoundation.org for all activities related to support, advice, awareness raising and education about bullying.

Bully OnLine at www.bullyonline.org is the largest project of The Field Foundation and is where the bulk of Tim Field's insight is available. Bully OnLine is the world's largest Internet resource on bullying and related issues including stress, trauma, PTSD and bullying-related suicide.

Success Unlimited at www.successunlimited.co.uk is where Tim showcases his books and seminars. More books are in planning, and a film script. His professional biography and client list is at www.successunlimited.co.uk/bio.htm.

Don't suffer in silence - arm yourself, there is a great blog for teens so if if you are TEEN.... Check it out.

Bully OnLine at http://www.bullyonline.org

The Serial Bully at http://www.bullyonline.org/workbully/serial.htm

Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) at http://www.bullyonline.org/stress/ptsd.htm

Sharing my experience with a Fab Training Company!

2005-06-06T09:10:00.000+01:00

03/06/05

Attention: Lynne
Premier Training International
Premier Training International - Health & Fitness training courses available in the UK from Premier Training International Ltd. Premier's range of vocational fitness training courses ...
http://www.premierglobal.co.uk/

REF: Student Testimony re: specifically Paul – Our Instructor – Feedback on Performance

Dear Lynne,

You may recall we spoke before my course? Please feel free to use my letter as a recommendation for your courses, where appropriate. I am very pleased to be able to provide feedback on a week’s course with Premier Training International in this personal approach (I will fill and return the Customer Sats form also).

Paul, Brett and Matt, the Windsor Leisure Courses Management Team from the onset, were efficient, very clear and approachable, really welcoming… whilst we students were an unruly, undisciplined group, with some ‘big wise-cracking personalities’ and some shy, reserved gentle individuals too.

To give you a landscape of the type of individuals they had to deal with, we had everything from a lady with roller coaster emotions to a chap who had made real personal sacrifices whereby he had taken a heavyweight loan to pay for his course, and left his job committing himself entirely to this endeavour. We had younger members fresh out of school… and female rugby players, and those who had spent office time in I.T realising they were losing some financial security to be here and thus it meant a lot to them. Now with such a variety of backgrounds, education, and maturity levels as well as ages from 18 to 50, it was a challenging role for anyone, in our case: Paul our conscientious, enthusiastic and determined trainer to handle such an eclectic group, without shooting one of us, though he knows how to use firearms and may have had a pistol next to the computer.

Each of the above management team brought their own personal people skills to the group and the general consensus was very positive. I would like to specifically mention Paul, because we spent a lot of time with him and quite frankly from my own background (currently in between jobs), as a Quality Manager (European Standards) for corporate type companies, where efficiency, cost effectiveness, time management, effective communication, and performance quality are paramount to my role, he was simply put an inspiration.

Paul has a slight stutter about 1-2 secs duration, very endearing when he first engages in casual dialogue, yet seconds later, once he is underway, he is awesome, his enunciation is perfectly controlled, his voice flawlessly pitched, to suit a theatre type of audience, and his delivery at a steady well managed pace, intelligently responding to the classes frequent peaks and highs of attention-span.

His command of the group shows his military background of leadership because he certainly had control of his large class, which is hard there were 20 people (a rabble) in that group, and that isn’t easy. His presence was such that his logical explanations, dramatic self expression and then focussed specificity on complex targeted subjects was executed with such precision and erudite knowledge that behind the scenes during breaks individuals were consistently running the same commentary… ‘It’s easy for him he has all this background, and he knows what he is talking about… but it looks tough to learn’…. Yet he was right when he said we were learning and relearning… to my complete surprise his technique and agility in manoeuvring between subject matter, such that bearing in mind there were three different course groups in there, myself a one week attendee, others doing a month, some others doing 6 weeks and then the entire 12 week program… I think… well the fact that he could disseminate the subject matter to be appropriate for each of these different levels, and to cover the requirements was quite remarkable. Astonishingly, of all we all went from ‘sloth to… cheetah’.

I heard from someone who had passed the course previously (the one I am on ‘exercise to music’….) and she expressed how well the course fit the exam requirements. That is in itself a great commendation. Only one young man did fall asleep during the first two days of the week – but his throat hickies (love bites) were reasons for his all night efforts in a related subject that of biology.

When we went into practical exercises at the end of the week, again Paul’s expertise and depth in background showed he was heads up to anything I have seen in the 20 years of gym work that I have experienced. Even there he maintained control, and was often observed involved in the subtlest change in posture to enhance the ‘stretch’ exercises, to take them from comfortable to excruciating pain, where none of us can walk today without the aid of good walking stick.

I have taught many presentations myself and I was genuinely impressed with his responsiveness and kindness to each of us, the Windsor team appeared to have this down to an art, where impeccable manners, a comforting but professionally detached approach was deployed, yet when perhaps a deeper compassionate style of responsiveness was required this was also in clear evidence. I was hoping in fact relying on favouritism as this has held me in good stead through school, but I was disappointedly treated exactly the same as the rest of the group!

Finally, I am seriously looking at adding more courses to my portfolio, something I really wasn’t intending to do… mainly due to the experience I have just had in finishing this first stage. I was in some ways an active resister, as I was forced to do this course due to a rule change to maintain my insurance with REPs I appreciated the reasoning but to be frank with you felt obliged at a time when I have to find a full time role to obviously just survive, and so I went into it quite reluctantly, and this negative attitude impacted because whereas I usually embrace subject matter and find it very easy to handle complexity, this time I was struggling to memorise information and some of the sport concepts were hard for me to grasp, which made me frustrated, and appear stupid. The price of which was 11 press-ups! Unfortunately my ineptness, dumbness, and blank expression went on for about 4 days, and then I clicked during one afternoon and found myself re-thinking my stance, from that point I reverted to being smart, and had the attention span of a cat with a mouse. Particularly as he made good his threats, and if you have not met him he is FIT, imposing, has a steely glance, and a pistol!

Anyway, I am hoping to look at the other courses and I am quite determined to force myself back into a school chair… particularly if the other trainers are as great as he is, and judging by his character, I am certain they would not last in his efficient organisation if they were any less quality performers!

Well, that is my summary, and I appreciate this is lengthy but I was keen to do this – irrespective of whether I pass or fail, I have left the course with great memories of the whole experience. Also, just for your information I have attended approx. 70 seminars, workshops, training programmes, over the last 24 years, and as a quality manager during that period, for approx. 13 years, with a client base of customers such as companies like IMRO Bank, NOMURA, SHELL, Mercedes Benz, Pedigree, Dun & Bradstreet, Marks & Spencer’s, M.O.D, whilst being an advocate for ISO9000 QMS, I believe I am someone who is skilfully competent in discriminating between high standards in quality and poor quality.

Please feel free to include my letter in any manner for your marketing purposes; I can be contacted to verify most of these details. Thank you for your kind consideration.

Yours sincerely,

Sapphire

Taurian Couples - The Perfect Communicators

2005-06-05T13:23:00.000+01:00

I cherish my Taurians Friends!

I have two sets of Taurian couple friends where in each couplet, both individuals are born under the sign of Taurus... Being around them I don't feel as I normally do - on the outside looking in, a guest, or estranged by one or the other partner.

Instead it is an all embracing sense of belonging, like being part of their sensual/practical/earthy domesticity, both involve me in their non-minimalist, luxurious palatable meals... where nutrition not dieting is the keyword...

There are dogs... children... voluptuous females, intelligent strong men... family values, old fashioned down to earth timeless systems in evidence... and their uninterrupted by modern corruption - value systems remain natural, robust, yet flexible enough to cope with daily pressures.

Now I should add that I have other couple friends who are very much 'opposites attracting'... but this particular article, is about two sets of individuals, both unique in their personalities yet with the same star sign, and energy.

My gratitude to both couples is boundless!

I have probably the keenest sense of comfort, relaxation, well being, intellectual stimulus, creative aplomb and sensuality (by this I mean, all that surrounds the senses from smells, the most palatable wine) around them.

When you walk into their kitchens, you do not feel you are entering an operating room; the kitchen isn’t for show, an accessory to their ‘presented lifestyle magazine’…

The cook books are weathered, the kitchens are designed for the cook, there are jugs with herbs overflowing… a cottage kitchen ensure you are interested in the little bowls of olive oil with various herbs, or the bottles with spicy colours. They remind me I suppose of my mother… practical diligence, skilfully blending the fantasy of food to the practical palate of reality where you are actually eating the same recipe that you see in the pages covered with finger prints that touched jam, sauces, gravies…

When I am with them, it is never a case of predictable sameness… each time I visit it is different, they match my own hosting process. The most interesting, creative menus, with appetizing starters, then a simple but satisfying main course always with some unusual side plate of their latest finds ... Whilst this is being served up they are listening to me, adding to my dialogue, questioning me, really prompting me to think beyond my original idea, one feels entirely enveloped by comforting smells: vanilla, chicken soup, mint, fruit teas... They do not create a simulation of superficial comfort by shop bought candles or boutique flowers. Everything is natural, the flowers are from their garden, almost appearing wild, passionately unruly, the candles may be home-made or from Oxfam, and the tea cups are always interesting...

In other words very much like my own natural uncontrived sense of personal self expression.

The chit chat? Discussions that range from my favourite subject (tactical/strategy) and human behaviour dissection, they really like dialogue, that is obvious!

In all the years I have known these two couples they have never had the T.V on in the background, in their homes, during my visit... instead the art of perfect communication skills... With everything one dreams a meal should provide is in evidence. Both couples as individuals show different directions of interest in my life... Both partners are genuinely interested in my anecdotal reminisces...

How do I make this observation? Well in each case, I can develop a theme, an idea, or do a post-event summary, with one or both individuals. Now I may not finish it and perhaps get diverted to something else… in time they remind me – in other words, they have taken on board my thoughts, allowed some self-analysis of their own, and now they point me back to the statement I may have made and asked what my conclusions were.

What I can say is that having spent so much time with both couples, I realised some significant similarities. In each case, both individuals regardless of which couple I visited would interject, interpose, interrupt softly... intelligently drawing from their own experiences and something that I love... share their own experiences to match mine or empathise with what I am describing... In other words they are not sitting there trussed up in pretences... or holding in their weaknesses whilst attempting to project an illusion of pretences... 'Look this is my perfect world... how are you doing?'

For a start, they know I have a ‘bullshit-reading-radar'... so they do not underestimate my grasping what they are saying or presenting as honest. AND I am always encouraged to read between the lines.

In fact my fit friend Camilla is similar in this respect... She never underestimates me, (she is a Virgo, with the chiselled looks, and golden curls of Glen Close, in Fatal Attraction... Like Glen Close's public personality, Camilla has a similar strong independence with vitality, and enjoys her power over men!).... So questions such as ... 'What do you think, about this, why did this happen, what was it's source, what can be done, what is your interpretation, how do you think the situation will develop... ' is commonplace between us.

Responses such as ‘okay, that makes sense… I don’t understand, what made this occur? But why do you think/feel/believe this was the case?’

An endless line of intelligent enquiry, and truth finding... or soul searching, as well as perhaps a few weeks later, a reflected statement is considered again. They had actually thought about what I said, beyond the event when it occurred or when I presented it to them… Now I do this, but rarely do people return the gift of true listening by doing the same back… So what happened with such and such, or that situation you described, how did it end?

At the end of an evening, there is no polite yawning to remind you to leave… instead their graciousness matches their interest in your presence, and their knowledge of the fragility of human life to be so short lived, that they treat each meeting with the same feeling that this may be the last, so it is special… each time … every time.

When Adele moved with Henry, her last words to me were, ‘we have your room ready for you, anytime…you need to recharge your batteries.’

Georg Flegal 1566-1638 Painted this wine and bread painting...

The first couple are Henry and Adele ... the second couple are Sean and Beatriz (the former have two beautiful Labradors ... the second two beautiful daughters under 8 years old)... In both cases I find that I am able to actually be a happy listener ... it isn't down to me to find the interesting dialogue, or keep the conversation in movement... I am able to sit back and genuinely relax ... what I enjoy is that with both couples, I am almost the child and able to be myself, without any surface reflections of how I am presenting myself...

I mean imagine that you are having a meal with this couple that are so relaxed with each other, that fight happily, comfortably, and make up equally well ... that when you are with them, they are including you entirely, that they switch off their tv, stop what they are doing unless it is Henry, with his dark wit, his sly smile, his acceptance that 'she who must be obeyed, is a free-spirit that has the logic of an artist ... - his other half Adele... He often has to work from home, IT consultancy.

… Or Beatriz cooking like a diva in her kitchen ... she is Brazilian ... fiery, fast, intellectually challenging everyone in her path ... and funny without intention as she has this cute accent that makes me laugh. ... High pitched and direct, she can cut to the quick, hit the issue like batsman, striking hard!

Now, when I am with them here is the interesting thing... I spend more time with Sean when I visit Beatriz... I do yoga classes for him from time to time, and he is supple, agile and has fantastic legs ... He also looks like Captain Birdseye - well a young version.... We share an interest in the dynamics of the workplace, we can discuss, disseminate, dissect for hours some particular detail that we have hooked to... I adore being with them both, he is a hands-on father and he is fully involved with his children.... Beatrix is the fireball in their relationship and he guards her jealously - because he is a passionate soul, his way of explaining interesting subjects is so well executed that I am enthralled to just sit there and listen...

