Midd's Musings

Forgetting One's life.

2009-11-24T20:50:00.000-08:00

To live a full life, a life of goodness and kindness, faith in God and driven to spread the Good News, is a CALLING.

As child, I dreamt of becomimg a Monk, giving myself to God and God only.

As I developed into puberty and later, adolescence, my sex-drive clouded any dreams of becoming a priest.

Sex was a sin unless you were married; I committed this sin, too many times.

As an adult, somewhat an old man now, my views have changed.

Young Love is the closest to God one can ever experience.

What makes me happy is the JOY in some one's eyes; two people in-love, holding hands and that indescribable energy that emanates around them.

I think, " Love is Real and very close to God."

The light is pure and also so bright...

I grew up to believe that there are GOOD men on this planet. Women and men who go out of their way to help someone in need.

This belief makes my life worth living.

We live on a very strange planet, however.

Why would a man devoted to his family and a minister of a church, who only preached the value of kindness, develop a devastating disease that makes one lose their memory? This disease aggressively pushes the memory of your life OUT, to the extent of forgetting your family, one's son, one's wife, who YOU are...

For the last week, my mind was constantly on my ex-brother-in law's father, a Minister of a church. He had been diagnosed with this particular disease four years ago; a quiet conversation between his son and I some years ago , he said, "I'll know it will only get worse and everyday I pray for the guts to deal with him."

I tried to contact the Uncle of my son, to no avail.

My mother found the Minster's number and I made the call.

I was, of course, a little angst but made the call any way.

Surprisingly, He answered the call.

The man is Scottish, thus, because of his accent, I knew I was talking to the right man.

"My name is Craig, your old grandchild's' uncle!

"Who?"

"Remember I came to your church one time and listened to your sermon about love and kindness."

Silence.

In his thick Scottish acsent, he said, "No, I do not remember you."

"I know it is you. You have a son named, Paul."

Silence- at least 15 seconds...

"No, I do not have a son named, Paul."

The poor man's mind was gone.

"I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."

"That's okay", he said,

"It's nice to hear a friendly voice."

Then he hung-up the phone.

I have to admit it, I'm a wimp, and cried after the phone call.

To have lived a life devoted to helping others' to strive to become good people, to then have one's memory taken away is... cruel.

Life is a beautiful and cruel mystery, yet somehow in the deepest recesses of My memory, we are MEANT to FORGET.

At least for a time.

Young Love

2009-10-25T21:49:00.000-07:00

It was late afternoon last week when sitting out side writing in my journal at an attempt to describe those people and objects around me.

The afternoon had been very hot and a cool change, a soft wind, soon made the area more comfortable.

It seemed I had been writing a long time, looking at the sky turn crimson, when I noticed two young people half laying on the grass and gazing into each other's eyes.

There is no doubt that I was observing "young love", reminding me of a sentimental scene from some forty's film.

As a writing exercise, I tried to describe both their emotions and body language.

Then, I suspect, the boy must have said something to the beautiful young woman for she suddenly stood up, turned in a huff, and walked in the opposite direction. The young man called out to her but she ignored his pathetic apologies and left through the door.

The poor boy looked devastated, running after her like a broken hearted puppy.

Oh, the games we play in love!

What I found interesting was how sudden their mood changed from a love scene to a "lover's spat."

Sometime I miss the intensity and almost unendurable passion of young love. Then only a few seconds pass and I remember the pain and loss that young love brings as well. Is it worth the pain? At times I think "no", and other times remember the passion and overwhelming pleasure of it all to then ask myself if it was even worth the trouble.

"It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." as the saying goes.

Looking back, for me at least, it was worth the trouble, because thankfully, the heart is a resilient muscle.

Divine Chance - A Short Story

2008-12-16T19:33:00.000-08:00

Note: I wrote this piece late last week, and thought it appropriate to post here for the Christmas Season.

At a time shortly after WW1 in the city of Moscow a middle-aged man, appearing close to death, is in dire need of warm clothing, food and shelter. Because of the winter months in Moscow, the temperature can drop as far as 100 degrees below zero; it is not so much the temperature of the air but the scathing winds that blow through the streets that can turn an unprotected body into a brittle object of ice. Uri, walking aimlessly through the streets, found a small alleyway, curling against a brick wall to escape the wind.

Since deserting the Red Army a month ago, he wore only a thin sheepskin coat, a cotton shirt and worn leather boots that barely protected his feet from the small pebbles along the road, let alone the cold. As the wind continued to whip through the streets like a swipe of the hand from the devil, Uri prayed to God for a small respite for his misfortune.

Freezing to death is a long, painful experience; as time travels forward, as consciousness weakens, one’s awareness moves dangerously close to that irrevocable slumber; death was stalking the streets, seeking out Uri.

Uri peered upward and in a whisper, uttered a prayer:

'Lord, I know I do not deserve to live, but please spare me, and with all my soul, the rest of my life will be devoted to you!'

Uri believed the Revolution and the fall of the Czar would change Russia for the better. The two-year drought, however, seemed to never end. Many good families died from starvation. Then the unexpected Civil War broke-out between those loyal to the Czar, the “White Loyalists” and those revolutionaries’, intent on change for all “workers”, joined Lenin and Trotsky, calling themselves the Red Army. The Russian people were dying by the millions, and for Uri it was a confusing time, not only for him, but the entire Russian people.

Uri’s life changed forever, when Trotsky’s Death Squads raided his home one early morning. The memory was chaotic, flashes of moving disjointed images, only echoes of shouts, gunfire and pleas for mercy. He does remember his beautiful wife, Ivana and his son, Vadim ruthlessly shot in the back of their heads. Confused, the rest of the memory is only a haze. He could not recall his youngest, Svetlana, a mere four years of age, receiving a bullet before he was handcuffed and dragged away from his home.

Uri thought: ‘Can my darling daughter be alive? No, it is not possible. She would have been sleeping with her mother…. Svetlana must be with the Lord.’

Uri was taken to a camp, an area of tents and small fires that in their sheer numbers resembled the sparkle of the night sky. He then was fitted with an odd uniform, though very warm, and given an old, rusted rifle used in the 18th century. Along with the antiquated firearm, he was handed only three bullets.

“Make these bullets last and make them count! Because supplies are low, you must show the generals’ that you are a true patriot of the revolution. Otherwise, (he sniffed, spat in his hand and wiped the snot on his trousers)…you will be shot like a dog.”

2.

The Supply Officer appeared to Uri like an over-sized bulldog; a frosted beard, and his left ear stuck-out like an odd branch of a tree. He spoke in a gravely voice like a demon or a heavy drinker that smokes too many cigars.

Lost in the pangs of hunger and post-trauma-induced haze, Uri was brought back to reality to the shouts of the General in charge addressing a haggard, limp group of peasants with rusted rifles and only three bullets each, and were expected to perform like trained soldiers – a pseudo-battalion of misfits and starving men.

In an unusually loud voice with the accent of a Ukrainian, he began:

“Comrades, you are all very fortunate men. Now that the Evil Regime of the Czar and his family has been, well, eradicated, we now face new enemies. Listen carefully; these men are the manifestation of the devil himself! The workers’ of the world will unite because of the greatness of Comrades' Lenin and General Trotsky. Tomorrow you will fight our enemy’s with true vengeance and, will most likely die in the attempt. At the least comrades’, you will die for the Cause and be remembered with honour!”

“Dismissed!”

The General turned with his hands clasped behind his back; his face turned downward, his lips moving as if praying. He entered his tent, and all could hear his booming voice echo throughout the camp:

“VODKA!”

*

The dawn cracked revealing a thick fog, an eerie mist, that hovered over the battlefield like a rising damp from Hell.

General Demedov shouted orders out into the semi-darkness to his troops to fall into formation: those “loyal to the Cause”, formed a line in the back, their guns loaded and ready. Those men like Uri, farmers, peasants, poor shop owners, factory workers, who’d been forcefully conscripted, who could not be trusted, were ordered to form along the front line, facing the White Army, eye to eye…

Sitting on a magnificent white horse, General Demedov galloped back and forth at the head of the front lines, the mist from Hell clearing, stopping directly in line with Uri and the other starving misfits.

“Because the enemy is all around us, perhaps even the man beside you, could well be a traitor. General Trotsky’s orders are clear: if you hear anything, one word of treason against our Cause, you must kill them without hesitation.”

3.

The General then ordered something to his second in command. A man was dragged out in front of Uri in chains, his face unrecognisable from the beatings the night before. It was obvious to Uri that this man was an aristocrat, royalty because, despite his horrible wounds, his demeanour reflected a quietness, a man educated and privileged – a loyalist from a long line of family that ruled over Russia for over half a millennium.

The general yelled at the prisoner: “Who are you loyal to? The revolution and the people of Russia or the pigs that have treated the people with disregard and contempt?”

General Demedov then pulled out his pistol, pointed the gun to the man’s head, but did not pull the trigger. “I’ve changed my mind, bring me a sabre!”

In a few moments, Demedov was handed a sword and, after forcing the aristocrat to his knees, took aim and be-headed the loyalist; the mouth of the head began to move as if he was trying to speak, rolling to Uri’s feet.

“Our enemy’s are legion, and General Trotsky has ordered to kill all those that oppose us; kill them without a second thought. Do you understand?”

There was no response from the battalion, only a silence.

Demedov continued: “If you choose to run and not fight the enemy, our trusted one’s will be behind you, ready to shoot any coward in the back!”

Uri followed those who’d been ordered to the front lines. He felt nothing except the terrible thought, ‘We are merely human shield’s against the enemy.’

He crossed himself and said the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.

As the stench from Hell lifted, in the distance, Uri could see the out-line of thousand’s of troops, marching in unison, all singing a familiar song of loyalist patriotism to the Czar.

The battle would soon begin.

*

Minutes passed, the mist had disappeared, and the White Army stood in perfect formation no more than one hundreds yards away. The eerie tone of a thousand men singing their praises to the Czar only added to Uri’s empty terror…that feeling which most soldier’s feel before a battle is about to commence.

Across the short expanse, Uri saw a solider on a white horse raise his gleaming sword into the air; the solider dropped his sabre and screamed, “Attack!”

4.

The Cossacks, once the Czar’s personal body guards, galloped on their white horses at full pelt, their sabre’s drawn, screaming an old Russian war cry…

The Red Army’s captain, Demedov, rather than send his own Calvary, ordered the front line to meet the well-experienced Cossacks on foot – a suicide command, like lambs sent to slaughter.

Despite Demedov’s order to attack, not a single man moved, but fell to their knees, making the sign of the cross, their heads lowered to the ground.

As the Cossack’s approached, the man kneeling next to Uri fell forward on his face: half of his head gone from a Red Army bullet from behind.

The Red Army began shooting their own men rather than the Cossacks. This, of course, made the killing much more simple. Interestingly, however, the Cossack’s ignored the front line as if they did not exist, to then begin slaughtering those men on the back lines, those loyal to Trotsky.

Uri could see nothing but blood and carnage…so much blood! He observed a man screaming at the top of the hill, staggering through the dead bodies, his right arm missing, spurting a flow of blood from the large gape when, mercifully, a Cossack on horseback, walked his horse by the man and cut off his head in a single swoop, ending his misery.

Once the Cossacks were satisfied with their task, the entire Red Battalion dead or severely wounded, made one last round, putting those wounded to death.

Uri crawled next to a man who’d been shot from behind by Trotsky’s men though he was alive and groaning loudly. Uri covered his mouth, whispering, “Be quiet if you want to live!”

It felt like hours before the Cossack’s finally retreated. The sun sat on the horizon; Uri then dragged the wounded man into the dense forest next to the battlefield to safety.

*

The wounded man’s name was Vadim, the same name as Uri’s dead son. The bullet had entered his back only centimetres below his left shoulder blade, missing his left lung. Feeling through Vadim’s coat, he felt an exit wound and knew the only way to save his life was to some how stop the bleeding. Night began to descend along with the godless cold. If something wasn’t done soon to stop Vadim’s bleeding, he would be dead within the hour and Uri would be alone.

In an act of mindless desperation and mercy, Uri removed his uniform jacket, instantly feeling the bite of the cold. He wanted Vadim to live so much, from a place of strength within his
soul; he tore his jacket sleeves off, and the coat in long think strands, creating bandages for the wounded man. He wrapped the ‘bandages’ around Vadim using his own bootlaces to then prop Vadim’s body against a tree, applying pressure to the wound.

The devil’s wind began to blow through the trees, and without a coat, Uri would soon be dead from the low temperature.

When the moon was at its brightest, as the night had a cloudless sky, Vadim awoke and smiled at Uri, whispering, “Thank you. The angel’s of God will be with you.”

Vadim’s eye’s closed as he fell into an eternal slumber.

Soon the wind flew into a rage, determined to kill Uri or any living thing. Then he heard his name called out from the distance.

“Uri, wake up child and follow me.”

Uri opened his eyes and saw a man dressed as a Roman Centurion, holding a long spear, his helmet glistening from the light of the moon.

“Who are you stranger?”

“My mission is not to tell you my Name but to take you home.”

The Centurion lifted Uri to his feet and covered him with his thick crimson cape. At last Uri felt warm again, but an unusual warmth coming from within as well as all around him.

Together they walked through the White Army’s camp, yet strangely no one noticed them.

Soon the Centurion and Uri reached the city of Moscow…Uri’s home. When the Centurion removed his cloak from around Uri he could fell the freezing cold once again.

The Centurion spoke:

“Uri, as a spirit of God, you sacrificed your own life for a stranger. This is Love. Go forth into the city and you will find that Love you seek!”
The Centurion walked through the crowd of the city streets and soon disappeared.

*

5.

Uri’s eyes opened again as he remained against the brick wall of the alley. The snow had stopped falling, and the devil’s wind was now sleeping. He closed his eyes and felt death to be his only option, when two people grabbed him and carried the man away.