Now there are not many men who can engage my attention with their knowledge because more often, I am attracted to the silent types, strong resilient and thinkers, philosophical types with their own quiet radiance... But Sean is different, his energy matches mine ... he has this wicked little grin where his eyebrows raise and Beatrix loves his butt... She is always mentioning how fantastic his athletic legs are and she has every right to appreciate them!

Now Beatrix is someone who I met through work (she worked for me as one of my team of 8 auditors ... and someone I would loved to have developed further possibly into quality assurance, but it was not to be). She is exciting, in meetings she was fearlessly uncompromising in her diligence in wrenching open a weak fissure with her crowbar and then levering it open and exposing the weaknesses.

I would marvel at her complete lack of subtlety, her avoidance of diplomatic persuasiveness and most of all her clarity in disposing of the fool who dared to take her on... Now I have to tell you she made me laugh ... to the point where my sides would crack and I would have to sit down, because she was so natural, and like a bull in a proverbial china shop, she was driven! I had images of having to put my hand on her forehead to hold her back. ... Whilst she pawed the ground with her passionate Brazilian power! It was easy to live vicariously out of her sheer audacity and mental brilliance, I adore smart women, she is nobody's fool!

Sean ... well he is a master at persuasion; his voice is softly articulated, almost enticing and very elegant. He has a way of describing a situation so clearly that you are in the picture, and he is so forgiving so caring and so sympathetic that you recognise in him someone who is a tremendous manager. He explains himself like a teacher and mentor, and he can hold a conversation to keep me fixed in my chair like a student! In fact that pretty much explains our relationship, I am his pupil because despite his age (he is around 40) he is so intelligent that he keeps my attention span for a limitless time.

One evening he shared his entire liqueur cabinet contents ... whereby we sipped each one of his vast collection ... a teaspoon of each... feeling warm, relaxed ... he knew details about each delicious sip that it was amazing that he had taken the time to know what he was sipping...

He did this without any vanity, ego or need to show-off, he shared in the manner of a vineyard owner who wished you to experience each of his favourite wines with a special pride in the product quality... NOT in any way conceited or suggesting he is special for having acquired such depth of know-how!

My other friend Adele, is a hoot, she is creative in her photography, whereby her pictures of rural roads, winding, through hills, etc. are so beautiful crafted that her eye is faultless in framing a scene ... it is as if she knows exactly what to include in a shot and what should be excluded... She and I get excited about the same subjects!

Now every so often Henry (highly competent, capable and astute) will walk into the room we are in ... He will make some passing cryptic comment (he is one of those strong silent types) and then he will leave the room ... Now Adele and I look at each other ... I raise my left eyebrow, she raises both.. We take a minute to pause, then we realise he has just insulted us NOT superficially but to our core! He is chuckling away to himlself, he admits women are an alien race, he accepts his limitations with them, but he knows how to wind us up... Now we stare at each other, we both burst out laughing ... because we let him, he got away with it, and it took us a few minutes to grasp his deadly aim was accurate, and logic! That is his great weakness he is tooooo damned logical!

Well, we then start to giggle and once we get going it is ridiculous, I mean we both end up crying she has long brown hair usually to her waist silky and brown ... she like Beatriz is a healthy, well rounded curvaceous woman ... they are types that would have been the fantasy of many a Victorian....

Now when she starts to giggle, she has to take off her glasses and wipe a tear ... in the meantime I am practically on my back because my sides hurt so much. Adele is someone whose knowledge of plants, herbs, nutrition, homemaking, my Mother is the same ... but they beat me hands down... I have a wide range of knowledge about most subjects, but if you want to know gardening tips, what food contains, what herbs do she is a young version of my Mom!

For Adele and Henry, their special affinity with their dogs is only matched with the gracious supportive manner in which they treat each other....

One thing I really feel when I am around both of these couples is their ability to include me in their day to day processes ... they both treat me as if I am part of their family, and when they share their anecdotes it is done with such depth of honesty, brutal frankness and humbleness that I feel in awe of how they manage their relationships. If you want to see LOVE in ACTION be around two Taurians ... they are subtle, romantic, sweet, challenging, and down to earth... and most of all they do not PLAY GAMES!

They do not manipulate each other ... they do not have hidden agenda's and they do not treat each other as trophy's or worse still as carers, or providers... Another thing they do not it appears to me require any approval, or verification of love from each other.

They have it within them to know and recognise each other’s hidden language to the degree that it is wordless and when they look at each other, I can feel what they feel for each other.

Their homes are another thing ... they both share equal space in their homes, their goals are perfectly aligned to each others and the give and take is well rounded ... both have spaces to disappear and whether it is animals or children they treat each with the same sense of equal rearing ... there is no subdivisions of labour, or lack of respect for their other half in their demands... Sean lays the table.... Beatriz cooks, Sean opens the wine... Beatriz serves, Sean ensures the children eat, wash and go to bed ... their routines are executed efficiently and guests are part of this wonderful sharing process...

With Adele, she may sit back and (as she is always studying...) Henry will cook, he is a great chef ... he will tease her ... he asks whether wine is desired ... he chooses a wine ... she sets the table, he is involved with the choice of plates, glasses, and sauces.... Around them their dogs play a significant part. … They know each of their animals personal traits, they can read almost to a psychic point their beloved animal's personal unspoken language ... They will each address the needs of their animals with such quick responsiveness and take them everywhere they can ... this closeness is touching and endearing to be part of.

Sometimes when I am alone, I think of them and instantly their coupleness
makes me smile, a slow long smile. They work shoulder to shoulder for shared goals, they build deeper love, committed enduring affection and caring, and they never cut each other with sarcasm, or spite, they do not attack each other ingraciously in public, because their arguments are handled with maturity. I have other friends whose their private battles are weakly unempowering, meant to hurt, where winning is ALL.

These two couples handle each other by direct mature confrontation, assertive and due diligence, they know they are responsible for what happens to them both, and accountable for the results.

They are not perfect, but they do have a sensible desire to work things out to keep their partner in the loop, they have shared goals, and in their relationship they have open communication, nothing festers.

When I worked with Beatrix, she would suddenly look at me and say, ‘Oh that outfit is really lovely, you look beautiful…’ this easy going, sweet confident manner in her to be able to offer the gift of a complement just as sweetly as she accepted compliments was wonderful to me. Adele, is similar when she tells you that she thinks you are wearing the right colour, you know you can believe her, that her artistic eye has fully converted the subtle hues in your skin tone, the radiance that you project from your soul, and her mind can appreciate you artistically, not as a potential female threat.

Both of these couples teach me! That is rare... with them, each time we are together I am constantly learning, engaging in a harmonious circus of skills and power of transformation. You see if you do not know much about signs, Taurians are builders... they are architects...

If you know anything about me, then you know I love architects... they know their materials, and they know their music, their wines, their work dynamics, they know people.... When I want to dissect a person I may care about or be interested in to them, they are non-judgemental. They comprehend my relentless, tireless enquiry; my inner drive and they reach to me, take me into their inner sanctuary and respect my core beliefs.

Dialogue is always try this, taste that. Smell this ... and their descriptive narratives are full of verve, passion, and poetry... and colour!

Georg Flegal 1566-1638 Painted this opulent painting...

Taurians remind me of this quality of opulence, in this painting, their taste is perfect, luxury, in it's simplest form... comfort, quality, humility... even their humblest fare, presented simply whether it is bread, or mulled wine, or slow gin... leaves a mind-blowing exotic, earthy collision of variety, breadth of colour... blood red, burgundy, dark greens... Scents that make your mouth water...

'You must taste this', they say, whilst handling you a spoon with an interesting, colourful edible...

Then the music, they remember I like classical music with my meals that this is part of my nature, my need to feel calm, and they attend to my needs as if I am a special part of their life. Their choice in music enhances my mood, classical; I cannot eat with noisy jazz in the background, it irritates me… They seem to know exactly what I enjoy... it is wordless, I have never had to specify it, and they just seem to know. My mother is the same in this quality, if a song comes on that she knows I would love she stops everything, runs into the lounge, replays the video/dvd, and watches intently - then disappears back to stir her hotpot frenetically, Beatriz is the same.

The one thing that separates them from every other couple I know is that they remind me I suppose of my parents, they have a seductive, sensual quality about them, something that makes you feel you are in the company of naturalness, no ego’s needing massaging, no niggling questions between them of one or the other partner being in power… and both completely at ease with their environment, their chores, and their duty and responsibilities, to those they love, and value which like their material possessions are equally cherished with respect and humanness, you know flaws, imperfections, problems, issues, etc.

I love being around them, they created the words ambience, tranquillity... comfort....

With my sense of romance, had I been a female highway-woman… stealing from the carriages of the affluent, whilst riding into the night... Their homes would have been my haven... a place where one can feel a sense of belonging... and truly a home that looks just like that... not a show home, but a real place to relax... stretch your toes like a cat... and know there is a fireplace and hearth with room for you to rest... a warming brandy, perfect music being a key aspect... and smells from the kitchen where herbs, spices are overabundant...

Taurian's do not do cold clinical... They do flavour... abundance, luxury... richness... and most of all they do generous gentle friendship, one where you feel protected by their irrefutable strength and loyalty to you.

I wish you could bottle what they both have in abundance which is humble goodness ... wit and appreciation of the finer things ... whilst maintaining their down to earth grounded humility!

To be significant or to be insignificant...

2005-06-03T21:01:00.000+01:00

Like a mirrored disco-ball, that can spin inside your mind and reflects all the pictures it sees it is only a reflection and any images that leave a lasting impression on this silvery sea-like lake are like when you can see the whole of your background in a single teardrop, you know when you get close up to a persons face and there in their tear drop you see everything. Also like when you look at a Cat’s eyeball and right in his iris you see yourself and all that is behind you, but what is being seen is not real nor can it be touched when it is in his cats eye orb.

Three Worlds by MC Escher...

So when one takes ownership of each aspect of one's activity one is still ‘acting’, out a role. Its significance is purely a measurement of your making, or of interpreation of others ego's and the Universal Energy does neither measure it nor judge it. So when I am carrying out any need or want it is neither about its significance to the Universal Energy it’s special-ness is only attributed by the ego. Whatever reasons are attributed to it as qualities are not real, and the importance of each ‘quality’ negative or positive is completely without impression on the Universal Energy.

The Universal Energy is neither impressed nor upset. Like when a baby watches movement it watches the movement and doesn't question what is in its infancy. If it is required to name that movement then it learns the name for it. Where that movement remains un-named it may still find some logic to name it, but even if it does not it may still understand that it is movement without searching for any reason for that movement.

This brings me to non-movement. If there is complete lack of movement and the baby were trapped in it's highchair without seeing anything move whatsoever in its space – would it have less to stimulate it? Perhaps it would make no difference since the Universal Energy must be the same, so whatever conditions or circumstances prevail the same is as it is. A leaf falling is no different to no leaf falling. Whatever conditions make the leaf fall also leaves others intact, and secure, such are the vagaries of Life.

If the leaf falls and a particular tribe accredit it more significance it makes no difference to the Universal Energy, the difference is that there is air and it surrounds the falling leaf, and it surrounds the non-falling leaf. The silence is the same, and the Universal Energy is the same.

Once we discover gravity we discover the illusion that falling is being defined by us and we are not seeing that it is not falling. So is any ONE dying they either are dead or alive, could their process of 'dying' equally just be a process of 'living', at a cell level, is there still 'Life'.... Anything other than this is not possible, if one is logical, but are such concepts really reliable? What is being called dying is not dying it is still living, if it is defined objectively as such, or the half empty cup, half full cup idea.

There is no colour to anything bad or evil it is not black or white or green or blue. Colour IS. So that goes for action and inaction. Both ARE. Both take effort, and can be effortless. Neither is good or bad or successful or unsuccessful in the context of Universal Energy. They are just action.

Artlessness and artfulness and artistry all are ART. To be affected, to affect and to be unaffected are also all living, to effect to be effective to be effete’ are all equally important and therefore not important. To find an answer you have to find FIND. To find FIND you have to stop finding, when you find FIND you know you have found it because you cannot name it just as you cannot say what colour the breeze is except that it seems to be the colour of everything behind it that you can see.

It is so vital to the answer is FIND that it is transparent but has force like a whirlwind nevertheless.

To contemplate and act and act to contemplate at the same time misses the moment when something should have been acting or contemplating so it is better to think or do nothing than just think about doing something. It should be so effortless that it is like sucking from a straw, somehow you know what to do and do not remember precisely how or when you first learnt to do it.

So when I am pitying myself for thinking I am not in some symmetry, I could also stand aside and objectively witness myself as ‘she’ (a body, an organism or organic machine) 'which' is an object (the body), containing a 'who' (soul, the mind, the heart) is in perfect (doing whatever it is supposed to do, stand, sit, breathe without falling over) balance, the ‘she’ who is reflecting shades around her of light, or dark, such a shadows, or bright sunlight, reacting to temperature, and conditions, and thinking and searching for answers and activity which covers the most basic functions, to elaborate ones such as biological ones that are carried out intuitively, suspending her seeing/feeling/knowing (like that part of her cognisance that blanks out a clock ticking) that the real miracles are always there.

It is incredible when you are meditating, because there is this lightness and an effortless state of what can feel like being comotosed,light headed and uplifted. everything becomes still and for a moment you have stilled the ceaseless voice that is in your heads.

The clock is not inside the mind but the sound maybe considered to be also its image. It is not in either case outside or inside the mind. However should it fall on the head during a thunderstorm the clock is the least part of the memory that is recalled.

… As for gravity – well no one ever writes about gravity when the clock falls on your head, one is apt to describe what may be an insignificant bump.

Hawkeye

2005-05-29T17:12:00.000+01:00

Vitruvian Man, by my favorite artist of all time Leonardo Da Vinci...

KevinM

Art Quote of the Day
Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
Charles Baudelaire

... At some point God in his Heaven decided to make an angel that went around kicking smart alecs like me in the pants..... If I ever think I am too smart, too pretty, too brilliant…

My brother is one of those ‘Kick-ass’: Angels....

The other one is my old adversary, and beloved Brain-Mate... (Well you have heard of Soul-Mates).... KevinM...

If SteveS, created order in madness, then the level of its intensity was regularised by Kevin, who would pour petrol on it, and with his sidekick Mike H.. a man whose little blonde son was one of the smartest children I have ever been tested by intellectually! I still have his photo from when he was about 5 years old!

Together Kevin and Mike looked like and were the clones of Captain "Hawkeye" Pierce, & Captain "Trapper" John McIntyre.

Kevin and I appeared to others to be great friends, but I can tell you now, it was all an illusion. The picture above reminds me of the person who is attached to the wheel board and spun whilst the knife thrower takes aim. Even as I pen, I am sharpening my knives.

I tried so many times to drop him in it.. ‘It’ being the proverbial manure! But he always managed to sidestep, and I fell in myself, flat on my well-toned ass!

Kevin was put on this earth specifically to find me, and create combat manoeuvres, before I had a chance to, and ruin ALL my well-laid plans to incite disorder, from which I always came off worse then my victims, thanks to Kevin.

Due to his soul-link to me, it means I will come across and experience him in all subsequent after-lives/re-incarnations. I have checked this with my spiritual angels and they confirm this!

It was as if our lives were on a sliding scale, so that he could increase his remit without loss of control, and I would escalate to no avail, because he always came off well…

Apart from one time…

Which I will write about in another person’s story!

He reminds me of one key character and that is ‘James Stewart’…. The film that he reminds me most of all of Kevin’s natural personality is ‘It’s a Wonderful World’.

He shared his entire family with me, a composite image: his stunning wife would send me a card and picture of his beautiful children, his daughter in particular when she was about 5 years old… simply took my breath away, because she was like a fairy, so delicate that I turned her around to see if her back had gossamer wings!

I was vibrant, vivacious, capricious and very energetic, as a child, I also had baby muscles, because from an early age I would pick my baby brother up, and carry him around for as long as I could, for distance, I dragged him around, and no-one stopped me, I protected him, and loved him.

I never once dropped him because I adored him more than my life… now no-one who saw me as a little girl thought I was delicate, I was athletic, and often tried to pick my father up, at the age of twelve I picked my father up, and swung him around!

I thought it was great to have power and strength.

When I saw Kevin’s little sugar plum fairy, child, I felt a pang of envy, I wished I could have been as delicate and exquisite as she was when I was a little girl, instead of being a child-like: Calamity Jane… strong, supple, gymnast, a sprinter or rather muscular and sporty!

His little girl looked like a fairy, like a ballerina and I just wondered how she would turn out in 20 years!

Certainly not the way I am!

Once when I was in Junior School a much bigger girl tried to ask for my pocket money, I pushed her into a bush, and she damaged her wrist.

I looked at his little girl she was a flower fairy, magical and of another world, almost covered in translucent fairy dust! I kneeled at her feet and felt like I wanted to bow my head to her, and say that I would be her protector for ever, she was like a delicate petal, you wondered how any child like her could grow into a strong adult when she appeared so rose-budlike!

Whenever he bent down to kiss me goodbye, (like most Saggitarian: half man/half horse), he would miss time his approach and collide with me, yet these constant head butts, and dents to his brain, never once diminished his repartee delivered with mathematical precision!

Whenever the MD/CEO my boss, called me into one of those spontaneous meetings where you are suspiciously close to being admonished, or receiving a brown envelope.... I would quickly slip on my smart ‘suit of armour’ business jacket, (I come from old school, where like the Koreans, Japanese, and other old-worldly Samurai warriors – you dress for the occasion…

Where you do not meet your boss without a jacket: this ensures I behave myself, as far as I am able, and that I am in the frame of mind of being in a formal setting)... then I would make a quick stop at Kevin's office, look in and lean around the door to say... 'Hey Kevin, Phil wants me to see him, how should I prepare?'

... He was always absolutely NO HELP whatsoever, without looking up from his typewriter, he would quip with some ‘smart alec’ remark that helped me about as much as if I walked into the MD/CEO's office with a buttery custard and lemony meringue pie!

'.... Sapphire, how dare you put in print what others only dare to think in private!'

'Sapphire, whatever you do, make sure your explanation does not include me being in the same region as you, when you did what you did'.

'Sapphire, you deserve every thing you get, and it is about time too'.

'Sapphire, your latest email, did it, that was the one, you have affronted the sensibilities of everyone who thought they were on safe ground and now they are exposed belly up'...

I would shrug, but secretively think, I wished I had a custard pie right there, and then hurry off to meet my Leader!

.. Once a friend of mine who understood me well, bought me the Latin book of insults... now this along with other's similarly described are some of my favourite books!

In a previous life I must have been a camel trader, swearing and curses at the local merchants about their faces resembling all the known refuse of the animal kingdom!

I can relate entirely to KIM the Rudyard Kipling child, (though he was the exact duplicate of my brother.... when I saw that film I saw my brother in action as a child!)

Well, once day I decided to end a couple of my emails concerning the competency of some of my fellow manager's or rather lack of.... by adding some latin insults.

Now this could have been quite a delicious activity, except that Kevin, remarkably because you do not see intelligence in his face you see EARNEST endeavours! He knew Latin!

I mean he came back with so much Latin at me, that I sent him one Latin phrase to end all!

'SMART ALEC!'

Followed by: as many insults as I could find that compensated for my own lack of Latin conjecture!

However, I must add that the book of French Insults remains with the Italian book of insults on my bookshelf, because just my luck he is probably as proficient in both!

... Kevin used to make me do a twirl every time he saw me wear something he liked ... sometimes he would quip as I walked up the stairs... 'Hey Hyacinth!' Because I wore Lavender, and pale avocado green....

Or.... 'Hey Cleopatra'.... because I wore an African choker....

In a single word, he could shoot an arrow of measured accuracy - straight to the heart of the matter, and with unfailing precision that he made me sick!! Apart from my father, I have never known anyone with such a quick response and so few words!

If his gorgeous wife had not married him, I would have - JUST to make him suffer for the rest of his life! This would be the only punishment that would get the better of him! I am just waiting for his wife to kick him out on his ear because he has broken all her china, (he is clumsy and coltish)! And that day, I am noosing him and dragging him to a preacher! THEN I am going to get him back - every day, until I kill him! I have his number; he played more jokes on me than anyone else...

He is and looks like, HAWKEYE ... from MASH!

... When he is in a room, it isn't his great looks, tall stature and imposing height (6ft 4") that strikes you, it is his sheer left footed clumsiness, if he hasn't spilt coffee all over your perfectly printed presentation, then he has knocked over your flower vase across your keyboard ... (when I am happy at work I ALWAYS have a vase of flowers on my desk... I supplement the blooms from what I can steal from the company car park. ... If I am miserable you will see immediately that there are no flowers on my desk!

.... He once danced with me at a corporate event, and left my toes battered... I in turn kicked him whenever the chance arose ... and it arose ALLOT because he is like a radar, tuned into everyone in the room and around him, like a typical Saggi-Archer he has his eye on every single moving object, and whilst he is dancing with you he is also sparring with others around you!

He will then begin to sing. ... okay now his long suffering wife, told me that he always is the first to leap to the stage for any karaoke! What does he sing for me the first time I had the great tragedy to hear him howl! 'Hey YOU Pussycat'. ... By Tom Jones!

What was astounding is that the English people listening to him cheered him on… they wanted more, they couldn’t get enough of him! He had girls close to throwing their telephone numbers at him!

Now had the Welsh (famous for their angelic perfect pitch, harmony) had heard Kevin, they would have caused a riot, thrown beer bottles at him, and possibly stoned him!

He is tone deaf, but despite all urgings, pleadings and pledges to pay him off to stop, he refuses, he goes up there takes a deep breath, dedicates this song to me, drags me up there too, and as you will know if you have heard me sing, I sound a cross between Presley, Doris Day and Marilyn Monroe!

. ... so now there we are, can I harmonise with him, like HELL! Only starving cats and baying wolves can meet his pitch and timbre!

Can I escape from the stage... Nahhh, I am trapped there because he has his arm around my neck in a headlock of affection. ... And he himself is so poetically moved by his own painful rendition that a tear appears in his eye corner and he is wiping it on the back of his sleeve, because he hears Harry Bellefonte emanating from his own lips! We hear something akin to a man falling down the stairs followed by a piano!

... What is most incomprehensible is that he cannot comprehend criticism; he has no sensitive thin skin to help me along with hurting him! No amount of abuse, verbal, or written can daunt him, he is unflappable, and he would have been the sole survivor on the Titanic... His optimistic happy go lucky nature is so sickening, that he makes Pollyanna appear merely grisly and like ‘Whistler’s mother’.

His spirit is indomitable, his sense of urgency is vital and passionate and he like me thinks with his head ... but unlike me - he carries his heart on his sleeve, and his soul full of un-tuneful songs!

He is coltish, skittish, and like an overgrown Bambi ... but to underestimate the big lug is the first mistake you can make because his permanent smile is natural and generated by some kind of inner fiery tornado that is unquenchable!

My luck I would have been stuck on the end of the hull with him, AND he would have sung - because he has a way of torturing you when you are least able to escape.

... When he goes to his Maker, it will be with my knife in his vocal cords, OR - unusual circumstances... Internal combustion...

When they come looking for a torch, lighter fluid, or a zippo. ... And the scraps of prose that appear to be mine, which look like it was bundled and used as combustible fuel around his ankles... I will have a sure fast alibi! It will be that I am on some project working for SteveS, because HE is so loyal to me, and he only person who would be my best cover ... particularly when I need a sympathetic jury!

He outmanoeuvred me, out-thought, and out-classed me when it came to setting up a sting... he matched me wit-for-wit, he outfoxed me, and I am planning my comeback.

One of these days, I am going to work in his company, and then I am going to get even with him...

Next to my brother - he is the one man that beat me at every parry, every cross and double-cross, you would think he was psychic, because he could predict my every move, and his hunting tactics, were second to my brother... But then no one can beat my brother in battle, look who his father was!

My mother recently reminded me of a story about dad. Once a man made a pass at my mom, my father asked him where he lived and to show him the alleged love letters that he said my mom had written to him, to wind Dad up. Well my dad dropped mom off at his in-laws, he then went to the guys house, and sat outside there for around 9 hours! Eventually an older brother came out and asked what my dad was waiting for. My father explained, his silent vigil. 7 hours later the man finally emerged, apologising! My father gave him a single punch in the nose; the man needed stitches but was unconscious for several minutes! I have my Father’s patience! My brother has my father’s humour!

... There are no depths I won't stoop to get even...

If it takes a lifetime, of planning, plotting and conniving... There is missile with Kevin’s face listed on it. ... Someday, somehow, someplace...

However, I will pick my moment, when he is on some stage accepting an accolade and about to go into his speech!

Hope he is allergic and has an adverse reaction to buttery custard and lemony meringue pie!

Clock Explosion

2005-05-28T11:59:00.000+01:00

Clock Explosion by Salvador Dali...

Art Quote of the Day
'...Painting is an infinitely minute part of my personality...'
Salvador Dali

....Always reminds me of my ex-boss SteveS, also one of my favourite all time managers....

SteveS, and I have known each other over 12 years, he has a deep sensual Scottish accent, and his father was a famous writer, so Steve has a well turned phrase or crafted sentence consistly weaving through his own communications. I really like - actually I adore him! With his warm labrador eyes, and curly mop of hair, when he smiles at you, you automatically respond, as if he has a direct line to your soul; and he can pull on heart-strings, like all true Virgo's with an illusive aloofness, that draws you in with its underplayed naturalness.