Uri opened his eyes to a warm fireplace, the flames rising high and the wood spitting and cracking – a familiar and beautiful sound. He looked to his right and their standing above him was Svetlana, his little girl.

“Papa, you wake!” She smothered her father with kisses.

“Is that you my little mouse?”

“Yes Papa, it’s Svetlana!”

“But my little mouse, I thought I’d lost you to those terrible men.”

Out from the back of the kitchen, a voice resounded:

“You are lucky my brother, Uri! We knew the Red Army had killed your family and we lost hope for you. By the grace of God we found Svetlana walking the streets…a true miracle!” He made the sign of the cross. “Then we find you! My brother you should be dead.” Tear's fell from his eyes.

“What happed to you?”

“I will tell everything my brother, but please let me hold my little mouse by the warmth of the fire. I cannot let her go…I love her too much!”

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door. All in the room jumped to their feet expecting Trotsky’s men to raid their home and murder the women and children.

Mishka, Uri’s brother, reluctantly answered the door.

No one was there, except for a long spear leaning against the frame of the door. Mishka lifted the spear, feeling its heavy weight, and noticing the bright shimmering metal point.

Turning the spear on its side, written in the wood; etched in clear Latin, was the word:

LOVE.

Ends

Dishonesty - Is it Ever Justified?

2008-11-18T20:07:00.000-08:00

My plan before making this entry was to expound on the subject of dishonesty and if lying in any situation or even life saving situations, is ever truly justified.

I've changed my mind.

After thinking about the subject, having to describe Kant's Categorical Imperative in order to argue one way or the other, has been done way too many times, however, in the last month or so, I've caught people lying, and in varing forms of grey to black, and their reponse was always surprising, when confronting them with their deception.

More often than not, those caught would continue lying so as to cover the discoverd lie...and so it goes...lie upon lie.

What did Hamlet say: "What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive."

In other words, the more one lies, the easier it becomes, and farther into the hole one slides.

This week I attended a Renting Tribunal because I believe lies have been put forth in order to attain my money.

The magistrate directed us to the Bible, placing our respective right hands upon the holy text, and swear NOT to lie. This we did.

The first question from the magistrate was: "Has Mr. Middleton seen the photographs and paper work related to this case?"

The woman stammered, tried to lie, then caught herself vomiting nonsense. (She had just sworn Not to lie.)

He put his hand up, gestering to the stammering woman to stop talking.

He turned to me, "Mr. Middleton, have you seen the photgraphs and the landlords case?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Middleton, I seeyo have written material in front of you. Do you wish to address this Tribunal?"

I read half a page but was stopped because "counter claims" were being made, thus the case will have to continue at a later date.

I have much lesser examples, lies about things in which lying was not necessary, but the individuals lied anyway. In certain circles this is called "Pathological Lying"

This week and last week, I've come across too many examples to mention here. My point, however, is society growing less intolerant to dishonesty?

Perhaps.

Are we becoming a society of cowards, where everyone lies from the highest levels of government down to an uneducated, twenty something Real Estate Agent bullying her way to make an extra buck?

Without truth there is no trust, and without trust there is no justice or love for that matter.

Are there situations in life that one encounters that justifies lying?

Maybe, but that discussion is for another time.

Melbourne's Real Estate Renting Rort.

2008-10-17T21:52:00.000-07:00

You must give some time to your fellow men. Even if it's a little thing, do something for others - something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it.Albert SchweitzerFrench philosopher & physician (1875 - 1965)

If memory serves, not more than five years ago, renting a place to live was a fundamentally elementary exercise. One would find a flat or house that filled their wants and needs, front up to the real estate agent, grab the key, (usually handing over a small deposit of not less that $20) and personally inspect the property, to return with a decision: “I like the place. When can I move in?” Processes would be followed, that is, application, references etc. If one's references proved worthy, approval usually would come back, at the latest, in a week. Deal done. Now, this has all changed for the worse.

Needless to say, the world economy has fallen into a recession.

As the United States, the centre of the world's financial global network, has taken a nose dive, due, I expect, to greedy corporations and the billions of dollars spent on the destruction and occupation of one of the oldest civilizations in recorded history: Iraq. It is the opinion of many, that the current U.S. President, G.W. Bush, has not only destroyed the land of the ancients, but also his own country, due to personal gain and his incestuous relationship with Arabia and Israel.

What has this war really accomplished? Absolutely nothing. (Accept for the elites).

As has been happening since people have been documenting history, war and exploitation, always, the rich simply get richer and the common man, woman and child fall head long into poverty. This reminds me of what my father used to say. “There's a white elephant standing in the middle of the room, yet no one will talk about it!”

Which brings me to the current rental real estate market.

There are three major stresses that an individual must withstand: divorce, death and shifting premises. What is currently happening in the Melbourne real estate market, is a mirror reflection of the world economy. What does this mean?

Five to ten years ago, the economy was apparently in a boom. People with desposable income began to invest in “rental properties”, with the goal of getting rich. All was going great for a few years but currently these “investments” have become a burden because of growing interest rates and the price of land dwindling. Now the word is: sell! sell! Sell!

Unfortunately, as a renter for the last two years, my landlord and her incompetent real estate agent gave me 60 days to vacate the premises because she needs to SELL!

What is diabolically ironic, is the real estate agents are creating a FALSE scarcity, that is to say, the only way you can see a property is by “open for inspection”, where, at times, 30 to 40 people show up to find a place to LIVE. We submit our applications, and may the best person win. This is rorting in the extreme. Despite it being damn against the law: a punter will bid above the advertised weekly price, and, of course, they will obtain the property.

Example: I was “promised a property” because of being asked to vacate. The estate agent said, “Don't worry about anything, if you want the apartment it's yours – fill out an application just so it's on file.” “Thanks, XXXX, we'll take it.”

I stopped looking for places to live stupidly assuming I had the apartment. No call from the agent. Just over four days later, thinking something must be “rotten in Demark”, called to be told the landlord gave it to another punter! No call, nothing. Back to square one.

These agents are playing a game; in some cases, there is no “open for inspection” times advertised, thus I ring them up and the response is usually, “Give us your number and we'll get back to you.” For example, I made 10 calls and got one call back!

My point is that there is NOT a scarcity of homes for rent. One only needs to drive the city streets to see “For Lease” signs every where or peruse the paper or the Net to find literally 100's of property's but the agents, in their greed or will to power, are making it almost impossible for your average Joe to have what all of us need most – a roof over one's head!

To be honest, this is downright appalling if not bordering on facism.

Out of pure luck or divine intervention, found a place in the hills from a PRIVATE OWNER!

If anyone with authority reads this, please investigate, and the “white elephant”, hopefully, will be revealed.

Death of a Friend and Musician Brings Forth Reflection for an Entire Town

2008-10-02T18:59:00.000-07:00

"I am going to concentrate on what's important in life. I'm going to strive everyday to be a kind and generous and loving person. I'm going to keep death right here, so that anytime I even think about getting angry at you or anybody else, I'll see death and I'll remember."
Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure, Do The Right Thing, 1992

Over the last 6 months, I've attended a “music night” at my local pub in the hills. This is an opportunity for musicians' without a gig or a platform to play their “stuff” for a live audience. These nights are good fun because it's a chance to meet musicians' of all types from metal, blues, folk, pop and moderate rock and roll. The experience can also be a bit intimidating because sometimes the talent moves far beyond “amature”, bordering on pure genius. What is so good about this night, despite ones skill or talent, no-one is judged and all receive the same pay – a free drink. It was on one such night that I met Heath...a guitarist of natural talent, his instrument a 'third arm', so to to speak, who also possessed the humility of a Trappist Monk.

Heath played for the House band, Fats Wa Wa, a blues/rock group with an incredible sound.

I remember one such “music night”, after I played a set of my own, that Heath put his hand gently on my shoulder and whispered, “That sounded good, mate.” To say the least this was a compliment of the highest order considering Heath's level of skill and talent.

It has been a month since attending “music night” in the Hills due to moving back down to the suburbs. I had lost touch with most of these people, so with guitar strapped to my back, headed up there to catch up and possibly belt out a few tunes.

When I walked into the pub, something had changed, that joy the pub is famous for wasn't there; it was then I was told that only two weeks prior, Heath, after playing and celebrating the opening of the pub's new restaurant cafe, while walking home was hit by a car and died at the age of 27. Heath is also the father of a six year old child.

The town went into shock and over a thousand people attended Heath's funeral.

I was not contacted, as most all were in shock, and calling me was the last thing on their minds.

When a whole town grieves it is almost palpable.

That night three bands played. No one mentioned a thing. The feeling was “life goes on” and let's play our best. Of course everyone was so glad to see my sister and I that, in retrospect, felt like a type of 'home coming'. We are part of the family and was welcomed back with open arms. (Don't remember so many hugs in one night.)

To say the least, I've been a bit lost, reflecting, looking back at Heath's talent and natural skill as a guitarist, but most of all his humility. He had nothing to prove because the music said it all.

To state the obvious, life and death are mysterious; and it is in the quote above that my and the town's reflections have concluded.

We will miss Heath greatly.

A Literary Document of Great Worth.

2008-09-27T20:06:00.000-07:00

A Review and comment on "Jack Kerouac Selected Letters 1957 - 1969".

For any biographer or historian the original letters of the subject is a valuable and extremely important source of information in order to gain insight into the time period, and/or the person under study.

In part 2 of Kerouac's Selected Letters, the text truly gives the student or curious, a penetrating look into this enigmatic and ultimately tragic American author. For many, Jack Krerouac represents an important shift in American literature but also a significant historical (literary) mark of an entire generation. Ann Charters, (Kerouac's first biographer) editor of this volume, has done a pain-staking and beautiful job with this book - we come to know him as a man, the artist and his concerns; generosity, relationships; his struggle with the demon drink and, most importantly, the development of his unique prose style, leading to his now iconic status.

The letters begin in the year (1957) when "On the Road" was published. At this stage of Kerouac's life, from the tone and content of his letters, he is excited, finishing incomplete manuscripts, organizing "get- togethers', writing his publisher and working on new projects. As the years progress, sadly, his drinking accelerates, he becomes more and more misanthropic and, in the end, paranoid. It is true - it was the booze that killed his body but it was fame as an author that murdered his soul. More than likely, it was both.

Ann Charters suggests that these letters were experiments in style and possible new ideas for future projects, his friends perhaps 'sounding boards' where the reader can see his development of what is famously known as "spontaneous prose".

Kerouac was also a prolific poet. Some call his "novel", Mexico City Blues, one long, epic poem. This particular book, for me, was difficult to read, until viewing the piece as poetry - it was then the penny dropped and the book became much easier to read.

An example of a little poem written for Stella Sampas to Gary Snyder from Japan:

"A poem to Stella Sampas?"

"After the shower,
Among the drenched roses,
The bird thrashing in the bath

After the shower,
my cat meowing
On the porch"

It has always been my opinion that Jack's poetry is underrated, but that's neither here nor there.

Kerouac wanted his letters to be published thus he kept copies in neat files by year.

Close to the end of Jack's life just prior to writing and eventually publishing "Vanity of Dulouz" (1968), he narrates that by day he would write like a demon possessed, and by night, almost akin to some strange ritual, burn his day's work, page by page, only to start again the next morning. One can interpret this action in many ways: the Art fot Art's sake sensibilty; a process of purification as an artist or perhaps an experiment with the creative process itself. Who knows? However, the images in my minds eye of this action, are strong with an unidentifiable meaning.

Anyone interested in American literature, pursuing a research project or wanting greater insight into the man, these letters are an invaluble historical document revealing the inner workings of the "Beat Generation" that continues to affect most modern writing to present time.

Icon of Modernism - Review of Marc Chagall (Bio) by Jonathan Wilson

2008-09-27T19:17:00.000-07:00

The reader turns the first page of this little book to see the 1929 oil on canvas painting, "Lovers" by Marc Chagall. The painting depicts a man and woman seated and embracing; the woman's head turned inward on the man's breast, while the man, an expression of calm and contentment, peers upward, watching a winged angel flying overhead, across a deep purple sky. The painting has the deep and rich signature colour of all Chagall's work, though lacks the intense emotional suffering and ambivalence that makes up so much of his oeuvre, however this painting evokes a mystical love, a true love which, in my opinion, expresses the relationship between the artist and his beautiful wife, Bella.

As part of the Jewish Encounter project, Marc Chagall by Jonathan Wilson is one contribution devoted to the promotion of Jewish literature, culture, and ideas.

It can be observed that most of Chagall's work, according to the author, is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events." (P. 13)

It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, coloured in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking colour and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it, because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.

Wilson does a wonderful job of narrating Chagall's life in terms of the major events that the artist experienced, spanning through the Russian revolution, two world wars, the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel. Wilson suggests that in viewing Chagall's paintings against the backdrop of these major historical events will see the artist's work as a response to them, and his personal inner conflict between his "Jewishness" and his focus on Christ's Crucifixion, and also his attempt at secularism in many of his paintings.

My favourite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me captures love in their most revealing forms, as Wilson comments, "Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (P.174)

Chagall's life Wilson suggests was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort universalizing or merging opposites, he writes, "In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (P. 210)

Wilson's Marc Chagall is an erudite biography and insightful critical work. Although relatively short in length, manages to capture the artist who is considered along with Picasso and Matisse, one of the icons of Modernism.

Homage to Apollinaire. 1911-1912. Oil on canvas, 209x198 cm.

Originally published on Amazon, 2007

C. Middleton

Australian Live Rock Hits the Suburbs

2008-09-01T23:52:00.000-07:00

If you are a young reader or a bit older, stories and eye witness accounts about simple pub bands getting their start to then move to the Big Time has almost reached the status of ' Australian Rock and Roll Urban Legend.'

To name only a few: Cold Chisel, AC DC, The Screaming Jets, Noise Works, INXX, Jet... and the list continues.

Then something occurred in the early nineties with the Liberal government introducing Pokie Machines; suddenly, live music disappeared (almost) or it took a lot of effort to find a venue to catch a good rock band.

Pubs and the government made heaps of money, good for the city, but Melbourne's music scene almost died.

A few venues dug their heels in and remained true to Melbourne's traditional live band scene seeking out new talent – The Esplanade and The Palace, etc.

Those of us in the outer suburbs had to put up with Top Forty cover bands and it seemed true talent had no where else to go – until recently.

One such venue outside the city centre that provides a platform for new talent is the Casablanca Tavern in the Eastern suburb of Ringwood.

Del Fischer, proprietor and owner, wanted a place where new bands and mucical acts would have the opportunity to perform their music live to audiences.

Open just over two and a half years, Fischer, (coming from a family of entertainers and a musician himself) had the idea to expose new talent and began doing so since Casablanca's opening.

Standing behind the bar in the late afternoon, immersed in a chess game with a customer, Del becomes reticent when my barrage of questions over a lite beer interrupt his game:

What is your view on exposing new music?

“The government almost destroyed live music with the pokies, but my love of music pushed me in this direction, and the Casablanca was born.”

Quite a few venues in the city are offering “Open Mic Nights” giving amature singers and musicians a chance – do you have this type of thing?

“Read the sign outside, mate. Every Wednesday night anybody can stand on that stage a play their stuff. Some acts are a little average but once in a while a great talent appears. And as you know, this business is about word of mouth and followings – popularity can happen almost over night.”

As Del Fischer finishes his answer, he 'check mates' his opponent, who groans, smiles, shakes Del's hand and orders another beer.

As he pours a beer for his lost opponent, I ask, What talent have you helped to promote since opening your doors?

He comes around the bar an leads me to various promotional posters that just about cover every wall of the club.

“Tatto Rose, Riff Raff, Hard Copy, Motion19, Mark Phillips, Alice Platt and Sharon Hawker.”

(This is merely a quarter or less of the bands and performers displayed on the walls.)

There's a hint of pride on Del's face as we walk back to the bar but soon disappears as he silently calculates the night's business and entertainment.

There's more questions I need to ask him though his staff begin to arrive and the hard work begins, expecting a good crowd because a band with a 'big' following is due to arrive by 7:00 to set up and play by 8:30.

A night of blazing, original Rock & Roll in the eastern suburbs.

I decide to stay, notebook in my back pocket as I can already feel the tension mounting, because instinctively, I feel a great night of music to come.

Stunning Portrait of Beauty & Colour.

2008-08-17T07:42:00.000-07:00

Fortunately, fell upon this stunning portrait while unproductively browsing, stopping me in my tracks like the proverbial brick wall.

What an impressive use of colour, ethereal, translucent and ultimately beautiful.

Unfortunately, however, searched for the artist and title of the portrait in vain...it remains a mystery.

The model is obviously posing on the artist's instructions; peering down, dangling "something" on her fingers. Flowers surround her as the afternoon sun enters through her thin dress, the door- window, leading to the back garden, revealing a extraordinarily beautiful young woman. The entire scene projects a calmness, quietness and a moment in time never to be repeated.

Over the last year I have come to love this "style" of work: a balanced rendering of Realism and Impressionism.

In the end, though, its the artist's use of colour that makes this style so entrancing.

Lovely.

Strange Night at “The Scab”

2008-08-13T06:48:00.000-07:00

The local 'muso' hang-out in town we call 'The Scab' but its real name is The Scarab Bar, named after a holy Egyption icon, that resembles something between a lobster and a beetle. Strangly the name suits the place as there is nothing like it in the entire city: the bar is small and the owner, Les, a Croation with the energy of an Olympic marathon runner and is the spitting image of Robert Deniro (only Les is bald as the day he was born.)

What makes this bar iconic is no one is permitted to be unhappy, argue or cause the slightest bit of trouble...otherwise they're out on their ear faster than three blinks of an eye. One feels safe in this place for poets, musicians, writers and people who just want to have a good time without worrying about a drunken lout in a baseball cap, deluded into thinking he is an American black rapper, starting fights or giving the lady customers' a hard time. Therefore, to my way of thinking, The Scarab is a 'holy' place like the ancient Egyption icon: a refuge from the common dangers of a Saturday night.

Shaun O'Conner is a pre-maturly bald 24 year old guitarist and singer whose passion for music exceeds the passion of two young lover's – his love is the music. We met on a sunny afternoon in front of a grocery store while he sang his heart out, attempting to make a little money. We had a small chat and sang an old "Who" song, “Behind Blue Eyes” together while a small crowd gathered, and payed for the song with a few coins that they'd toss in his guitar case. He told me he played at the “Scab” every other Thursday and invited me to come along. Since then we've been friends for months.

It then became a ritual for me to go to the 'Scab' every other Thursday night and support the old boy with whistles and applause.

Then it was only a matter of time that I too, played and sang on 'jam' night every Wednesday and began to meet other musicians who simply played for the love of it: our pay for playing was a free drink on the house.

Working on a story for many hours one Thursday, getting my weeks mixed up, I decided to travel down to the 'Scab' a see Shaun – wrong night; a young man was playing who had the voice of an angel. Disappointed that my Thursday's had been crossed, I sat down anyway and listened to this young man and became increasingly impressed with his adeptness on the guitar and the few original songs he played.

After the first set ended, I sauntered outside for the obligatory cigarette.

Soon later, the guitar player followed with a friend – they appeared vaguely familiar.

The air was cool, a cold night, as you could see your breath.

Out of the cold and smoke, the guitar player asked, “Aren't you Mr. Middleton?”

As a semi-old brain does, it takes a little longer to connect the dots; then the memories return. These two 'boys', (now men) were once my students back in 2003. I remembered that both were not meant for the classroom and played-up, but great kid's anyway. We had a reminiscing discussion about the “old” days for a while and “S” returned to the stage. Feeling like playing I asked to do a song with him. I played the steel string acoustic and “S” grabbed the electric and we managed to play a tune that the crowd enjoyed.

Later they told me they were about to embark on a country adventure, essentially singing for their supper: real travelling troubadours, performing, playing music and seeing the country.

I felt there was something Real yet something Romantic about this goal; a medieval quest these boy's were meant to do.

We bid our farewells and I wished them luck as the night ended.

It is a bit strange meeting old students, not meant for the classroom, feeling loss (at the time) that they might have not learned much. But seeing them again after five years, while lying in bed that night, I felt secure that they were on the right road: good, kind, respectful, artistic and certainly headed for a few interesting adventures.

Needless to say, sleep came easy that night.

Spiritual Friend

2008-07-31T04:53:00.000-07:00

When meeting someone for the very first time, the mind will automatically move into "judgement mode."

'She's this or that, good-looking, attractive, but a little too small; she more than likely hates men; she's mad as..." These so-called 'first impressions' sometimes turn out to be partly true, other times not.

The other night, playing guitar and singing on the stage, my set finished, and deftly moving in and out through the crowd, outside to have a smoke -the brisk air compared to the lights and noise of the pub was like two different planets. A full moon, alone, I looked upwards and noticed the moon, bright, clear and emanating an energy. (The moon has always intrigued me since a a small child.)

That first drag of my cigarette felt like a reward well earned.

Suddenly a tap on the shoulder: A new musician friend, "How did you go, mate."

"Not bad, at least they applauded to "Blue on Black".

"Cool. By the way this is C. C, this is Craig."

She wore a cute little wollen hat, gloves with the ends cut off - not exactly pretty, but I found myself startled. She seemed only 5 foot tall, nothing superfically outstanding, but there was 'something', the first word that came to mind: she's a very Spiritual Being - a quality of uniqness, someone special.

Not saying a word, I listened while her and my new friend talked about Bach.

For me there felt to be a strong feeling that I knew this being once, a long time ago.

"Nice to meet you, Craig."

The little creature then walked off alone into the darkness of the night.

J and I re-entered the pub and I asked him who she was. She had known J for 6 years and are very close.

"J? She is a deeply spiritual person, someone you're lucky to know."

"What do you mean "spiritual"?

An individual whose material, physical needs fall far below to their kindness, care for other people, sensitive, awareness of her surroundings and curiousity about the world. A different kind of love for the world than your average human."

Knowing they were close, asked, "Would you mind if I asked her to have coffee?"

J laughed and said, "You know she is of the other persuasion."

Interestingly, this did not bother me in the least.

Later the next week, we had coffee, and my intuition of her spirituality was duly confirmed.

A new friend.

Beauty, Treachery & Eternal Punishment.

2008-07-24T01:29:00.000-07:00

"The Danaides" by J.W. Waterhouse, circa 1903.

Since the first viewing of this painting, "something" disturbed me. The painting depicts beautiful young women pouring water into a caldren with the face of a demon.

These young maidens are certainly committed to their task, but they know not what they are really performing...innocence in the midst of evil?

The Danaides is an ancient Greek myth.

Danus, the king of a territory in Egypt does not want his twin brother to take away his kingdom. Thus he makes a deal : because you are so infatuated with my lovely daughters'. fifty in all, you and your princes may marry them, but you must leave my kingdom and never come back. Danus' brother, enamoured with these beautiful young women agrees to the deal. However, Danus orders his fifty daughter's to kill their husbands on their wedding night. Loyal to their father, the weddings' are done with fanfare and joy. When returning to their respective chambers to consumate the marriage, all the men, including Danus' twin brother, are murdered in their sleep.

Suddenly consumed with guilt, fear and remorse, Danus gathers his fifty daughters and sets sail for other lands.

The punishments in their physical lives and the Hereafter are said to be the most terrible any mere human could imagine.

To read the entire story, Google, The Danaides, and the details you might find interesting.

It is the intense colours and attention to detail including clues as to the scene depicted is pure Waterhouse and striking in every sense.

A beautiful painting.

The Kindness of Strangers.

2008-07-21T05:56:00.000-07:00

As a friend once told me: 'this is a pain planet'. After the last two weeks, this proposition seems like a good contention...a good argument.

Met a woman last weekend who had been slammed into by a tram (straight-on) and lived...when all observed, 'they' said the woman would never walk again; she's out there every day, in pain, getting that damn leg to work again.

And its only been a month!

The power of the Will over the Body IS astounding! (It is the following individual who has made it possible).

On the same weekend, met a man, whose taken upon himself to ensure those around him survive, do well despite the pain in their particular lives...

He's gathered a small group who are loyal and know he would do everything in his power to help them.

How can I describe this individual?

A man who has decided to live life minute by minute and ensure those around him LOVE life...like he does.

Liven on a prayer.

Loving everything but there is a difference, he's been there...living in one's car for six months, playing guitar, singing...to eat, will and does change one's view of the world.

Giving and receiving when one's life really depends on it.

This great dude is now living his dream...creating a place where people can love and be merry.

I guess this is a 'pain planet', but there are those around that make us see the minute by minute happiness of this existence; the simple pleasures of life itself...is ten times worth the pain.

'The Kindness of Strangers."

PASSION, "IT"

2008-07-04T06:12:00.001-07:00

To Feel Life and see the World as it is in all its abundance and Strangness, can be for some, a one time experience.

To see a person excited about something, and doing that 'thing', is extremely inspiring.

As a school teacher of gifted, confused and at times, hyper teenager's, this 'passion' is part of their evolution; part of growing up.

As a teacher, this is what keeps me going.

Then most grow up and the passions' fade: love, work and their world.... the world of cyberspace. mobile phones, later, office gossip, affairs - a desperate reach for something that feels REAL, something that goes beyond the routine; without a true Passion, this energy turns negative, inverts, and life turns to hell.

It has become a cliche' over the last too many years, that our appearance is what's important: false beauty, losing weight, looking 'young', being part of the action.

To be sure, one should feel good about themselves, but the difference between the body focus or one's "looks", more often than not, leads no where because Death or old age is a fore gone conclusion. There's nothing worse than seeing people spend money on Botox, breast implants, hair replacement, in order to feel alive because it never lasts. (A quick fix.)

Meeting someone with a true Passion like music, cooking, painting, teaching, philosophy, theology, the mysteries of God; writing, helping the unfortunate; the care for the environment, science...yes, and even Love; one's looks makes no difference because there's a light in their eyes, a presence of being....that X quality that makes their presence light up a room.

To be passionate is to be alive despite life's vagaries because Passion can and will eventually over come the vagaries and obstacles that our live's on this planet seems to be designed to do... a system of barriers to push through, over or what ever it takes to do so.

Sigmund Freud, a pioneer of human behaviour and the mind, wrote that ultimate happiness is impossible, but to experience Love and Work, in their many forms, will and can move one closer to a semblance of happiness.

Pesonally, I have found this to be true.

Meeting people with a particular passion is a joy and very contagious.

To have Passion for literature, carpentry, music, et al, is one of the keys to a life with meaning.

Ultimately, however, it is the passion of love and a little joy in one's work that moves us closer to this vague and ambiguous feeling so-named 'hapiness'.

If you are not Passionate about something, life will pass by with bordom and regret in the blink of an eye...because, without focus and interest, Passion, life is like a haze, a cloud, a sorrow...a waste.

If you do not have it, find it!

But Now it's Gone.

2008-07-04T06:12:00.000-07:00

You are the poet in my heart.

Now it's gone, it doesn't matter anymore.

Wait a minute, love?

Did we not drown in a sea of love?

We felt it would last forever.

But now it's gone.

To feel so deeply and go anywhere with you meant more...a sea of love,

"where everyone wants to drown."

It doesn't matter anymore, you don't call me, feeling like a wing has been broken.