I worked in total for him for about 8 years... in two different companies, a seeker of 'good men'. He is like the leader of the A'Team. No-one has ever been able to come back to me and quote him as being anything but a resourceful, cost-container, someone who appreciates the value of time and money, and moreover, his investment in you is without doubt, the most loyal, and stoic I have seen. It compels you to wish to succeed for him, particularly as when you screw up, he smiles graciously, knowingly, and with acute painstaking comprehension. What I mean by this is that he is no-ones fool, he can see right through your material, he reminds me of my mother, she was a Quality Test Engineer for about 20 years for Mars (the Bastards: they abused, and used many poor immigrants, in their Slough & Wokingham factories, many like my mother have toxins in their bodies due to solder fume and poor ventilation exposure)... My mother is so smart that she can read you like a book!

We each are open books to Steve, he does not say much, but if he ever provides you with another 'man's profile, you can be sure he has all his facts. Unlike me, he is much kinder, and thoughtful when he presents his case!

He often enlisted me into projects at the eleventh hour confident in my ability to turn them into successes, and.... I wanted to write about him but lost the floppy that I was working on, you see sometimes I take my laptop out with me and sit in a coffee shop and just write my short essays on personalities as I view them, and this time I couldnt find the actual document.
If you have ever seen Rochford Files and James Garner in those detective role, series, then I have to say that my ex-Boss and current Friend of over 11 years SteveS, is a perfect example of that kind of easy going, unaffected, carefree charm….

Now why this picture?

Clock explosion immediately makes me think of Steve, because he is cultured, he can move effortlessly through any situation, and no matter how chaotic he appears calm, in control, and takes the trouble to check in with you before he takes his step, in other words he is a perfect Director, because he doesn’t manage you – he allows you the autonomy you require to be successful, steps in when you are needing a one-minute manager, and at the same time is there fore a fatherly hug (despite being young) when you feel things are rocky and need reassurance.

I once, saw him going to his senior Director meeting, as always polished, sharply suited, rather like the yachtsman he is – looking as if he is on a mission… and then I saw him do something quite remarkable.

Now he is a Virgo, with Sean Connery’s type of incredible Scawtteesh accent…. That deep, throaty whiskey voice that melts you! Well, he is apt, appropriate, to the point, basically like all Virgos economy in all things particularly his ability to harness skill sets. He is someone who will invest in training in such an intelligent way that to work for him you leave him far better equipped than you started!

In other words he invests in his resources, and he ensures that his resource (his people) are continually learning, and achieving skills that can empower them to be more effective, appropriate and capable. In fact those are his keywords when he is sourcing his resources. When you think of his approach, then it is easy to understand why he achieves success in the most politically active clock explosions!!! He shows a measured calm and he makes sure he trusts the best, and surrounds himself only with the best!

Now remember this – the fact that he does not waste his time nor does he waste yours! Well, he polished the face of his watch as he walked past me, with a kind of genuine pride, in his timekeeping, which was as usual like an efficient clock… reliable.!!

Now when I saw him polish the face of his watch with his sleeve, I felt an immediate affection – it was such an endearing moment, that I never forgot it. It was subtle and executed almost in a subconscious way, and I realised this was not the first time I had seen him do something - a small minute, subtle and unique act... entirely different… to anyone else. Look around, have you ever seen any one going to his meeting, polishing his watch? I daresay not.

I found myself immediately remembering many other incidents, which identify this unique self-possessed intelligent expression of his inner workings. Imagine his inner dialogue is one of well crafted personal attendance to his objective. He is NOT someone who is running through life without purpose, or innattentive to his surrounding environment. Whilst he appears always thoughtful, his brain is like a well oiled car, reliable, cost effective, and always able to burn up the rubber when required to. He is one of the most unflappable men I know.

Now to give you a little background on him and I, he often put me in charge of projects that at the 11th hour required a firm handle, and he trusted me implicitly, he did not chase me, he did not nag me and he empowered me fully, once a month very casually he would ask me how I was getting on, this was done in such a non-combative way, maybe when he was getting coffee…. And he would ask in a manner that I couldn’t duplicate, as if he was busy with something else and just asking casually…

Well, I would immediately reply, (I always know the status of all my projects, there is no way that I let anything within my remit drift without being in control of my area)…. So now I would say, ‘when you are free, I can show you?’

He would allocate time and he would reliably be available to me for as long as I needed. If anyone interrupted us, he made it clear I was special, important to him and a priority, regardless of the other person’s item of interest.

Now, if I had any difficulties, Steve was a wonderful person to bounce my thoughts off, because he can diffuse any situation, no matter how volatile he has a way of cutting through the proverbial crap! He can sense bullshit like a captain in a submarine finding his way through underwater mines… By his sheer reliance on his quick wits, he confidence in his men, and his comprehension of issues that are beyond normal reasoning because to know of them, people have to trust you, and that is his key strength, he can be trusted.

At corporate events he would turn up in his Scottish kilt, along with the other proud and gorgeously attired Scotsmen… they looked like the cover of Porridge Oats… I found this an impressive indication of how unique Scotsman area, they have an innate sense of belonging that is fabulous to someone like me from mixed backgrounds!

Steve is someone who is so companionable, that to not see him in my workplace was something I found difficult, I was so used to having the ‘key to his city’, literally, his door was always open to me along with his best and closest friend and Ally, KevinM… now there is an essay about him in the draft stages, which I will hopefully get around to, but I am looking for a painting to illustrate his many qualities.

Well, these two, it felt to me as if they were Godsend.

Once I wrote an email that was quite critically acclaimed in the company about one of our beautiful female directors, it was meant to be funny, and fortunately she also saw the funny sides of it. Now Kevin was my boss at the time, and he decided to forward my email to Steve, (they always did this, whenever I sent something funny).

Now Steve had printed this mail off, and had intended to go to the printer to collect it but was waylaid.

One of the senior Account Manager’s Liz_P, was heavily pregnant, and she told me this later that day.

She said that when she went to the printer she saw my email, she found herself reading it (this was not new, as my funny emails were often forwarded on and managers would laugh when I bumped into them, and it could be embarrassing but it was always in a nice way) She said, that she lived to read my emails, that she was glad to share a printer with Steve, because my emails to him would be conscientiously considered. On this occasion she said that she actually took my email to the girls room with her, and realised as she laughed aloud to herself there, that in fact she had done something naughty which was to take Steve’s personal email and to read it by removing it from the printer. She immediately took it back and then when she bumped into me, she hugged me very suddenly and all the while laughing!

She said that I was lucky to be so fully supported by Kevin and Steve, that I was fortunate that they clearly cared for me because their notes were consistently positive about me, and that I made her day, and she wished that whenever I wrote one of my scathingly accurate shark attack emails to any of the manager’s about a situation or event that I would include her on the mail list, she added that she wished that she was on Kevin’s and Steve’s email list because they were as funny and when the three of us engaged in a battle of wits she really wished she had the speed to be part of the dialogue of mental parry that we often deployed as a way to diffuse our frustrations at the industry we were in which was IT!

Now if you know Steve, then you cannot avoid his humour, he is dry, witty, and has absolutely no malice, or spite in him. In all the years I have known him, he has never once undermined any member of his team, or his profession. If he has an issue with someone he handles it with grace, comprehension of the weaknesses in play, and in such a way as to ensure that no one doubts his understanding… Also, he is fantastic at taking the mundane and imbuing within it something unusual, and making a statement that allows you a tactical style that can achieve more than you originally thought possible.

When I worked with him, there was always some woman infatuated with him, and you could see so easily why, he is someone that women can work with, respect and be understood by. He is charming without ego, or vanity, he is soft hearted, yet critically in tune with his measurements and his external pressures. He can pick his battles and he doesn’t have any pettiness to his character to frustrate you. The worst thing I could say of him is his over protectiveness of those he loves, cares for or has responsibility for, until he has seen for himself – their scope, once he is confident of them, he is without doubt the most giving, and generous man I have ever worked with.

He doesn’t hesitate to put his hand in his own pocket to help you, and if he thinks you are looking through ‘rose coloured glasses; he will with a warm smile make a statement as wise as the ‘Rockford’, with the Police or some person that needs guidance, something to the effect that you end up laughing at how foolish the whole situation, or incident is.

That takes a canny knowledge of people. SteveS knows people!

Say you have an issue with someone at his level, he is the kind of person who you can entrust your concerns to and know that he is not going to embellish, ‘create’, or worsen the event described to him; whilst you work through the situation, instead he can make you feel relaxed in the knowledge that you could trust him and not worry that now you have opened up to him it is going to put you into a precarious political direction.

That is a gift, to know the appropriate thing to do, he missed his true vocation, which is to have been in the medical profession, as he is so calming, and so reassuring that you know that his dependable loyalty to you is authentic and like him reliable.

He has a lovely wife, and a beautiful little girl who looks like her parents, with adorable features that encompasses his warmth, he sincerity and his kindness within her face.

Whenever I have to count the people I love (I need two hands) he is one of those friends, someone that is dear to me because when you are trusted the way that he trusts and believes in me, it is a gift, whenever anyone has ever come to me from him the wonderful pledges of goodwill, astute perception he has of me, has surprised me, I mean, he really knows me… I am always surprised at how well he can describe me and how accurate he is.

He knows my weaknesses, and he knows my strengths, he knows better than anyone who would work well for me, and with me, and who won’t, moreover he could design my specification for any role, knowing the chances of my success without any doubts, and with such precision that I am in awe of his capability at being able to pick skills.

One thing I can say is that if he were a lawyer, picking his line up for a jury in defence of my case (say I had a case) – then he would be the soundest chooser! No one could better him, because in all the projects I worked on for him, he had the strongest, and competency wise, best team.

When anyone complained to me about the fact that he didn’t ‘manage’ them, it made me laugh as he is an adult, he acts like an adult and he is always prepared to provide support, and guidance where he is asked, if he isn’t asked he respects your individuality, your boundaries and your thought processing, to the degree that he will say… ‘I am not a mind reader, if you do not tell me, I have to let you continue’.

He was the first person that wrote up on the board for me the following… Do not ASSUME or it makes an ASS out of U, and ME!

Then he laughed, he was absolutely right, I learnt a lot about managing large groups from him, most of all I learnt how to give enough rope until a person hung themselves!

This is said unequivocally, I mean I have seen people manage different groups, but he is without question the best person to pick out a crew!

Steve brings out the feminine qualities in me more than most managers, I have worked for, because he is so kind to me and so friendly, really amicable and easy going and when he starts to laugh with that whiskey, gravely laugh of his, it is so enticing, it draws you in, I have seen him cry with laughter at things I have done, which I was rather late on ‘getting’, I mean I literally was the last to get the joke, because sometimes I am funny and don’t see why. Well he is someone who spots my comedic side, before it has fully blown!

When I used to work with him, even when he wasn’t my manager, I would always make him a cup of coffee when I made myself one, because he was always forgetting to eat or drink, I mean he would suddenly realise it was 3 o’clock and he needed fuel! It was easy to see him working late, or being the last person to have a coffee, and a couple of times just as I saw him walk into his meeting I would hand him a discreetly placed cup, so that he had a drink, or I would pretend to be his PA and bring in nice coffees for his guests, (we didn’t always have that kind of hospitality where we worked)… and his appreciation was always so immoderate, and gracious that you wanted to do more.

Well, I started this short essay about 5 weeks ago, and then I lost it on a floppy because I went to my mom’s and forgot it there… then last week she found it and emailed this to me… so I am going to add the last few lines to this….

I really really miss our old days when we were the entire crowd together; I cannot begin to thank Steve for hiring me back and trying to hire me more than once in the past 5 years! I consider him one of the most precious anchors in my life, and when we were leaving, through redundancy, I asked him not to forget me, I gave him a big hug, and said, firmly that I wanted him to keep in touch, that he should forgive me for all the times I put him into a situation where he had to protect my turf, from managers who wished me to be less autonomous, and finally that he was very special to me.

Little did I know that he really listened to me, and that he would stay within my inbox, always – a pleasant arrival within it!

One time, I was caught writing poetry by him in my lunch hour (actually, it wasn’t ha ha ha.. it was at the height of a complex project!) I usually when I am firing on all pistons at a project and at my most diligent, have a page open with some poetry on it… it is something that helps me to think, and unlike those who scivve off to a ciggy break, my escape from mundane jobs is to kick off a piece of prose.

Well, Steve’s father was a famous Scottish writer, so Steve knows the outline of metre when he sees it, and he came up to me and said very softly, ‘hey that is okay, you carry on with your poetry, but whenever you can – show it to me, I would like to read it – AND, when you get a minute just let me know the timelines for such and such’.

Now he was being sincere, supportive and wasn’t be sarcastic or pushy, he trusted me implicitly and knew that I would deliver on time, but that this was my mental release and he had no issues with it, he just wanted the best from me, and how I did it was up to me.

I really like that! I think a lot of people could learn from this…. It is like being allowed to think, breathe and energise others as well as yourself whilst you continue to achieve your goals!

I think that he is a product of his internalised dialogue, which is empowering relaxed, completely dependable and reliant on laissez-faire, an egalitarian viewpoint! He is my Rockford!

Empowerment: is an infinitely minute part of HIS personality

A Man for all ages...