My heart feels sadness and memories of utter love and beauty.

But now it's gone.

It doesn't matter anymore.

Call me because you are the poet in my heart.

But now it's gone.

A beautiful and a deep sadness.

Oh no, here I go again, remembering our love slipping through our hands like so many grains of sand.

A beautiful sadness covers me like a cloud where all I see is you.

But will that last grain of sand hold fast?

All I want to hear is that you love me.

But now it's gone.

And Im falling, falling into a sadness, a strange and beautiful one...and so it goes.

But now it's gone.

Writing.

2008-06-24T04:52:00.000-07:00

A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it? 3. What image or idiom will make it clearer? 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?

George Orwell

Orwell did not write his two master pieces (Animal Farm, 1984) until close to the end of his short life; leaving the planet at 47 from a severe lung disease. But he often said that to be a writer that does not write at least 50,000 words a day should give the task away.

What was he saying?

To be a good writer or perhaps a great writer, like all the arts, practice and hard work are the sure fire paths to success. (The term "success" is another topic altogether.)

Orwell did not decide to be a writer until he was in his late 20's. But once the decision was made, he tackled the task like a man possessed. He wrote thousands of letters and articles, commentaries, novels, treatises and, for the most part, was politically minded. (Anti-fascist, Anti-communist) Many, many political pieces...

Apart from his novels and political articles, his favourite subject was the Art of Writing itself.

If one scans his books and articles will all too often come across a few words of advice about his method, his system, his philosophy on what makes good writing.

Paraphrased: have a clear topic and contention in mind; know exactly your audience; avoid unnecessary "big" words when a more familure one will do.

As another great writer said (Dostoyevski), write from your heart, believe, write with passion, and the reader will connect...if only for a moment.

Writing is like all the arts, practice improves, but like all creative endevours, discipline is the key.

The other night at a night club, or more a late night bar, I played the guitar for the customers, one song, and after the performance, had a few pats on the back. Then, later, a young university student asked my age, and appeared to be impressed with my so-called "experienced" life, and asked, "What is your PASSION?"

He expected me to say music, then I said, writing, to write a good piece is my passion, no matter a BLOG, letter, essay or novel. I've been DRAWN to write for the last twenty-five years; mostly crap, but it's my crap...and I simply continue to do it.

In the end, really, I desire my work to be read, but it is the act itself that gives me the most pleasure.

Orwell lived a short life though his body of work is still being sorted through by academics and historians, because writing was his passion, and he wrote every day...and the pages go on and on.

Writing is my passion.

I believe to have a passion in one's life is important; somehow passion gives us Meaning to our lives in this huge universe.

Ode to Love...and Love's Tragedy

2008-06-20T04:45:00.000-07:00

Shakespeare's Sonnets come from the Bard's deepest thoughts, his passions, suffering and the expression of the ultimate Joy of Beauty, Poetry and Love.

Here are the words of a suffering soul, in love with "someone" much younger than himself, thus his references to age being no barrier to true Love in many of the verses.

All or most scholars agree, the Sonnets were written about and to a single person. The argument, of course, is who this person was...Oscar Wilde speculated the object of the Master's heart was a young male actor, due to the law, had to play all the female parts as acting in the 16th century was purly a man's job.

Shakespeare himself has become a mystery as to his true identity for many years. Interestingly, Sigmund Freud's "free time", was devoted to revealing the Bard's true identity

For me, when reading the Sonnets, Who wrote them or Who they were written For makes no difference. Because the Sonnets are the most beautiful Ode to Poetry, the Muse and Real Love and its Tragedy, that all too often, is true Love's end result.

Over the last three nights, reading or more acurately 're-reading' these wonderful verses, my admiration for the English language, its beauty and cadence, its ability for subtle irony and truth is astounding.

One of my favourites: LXXV.

"So are you to my thoughts, as food for life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground: And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the flinching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by-and-by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day; Or gluttoning on all, or all the away."

"Feasting on your sight", just to see (her) brings on so much joy.

"Thus do I pine"... but saving her image in his mind like a glutton, a wanting, a Love deep and experienced from afar...

Merely to remind yourself of the beauty of the English language read the Bard's Sonnets and Poems.

A gift.

Craig Middleton

Written originally for Amazon.com

Unrequited Love.

2008-06-18T05:09:00.001-07:00

After too many drinks, usually a sign of reminiscing and sentimetality, he becomes "philosophical" and ponders:

What is unrequited love?

A love for another that is not returned, and some cases scorned, scoffed at and... most of the time, and this is the hardest, you are ignored as if you never existed...as if those memories in time never happend, except in his imagination; but he knows this not to be true.

You become a non-person, another body, a non-entity.

To truly Love someone, one would give up everything to touch them, give up one's riches, ones dreams, to simply be with them...

The rain slams, carried by a gust of wind, against the window like thunder...again.

He truly believed that to love someone with all one's soul, and the Love is from the heart, no matter what happens, no matter the time or place, True Love will always prevail, because REAL LOVE, is something rare and worth fighting for.

After some years, he thinks, was my love true?

Yes, he believes...more real than life itself.

How can this be?

Her love was never true or he believed she thought it was true but it was not Love because she let the world in...

He was never priority, this was not REAL LOVE, but perhaps a type of infatuation.

He now sits in his old chair watching the Weather Channel on his little TV, as the rain beats againt the kitchen window, reminding him of a beautiful time with her...that beautiful day in the forest, a picnic, wine, song and kisses...

His old cat jumps on his lap, reminding the old boy that it is time to go to bed. He carries his worn body to his bedroom, sits on its edge and puts his wet face in his hands.

He fights back the tears but they are unrelenting and continue to flow.

"Why, after so many years, do I feel such pain?!"

Real Love goes both ways, in this life time, what he would not face, accept or believe was the love of his life, could not return such Love and left him alone, and moved on, perhaps disappointed, perhaps not.

Unrequited Love.

He does not want to forget her but the rain continues beating on the kitchen window - in furious waves.

The pain fades as he falls asleep, alone, with only the image of his beloved in his mind, even after so many years.

The rain stops, the images fall into nothingness, as he falls into a deep, forgetful sleep.

TRUE lOVE:

SONNET CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

William Shakespeare

Kindness

2008-06-14T00:55:00.000-07:00

The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. The trite subjects of human efforts, possessions, outward success, luxury have always seemed to me contemptible.

Albert Einstein

Personally, the last month has been hard work, full of anxiety, an exercise in extreme change, moments when losing one's temper would have been appropriate, though, knowing that keeping one's harsh words to one self will do more good than harm, has proved to be the correct course of action - in more ways than one.

It is with out doubt that out of my 250,000 word BLOG, I've spoken of one of my favourite philosophers, William James. He had a word of advice that has always rang true, sounding simple but harder to put into action. He wrote:

"Just for today, I will do something I do not want to do, and do someone a kind turn and not be found out!"

Random acts of kindness has been bandied about for a very long time. But seriously, how often do we put into practice this seemingly effortless action?

Philosophy is about the pursuit of wisdom; as a subject of study, it encompasses many subjects: ethics, metaphysics, the nature of language - though it was the Greeks who asked the million dollar question that underpinnes all philosophy:

"How are we to Live?"

As a young philosophy student, some years ago, I really tried to put James' dictum into practice, but as youth is about creating identity and proving oneself, these acts of kindness had to be "huge", "world changing": saving a life, saving a damsel in distress, finding the "key" to world peace...what a fool.

Over the years, I've come to understand that so-called little acts of kindness can and sometimes does, has the greatest affect.

For example: taking one's neighbours garbage bins back from the street because you know how busy they have been. Visiting an old relative in a shelter that you know is dieing and lonely. Washing the staff room dishes when you are not rostered because you know they've had a hard week, etc. You get the idea. In all honesty, it took me a long time to realize this simple truth.

The first part of James' advice is a no brainer: "Do one thing you do not want to do." - we have chores, decisions, a "put off" phone call": cleaning toilets or even raking those leaves.

Just do it and you will feel better.

William James was considered by his contemporaries as a Pragmatist. In essence, this means, if a philosophical theory cannot be applied or is relavent to the real world, it is useless.

William James denied the label (Pragmatist), but certainly practiced it.

To feel the Kindness from another is a great feeling.

To be Kind for the sake of Kindness, is even better.

One last thing, what gives an act of Kindness more worth, is to do the act, anonymously.

Because there is no credit given if you shout your kind acts to the roof tops for the world to hear - only the ACT itself has worth.

This may sound easy, but it is much harder in the day to day life we have come to know so well; though James' words have great worth.

Something to strive for...

Feeling Home, but Feeling so Far Away...

2008-06-11T00:35:00.000-07:00

He lies in the middle of his bed in the early morning, alone, somewhere around 3:00, except for his cat purring at his feet, the darkness all consuming.

The birds and wild animals sleep because it is so quiet; a peaceful silence...a calmness.

Then, out of nothing, an overwhelming feeling of happiness and love fills the room and his body is filled with grace...a tremendous Light.

It is nothing he has ever felt before or remembers.

I've arrived, he thinks. I have found my way Home, yet knowing deep inside, Home is so far away.

There is no rationality to his feelings.

He knows he floats, at times, aimlessly, in this vast ocean, an innocent, a child, like so many before him, merely passing through, and never knowing the reason, he feels EXILED and must find that distant shore...Home.

He knows this in his soul.

A voice enters his mind and says: "There will be signs, wonders and miracles along your journey and always keep your eyes on the morning star."

He feels: "I'll find a way ..."

The feeling of Home slowly falls away and the coldness fills his heart like ice from a terrible winter he once experienced as a child.

He knows Home is a far distant shore, but these fears and obstacles, he feels, like the torrents and waves of the Atlantic ocean, can be overcome.

"Why have I been exiled?" he wonders.

"What have I done?"

He closes his eyes as the sun rises, hearing the birds sing, as he falls into a deep sleep, those memories, those ancient memories, come back to him, strong, so clear, so beautiful, he yearns to sail towards the shore, hoping he will see those he has lost over so many lifetimes and will always love....and the Light.

He knows he cannot sail, cross over...too much time remaining...fixed in exile.

Feeling Home, but Feeling so Far Away.

Romantic Love

2008-05-30T06:05:00.000-07:00

"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides."

To experience the love from another and feel the same intensity of love for them, is nothing less than a miracle.

Romantic Love, one could say, is an illusion or as Oscar Wilde once said , "...a kind of madness."

But if you've ever experienced romantic love, particularly later in your life, it's a dream, a drama, so intense, and all so beautiful.

One wakes up of a morning and they're the first thought of the day: When will I see her, how was her evening, and, of course the thought of making love; kissing or simply holding hands on a brisk morning stroll.

To feel "butter flies" in one's stomach just before picking her up for a dinner date, even though you've been together for a year, and offering flowers at the door for no other reason other than the fact that it makes her happy, is a pure joy.

The cynical will say that romantic love is fleeting and only lasts so long, then the relationship becomes a routine.

This is not entirely true for some because that spark or burning passion never goes away.

Romance, if true, can last a life time.

Every kiss is like the first kiss, every meeting is a new beginning; and making love is different and more wonderful and passionate every time.

I've known couples who have been married for 30 years and continue to hold hands, and the occasional kiss on the cheek while watching the TV or at the movies.

Simply being in each other's space is pure joy and a kind of happiness that only Love can create.

Romance, love and devotion still exists...and it is a miracle.

Giving

2008-05-27T23:36:00.000-07:00

Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need.

Kahlil Gibran

I've always understood the act of generosity as an act of selfless giving.

The true 'Giver' will offer all they have without a hint of a grude or with the thought or words of "Now you owe me!"

What is it to give with grace?

I believe it is to offer what you have to somebody with courtesy and decency with "no strings attached".

Some years ago while at university, there was a particular character who wrote for the university newspaper, pulled weight in the student Union, righting wrongs for his fellow students and so intelligent, however at the time he was on heroine but managed to keep it all together. Another friend who also worked for the University paper came from money and, of course, always had plenty in his pocket. We'll call our intelligent heroine addict Simon and our rich friend, Jack.

Living on only student payouts from the government, Simon could barely eat, let alone support a heroine habit. But when ever he needed a little cash, (usually $50), he'd ask Jack, and without hesitation, give Simon his much needed $50 for food or whatever else he required because in Jack's eye's, once you "lend" someone money, never expect to get it back. In my eyes, good old Jack gave with decency and grace. In the end, so many years later, Jack is a philosophy lecturer and Simon is a big wig in one of the top publishing firms in the country and, incidently, off the stuff.

I believe if it wasn't for Jack's generosity and giving with utter grace, Simon would not be where he is today - more than likely this highly intelligent man would be dead.

I really think that to give begrudgingly has no ethical value, the act means absolutely nothing.

Another example: when asked, a "friend" does you a much needed favour and while doing it complains, makes personal judgements and expects a return in one form or another; they shouldn't even make the effort, because more than likely, the act will do more harm than good - for the giver and the one receiving.

The spirit in which a thing is given determines that in which the debt is acknowledged; it's the intention, not the face-value of the gift, that's weighed.

Seneca

Yes, it the intention of one's giving, its selfless aura, which makes the act that much more valuable.

To Give with Grace has great significance for all concerned.

Books

2008-05-23T23:51:00.000-07:00

When I am attacked by gloomy thoughts, nothing helps me so much as running to my books. They quickly absorb me and banish the clouds from my mind.
Michel de Montaigne
French essayist (1533 - 1592)

As a German philosopher once said, paraphrased, "If there was no music in the world, life would not be worth living." I would add books to that statement without reservation.

Though attributed with a deep imagination, it is impossible for me to imagine a life without books.

Books can transport you to places never envisaged; introduce you to people you would most certainly like to meet but never will; take you into the minds of the great or the most evil; just the act of reading a good book, as de Montaigne states above, "...can banish the clouds from my mind."

After teaching English in middle and secondary school for some years now, students would rather stick molten nails into their ignorant eyes than read a book. Well it should go without saying, there's too much to see and do: TV, movies, video games, friends, sport, cars and interest in the opposite sex to have a spare 15 minutes to read a book - books are for "geeks".

Have books become an acquired taste?

To answer that question, I would have to say, no.

The appreciation for books start at home, not at school.

My mother and less so, my father, books were something almost sacred, relics of knowledge and experience, objects to be revered and respected. Read to as a child every night, I remember I couldn't wait to have the ability to read myself. My mother was always reading and father would mainly at night before bed. Books were always in the house.

When I hear a student say, "I hate reading, too hard...boring." Even after years of teaching my stomach ties in knots and I have to remind myself that an appreciation for books had never been cultivated in the home.

Is it my job to get some of these children interested at such a late stage in their lives? Well, yes, that's my job...and there are a few wins.

But once they get it, it never leaves them.

The written word is a gift from the gods and a good story more often does more good than harm.

If there were no books in the world, life would not be worth living.

Books to the ceiling, Books to the sky, My pile of books is a mile high. How I love them! How I need them! I'll have a long beard by the time I read them.

Arnold Lobel

Character

2008-05-23T01:23:00.000-07:00

"Strong feelings do not necessarily make a strong character. The strength of a man is to be measured by the power of the feelings he subdues not by the power of those which subdue him."

William Carleton

This quote reminds me of the writings from the famous Roman Emperor and Stoic, Marcus Aurelius, whose philsophy centres around self-control, specifically one's negative emotions that we all possess as human beings.

To have this ability requires a presence of mind, "mindful" of the present moment and the appropriate repsonse to a situation or individual.

This does not come natural to the human being.

Similar to all the Virtues, patience and presence of mind needs practice like riding a bike or playing the piano.

Next time you're doing the dishes or washing the car, attempt to remain in present time and not let your mind waunder - you'll find it very difficult.

A lot of us have strong feelings about our own opinions, our egos, and the "need" to be right can cause one to 'react' rather than 'respond' after thinking about what has just been said or done.

To "subdue" or temper and be aware of one's negative emotions is a sign of true character.

"You cannot dream yourself into a character; you must hammer and forge yourself one."

James A. Froude
English historian (1818 - 1894)

Virtue or true character are not innate but "hammered and forged" throughout a life time.

You may be an interesting ""character" (funny, eccentric or charming), but to have character is an entirely different thing.

Change.

2008-05-07T23:39:00.000-07:00

The old cliche' that "change is as good as a holiday", may be true in some cases though a disaster for one who runs their life by strict routines. For these people, any disruption at all to their day to day activities can and will cause untold misery.

But isn't life, generally, about change?

We're born, grow to be toddlers, begin our first day at school, become teenagers, move into adulthood and, hopefully, meet someone that we can love; following this is marriage, the creation of those cute little rug rats then, before you realize it, one's children become teenagers, grow into adulthood, marry and suddenly you've become a grandparent.

You ponder: Where has the time gone?

Life is about change, however, resistance to change seems to be part of our natures.

Why?

In an attempt not to be too philosophical, change in any form, either consciously or unconsciously, equates to our death.

If you can somehow maintain the status quo, one's death can be delayed (at least in your mind) because your situation, activities, day to day routines remain the same. In a strange way, routine without change can make us somehow believe that death is far away; without change we can go on forever.

A good example is the middle aged accountant who has worked in the same cubical for many years. One day he's told that he has to move offices because the company is growing and more space is needed because a slew of young guns have been hired to keep the company growing.

"But Jack, I've had this office for twenty-five years, can't some other arrangements be made?"

"Sorry old boy, this has come down from the top. But you'll love your new office. It's bigger and you're also closer to the water cooler!"

He finds his new office slightly bigger and it is closer to the water cooler, but this change in his life brings on depression, as if his life has been turned upside down.

This change, whether a good move or not, creates so much anxiety, that he eventually has a cardiac arrest, and dies. All because of a simple change in space.

What we must understand is that change on this planet is inevitable, we are changing all the time, and yes, death too, is inevitable.

My personal mind-set is to accept change as opportunities rather than hints of my impending old age and certain death.

For me, as a person of routine, have been attempting to accept change as opportunities, because change has become all encompassing over the last two years...though, hopefully, life will settle down and my certain death, an occurence somewhere in the far future.

Change is a Reality.

What will the Future Hold?

2008-05-07T04:26:00.000-07:00

I found it interesting that my last entry concerned teacher wages, and the next day, the government made a deal, ensuring beginning and experienced teachers a substantial pay rise, however, with certain conditions.

In the Australian press, the pay rise read to be more than generous, but as with all governments, one must justify one's spending.

In a staff meeting on Tuesday, the Union press release was read aloud to all staff. Not having read the document, the piece sounded like a convoluted mess.

A "give and take" deal that really made no sense.

The most ludicrist of all was that teachers must work an extra 10 minutes a day.

Excuse me?

Let me just say, teachers work more hours than the ratified Union agreements - aside from "face to face" teaching, there is lesson planning, phone calls to parents at unusual hours, lunch time detentions, after school detentions; coaching sport, rehearsing, after school and at lunch, the school's next theatrical performance. Enforced "personal development" time, when you are concerned about a student whose parents have booted them out and they now sleep on the school's oval.

(Today a student's parent rang up and said "We're moving, and I expect the school to feed my boy." So we spend our time finding ways to feed the boy during the week and hoping he has a roof over his head.)

The list goes on but there is no point. Unless you are a true teacher, committed to the learning and welfare of your students, no one, not even our politicians, have a clue.

To be sure, I'm thankful for the pay rise, although souding like an acountants nightmare of percentages, over years, might come true, eventually.

As written in the last BLOG, everyone "thinks" being a teacher is a cake-walk, but when 50% of all beginning teachers quit after only three years, should tell us that it is a difficult profession and society should treat it as such and reward it as such, otherwise, what will our future hold?

Teaching & to be a Teacher.

2008-05-02T21:29:00.000-07:00

Why in the Western World, apart from Russia, are the teacher's of our young so poorly paid?

This has never made sense to me, and if logically studied, a logical answer cannot be found.

As a teacher of secondary school, when our adolescent students are emotionally and physically changing at the speed of light, and the problems these children face is, more often than not, terribly dramatic; not to mention their home lives, the teacher must play many roles:

Teacher

Carer

friend

psychologist

Sounding Board

mentor

motivator

A teacher must have their best interests at heart.

In most cases, this children come from broken homes, thus the teacher is their point of safty and stable 'parent', because their home's are in utter chaos.

As a teacher we must wear many hats, work long hours, at school and at home to ensure these young people have the opportunity to be the best they can be and, hopefully, future contributors' in our society.

Similar to most 'jobs', we have good days and bad. But in the end, the teacher is most happy when a student actually learns something, making the connection to what they have learned to real life.

In Australia, students with disabilities, i.e., ADHD, Autism, broken homes leading to unruly behaviour, Asbergers, etc, are not suitably funded to handle such children in, for example, a classroom of 25 students. Yes, we have teacher assistance in the form of "intergration aids", but these individuals are not trained to successfully handle these children. Thus the responsibility comes back to the classroom teacher. We modify the work for them, but often, (depending if they have taken their medication) will disrupt the other 90% of the class and learning does not occur - these are the bad days.

Teaching is a difficult profession and we deal or cope with what resources are available.

To be honest, Im tired of the old cliche, that teachers get too many holidays, therefore their low pay is somehow justified. We work many hours at home and school, therefore the hours do not even come close to the holiday time.

The irony, really, is that during a political campaign, most often the main issue is education, but once voted into office, the successful party, ignore the issue.

It only takes Union Protest to remind these overpaid politicians what the situation with education is truly about...(and it is not ideal by any stretch of the imagination.)

What is a tragedy is that 50% of graduate teacher' resign within the first 3 years because the work is too hard, and the remuneration, ridiculous.

Teaching is a Noble profession. A great teacher can change a young person's life to then turn them into greatness...and I've seen it many times.

I truly believe that the profession of teaching is a 'calling', it is in your blood and bones.

These overpaid politicians need to wake-up and smell the coffee, attracting smart people who are more than capable to teach our young and paid well for their huge contribution to our future society.

True Kindness and a Real Friend.

2008-05-02T00:35:00.000-07:00

This week has been one of the worst, emotionally, for a very long time. Why?

When suddenly you've had a moment of clarity, the "pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place", and you have realized that you've been used and manipulated, for some years, it is a terrible feeling.

To have the power to remove another's sense of self is dangerous, and it does happen and, unfortunatelty, too frequently.

But you continue to 'love' this person, hoping circumstances might change...this does not happen when you are dealing with a self-cognizant manipulator.

I guess it is the thought that you have really been used; invested time, so much love and money, ignoring the other people in your life that you love and care for, then it all comes to not...

Their true colours reveal themselves and denial is the first port of call.

"How could I have been so stupid!" (An ego thing.)

The emotional tail spin is all too real.

Life now seems out of control, everything that you trust now is untrustworthy.

Then, out of the blue, you receive a package from an old friend, (just when you're about to give up) and inside the package is a book, a philosophical text that is rare.

He knows you love this writer, and running across it in a second hand book store, decides to buy the text and send it to you. (Even though he really can't afford it.)

This thoughtful act of kindness pulled me out of the haze of denial and self-pity, knowing that there is a sensitive friend who cares, selflessly.

Stronger now because of my friend's selfless action, life is now worth living.

True kindness, selfless kindness, is one of the greatest attributes a human being can have...and my friend, well, at this time, without knowing it, you saved my emotional life, and you have given me back my love for the world and humankind.

Thank you.

Another Great Artist from the Repin Academy.

2008-05-01T02:37:00.000-07:00

This painting is of another world.

However who's world is it?

There is a hint of the 19th century, the beautiful dress and umbrella; the woman gazing at the sea. Look at the tree above her and the detail, time that the artist invested to reflect what he really sees, that contrasts the entire painting in every other aspect. (The woman is not the centre piece but the tree above her.)

When sketching a "live" object of the world, somtimes it is nesessary to reflect, as close as possible, its 'true' form.

What this artist has created is a meld of Impression and the human artists' striving for the Real.

But one gets the impression that he is playing with us: the model's head is unusually small; there are glimpses of objects and "things" that at a cursory glance one would not see...similar to a Renaissance work, there are hidden symbols.

My eyes, when gazing at this work, move to the leaves above her and the ground below her feet.

One Real the other Impression, giving the work, as said before, something not of this world.

The painter is of the Repin School in St. Petersburg, whose reputation for combining styles is well known in Russian circles:

Joseph Tali is the painter of this particular work.

This work by Tali is now part of a "private" collection.

Exemplary.

The Joy of the Unexpected.

2008-04-27T03:20:00.000-07:00

We all wanted the experience to be perfect.

This is a day that the nation stops and pays reverence to the Australian men and women who suffered and fought during so many wars.

We attended the mornining service, but the crowd was so thick that the actual servicemen couldn’t get through to pay their respects.

Something has been lost.

The Silence of a crowd of thousands is something to experience, one mind, one heart, one soul...a respect for those men and women that never stopped to reason why? Single-minded people, determined to protect our shores and way of life.

This is what ANZAC DAY is all about: showing our respect for those that suffered and died for an IDEAL.

For me, however, today seemed different.

An old friend, who served in Cambodia, a Navel man, saw the carnage of war. Hundreds of bodies floating in the waters below and, because of the orders from the First captain, they were to leave them, the dead women and children, some alive and alone.

Then he heard a cry for help in the distance.

Through his binoculours, he saw a little girl striving to remain alive on top of a dead women’s body...no more than two years old.

As the Second in Charge, the Captain of the crew, the order to stop was obeyed in an instant.

(He knew his career was on the line.)

“To our left, only a few k’s away, is a child in distress. Turn 380’ south and we will bring her on board.”

Despite the rantings of the Admiral, the crew turned the destroyer around, under gun fire, and brought the little girl on the ship...half starved and terrified.

Whether the ‘luck’ of human’s or the grace of God, not one of the crew had been hurt, and the ship moved steadily into calm waters.

She was a baby no more than two, cold and distressed.

James, (the second in command) my best mate at the time, loved the baby from the start, and raised her with his lovely wife.

ANZAC DAY has come around once again. The problem is the young crowd, who have never experienced war, treat the day as a holiday, and today, for me, a man who served, was not REALLY recognized, another oldman with a few medals, trying to buy a beer at the RSL. But the young fools would not let me in as it was, for them, just another party.

Little Sue, (pictured above.) who was saved by the pure courage and humanity of the Second Captain, now lives in a suburb of Melbourne with two beautiful children that have, after so many years, grown up, have been educated, and are now contributing to the good of the world.

This was unexpected but a pure joy to know and remember...

Sadness and Joy...Live in the Moment.

2008-04-25T04:15:00.000-07:00

Life is and can be a wonderous experience if one takes time to be in the moment.

This may sound stupid to some and curious to most, though existing in the now, leaving the past alone, the future a hopeful dream; seeing, hearing, smelling, and tasting in the exact moment of the time is, without doubt, a beautiful experience.

I remember an early morning walk with a past lover, the air was crisp, she seemed happy, then we saw the sunrise, slowly peeping over the horizon, with its deep reds and oranges and blues.

"Beautiful", I said.

And stopped all thought and actions, felt calm, just to feel the world and its majesty...I was in the moment.

All I could do was kiss her with all my energy because she and the world, at that precise moment, felt to be real Beauty and Love...so happy...and it was.

What I’ve discovered is living in the moment is what we are meant to do.

We are meant to be "of" the world not"in" the world.