2005-05-28T10:49:00.001+01:00

Michael K:

A friend of mine, who when you see him he immediately makes you wonder his roots, is he Asian, Spanish (yeap he is half English/half Spanish)…Egyptian, Persian, Italian, the list can go on, because his features are extraordinarily those of a man of all times, of all nations… Lean delicate features, coppery bronze skin, muscular body, as this is written – mid thirties. Shock of dark hair, with the handsome lean looks of a Bollywood star, or if you were to stick him into some ancient clothes, he would quite easily float in and out of different ages, a soldier here, perhaps a sailor, maybe a merchant…

In fact he looks very like Peter Andre...

Now I had always seen him around, my local town, for around 10 years… socially we would smile or nod at each other, but he was reserved, shy, and you never saw him either appearing foolish, or drunk out of control. Then I had to work at a great engineering firm, I was temping there, and as I walked up the stairs I had the feeling I was going to meet someone I already knew. I walked in and within five minutes of being handed a coffee by the lovely Office Manager, Sarah, a great northern lass, easily liked, quick to connect with, her warmth, openness and direct involvement with you matched replaced by her efficiency, and all round skills…. I told her my earlier thoughts, and asked her when she was having her baby? She laughed and said she wasn’t planning it and I replied well how strange, I sensed you were, she was a very slim woman very early thirties, and we both laughed…. Within the year she emailed me to say she was very due!!!!

As I stood there organising my desk, I smelt the fresh tangy scent of aftershave, and turned there was Michael! He laughed and said, ‘hey you, what are you doing here?’

From that moment I knew we were going to be friends, he loved mince pies, I was a great provider, it was November I would be gone by April, but it was one of the best places to work, more so because he made it so welcome.

I always knew if he was nearby because his fresh aftershave would drift ahead, heralding his quiet gentle arrival. The girls in the office all spoke of him affectionately and also because he was after all ‘eye candy’.

We struck up almost an unspoken, wordless understanding between each other. To explain, I am considered vivacious, bubbly, perhaps quick witted and razor sharp, I like to think I am quite sassy, or streetwise, and feel rather self-assured because of an unfailing belief that I am and have always been loved by my family, in particular my closeness to my enigmatic father. I know that this is a source of strength to me, because families can make or break you.

Now I find it very easy to befriend or be considered a friend of those who are shier, more reserved and more thoughtful, rather than like myself ebullient, obviously because that is the exact complimentary natures of my vibrant mother and private father.

Well Michael, reminded me of the sensitivity in a masculine intelligent man that my father is graced with.

At was a very gradual friendship, I should add we never developed crushes on each other, it was more like if you met your inner child in another human, and it was that innocent part of you that smile back.

To explain, he would walk up to my desk, then through long black eyelashes, smile up softly and say… ‘Hey you, what are you up to?’. Now this immediately made me act guilty, make a mistake or break a machine…. Which would make me remark, ‘Drat, I have broken it now!’… then he would laugh amiably walk around and fix it. He would then look intently at the copier, the fax, the scanner whatever I had just disrupted and ask without looking up, what I had done over the weekend, what I wa doing that evening, just gentle questions showing he was interested… he would nod if I mentioned anyone we mutually knew, or suddenly laugh quickly and tell me off I said something particularly wicked or slap me amicably on the arm the way you do with a child. I realised that he was the sort of father that would be perfect around girls.

This picture reminds me of Michael, he has this Mediterranean appeal, Sans Titre, 1948, by Dali...

When we bumped into each other socially, he would always follow the same pattern… he would bend down (he is about 6ft 1-2”) kiss me on the cheek, softly, then step back and suddenly hug me like a big teddy…lifting me off the ground and with a sincerity that was moving. When we worked together, I met his beautiful girlfriend, and when I shared my description of him, she said the same thing that he was a true friend, loyal, devoted and discreet. She had known him through her ex-hubby and they were all friends, and now she had fallen in love with him and thought he was quite simply the kindest person she had met. What I like best is that he doesn’t play games with your feelings. He isn’t the type that manipulates others because he simply too self sufficient so he doesn’t need to.

I often spoke to his mom, who would call up for him… and I could see why he was so patient and gently spoken, because she had the same sensitivity.

Every so often you have a special association with a person that just seeing them lights up your world, because although they are not gregarious, or over expressive, they have a genuine interest in you, they don’t reject you when they are in their ‘in-group’, but have the inner grace of integrity to adopt you as if you are their own. Michael is that person, he is a Piscean, and reminds of one Patrick Duffy, the Man from Atlantis... also the long-suffering younger brother of the iniquitous JR... You feel as if you will have him around always, and that he is more than surface beauty and charm, quite unusual and easy to misunderstand because his outer self expression (muscular, lean athletic) is in contrast to his creative (Cad Computer Graphics in engineering), intelligence and sensitivity.

Whenever I bump into him, always when I least expect to, it is the same, like being enveloped by a spring shower… just effusive, friendly banter… and the same affectionate warmth, and a lasting impression that leaves you wishing you could pop him into your handbag and keep him on your desk – you know just sitting there whilst you sipped your coffee… all smelling nice, great aftershave… and attentive – great listener…. And say when the other horrid girls walk in, ‘he is mine!’ … Just like when you are school and you have that first little boy you like a lot… and when the other girls try to flutter their eyelashes at him, you sabotage them by grabbing his head in a headlock and dragging him off… possessively…because he is your friend and you are not sharing… and he would let you!

That is how I feel when I see him, I think … don’t talk to that silly girl, and you belong to my entourage of favourite people, I don’t like the look of her…. And he brings out the protective spirit in me… Not that he looks vulnerable, but actually if he was a girl, and I was a guy, I would consider him a ‘walkin’ talkin’ livin’ doll’ (courtesy of Sir Cliff Richard!).

Subtle Shades

2005-05-18T01:44:00.001+01:00

Each of us has the repeat pattern tendency, to find similar types attractive or a closeness with certain types of personalities or characters, whether it is through history or in real life. I am always hearing others, and myself saying something that sounds like a soft mantra... 'You know, that is just like me...' or ... 'You remind me of my friend.... so and so...' The most frequent statement from those who like studying human nature is, 'You must be a Gemini, the same as me....' [my chameleon, 'Peter-pan' quixote schoolmate: Rube, said this sitting in her parents shop, we were just 17ish... her eagerness for empathy, shining through the spirit of excitement she generates everywhere she is...

I smile, shook my head ... story of my life, everyone everyplace connecting, and thinking we are similar in our qualities... Truly, it is just that moment, for only that moment, I am observant enough to really consider that person's subtle shades, some people call it 'reading aura.' Well, I cannot do that.

There is something quite consistent regarding some of the men and women I have met, and felt connected with. One of the qualities is the loner. That person who can at times illuminate the room with what feels like being someplace barren, whilst they themselves are rich with character.

I am a great walker, with many friends, or partners over the years walking has been a healthy all round past-time, I find that being on the move allows me greater freedom in relaxed thought. I like that you can absorb your surroundings and sometimes the more barren, isolated and remote - the deeper the connection with nature, what is natural and the more removed one feels from the (more in the West) obsession with being productive at work, in work, materially, etc. In fact everyone who has spent time in warmer languorous climates has felt the same easiness that feeling of complacency that makes people sleepy, and quick to siesta...

For me, I love winter walks, with a hot flask, maybe a walking stick in some really fresh woody forest, where there are frozen lakes and rivers that meander through it. I like the company of being with someone who is grounded, and has the same sense of quiet appreciation of the frozen mist, and fog that starts to fall around you. I like the way that the dark trees appear desolate, and the way that there is existing twigs and lace like bushes just sparkling everywhere within the silvery grey reflected shimmers, of still water ... the way that sometimes frozen lakes or streams even puddles have these waves that appear to be spun into a frozen cream, you shudder because everything living is dead or in hibernation and you want to bend forward and blow warm air into the water and see it change colour from icewhite to perhaps a warming umber, or glow greeny lilac.... I like looking close at foliage that has ice crystals all over it, or trees with moss that is silvery white and green then darker green. I like the contrasts in cool colours and then the way that the shades blend with light and darkness enveloping you.

The artist Egidio Antonaccio painted this - 'Forest, Snow'

I feel this wonderful sense of harmony with the fact that the cold surrounds you and if you pour a cup of coffee, the steam is more intense and warming then the drink which is suddenly too hot in contrast to your surroundings. Once in the midst of summer, I dreamt I was in a freezing cold place, and that I was sitting on a bench watching Swans that were still on a frozen lake and hadn't flown South. I woke up shivering, and wondered if it had in fact snowed.

I like people who have enough depth to appreciate nature, and if they have stamina then they will find my energy easy to be around. I think that my mother is fantastic with anyone who is ill. I do feel very sorry for anyone who lacks good health, where they are not fit enough, though I am very sympathetic towards those that are fragile, unwell, or unable to be outdoors - that sometimes you do not have the strength or well being ...

I really like being around hardy outdoor types, I knew a Gran called Mary, who I would have long walks with the dogs... Her husband Bob would shoot game, and hang these up in the old outside loo, that still came with their cottage ... (they had one indoors too)...

I would spend entire weeks just staying with them, when I needed to escape from intense, relentless studying or work pressures. The life with them was basic, earthy and relaxed. We would gather baskets of wild berries and then make up Apple and Blackberry jam to name one of my many favourites. In fact for many years when I was in a thoughtful mood I would take to making jars and jars... I found it quite calming, therapeutic! Her older brother was the Stage Manager at Stratford's Famous Theatre (after being an Examiner for I think it was literature) ... he was a Sagittarius, acid wit, quite a raconteur, dry, and intimidating.

She was a fund of nature/farming/gardening knowledge, and her late relatives were the Rochfords, (gardeners to Royalty), whom Rochford Gardens in Slough are named after. So she could advise you on specifics, in such a detailed manner full of inside knowledge and a canniness ... she was quietly spiritual, a Pisces, with chiselled bonestructure, a voluptuous beauty in her time, and with a laughter that could only be described by the term, 'Roaring with laughter,' in fact she used that term herself quite aptly. She was in her late fifties when I met her.

I have spent most of my life with those that can throw on a pair of jeans and just walk, and mean it... In other words there isn't several cancellations, and 'Yep next week,' and they always have an excuse to stay cosy and warm indoors. I find that when you are with someone willing to experience the seasons and be outside with you that you feel equally illuminated as they do with what you see around you.

I have known a few older people - those who are retired and yet their lives are more enriched by their activity then when they were in jobs, burdened down with their day to day tasks, and sometimes I have spent an entire day with them just walking and being completely in awe of their stamina, their willingness to be there in nature, and just experience it. In fact for almost 8 years I walked every saturday (okay only 10 miles) but I rarely missed a weekend ... sometimes I would do this both saturday and sunday...

The first couple of times the corns and the aches were close to feeling you were lame, but it became easier and more natural to do this.

I like I suppose hiking, and whilst I cannot stand sleeping in a tent, I want my bed, and I want the luxuries wherever possible I am afraid, nevertheless I like the actual moment when you reach your destination and now see how much energy you have for the return journey which is always colder, darker, and more demanding...

Walking back through a darker forest or woody location with friends is both amusing and also quite revealing, because immediately you find your senses alert, you listen more and become hypersensitive to sounds. my favourite time of walking when I was at college was night time, of course it just isn't as safe anymore and you need to be cautious, but there was something quite enigmatic about the way that night-time sounds are just more bewildering, because they are often more muted and something of a reminder of one of Leonardo Da Vinci's paintings. I mean that genius, could paint darkness, he could paint night with so many layers that it had something quite intriguing and left a residual taste of something ominous being there, his humans even had the lovely moonlight mystery of a silky, creamy luminosity.... It is almost as if he is painting Angels in darkness - in the Universe,

Da Vinci could paint the subtlest, deepest hues, such that looking closer, and closer the darkness, the elusive mystery, and the perfect stillness seemed to throb with the softest heartbeat reverberating though out his creations.

His art makes one think of the artist having such a comprehension of what can be defined as the infinite, darkness, where shades are so subtle, gleaming, that you know it took a gifted intellectual, to paint these delicate wistful haunted women. They always look like the flesh really is solid, and godlike, in fact there is this quality, an ambiguous mystery about him too, that is reflected in his work. He was my first favourite artist, many were to follow, but he intrigued me for being so multitalented and complete. I would have truly loved to have spent time with him and discovered what made him search, analyse and dissect, to the level he did, I can relate completely these activities.

I think that it is reassuring to be part of the food chain that can appreciate him, I mean if I were lower on the food chain would I crawl across his painting foraging for food, or would I rather be a human with some level of appreciation and looking for something else, something that is more interesting, or remarkable or visually incompressible.

I see so many women relegate their lives to the mundane, darkness on darkness, black on black in their wardrobe, completely without confidence to explore colour and it is a shame because if you are going to wear dark colours imagine having the genuine depth or understanding of colour as Leonardo Da Vinci, to then be able to put together those layers of contrasting colours that all appear dark but on closer inspection are so many other shades that they take your breath away with the subtlety....