We cannot change the past nor alter our future, (though we try) because life is so short that to be stuck with our transgressions in the past or future dreams is a waste of this precious time we have on this planet.

The moment, here, right now, look, touch, feel and suddenly the world becomes a beautiful place to be.

The image above reminds me of a moment when I sketched my son while he was a sleep. (This was many years ago.)

Living in the moment, feeling the joy of innocents and his little cat sleeping beside him almost brought me to tears.

Live in the moment and experience the miracle of life.

Love Slowly Lost

2008-04-21T04:26:00.000-07:00

As most of us really know, Love can be fleeting, but sometimes so intense, all thoughts and actions are focused on only the beloved. This can be too much, too much of a responsibility; in the end it only matters at that precise moment you are there...with them, right in the moment.

It is only when one becomes part of the world and not “of” it, that Love becomes too much, too complicated (it's all too hard) and the time has come for her wings to spread and fly. She hesitates because she wants him around because he is creative, funny, and different in bed but...still "my time as a slave is now gone forever."

She will never ever fall into slave mode again and serve those she despises, apart from her children, and she sees in her new Lover, some kind of dependency, a need to be cared for and loved...like a child? Is this a true perception or a habit of mind after years of slavery?

These questions have nothing to do with Love: And nothing to do with us.

When one heart aches and one’s gut hurts because you havn’t kissed them for months and the image of her face is the last one at night before sleep and a wonderment in the morning, that, perhaps, you might see them, at least...one more time. But as the day progresses, it does not happen, she is far away, (in soul and heart) never to return.

The Love slowly burns away, less bright until there's not an ember of light at all, only a cold darkness. Though as said, life is surely fleeting, the years falling away...

The sun falls behind the hills and it is night.

As always, you sit in your most comfortable chair, reading a beautiful book, the years have passed all too quickly, and her beautiful image returns, along with those heartfelt feelings of Pain and Love.

"Where is she?" he wonders.

"Is my Love happy or sad?"

"Does she still remember me?"

Love slowly Lost, never to return, though in memory,

She remains forever.

Watch the Trees.

2008-04-01T03:05:00.000-07:00

Today was special.

When summer turns to fall, that precise moment when the trees change their colour, and the cold becomes a little biting, knowing it is time to wear a coat, a scarf and one's nose, once in the warmth of home, stings, as you enter a heated room, you know autumn has truly arrived.

It may be the temperture of the morning, the crisp air against your face as you walk briskly in the golden light of sunrise, though the day turns hot once again, you know Fall hasn't quite happend , but very close.

We know when the season's change because it is the trees that tell us so.

It is not noticable unless you pay attention, because once the leaves change from green to yellow, orange, violet or red, it is only a matter of time when they fall, and if you are not there in the moment, you will miss it.

There have been some years where the leaves changed their colour, and caught up in the day to day routine, have missed their mystical falling.

Waking up one morning, finally calm, awake and aware, 'my' tree next to the balcony had lost all its leaves; and because of my self-centredness, not being in the moment, mindful, missed this important transformation.

She was bare...and winter certainly was near.

Today was special because we were in the moment, the leaves beginning to turn and mindful that their beauty was only minutes, hours or days away.

Summer to fall is a beautiful time as the earth moves around and ever so slightly, tilts away from the sun.

The cold will move in soon; the trees dropping their last leaf; the snow falling and the pure joy of an open fire as you cuddle with your loved one under the covers, knowing that spring is near.

Watch the trees...

Rembrandt: too much too soon.

2008-03-30T00:25:00.000-07:00

It is always a pleasure to visit the Victorian National Art Museum. We stayed there for three hours with the intent of only viewing the 16th century Flemish masters. What is the cliche, all good intentions are paved to Hell? We continued from the 16th century to the 20th century and by that time, my body and mind was about to fall into a heap due to exhaustion.

'I can't see anymore or I'll shut down!"

'My goodness, C, you look so pale, come on, let's go outside.'

Sitting outside with a much needed cup of coffee, next to the man-made water feature, the city air, water and crowd of visiting tourists, after a few minutes, all felt to be back to normal.

'We were in there too long, too much in too short of time.' I said.

'I think I understand what you're saying...' she replied.

'S, we should have remained in the 16th century, but we got greedy and wanted more, and there is a price for greed!"

'I knew I should have stopped with Rembrandt, all his wonderful sketches and those haunting self portraits. Really, when we come back again, we'll stay with the Flemish 16th century and Rembrandt."

She nodded her head, taking a sip of coffee, 'You're right, we didn't rush, but tried to take it all in moving at a pace impossible to do so."

My point is that one does not experience the same 'feelings' when moving through a print shop or surfing on the net, looking at representations of works of Art.

There's an energy that flows from the work that requires a response.

Rembrandt was a prolific collector of all 'things' unusual, from strange rocks to silly drawings from far away places. He would sketch these curiosities and incorporate them into his major projects. The NGV has a collection of these sketches and they're incredible.

When my friend literally carried me out of the gallery from too much engagement, I noticed a group of Asian tourists gathered around a small Picasso - a truly ugly painting - the flashes from their cameras blinking at the speed of light. Is it the beauty of the painting they were so enthusiastic about or the fact that it was an original Picasso? I truly believe it is the artist not the work that inspired so many photographs.

Depicted above is one of my favourite paintings by Rembrandt, "The Head of Christ."

The expression in the eyes tells it all...

As written before in this BLOG, art is about technique, and its undefinable energy that cannot be experienced, except by the original viewer. Art is a visceral experience and one's response to the work.

When at that precise moment in time, one can actually feel the artists' intent and Beauty...that, to my mind, is truly the purpose of Art.

The Green Manifestation in the Sky.

2008-03-26T20:21:00.000-07:00

It was in the summer of 1967, walking towards home after visiting a friend, where, looking up in the sky, a deep green object hovered above without the slightest movement, as if stagnate, placed, a "thing" not of this world. The sighting did not frighten me at all, but brought on feelings of exuberance, a strong energy of absolute vigour.

As a young boy at the time, through my innocence, anything was possible.

It continued to remain motionless, this deep, green blob in the sky.

To ensure I was not hallucinating, I looked around the street for someone to corroborate this vision, proof that I wasn't merely "seeing things".

It was that time of the day when the sun is about to disappear, a warm summer dusk.

Looking around, not one person could be seen, all inside at this beautiful time when day turns to night. It's a lovely evening, I thought, where is everybody?

My stare turned upward again, and the green blob continued to remain stagnate for all the world to see.

I began to run as fast as possible towards home. Out of breath, bending over and placing my hands on my knees, finally home, I looked up at the sky and the green blob had left as if it was never there in the first place.

Told mother and sister about the sighting and they nodded their heads as if to say, "You've been seeing things all your life, what's so different now?"

It is now thirty years later, in my Year 10 English class on a hot afternoon without air -conditioning.

On these occassions, students simply do not want to work: friday, last period, hot as heck and re-learning "conjunctions" is out of the question.

"Tell us one of your stories, Mr. M?"

I've been telling this particular English class stories the entire term because it stimulates discussion - true life stories and some concerning the supernatural.

"As I recall, this story was during my time living in Brighton in a haunted house..."

"Has anyone else experienced something out of the ordinary?"

The class was silent, unusual for that time of day. Then, one of my shy students, Rachael, raised her hand.

"Believe it or not, and I don't care if you believe me, but I saw something in the sky that shouldn't have been there...I was around 11 years of age, and in the sky was this dark green "thing", that didn't move; it looked like a big, green blob. I looked around to see if anyone was around to see it too, but no-one...then it disappeared. But I swear I saw it and I'll never forget it!"

A chill went down my spine as I sat on the desk in front of the class. All their eyes turned to me as my expression must have been a little strange.

Then Andrew piped-up, "Have you seen the same thing, Mr. M?"

Reluctantly, I admitted to have had seen something very similar at age eleven, and have never heard about it for thirty years, until Rachael told her story.

The class was very silent, then burst into animation as it was only a few seconds before the bell to ring, to begin their weekend.

The bell rang and I duly dismissed the class. Rachael stayed behind and asked,

"Did you really see that "thing"?

I merely nodded.

She left the classroom with the biggest smile on her face - at last, some kind of corroboration.

'At least I'm not the only crazy person in the world.'

This green manifestation in the sky has never appeared again.

Tatiana Kalyn "A Girl with a Guitar"

2008-03-25T20:53:00.000-07:00

Born in 1969, the young Russian woman, Tatiana Kayn joined The Repin Art Academy in St. Petersburg in 1989 at the age of twenty, to then graduate in 2002; her reputation as a gifted artist was well established before this time.

The Repin Art Academy have produced some extraordinary talent, Kayn is certainly one of them.

The painting depicted above, "The Girl with a Guitar", is a fine example of Tatiana's talent, exemplifying the Academy's school of thought, that is to say, a style of Modern Expressionism with an uncanny style of Realism; in fact the Academy calls itself a school of Realism.

One reason for this, I believe, is that Russian artists were directed to paint only in one style, Neo-Classicism, under the Communist regime, beginning with the ruthless dictator, Joseph Stalin. Any diversion from Classicism would lead the artist to a work camp in Siberia. As a result of this oppression, Russian artists missed out on the ever -moving, ever- changing art world, thus when the Wall finally went down, something new in Art has emerged.

In 1989, Tatiana joined the Academy revealing her deep understanding of colour/contrast and "somehow" imbuing into her work, emotive inspiration, giving the viewer a strong sense of Realism.

In "A Girl with a Guitar", the mix of bright colours of the woman's costume and the fine shape of her hands reveals an artist with classical sesibilities.

For me, the woman's expression is one of sadness, because, perhaps, the song she is playing moves her to this emotion: a shade of deep forlorness.

There is something quite fantastic about this painting that I can't quite put my finger on.

It would be a shame if this piece was now part of a private collection, (as a lot of her painting's are.) because the work demands to be seen in the flesh.

In my humble opinion, this painting will become a classic for future generations.

A beautiful piece.

Anatomy Drawing's of da Vinci

2008-03-24T21:30:00.000-07:00

Sometime while at university, we studied the Renaissance.

This was certainly a time of "re-birth" and creativity that astounds all who witness the art, writing, sculpture, philosophy, etc, of the period.

Unfortunately, I cannot remember her name, but the lecturer was a beautiful French woman, her English perfect with that almost mesmerizing accent. She was a natural blond, small and had the most striking blue eyes, however, she was a "Militant Feminist".

What does "Militant Feminist" actually mean and if meeting one, what can one expect?

Perhaps things have changed, but in those day's, a militant feminist hated men in general. On a date, for example, paying for dinner was out of the question, and most times, we'd go Dutch. (50/50.) Opening a door for one of these women, almost created a confrotation, too many times to count, out of sheer habit, I would do so and the response: most often, vehement, to say the least.

My Renaissance lecturer fit the bill to the endth degree.

Once we got to the topic of da Vinci's notebooks and his drawings of anatomy, her face would turn sour and she would become so flustered that I thought she'd have a nervous breakdown in the lecture hall!

If you have the chance or opportunity to see these drawings, you'll find them uncannily accurate and beautiful at the same time.

The drawing above is of a fetus, perhaps in its second or third trimester.

Well, in no uncertain terms, 'Frenchy' went utterly ballistic.

I believed, anyway, that it was Leonardo's practice (though illegal) to hire men to dig up new graves to then perform 'autopsy's" to attain a better understanding of the human body. He'd dissect the body himself and draw in his notebooks what he observed.

Frenchy believed that this particular drawing was performed while the mother was "alive" though unconscious for it to be so accurate. To then be discarded by Leonardo's apprentices secretly and in the dark of night.

Really?

I raised my hand in the huge lecture hall, "How can you know this? It is not written anywhere so it must be your opinion."

Frenchy's face turned red and it was then I knew, most certainly, I was in for one of those 'teacher- make -the -student -look stupid- exchanges";

"How would you know as you are a MAN, and the sound of your accent, makes you twice as stupid!"

(I'm Canadian by the way.)

I remember mumbling something about 'proof', but she ignored me for the rest of the lecture.

Viewing the drawing again, it is uncannily accurate, but da Vinci was not a murderer, even for his Art. However it is a little morbid that he had his apprentices dig up bodies for him to study...the man was simply ahead of his time. Nothing more. So to accuse da Vinci of such an attrocity, reveals the mind of a zeolet, an extremist....for she had no proof.

To my knowledge and still practiced in most medical schools, that it is required of a med student to dissect a human body and draw what they see, so as to remember...

Leonardo da Vinci was an extreme genius, but extremists' in ideology are simply dangerous.

"Missing" 288 Belford Drive, Denver Colorado, circa 1970.

2008-03-24T04:18:00.000-07:00

My old neighbourhood during the change of the season from autumn to winter.

So many years ago, recalling riding my bike through the fog, closing my eyes, to then stop abruptly, because it was too quiet, too still.

As ten year old boys' do, alone in the dark and fog, paticularly when there is no one around can be very scary.

On the curb next to my bike I sat quietly, listening to the sounds of, well,

nothing, total silence

The fog turned to a thick soup, there on the curb, seeing two feet in front of you was an impossible task.

The thunder and lightning began their diatribe.

I was lost in a cloud.

Panic set in as my orientation was lost...right or left?

It began to rain, then rain harder as the raindrops hurt my face, so rather than sit there like a scared rabbit, I rode in a direction that I hope would led me to home.

The rain was unrelenting.

Riding a bike in the rain and the dark is interesting if not dangerous.

In the distance I saw multi-coloured lights, thus headed in that direction.

Skidded to a stop in front of the house, (though never seeing this house before) decided to knock on the door and get some directions.

The door was surrounded with lights, like it was Christmas, and easy to see through the rain and fog.

I rang the door bell and waited, wet, cold and shivering.

The door finally opened and there stood a strange old lady. Her hair pure white, swept back in a bun. She looked like a gypsy, too many earings and braclets, too much make-up and her dressing gown one would associate with Bohemians. (Of the Eastern variety.)

"You are lost!' she said.

"Come in you poor little boy and I will call your mother."

Walking into her house, detected the scent of violets and sandlewood incence...candles sat on every shelf, all lit, burning bright, though the best memory is the warmth of the room...I felt safe.

"Sit here little one." and she wrapped a blanket around me.

"What is your name phone number, so I can call your Mother to come for you?"

I gave her my name and phone number, where upon she disappeared in another room.

While she was away, an old cat sat on top of an old, overly stuffed chair, yawned, stretched and meowed at me. The old cat sauntered over and merely sat and continued to stare into my eyes.

"Go way!" I said.

The old woman then entered the room again with a surprised expression.

"I spoke with your mother...how long have you been away from home?"

Strange question, I thought.

"No more than a couple of hours."

She laughed and suddenly turned serious.

"According to your mother, you have been missing for three days and the police have been looking for you, too."

"Crap, I just got lost in the fog and then found this place!"

Then she asked, "Do you know where you are?"

"Yea, Northglenn, where I live..."

She smiled and said,

"Well little one, you are in South Denver, fifty miles from where you live."

"That can't be right, I've been riding for only a few hours..."

A few hours later my dad arrived and thanked the old woman...

He placed my bike in his trunk, and did not say a word the whole trip home;

nor did I.

At that stage the rain had stopped and the evening's last glimmer of light appeared.

Once home, strangely, mom did not yell or anything, but put me in the shower, fed me chops and duly sent me to bed.

Over all these years, nothing has been mentioned about this incident again...

Though even today, upon reflection, this experience continues to be disturbing.

Confrontation with the Unknown.

2008-03-22T02:22:00.000-07:00

Living in Southern California during the Regan administration, although the "gas crisis" was well and truly over, we continued to cue for hours at gas stations to fill our tanks - 1983 was a strange year.

Married a 'child bride', she 19 and I the ripe old age of 25. Looking back can describe this relationship like a "Mills and Boon" novel -young- what more can be said?

In 1983, my job required me to travel to London for a month of training. We had just recently moved into a new apatment complex, clean, minimalist and exactly to our liking. We moved our secondhand furniture in and it truly felt like home.

My month in London was productive and had a great time leaving my 'child bride' back in LA., to keep the home fires burning.

Upon my return something had changed. Cathy had lost alot of weight that she could not afford to lose. The apartment smelled musty like it hadn't been dusted and there was also a terrible smell like amonia, that seemed to permeate the place.

Cathy was glad to see me but her childhood cat of 17 years had just died. Possibly the reason for the weight loss, maybe.

During the next two weeks she would hold me in bed like her life depended on my presence...needy, maybe but strange, too.

Life between us seemed now to get back to normal: Cathy had gained a little weight and the smells had disappeared.

Then it happend.

It was the spring of 1983, a warm night but comfortable.

A hard day at work, we fell asleep without any problems.

I remember distinctly the digital cloak reading 3:00 am, to find my wife and I pushing something heavy from our chests...looking at the end of the bed was this orb of fire.

Perhaps a metre in length and width, it pulsated heat and feelings almost beyond description.

It felt as if my mind was being infiltrated by an unknown force, images of my wife's dead cat being hung and tortured.

We held each other in pure fear, watching this ball of fire move vertically then horizonatally to finally, after a few miniutes, move slowly to 'its left and gently move through the wall.

Needless to say, sleep was impossible, thus we made tea and compared notes.

Interestingly, during the experience, we 'saw' the same images of her (dead) poor cat being hung and tortured.

This entity has never returned.

In 2000, I returned to California to see friends and family. Cathy had just re-married a good guy and all was right with the world. But then I mentioned the experience to Cathy in front of her new husband: she turned a shade of white and green, looked me straight in the eyes and said,

"Never mention that experience again, ok?"

I never have until now.

One of the great lines in Hamlet:

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than dreamt up in your philosophy."

Shakespeare

"Hamlet, Act 1 scene 5.

This is one of those experiences I never ever forget...

And life goes on.

Leonardo da Vinci Continues to Reveal His Secrets

2008-03-16T23:07:00.000-07:00

The above da Vinci drawing is titled, "The Virgin and Child with St. Anne and St. John the Baptist." (16th century)

The drawing is now placed in the National Gallery of London.

This drawing has always been a point of contention between art scholars and historians.

Why?

To understand the argument, we must first place the drawing in its historical (literary) context.

St. Anne is the mother of the Virgin Mary and Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist. Elizabeth was Mary's cousin thus the connection between the Son of God and the Great prophet.

In the scene depicted, we see St. Anne and the Virgin Mary looking as if one person, seemingly one body.

Mary is on the left and St. Anne on the right with the baby, John the Baptist.

St. Anne is pointing her finger upward towards the heavens, the first of many similar images in da Vinci's work. The baby St. John is seeing something as he looks in the Lord's direction.

It is a curious gaze, as John appeares to be adoring the Son, yet is there more he's seeing?

According to the Mirror of Sacred Scriptures website: guidelines for the placement of mirrors which reveal hidden faces, symbols, and subjects in drawings and paintings during the Renaissance period, as some paintings are rife with symbolism. When placing a mirror towards the sight-line of John the Baptist, reveals an image of extraordinary power and somewhat terrifying. (See below)

Some critics and historians believe the 'man' is wearing a Papal Tiara, which Popes and Cardinals have worn in the late past and continue to wear in prersent time. Other's simply brush this phenomenon off as pure lunacy. However, the image is real and quite distinctive.

Eventually this drawing, a practice session for the genius, became "The Virgin Child with St. Anne." where the Lord reaches for a lamb, and His cousin (John the Baptist) removed from the scene.

This original image was rejected thus the Master re- painted the subject matter to suit the will of his patron.

One is astounded at the amount of symbolism in Renaissance art.

One can sit for hours viewing a print of this time period and spot little gnomes, angels etc, hidden in the bushes or on top of the buildings.

The question we must ask is why "The Virgin and Child and John the Baptist" was rejected for a little less interesting "The Virgin Child with St. Anne" ?

I would venture to say, theological politics had much to do with it.

A wonderful image rife with symbolism.

Hidden Image that the Baby John the Baptist Sees...

2008-03-16T22:56:00.000-07:00

Review of John Pilger's "Freedom Next Time"

2008-03-16T20:11:00.000-07:00

This text was a difficult if not an extremely painful read. Man's inhumanity to man expressed in this book truly goes beyond the pale. We have entered an Orwellian stage in our history, where world dominance is justified as paving the way for democracy, maintaining our `freedom' through combating `terror', where the true victims are the innocent, the silent oppressed, euphemised as `collateral damage'.

John Pilger has been chronicling crimes against humanity for over 35 years, his first most ground breaking story being the Indonesian invasion of East Timor, which was given the green light by President Ford and Henry Kissinger, and supplied weapons by the British. Thousands of innocents were slaughtered, including two Australian television news crews as they were attempting to report this illegal action to the world and paid the ultimate price. The oppression in East Timor continues today. In Freedom Next Time, Pilger examines five examples of crimes against humanity and the effects of economic globalization, where the elites are getting richer and the poor slowly vanishing from the radar screens, categorized as "non-persons".

In chapter 1, Stealing a Nation, Pilger describes the unlawful deportation of an entire people, the island of Diego Garcia, part of the Chagos archipelago, which constitutes the Saloman Islands and Edgemont Island, situated exactly between Africa and Asia. A secret deal between the British and American governments, the British sold Diego Garcia to the Americans to make way for a military base. Over two thousand Chagossian's were deported to Mauritius, dropped off with barely the cloths on their backs, currently living in abject poverty without compensation from the British government despite being British citizens. What is startling is the massive cover-up by the government and the silence of most journalists over three decades, allowing (them) to get away with it.

In chapter 2, The Last Taboo, chronicles the Israeli occupation of Palestine. Pilger devotes a lot of space to this subject, giving a well-rounded assessment of the `conflict', revealing terrorism on both sides of the equation. One point that should be stressed is that Israel is the leading country in denying and transgressing against numerous UN resolutions. One resolution being the right of the Palestinians to return to their homelands. Between 1948 and 2000, Israel has defied the UN and the International community 135 times, never seen before in UN history.

The effect of economic globalism in India is examined showing the widening gap between rich and poor that continues at an alarming rate.

Pilger also analysis South Africa since the end of Apartheid; having been banned from entering the country for thirty years, returns to discover that economically not much has changed, and those that committed unspeakable atrocities, have essentially gotten away with it. Again, a few are benefiting economically while the majority remain in poverty, dieing like flies from starvation and disease.

The last chapter, Liberating Afghanistan, is an appalling situation of lies, death and destruction. To say the least, Afghanistan is a convoluted mess. According to Pilger, the Afghanis' felt safer under the Taliban regime than the numerous warlords that are currently creating havoc across the country. The unreported innocent deaths from American bombing (10,000) are a terrible travesty beyond words. However, the true purpose of the "forgotten war", which has been reported by many others, including Bob Woodward of the Washington Post and author Gore Vidal, is the `oil and gas junta' as the oil lobby in Washington is now called, building a pipeline through to the oil and gas rich Caspian sea. This was the true purpose and the prize has been won. This is an example of incestuous collusion between corporations and government. Who is part of this deal? - a consortium of Enron, Amoco, British Petroleum, Chevron, Exxon and Mobil. Dick Cheney, former Chairman of Halliburton, James Baker, former secretary of State under Bush senior and Condoleezza Rice, once vice-president of Chevron Oil. Does anyone smell a rat?

This a hard book to read as man's inhumanity to man, the appalling lies and silence from the mainstream media, and the amount of innocent deaths around the globe for the betterment of the few, is hard to take. Pilger has never held back with the truth, despite numerous death threats over his career, banned from countries and standing up to those that perpetrate these crimes against humanity. As a reader of Pilger for some years now, this is his best book to date.

Highly recommended.

Note: This Review was first published on Amazon.com

June 26, 2006

Craig Middleton

"Summer Night" & Representation vs. Original Works of Art.

2008-03-15T21:49:00.000-07:00

This painting is titled, "Summer Night" by the young Russian artist, Andrey Selenin. (1973-)

Selenin is a student of the Repin School in St. Petersburg, the Academy calling their particular style "Realism".

Certain paintings whether viewed as a print or in digital form on the net, reaches out and creates an effect for the observer.

"Summer Night" reached out from my computer screen and held me spellbound for only a matter of seconds, but the image in the minds eye contiues...

I remember having a discussion years ago with a friend concerning "hypereality", "representation" and the "original" of a particular work. The question was whether the artists true (creative) energy can impact on the viewer in a mere copy like a digital representation?

I concluded that if the painting is beautiful or outstanding in some way, a digital representation would be just as powerful as seeing the original.

Well, I've changed my mind since that discussion, and have to admit, original works has a "deeper" impact on the viewer than a copy. Why?

Art, for me, is mainly a visceral experience. To rationally explain why an original Picasso hung on a wall in a museum in Madrid named after the artist, for example, "The Guitarist" bowls me over yet a digital representation merely gets the heart pounding...there is a difference; maybe a matter of degrees of heart-felt response...who knows?

I believe "knowing" that you're seeing the "original", the brain sets the heart-up... 'this is the real thing' and the viewer responds appropriately.

The above piece by Selenin, no matter a digital representation, impacts aesthetically and viscerally, making the mind waunder to cool summer evening's... and a certain calmness as the crickets play their songs.

That center point of the lighted window amongst the natural light of dusk is absolutely wonderful.

Some of us must be content to see only copies of copies and digital representations of great art.

However, as my old friend argued years ago, the original does and has the greatest impact on the viewer.

I'd love to see "Summer Night" in the original...outstanding.

Rich and Beautiful

2008-03-12T01:27:00.000-07:00

This wonderful painting is entitled "Little Street" by the young Russian, Anna Vinogadova, (1975-) continuing to study at the Repin Institute in St. Petersburg.

After viewng this particular school's major artists', there is a style emerging that is quite fantastic.

Anna is only a student, but has captured that splash of colour and "aliveness" so similar to the "Repin" genre - not quite Impressionism, not quite anything, however the painting throws the viewer into the moment.

What astounds me about this painting is, again, that dream-like flow of pure energy, yet the Realism is evident because the painting evokes a visceral response...as if inviting you to enter its world.

This 'Little Street' could be anywhere around the Mediterranean: South Europe, North Africa or perhaps, Rome...

"Little Street" simply and with grace, politely asks:: "Walk with me...?"

One of my favourites from this Russian School.

Anna Vinogradova.

Extraordinary... with a Life of its Own...

2008-03-06T00:10:00.000-08:00

My last BLOG discussed the work of the Russian painter, Andrian Bersenev (1963- ) and how his certain "style" resembles the Impressionists', but has something more to offer, something "new" and exciting.

Last night I could not exactly put my finger on it, though came very close.

There is an "aliveness" in his work, a freshness of course, though as said before, the feeling one receives when gazing at his work, is as if you are in present time with the painter, seeing through his eyes at the model or Still Life in front of you.

Although "Impressionistic" in style, which I have always refered to as looking through an unfocused lens of a camera, in Bersenev's work, the "style" is similar, but the "spirit and energy" of his paintings are dramatic, whimsical...Real.

To quote a tired old cliche, "The painter's paintings take on a life of their own - the energy remains, and startles viewers' because it is a work of genius.

An artists' creation can indeed take on a life of it own.

Representation of the world is a curious enterprise, a scribes job is to record, a photographers job is to capture a scene in all its reality, and the painter, the true artist does the same, the difference from mediocre and pure genius, is the beauty and energy of the work itself.