Winter for me is like this, white, grey, silver, on whiter, greyer, and silvery pale ice blue ... then electric blue, then sapphire blue, then midnight blue... I love the fact that if you really look it isn't all white but subtle shades of white that probably to those who can see with their heart, whether blind, short-sighted or 20/20, that they see more than just white....

.... by xsapph ...

Adult Innocence

2005-05-15T16:36:00.000+01:00

One person with the inside track on fairplay, and non-judgemental intelligence, is my kind and gentle friend Ian... He is one of these tall, silver fox's, with a soft edge that blurs him so he appears easygoing and relaxed - always. You can tell him anything, he may laugh, he may even look whimsy, and surprised, almost to the point of innocence because he never has a bad word to say about anyone. I have known him for over 11 years, and he has been consistently reliable, he is a Pisces, and always on the go, sometimes appearing inattentive as he has juggled his diary to include his friends who he holds dear. He falls into situations in his life with innocence, sometimes his friends appear to be controlling and he lets them be themselves, trip up, and pick themselves up, without allowing it to taint him or change him.

His willingness to quickly adapt, to listen to advice, to take it on board to mull it over and then to provide you reassurance that he has in fact heard you, not appeared to be listening or rather pretending to ... and he can listen for hours, in any environment that provides refreshment, because he is a person who loves light, meals, lots of variety in restaurants, or social changes, and is well travelled not only because of his job which requires him to, but also due to his interest in 'foreigners'.

Sapphire: 'Ian, where are you?'
Ian: 'Oh... I am in Instanbul/Venice/Outer Mongolia....'
Sapphire: 'Ian, have you stolen me some matchsticks, and a lighter, and bought me a personalised postcard?'
Ian: [Nervous stutter] 'Well, I bought you some of each'...
Sapphire: 'Ian, now you know I won't accept anything but stolen matchboxes, okay so how much did you pay?'
Ian: [Trying to covert to UK£.pence]... '£1.22!'
Me: 'TOO MUCH!'

Wherever he goes, he does something that is extraordinarily sweet, like a big brother, or a kindly uncle, he always sends me a postcard ... no matter where he is... OR he brings me back some personally chosen gift. An example, he bought a scarab, a stunning black stone beetle shaped (Egyptian form of Memo, or Telegram) with my name engraved on it ... It wasn't an expensive gift, that would then be considered over-generous, but it was very thoughtful. Another time, I implicitly made a list of possible gifts for my birthday, and he followed my instructions to the letter... In other words, he takes the trouble to actually consider your needs and then tries to fulfil the request. I thought the fact that he wrote it down was really very sweet. In fact he has never missed my birthday... or Christmas for that personal trouble for you on special occasions. Or most recently ROSE JAM...

When he receives a gift, it is always as if it was exactly what he wanted... even if it is the 5th pair of socks or 7th tie... he injects excitement into all that he does, he works for British Standards, and is without doubt their best diplomat and advocate for how to build healthy, harmonious relationships with others. Everyone that meets him warms to him and I have never heard a bad word against him, in fact words such as 'kind, thoughtful, sweet natured, gentle...' are hardly enough to capture his symbolising all that is wonderful about the kindly Englishman that he is. When he is too soft, tooo gentle, and tooooo sweet, I poke him in the ribs, and he lets me.

Now one day he was sitting in my garden, Robin arrived and the three of us sat out there laughing, enjoying wine that He had bought back from one of his many trips, Robin appeared cool, elegantly panther like watching bees and carefully (faking) appearing cool about them buzzing so close him... Ian looked like he always looks - rather like a 'deer in headlights' ... he always has this innocent surprised look on his face. I thought how different they were and yet how easily they could connect, chat graciously and be natural.

Shortly after Robin had to leave, my mom arrived she bustled in as she always does with the energy of excitement and chattering quickly and busily - because she was about to pop into my next door neighbours home who adore her and vice verse ... and she laughed at Ian and said....'I know all about you, you are a dear man, and then she tapped him on the arm.' She liked what she had heard, if you knew him I am certain you would think the same, it is so difficult to dislike him, he is without reserve the only man on this planet with no enemies... I really think that. He has no malice whatsoever within him, and I think that had he had a religious calling, (He is a kindly Christian man), well he would have made the perfect Father Confessor, because he doesn't have a single negative thing to say about anyone, he always makes kindly, gentle statements.

I know he won't mind my relating this - in this way, but he is the perfect buddy to take to a bar-b-que, or a salsa event or any other situation where you need a 'handbag', that can be self-reliant, generous, rather than clingy, and making you feel dragged down because you have to keep checking on them or else they play wallflower.

Now, I have never shared my prose with him because to be honest, he doesn't read poetry, but he has an enthusiasm for learning, and is fantastic at his field. We do not miss a month without a catch up. He comprehends immediately issues and speaks as fast as I do, having a mercurial brain... So he is a monthly connector ... someone who I may see or speak to monthly except where there is a crises. He is the person I most often text, with any new episodes in my life, and if you know me, you know I hate to text ... avoid it like the plague, and only text bulletins concerning scheduled meetings, delays in journeys, or notifications of my ETA (estimated time of arrival).... Very rarely, I may forward one of the lovely texts my brother from time to time has sent me which he himself has forwarded, because if you know my brother he is so gadget orientated, that he uses every form, medium, and tool to connect he has available.

I think Ian is one of those Angels of Mercy present - walking the planet for the rest of us who are beloved fallen angels.... I think that when he is operating at his best, confident and secure in himself he is at peace with just sitting in Venice or Portugal, or Vienna, with a glass of his favourite wine, browsing a menu, selecting his favourite flavours and soaking in the atmosphere.... At his worst, I think he runs on nervous energy, worries about hurting others, delays as a result, or falls right in feet first with the innocence of a good natured elk - you know at the mercy of the elements.

Cafe at Night, by Vincent Van Gogh, reminds me of the wonderful calls from Ian when he is sitting in some small cafe sipping black coffee, 2 sugars... chewing on a small biscuit.

He never over eats, but he loves to recount the menu items he has enjoyed, saying the meal description, quickly, confidently in an English accent, always makes me laugh... he knows his restaurants, better than anyone I have ever met... Now me - I have no interest in places, or food... per se. I bore easily, like change, variety and eclectic individuals... I never remember places, or meal menus, I usually table hop even at large functions, where I am worse... I will take my leanest fork and walk around picking off other's plates - curiousity, daring, audacity, social flirting, a little of each element but mainly testing the individual's sense of adventure, or stiffness... I remember of course every other detail, of my socialising...)

I dispense details with the urgency of a fire chief, shouting orders, with no mercy, Ian is the kind of person who reminds you to approach volatile situations with soft persuasion.

For me, who you are with, is more important than where you are at...

... I like best those calls from some cafe, abroad... Just sharing his immediacy, in thought or feeling about someone special to him, or something he has just experienced... Then I give him my best tactic for his particular high point of interest, and he laughs, nervously... Perhaps the fact that he is calling from another country makes it all the more special, I can hear the sounds surrounding him, the accents, almost smell the coffee...

I think our friendship is the Good Ship Lollipop, based on either him or I playing Uncle or Aunty to the other . ... In my case the bossy aunt, constantly wanting more for him than he ever conceives of himself, and always wishing to protect his sweet (naiveté) from those I think are prone to take advantage of his good nature... He has never appeared to mind, has never undermined me or shown any sense of defensiveness to my guarded nature concerning others he may describe to me through his rose coloured glasses, (he is genuinely the nicest person ever)!... I suppose something vulnerable in him brings out the protectiveness in all of us that have the sensitivity to be protective over what we recognise as 'innocence,' even in the adult.

The other day I saw Charles Dickens' 'The Pickwick Papers', of which I have a copy of the original Black n' White ... well Ian is the missing character from the Pickwick Club. When he is on a mission of goodwill, and good intention, he is entirely unreachable until he is grounded again.... this period of inaccessibility must be sweetly and patiently endured through until he has settled like a peaceful dove, and comes home to roost... (home being anyplace he has loved ones)! He has the same 'childlike' innocence and excitement about life, about people, about new places and new ideas....

Evergreen Atticus

2005-05-09T23:08:00.000+01:00

Incorruptible Atticus,

Gregory Peck – academy winner, for his consummate role as incorruptible Atticus, in to Kill a Mocking bird, reminds me very much of a wonderful friend of mine, someone I find myself emailing (he is in the USA) at least daily if not 2 or 3 times a week.

I cannot conceive of a time when he wasn’t in my life, in fact I know that now it would be unbearable to imagine life without his comforting stability in my cherished link to him thanks to email, the odd call when we can, or the visit when his business allows. Being around him or emailing him is like feeling a quiet inner peace and harmony.

The way that I met him was quite unusual, I was very interested in risk management, and disaster recovery, just to see what kind of preparation our company had. My female manager was a fascinating lady, highly complex, and emotionally driven, someone who cared deeply about her people and a very hard worker, who made tremendous personal sacrifices for her job.

I asked about the planning structure in place, and she directed me to a powerpoint presentation that from the second I opened and read, I wanted to know the source, who created it, and who presented it, and wished I could have been there, that is exactly, how I felt. I was impressed by the content, the intelligent scope of the document, the depth to which the director in charge, had certainly driven his posts into well studied rock faces, to create what appeared to me a solid structure that was flexible and with the precision you often find in the performance improvement documents that efficient organisations such as the MOD may have in place.

Now I had to meet or find out the presenter’s details, I searched around and then emailed him, expressing my esteem for such a worthwhile document and making it clear that I wanted to be his friend, because I liked the mechanics of his mind. I have never before or since wanted to meet the actual presenter of a presentation, in the way that I wanted to meet him! I have at least 300 presentations in my own private collection, and none of them despite all the flashy graphics are as exciting to make you sit up and think, wow, how was this delivered!?

We eventually met, and I introduced him to my brother and there was an instant rapport. Something I should add, I cannot help but be repulsed by weakness. Now I do not mind those who feel weak, and admit it because that takes strength, but I can sense wesk characters, with bravado and it makes me shudder. When I met him, I felt an instant rapport, I knew that no matter how many fears he confronted in his own life, these would be faced squarely, logically and then evaluated, he couldn’t hide his inner strength, which was a sanctuary to those who required shelter from Life’s cruelty.

Mike M, is someone who I have found to be incorruptible. He is consistently courteous, capable of a high level of intellectual comprehension without requiring copious amounts of explanation, and when he gives his judgement, it is presented in a manner that you cannot take offence. Should he ever make a mistake in drafting a conclusion it is immediately addressed and corrected, he apologies with such gentle charm that you like him for who he is which is basically a downright decent all American guy! With the looks and demeaner of Robert Redford, and the same wholesome quiet charm, he is easy to like.

When he reads a piece of my private poetry saved for trusted friends, he is always very sincere, and if it has moved his compassionate soul he is immediate in sharing this. I like the happy banter, which is rare because he is so philosophical, what I respect so much is that he maintains this calm exterior and within he is still the same kindly person without bitterness.

He treats me as if I am his kid sister, and sometimes I feel as if the roles are reversed… because he will appear (if he was 5 years old) ...to show me his small bear that has a ripped ear, and he is unsure how to fix it, he is looking for some additional information, maybe some way to fix it, and then he shrugs his shoulders and leaves it with me, walking away not wishing to be a burden, or a nuisance or worry you. Meantime, he is in his quiet corner, looking over to see if you have managed to sew it up and it is still going to have that loveable floppiness that he wishes to see.

That is the only way to explain how he may want to delve into his own psyche, it is always to fix something that needs perfecting.

Now if you add up 3 years at approx, 3-4 mails per week, regularly drafted, without any lessoning of attention to the friendship, or continuity, then you have a minimum of 500 emails between us… However, it is never just one email, 3 times a week, it can be frenetic email activity covering almost eclectic subject matter, and with always a response that is measured, precise and covers the aspects in a rounded manner. When you first meet him you see a handsome tall, man with an air of quiet charm, and sparkling eyes that are quick to make you feel at ease, without thinking you are being judged.

When I first spoke to him, he reminded me instantly of Atticus, I realised then that this is the kind of Father he is with his children, because it is exactly the kind of adult he is. You feel when you first meet him that he has this ability to remain balanced, and fair, well he is a Libran; so one would believe him to be relaxed, beauty conscious and logical in his reasoning.

Every so often Mike M. will take off his ‘director’ hat and relax to allow his comedic side to shine through and what you receive is something quite extraordinary it is always delivered with a consistent role play style, which he maintains with such seriousness that were someone to read his charming happy mails, you would instantly think he was serious, so involved is he in the role play itself.

Albert Bierstadt the artist painted this picture, 'Bridal Veil Falls Yosemite California c.1871-73.

MikeM recently moved to California... he plays bass guitar, (in fact he played a guitar during his presentation to his company one day, and I have to say that when he told me about this, I was in awe... Who does that? WOW... Imagine, you are about to sit in on a presentation - it is going to be dull, you have been to tons of these... Then... Here is Mike, guitar... singing...

...I have this image of him taking his loved ones, with his guitar... In particular his special lady-love, and just sitting someplace like this, chuckling, sharing his happy thoughts, tossing a pebble and watching it fall... sparkling in the sunshine...

When I think of Atticus it is impossible not to think of Mike M. He stands by you without allowing you for one moment to feel that you have been too cruel, or too soft, in other words regardless of your desire to be whatever is within your range of emotions he is so balanced himself that he can handle it.

When he does feel deep emotions it is so out of place for him that it throws him out of sync. and he needs time to find his natural level again.

He is very close friends with my other lovely ally, G.

It makes sense they are like two cowboys with white hats on… you know that they are part of the magnificent 7, and they are similar in their aspirations which are always to be noble to their high ideals.

The most significant quality about him is this, he does not have the striking dark side that I have experienced with most people, he has shades of light, lighter and brighter!

He is constantly checking himself for inaccuracies, always self-deprecating without any self esteem issues but because he is genuinely humble, and has a deep humility in his sense of self.

What I find is so instructional about him is this, he can remain entirely impartial, without appearing to take sides, and yet you believe when you share your thoughts with him that he is entirely on your side and you are being treated fairly without reservation.

To know him is to adore him, to trust him is to be in a position of strength, and to rely on him is evergreen.

If you haven’t seen the film, see it!

To Kill a Mockingbird (1962)
The Academy Award winning screenplay by Harper Lee - who had written a semi-autobiographical account of her small-town Southern life (Monroeville, Alabama), starring Gregory Peck.

... This will be MikeM when he is 85 years old... probably a beach bum... turning his back on high profile Director roles... and eating mussles... beech combing... making motorbikes out of driftwood, I am going to send him a small wood-chiselling knife, to get him in the mood... and a pack of plasters, and TCP...

Tiger Fish Intelligence

2005-05-09T10:42:00.000+01:00

So now to duel with Tiger Fish jewel launching a razor edged garrote assaulting her leap. Tiger Fish sparkles to spin away disappear, arching back to barbed mesh.

[Stanza from Tiger Fish Intelligence, 24 February 1999]

Indigo Maze

2005-05-09T10:36:00.000+01:00

The Maze

The games continuation ensured
The victim is lured
Into a maze; iniquitous, in making
Indigo structure; breathtaking....

[Stanza from The Maze, 12th August 1988, Sapphire-x]

The other day, I discovered half a dozen of my sketches, only one has been scanned.
I did this sketch for my lovely Friend Stevey-BEEEE, an intellectually stimulating marketing manager with possibly the sharpest portfolio of practical and intellectual skill sets.

He is a Gemini with a difference he actually works hard at his craftsmanship, so is one of those rippling, trickling, inconspicuous petrol-blue-green stream-like characters, quietly winding down lanes. Sometimes appearing invisible to the eye, until the light catches his silkiness. Other times animated as he sparkles like a small dragonfly, and rivets your attention to a mercurial concept, or has grasped with immediacy the intensity you were projecting.

He represents the most perfectly formed Gemini I have ever met, (without the shallow, senseless spite or duplicity) someone whose mind is so keen, and sharp that he can outmanoeuvre any tactical move with the finesse of a magician, immaterial power (mind) over material power (matter).

I have known him over 11 years, during that period I have never once felt betrayed, or lacked comfort from his ability to respond to a call for clarification.

He showed me the power of applying 'spiritual tools,' to focus mental weaknesses, therefore transformation. There was a time when we wrote possibly thousands of words to each other weekly, his interjections were fast, (he is with MENSA, no surprise there) and therefore provided fantastic intellectual stimuli.

I learnt to touch type as a response to keep up with his parry. He reminds me of Hollywood’s early star Ronald Coleman, in fact he has the same comforting moustache, the gentle, and thoughtful, fine keen mind, is very much akin the aforesaid.

Stevey was someone one could whisper to, you know, those real deep quiet conversations that are full of intrigue, company political awareness, and giggling fits to punctuate the delicious silliness of it all! Apply perfect lipstick, sharpen claws, and then ask him what one could get away with?

Who were the key players? what was the strength of their alliances, and with whom? What were their areas of contention? What were their buzzwords, that would hook them? What were their perceived desires? or discreet ambitions, who were their challengers?...Where did power or final decision-making emanate? Where were the minefields? Who were the loose canons? Who could be relied upon to be 'tarred & feathered' by the others closing ranks? Who had the best sense of humour? ha ha ha

He would raise an eyebrow, and then grin, 'What do you wish to achieve?'

Then sheepishly and after a little prodding, by me, pleading my case for why I wanted this (it had to be honourable, it had to be worth the prize, the costs had to be evaluated).

He made me work for each request for a plan, he expected me to think things through, and most importantly 'why did I want it so much?!' ... He would go quiet. Look into space, and then tap me on the arm, 'I have it, and try this'...

I would smile ear to ear; I love a watertight plan!

He would supply me with the most effective (ethical) planned route to get my points across, the most diplomatic means by which to get my agenda presented, or the (most gently persuasive) approach on the key personalities (some of who were quite likely to be volatile, exciting, and power hungry) who ran the business.

I felt I were a character from the political satire, 'Yes Minister/Yes Prime Minister'...

I had a fantastic respect for all capable and competent players in a fun cat-mouse, game, where we could all have a giggle once I got my policy in effect. I didn’t always win, (although my 'win/cost' score improved with each plan) because the Directors were often one step ahead of me when it came to being manipulated by a young slip of a girl, but I certainly had fun trying!

I did suspect that Stevey was good-naturedly playing both sides, going to my charismatic leader, and suggesting he went along with this new key objective I had in mind, and to let it run its course, and enjoy the player's (his subordinates discomfort), and advising him which areas to allow me to win... Who knows... he is after all a Gemini ha ha ha

[Imagined dialogue:
SB (Stevey-BEE) says, 'Sapphire wants this... policy on such and such to be passed/approved'
CL (Charismatic Leader) replies,'What will it cost, me, who is her prey? How long will her scheme take to implement? Is it worth it, how do we benefit?'].
SB states, 'until she is bored, has it in writing, has stopped laughing...'
CL, 'Go ahead, warn everyone, no on second thoughts don't!'

One thing I never do is ask/seek/pray/yearn for guidance and then act foolhardy, and dismiss it, RESULT: then fail, of course, and try to cover my tracks because I was too stupid/naive'/lazy/arogant or incompetent to take the best advice/tactic/strategy on offer.

If I have ever agreed that the idea presented to me was the best I had heard or found, therefore, I had agreed with and therefore acknowledged, I would never undermine myself, self-sabotage or endanger my own plan by fumbling along as I was without it, if it failed so be it!

If you are in the game, any game, always aim to be a masterful strategist, better than a fool awaiting another cliff-side fall.

Those that do, I have found are rarely rewarded by a sustained desired result, what often happens is that they replay that same broken record to their ruin. Aside from losing credibility, and having to relearn their life lessons again and again... NOT FOR ME, no fear, once is enough!

Many a time, was I the cat that had the cream, or had feathers showing from my lips?

When I did, Steve was the one who wiped my mouth, or picked out the feathers from my teeth like a dentist, so that it wasn’t too obvious, patted me on the head, or laughed good-naturedly when my plans backfired, and now here I was, the failure, with a headache, toothache, or general ego-ache!

He would get me a coffee, share an old fashioned biscuit, (he always had a biscuit tin) and mop my brow with gentle reassurances.

This drawing, is the only one I have scanned, it was sketched during a company presentation, riddled with slide after slide of boring statistics, delivered by the Elder-men, Directors who relied on these to indicate business performance and productivity, as do all highly numerate individuals.

By the way, I have since left that company, which was my favourite and suffered worst boredom at the hands of those Directors who are often intellectually challenged, emotionally stymied, or have absolutely no idea whatsoever, how to carry through a presentation or company brief successfully. Where the statistical presentation should be banned because they show no indication of caring for the key most important resource, ‘intellectual power’ i.e. PEOPLE! Thus companies failing to improve performance quality… usually do so because they drove their flashy company cars on fumes: number-crunching, downward-cost-plunging strategies that lack resourcefulness.

However, in those happier times, working with Stevey, I yawned… then I doodled… now I used to doodle these all over the place, and leave them lying around at work, but mainly during meetings or presentations where I was in an audience, straight jacketed to attend. On this particular occasion Steve found mine and when I saw his interest, I said, ‘wait a jiffy’… and added his name into it.

I grinned and said, ‘Hey Friend, here, to remember me by!’

About an hour later he sent it to me scanned and showcased with lighting, ‘neat!’ There is someone who can deliver!

If there is one quality that will arrest my attention next to gentle, sweet kindness, it is brilliance, when that person is willing to share their tools, their skills and teach you what they know... what a gift!

When that person by the Grace of God was kissed by an angel, and therefore applies themselves with humility in the face of dire straits; to share with you diamond cut angles to any plan that are always ethical and sound then I am in awe. I am in awe of Stevey-Bee.

Isolation in the Universe

2005-05-09T02:17:00.002+01:00

[Photo courtesy of Mike-M]

Isolation in the Universe?

Sometimes there are those who feel unhappy, (ugly, alone...) which I think can represent a lack a spiritual harmony within them.... 'spiritual harmony: whereby no attachment whatsoever to materalism',or we are (thus contrived) limited much as a person that is 'only able to believe in what can be touched, can be seen or has been experienced', nevertheless, search for an elusive prize.

Regardless of your depth, everyone has experienced some level of feeling isolated at some point in your life, and feeling as you have been abandoned, or even shunned by the Universe. Emptiness feels like a way of life, and exclusion from another person, or other's, whose lives we may wish to be a part of, appears to be a form of punishment, rejection or worse neglect.

Sometimes we want a whole lot more than the universe can provide. However this doesn’t mean you do not deserve it, need it or at least feel you do, or want it because some unresolved part of your psyche is longing for that fulfilment. Very often it is the chase itself that was the driver. To me the means (if ignoble)by which we apply ourselves never justify the end result.

Children without a parent, or parents can spend an eternity with an intense hunger to reconnect with that 'ideallised' parent. Children without siblings can also have the same kind of longing. Feeling abandoned is possibly one of the most wretched emotions felt.

Sometimes things are just as they are, a close friend, someone I call a quiet sentinel: Gl', whose gentle, commanding, sterling nature is reminescent of my Father; often provides me answers that encapsulate in a single shot my ceaseless query.

Most recently, he sent me a parable the gist of which was this, ‘sometimes you can only accept what is, and that is all’.

I think that when Gi’ said that to me about an unresolved need that I had, it made me aware that for him, his Buddhist spirituality was the secret to discovering the true meaning of Life.

Spiritual Enlightenment requires us to forgo materialism and that is in a sense contrary to everything we are bombarded with on TV for example.

There is an essay about Gi, called 'Friendly Persuasion'... in this website.

My mother sometimes reminds me that our emotional dependence on relationships is another desire that distracts from our true path, which in her view is to serve God with humility.

Like I think with many of Jesus’s teachings,too, Buddhism appears to be the gift of a genius.

One foolish self-professed/possessed 'surface-beauty' sometime ago had the audacity to say to me arrogantly that, 'those who cannot get past their 'abandonment issues' were in her opinion weak, and 'needed to get over themselves'. Now the fact that she herself had sought the mending of a broken link with her own relatives slipped her by...

Whatever your position in the Universe you have if you read Jesus's message, 'equal merit in the eyes of the Lord'.

Any philosophy so complete that it imbues those who have the capacity to love unconditionally, fearlessly and without concerns about reaching out to others even at their most vulnerable, must be a great gift to those who follow it.

It is easy to have no belief, but one thing I have discovered is that those who are spiritual have this one quality that was consistent, a belief in a higher authority, therefore a concern for moral rectitude or some level of deeply established personal rules that they follow. I often refer to it as the Universe, that such a philosophy should be clung to, for at best it may inspire you to find that very thing you seek within yourself.

Perhaps it is the way that works for me, but I am deeply inspired by those world leaders such as Mahatma Ghandi-ji, and Martin Luther King… whilst also being in awe of such strategic genius, as inherent in Nelson, Napolean and Alexander the Great… then you look at the great philosophers, they appeared to have this fact in common, a deep unshakeable belief in God, in the Universe and to have at the very internalised core, a belief in their ability to achieve their objectives by the ‘will of God’.

I know it isn’t easy to feel complete without some sense of historical identity, some roots, or feeling that you belonged to others that loved and love you still, perhaps this is why you were given so much more than most people I have ever met.

We all feel abandoned, misunderstood in some way or another, we each have felt alone or without direction, or lacking in want; but the question is how one addresses these feelings of shortcoming.

Once I can vocalise the challenge, I have constructively focussed on what I know I can direct, change, and improve which was myself, I have really considered the areas that I felt were misdirected energy and made demands on myself to improve unconditionally.

It has always been a wonderful feeling (I know this is ego) to have been able to share my self-development or my new found internal dialogue which always aspired towards discovery… or better still towards creativity.

When I sit with G’ his beautiful face (my mother calls him that, which embarrasses him but it is quite true), is suffused with something I cannot put my finger on but it is certainly a kind of Godliness, when he speaks of his beliefs, he has a different glow about him, it is unhurried and well he is a Scorpio, so he is reserved and I know he would be too shy to have me banter like this about him, but something extraordinary happens.

Firstly, whatever material cares one has feel as if they are like an aspirin dissolving away, you know the aspirin is in the water but the water itself is now a blurred transparency – not quite as clear as it was.

He expresses himself so beautifully to me sometimes that I long to hear his views on whatever it is that has me in its hold. He speaks so softly of his love of family, and furthermore that his spiritual identity requires that he should leave the world a better place for his activities should be geared towards those things that he can change, and what he cannot change for the better he has to with acceptance leave to it’s own spiritual karmic path.

I want to tell you that I wish you could join us when we meet this is how it goes… Now you see I treat him as family, I feel towards him as family, and he is therefore as special as my family.

I have no further expectations than those I have for my own family, and what he gives me is as much as he can within his power.

You do the best you can for others, and you hope that they have the same moral decency to do the same if not to you then to someone else in need.

I am certain that the Universe will place along your path those whose needs you will fulfil with some level of restraint necessary for all healthy relationships and also with the same sense of purpose that you would wish were it your own sweet loved one.

Stay true to yourself and see what the Universe has in store for you, but do not be afraid to wish and dream for more, such as or to have a mother or father or brother or sister…

Whatever it is you are looking for is possible, what is impossible is to keep it.

My grandmother had a friend who needed help, with her son, whom she raised as her own… My mother has on 3 separate occasions ‘mothered’ friends of my brother and I…. Not for a few months but we are talking years!

Now 2 were young men, grateful and still when they can maintain some contact with her and show their respect, gratitude and love.

The other person is a wretched creature a woman incapable of showing real love to anything beyond her own neediness and therefore a parasitic wretch: pitiable and beyond reach. She fosters chaos wherever she goes and it is a matter of time when she is discovered… When she leaves the ‘host’ it is without remorse, because mental illness distorts her perception. Forgiving her provides no reassurance of her comprehending her own ruin, therefore improving her situation.

People are not always perfect – none of us are, and whilst some fearfully walk the line of fire, whilst betraying other’s and those that rely on them. Never disclosing their difficulties because to do so implies they have failed in some way, and false pride wounds their souls... Others are frightened too but work through it with courage, and can be relied on – no matter how difficult their own lives to help or be there in times of need, consistently: neither turning away a friend or foe.

I truthfully consider myself aspiring to be the latter.

The co-dependant female's own family created this weak character because they gave her little confidence or self-assurance and it was a matter of time before the cracks appeared in her.

One of the men, Rupert that Mother took care of for a few years is a captain (ships) and he has often sent her a scarf or some other gift wrapped in a paper bag, with a stamp stuck to it, and her address entitled to MOM… at the time of posting he had no pen, no envelope and no wrapping paper. How she received it was extraordinary considering the fact that it was in a scrap of its original brown envelope.

Does she love this young man? But of course, does he love her, YES! How did he find her? Through his love of my brother and vice verse. Is it love or pity?

Painting by Richard Earl Thompson

Well it is an amalgam of many shades of emotions some are as stunning as a sinking sunset, others as tortured as an inflexible tree cracking in the storm.

Families are not perfect, nor are friends, but we each have within us the power to transform our relationships into something healthy that continues to flourish, grow, be sustained by our involvement at a personal level.

Sometimes, there are those who chose to exploit the opportunity to be destructive, to show stealth in their mistreatment of those they once professed to love, or care for by engaging in their lives uninvited and behind the scenes such that they may attempt to seduce them or entice them into deceit… corrupt or abuse their friends trust.

It is our choice… families, friends and sometimes those you trust the most may in fact be the worst connections in your life, but by the grace of God you find a way to always stand steadfast and sure.

One thing I do love about the parables that I heard in School Assembly were the tales of Jesus, being alone, and questioning his validity and therefore his very being… I think each of us has that burning question and when you cannot find an answer, sometimes acceptance is the best way forward.

My friend G’ treats me as if I am a sister, this is how he addresses me and his intensity sometimes and at other times his fragile communications with me are an extension of this.

What I am trying to say to you is that family is all around you, it may not be the face of your heritage, and it may show you it’s strength, support, love and unhurried patience in the face of strangers, but be open to let such 'family' address your needs as they are recognised by those with the wisdom around you to do so.

Do it safely, always be cautious it is so easy to be prey to those with hidden motives appearing to have your best interests at heart.

Always meet potential friends and surrogate family with healthy boundaries around yourself, and try not to fall into the weak pattern of collapsing those boundaries

(I have known women who could not be strong enough not to sleep with their male friends, or attempt to seduce them… Now clearly this is a dangerous situation and shows self esteem issues).

Living Life itself with a deep commitment to your highest (spiritual) intentions should be a labor of love, this should always be carefully applied but never towards people or persons with dubious morality!

As Ted Todd had said to me so many years before:

"I am going to check into your site with great interest, because we are all waiting for your creative and artistic involvement in the World, and know that you are not going to fail us, whatever you do… even if it is work that you choose to keep private and sacred to you alone, I always feel that the Universe (or God) is a witness to it, and no better audience.

Should you feel the need, consider me an extension of your earthly family."

Xsapphire-x

Fragile Humanity

2005-05-08T11:49:00.000+01:00

The glistening veneer that is bees waxed honeyed veneer on rosewood veneer.
How deep to scratch to cut so deep.

Why so easily cut are you.

Perhaps the depth that you so choose to display is just skin deep.
Even then delicate that to cut beyond is to tear a butterfly leaf.

[Stanza from Cut Glass, 1st June 1997 Sapphire-x]

The power of a smile

2005-05-08T10:59:00.000+01:00

John William Waterhouse painting: of 'La Belle Dame Sand Merci'.

He replayed each moment that she had been near.
Her smile had assured him of her interest,
In fact it buckled his mental wheels, the cogs ceasing
...And he felt himself rocketing out of control.

[Stanza from Sanguine Imaginings, 01-06-1993, Sapphire-x]

.. I have struggled from my very meagre picture collection to try to make this site less text-based, if you really want to see a smile see Mona Lisa: http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/vinci/

A little less Truth

2005-05-07T20:34:00.000+01:00

A Fable [in the style of Ambrose Bierce]:

The Daily Life Perspective was sunken, in his deep butt & arm worn leather chair, by the dusty hydrangea. Basking in the balmy sunlight that helped him warm his damp Harris Tweed, suited bones at the French windows. Nearby his wet umbrella lay equally slumped steaming by the fireplace, that needed stoking.

Widespread Rumour Deplorer arrived breathless, at the Mens’ club, rather confused because the news he had just heard on his grapevine (namely, his rather sweet maiden Aunt: ‘Dainty kindly Ingénue’) was clearly going to spread acrimoniously and do his marriage severe harm in the most key locality of his servitude, that of his in-laws.

This was particularly a sensitive time as he intended to run for office, and possibly secure another term in the best political seat in the House, the one that enabled him to spend long periods in the Country doing nothing more than checking hops, and grain quantities.

Unfortunately, his Father-in-law was infamous Sherry Swilling Vociferous: a Baptist Minister in the Nether Regions, a pulpit pounder quite fearful prior to any ceremonious sermon.

The Circumlocutory Veiled Raconteur, who had just dropped this bombshell in the locality of the aforesaid in-laws, with the stealth of a traffic warden; arrived furtively at that precise moment.

He also appeared breathless and obliquely animated, for he too was harbouring his own political ambitions. Now he expected to warm his own grey pinstriped seat in front of the slow coal burning fireplace; rubbing his hands, he felt the peppermint he sucked was the best...

... when he espied the two very different individuals, who were also firm friends; sharing a cigar, and whiskey discussing this rather loudly for the time of day.

Pretending to appear surprised by the news of this bad press, the Circumlocutory Veiled Raconteur, asked what evidence was available to support such recriminations and what was the risk of discovery, and more important what the spoils of war (for him) were currently at stake.

Well, the Daily Life Perspective immediately responded that as long as nothing was admitted to, life would continue on. Afterall, without proof, any rumour certainly could not be sustained, and would fizzle out much as a spent firecracker, if dampened by indifference on the part of the Widespread Rumour Deplorer, when he was confronted by it.

Not as per the expectations of the highly imaginative Circumlocutory Veiled Raconteur for whom the exact opposite effect was desired and therefore had been intended.

His slowly sucked peppermint was now rather lemony.
Such that he wished indeed that the Widespread Rumour Deplorer, should appear as guilty as he clearly was, but in reality not to the degree as had been insinuated.

Well, each put in his penny-farthing worth… when suddenly, from the French Windows arrived, looking particular dashing for such a gloomy day, Cool As A Cucumber. His cravat appeared quite sleek, scented, glistening with the polish of sustained self-assurance and remarkable poise in the face of chaos…

He turned, and glimmering much with the aura of the charismatic, helped by the sleek moustache, that hours of wax had bowed; supplied the perfect alibi.

It was declared softly to be this:

‘To prevent your in-laws thus your dear wife (Relentlessly Patient Interrogator) from engaging you in a clearly undisputed argument, all you need do is to launch a strange, improbable, and inexplicable act. One that is so absurd, and implausible that you are either completely out of your mind or they are’.

Thus, like the breath of life cools, in the wake of Winter's hibernation, so Circumlocutory Veiled Raconteur appeared to be grey-er than the stripes in his gaberdine suit, despite his heated seat. Clearly he was intensely moved, although he was frozen to his core.

Thus, it was that from that moment forth the Widespread Rumour Deplorer summoned his resolve to contentiously exploit each commonplace incident to such a degree that the Daily Life Perspective was regularly found explaining the same incident in its bulletin form. This turned out to be every time that he happened to bump into the in-laws which was quite often as he was less than three houses from their town home, and only five doors from his club. This of course precluded a cab, unless he ordered one to drive around the block in the opposite direction to get to his afternoon slumber by the Hydrangea.

...Much to the chagrin and appalling disenchantment of the Circumlocutory Veiled Raconteur, who although he was in on the ingenious ruling (how could he not be) to deploy this disingenuous tactic on the unsuspecting innocent in-laws... now he was completely powerless (trapped rat) to counter any of it, thus he learnt that 'anything MORE than the TRUTH' can backfire... and eventually was known to have developed a new nom-de-plume or hat, that of Unspeakable Restrained Gas.

Hot off the press from the pen of Sapphire - x
[07 May 05]

http://photos1.blogger.com/img/145/5491/200/books.jpg

A Bedtime Story

2005-05-07T01:54:00.000+01:00

There was once as there are always in nursery rhymes a beautiful girl her name was Thesphera, naturally she had a dog -all the best stories have a dog! Sometimes she had a cat, or sometimes the cat had her. It depended on whether the cat got fed or not.

She didn't really have many Friends you see, so the dog and the cat were really important to her. (Their names? oh well, let me see now, what was their names? Well that really is a co-incidence, those were exactly their names, how did you guess, gosh you are smart!)

Ah, about this point I should tell you what she looked like, that is always important, otherwise how are you to know who she is, if you get to see her?

Well she had this unusual face, firstly it just wasn't the same from any angle, no I mean that ! No matter which way you looked at her face she always looked very different. Of course no -one ever said anything because by now everyone was just used to her face. You know just as it was.

Now I guess that you want to know how she really looked. Well let me see, if you happened to be lying in the sand with the sand slowly disappearing through your fingers back into more sand... And with the sun behind her , she was standing in front of you, with the sunlight looking like it was cooking her, then her skin just lost it's own colour, (what colour?- you know normal skin colour.) Well then she just glowed, like a piece of coal.

What? oh her face, oh yes, I sort of forget.

Well then from underneath, looking up her nose, she looked just like you. No really I mean that. If I was standing on a step ladder a few rungs below you, while you painted the door frame lilac, and the door itself aqua (what colour is that?- oh, it is a kind of icecream colour- made of some African lagoon- what is a lagoon?

No it isn't a kind of fruit, it is an interesting name for a pretty large, exotic, pond.

Exotic?

...well that is like a knickerbocker glory, or a beautiful copper coloured girl wearing a knickerbocker glory style of dress.)- I would think my goodness it is the beautiful Thesphera.

On the other hand if she stood next to you side by side whilst you both watched grey ponies trot with silk ribbons plaited through their mane, (what colour ribbons? -Oh, lilac, and aqua of course) well depending which side she was on, well she would resemble either that girl we saw on the bus in the cherry coloured hat, you remember she kept humming, and humming until everyone but us had left the bus.

If you are on her right then Thesphera looked like the little boy with the pine cones, the one who kept saying they were hedgehogs eggs.

July 1995
Sapphire-x

Louvre catacomb where art inspires prose

2005-05-06T18:04:00.000+01:00

... Such was the space that rent the very fabric of the soul in the dense coldness (in this Louvre catacomb).

Knowing even before the granite divisions were forged, that thistle, leek, and clover would soon enough germinate with the rose... to cover the walls.

Though the walls around would obscure survey in the future, for now there were unthreaded passages still accessible.

In time to the sound my heartbeat that was beating in consonance to my footsteps, there would be no echo reverberating in perfect timbre....