As said before, Impressionism has always left me somewhat cold, however this Russian has ignited thoughts and feelings of what ART is really all about.

This painting is titled "Natasha": her expression is alluring.

Art can and does have a life of its own...I'm sure of it.

"Modern Impressionism?"

2008-03-04T21:29:00.000-08:00

This spectacular painting is by the Russian artist, Andrian Bersenev (1963 -) is simply entiled "Nu".

Bersenev completed his post graduate studies and currently is a teacher at the I.E. Repin's Institute in Russia.

What style does the painting represent? - Post Impressionism, Neo Impressionism, Modern Impressionism, Realism/Impressionism or is the painting in a catagory on its own?

Certainly the use of bright and rich colour and the effect of looking through an unfocused lens, lends itself to all these catagories. However, for me, there's something "new" in this work - something magical as if we truly are viewing this beautiful model through Bersenev's eyes - it pulsates realism though paradoxically, in a dream-like fashion.

There is a feeling of "freshness" in the work though the painting "appears" to be emulating Impressionism, but a soft voice in my mind whispers its not...

When coming across this painting I was, in no uncertain terms, startled! As the cliche goes, the painting felt to reach out and grab me by the neck and pull my body and spirit into its world.

If you have the time or opportunity, search for this Russian's work, and every painting, though very different in subject matter, has that same effect...

Never a great fan of "Impressionism", however this work is astounding.

Quotes from the Wise and the Cynical

2008-03-04T01:54:00.000-08:00

"Religion"

"Say nothing of my religion. It is known to God and myself alone. Its evidence before the world is to be sought in my life: if it has been honest and dutiful to society the religion which has regulated it cannot be a bad one."

Thomas Jefferson

"When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion."

Abraham Lincoln

"Whatever God's dream about man may be, it seems certain it cannot come true unless man cooperates."

Stella Terrill Mann

"Reality"

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one."

Albert Einstein

"I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it."

Mary Chase, Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey", 1950.

"Philosophy"

"Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.'

Ludwig Wittgenstein

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

William Shakespeare, "Hamlet", Act 1 scene 5

"You can know the name of a bird in all the languages of the world, but when you're finished, you'll know absolutely nothing whatever about the bird... So let's look at the bird and see what it's doing -- that's what counts. I learned very early the difference between knowing the name of something and knowing something."

Richard Feynman
US educator & physicist (1918 - 1988)

Romanticism

2008-02-28T22:33:00.000-08:00

Neo Classicism spawned in Europe and in the United States sometime during the late 18 and 19th centuries, and continues to be practiced in present time. During this period, the artist began to emulate those artists of 'Realism', harkening back to the Renaissance and the ancient Greeks.

While Expressionism and Impressionism began to predominate the art world at the end of the 18th century and well into the next, neo-classicism remains and, in most 'artistic circles' has been ridiculed for returning to an old form rather than moving forward.

Needless to say, however, the neo-classicist artist is well educated and quite familiar with the Canon; well versed... these artists have produced stunning work, and at the same time, can splash water colours across a white canvas and call it "art", i.e, Sidney Pollack, Andy Warhol's screens, etc. Original, perhaps, an advancement in Art?...but to my mind, haphazardly splashing paint on a canvas or screening photo's like Warhol's famous Marlyn Monroe with the swiftness of an assembly line, (Earning absurd amounts of money) makes me wonder if it really is 'Art'?

One of my favourite 'modern' artists is the Austrian, Gustave Klimt. Klimt began as a portrait painter, painting the rich, royalty, famous and infamous, to then branch off and start a new movement which eventually led to German Expressionism.

When one views his work, we can see he is informed of arts foundations, educated in Classicism. In fact he has created some of the most stunning paintings during and after the First World War.

The stunning painting above is the work of an American, Frederic Edwin Church (1826-1900) who was predominantly a Landscape artist. Church is regarded as a neo-classicist because of his aversion to all things 'modern'. But when viewing his many works can see that his innovation, during this time, was his use of colour, that seems and does draw you into the painting..bright, visceral, at times breath-taking.

Let's face it, I'm a 'tiny bit' biased, because I love most of the artist's of the Romantic period: Fredric Chopin, Beethoven, Wordsworth, Lord Byron. Keats, Blake, and The Pre - Raphaelite's.

In no uncertain terms, Church has joined the fray of my list of the GREAT Romantics...as is the foundational tenet of the Romantic View: the never-ending search for the Ideal in art.

If so inclined, google Fredric Edwin Church - and you'll be astonished...

Great Pop Songs for Our Time...PINK -a Beauty.

2008-02-27T04:48:00.000-08:00

This album was introduced to me by a student through a lesson on poetry and lyrics.

The young, shy girl, Year 9, handed me the CD and said, "You should listen to # 6:

"Im Not Dead".

An exceptionally produced Rock piece, the lyrics, strangly related to my life at the time. (Lines out of order.)

"Im not dead just floating."

"Im not scared just changing."

"You will crack at the sun light."

"Right under the ink of your tatto you'll find me."

"Even if this journey's over, I'd go back if you'd want me too.'

"In the middle of the belly of the beast we turned into."

"Right behind the cigarettes the devil found our smiles ... in the crack of sun light, I'll will find you."

"Even if this journey's over, I'd come back to you."

"And I'll know you'll come back again."

A beautiful song and overall a great Pop album.

Pink's songs are mostly about lost Love and wanting that Love to come back.

Great songs and CD.

Thanks young lady,

Mr. Middleton

Creativity & Those who Envy

2008-02-26T00:47:00.000-08:00

Humanity can be quite cold to those whose eyes see the world differently. Eric A. Burns, Gossamer Commons, 08-24-05

This entry is not intended to puff out my chest, brag or revel in conceit. It is to discuss a common attribute of the human being, that is to say, Envy.

What is envy?

Dictionary def: "feeling of discontent aroused by someone else's possessions, achievements, or qualities."

There is no doubt in my mind that most if not all humans have felt this emotion; wanting what someone else has ... For example, I've observed over many years the envy of women over the beauty of other women. One can be at a function, a black tie occassion, (the men have it easy, simply a tuxedo) and when a beautiful, well attired woman enters the room, one can almost "feel" the envy, at times an intense resentment. In Australia we call "it" the "Tall Poppy Syndrome": when a poppy rises higher than the rest, its time to cut it down to size.

Is it human nature to covet; to then feel resentment because someone else has what we so desire?

From my short time on the planet, the answer would have to be, yes.

I remember a few years ago self-publishing a collection of short stories to give to friends and family. Out of the fifty or so that were given away, only two people came back with a response: my old literature professor and, of course, my mother. The rest did not say a word . Let me just say that the stories were not badly written, a little macbre, but worth reading. Why no response?

Envy. Covet = Envy.

One of the Ten: "Do not covet thy neighbours wife." (Emphasis my own.)

We seem to always want what we do not have, to then see other's have it and feel envy, covet and flame with resentment. However dramatic, this does indeed occur everyday.

There is another saying in Australia that "seems" to concur with our values: "The Quiet Achiever."

The woman or man who moves along through life, calm, observant and creative, who creates, somehow avoiding covetness...rare but true. No bragards, no "Tall Poppies" but quietly moving onwards and upwards without anyone really noticing.

Let's face it, Mozart died a pauper, his body flung into a pit, the graves of the unknown...Potters Field? One of the greatest musical geniuses ever known...

Self inflicted? Maybe, but I do not believe so...it was envy that killed him, ultimately destroyed this young man of only 33.

My point is that Envy and all that goes with it is terribly destructive...and almost sent me around the bend. (On the recieving end.)

Again my point is to not look outward for needs and wants but look into your heart and work towards that goal. Because it is yours and no one elses. Creative and successful people will never escape envy because it appears to be human nature.

Ignore the backstabbing, the gossip, sabotage and simply get on with it...quietly.

Justice & Forgiveness

2008-02-24T23:50:00.000-08:00

The act of forgiving, in its true sense, is more that likely, one of our most difficult "tests" in life.

A family has lost their child to a rampaging psychopath, the man a raging lunatic, a serial killer and sadist, though over time is finally apprehended, moves through our Judicial system and is found guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. This man tortured and killed this families little girl in the worst way possible. The killers sentence: 25 years without parole.

As a parent, my first reaction is to commit murder, make him "pay" for what he did to my little girl.

Is twenty-five years in a prison with Foxtell television in his cell, off time with his "girlfriend", and good meals everyday, true justice for such a horrible crime?

Well, not in the slightest.

We can all assume to be liberal minded and "justify" this behaviour as "insane", "bad childhood" or simply the pathological condition of psychopathy - not really his fault, but a product of nature and nurture combined to create a monster. He has No resposibility because he is merely a "product" of his environment.

Rubbish.

Justice is Blind.

The Laws an Ass.

The balance of right and wrong too often sways towards the weak - the liberal-minded Fence Sitter; "It's not his fault but our socioty and his disfunctional family who is in fact created this monster are really to blame."

This may be absolutely true, but the Monster is still a sadistic child killer, and should be delt with appopriately.

What is appropriate?

Certainly not Foxtell cable, internet access, monthly conjugal visits from his girl friend and a nice structured life where he is NOT permitted to take responsibility because the system is not geared that way.

THE LAW IS AN ASS?

More to the point, however, if subjected to such an appalling situation, after the dust settles, would you have the capacity within your heart to Forgive this Monster?

A father who has lost his child to a Freak; for a Just man, a Good father, this would be the hardest "test" in his entire life.

Part of the Lord's prayer: ..."and forgive our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."

In this case, for the father of this poor little girl, this is a Big ask...but a necessary one.

Why?

Because without forgiveness, he will have no peace. It will haunt him to his last day.

Forgiving one's enemies has most often been seen as a sign of weakness.

True strength of character is the ability to forgive and not be a victim, at the same time.

I'll never forget this beautiful woman whose child had been murdered by this 'man'.

In court, rather than ranting and raving, she said that she forgave him and truly hoped, God would forgive him in the next life. This woman was sad yet spoke from her heart.

This reminds me of a quote from Jean-Paul Sartre:

"It is not what people do to you that matters but what you do to them that matters."

Our responses to life's hardships truly define our character.

Because Forgiveness is powerful and Right.

Technology of the Future (The Creation of the Computer Moron)

2008-02-19T02:31:00.000-08:00

(Above you see the old though famous poet, Lord Byron, a true Luddite, meaning one of the orignal protesters of technology in our so-called modern age.)

The futurists and journalist hacks, large companies, (corporations) are telling us that technology is developing at an alarming rate. This is an absolute truth. The lecture I reluctantly attended today was essentially: “How will teachers’ deal with this change and, more importantly keep up, in order to teach effectively?

The obvious responses were, training, alot of training, etc, etc.

Sorry, what a load of rubbish!

As a teacher only a few years ago, we did not have to deal with cell phones and i-pods as distractions to learning in the class room. Neverthless, it has become a major obstacle to teaching and learning. Text messaging, headphones while teaching; to be fair, a teenagers “life” revolves around friends and their “groups”, it has always been that way and, well, always will. They simply have better ways of communicating.

Developing technology is not the problem. As educated professionals, as teachers, it is an absurdity to believe that we will be left behind because of technology advancing at lightning speed.

Technology is a TOOL to learning. It enables students to find the information much faster and easier.

It is possible that books, hard covers and paper, will become something from the past. Libraries in certain countries no longer have books but only row after row of computers; students “googling” for the answer to their research questions.

Sad thought but a possible future reality for us all.

This subject is not about teachers falling behind with advancing technology, but our students missing out on the fundemental tools that take time to learn, but once learned, will carry them through for the rest of their lives.

Example: John is an absolute wizard on the computer, but cannot write a full sentence; his spelling is flawed (Year 11 but Year 5, spelling wise) and he becomes very impatient when asked to find an answer in an actual book...too hard.

“Just tell me the answer Mr. Middleton, this is way too hard.”

However with tools like spell checks and Google, he can skate through, APPEARING as if he has learned something, though has not learned anything.

Technology has its good points, but has created, in some cases, technology dependent morons.

Basics are so important: spelling, punctuation, the knowledge of verbs, nouns, pro nouns, and even, conjuctions.

I am fascinated with the advancement of technology in all areas, particularly, medicine.

Although wonderful, all things on this planet has its negatives, and focusing the teacher on “advancing technology” when she is working with a class of 25, teaching verbs and nouns, when most eight year olds prefer to “google it” has lost someting.

Because machines will never replace a true, dedicated, caring teacher...the connection of a thoughtful human being, real learning will never occur.

Troubled...but Never Give Up.

2008-02-17T22:38:00.000-08:00

Human emotion is a mystery.

Why?

Because our so-called scientific idicators and their "triggers", in human beings, continue to baffle the real scientists; those who have remained in a fixed idea, (a fashionable paradigm) like "brain synapsis" or biological determinism. Psychologists since William James and even Freud, have attempted to raise psychology from a speculative "science" to one of measurment, empirical data beginning with an hypothesis, testing, testing, testing, to then "prove" their particicular hypothesis."

This discussion is not about whether psychology is a true science, but to reveal that emotions and certain behaviours continue to be baffling, strange manifestations resulting in unusual and sometimes "evil" behaviour.

The great psychologists and psychatrists of the last century have studied certain behaviours, and have deemed certain behaviours as"anti-social" or "abnormal" with a variaty of names: psychopath, sociopath, Narcissistic personality disorder, Histrionic personality disorder. Antisocial personality disorder (APD), ADHD, and really, the list goes on and on.

In my work as a Secondary school teacher working in a middle to low class area, there was a time when more children were on psyche drugs that, at the time, was humanly impossible; (was there something in the water?) unless of course, suddenly we were faced with some unknown plague. (Some of the classroom horror stories from those children that "forgot to take their meds, to then raise pure havoc in the classroom would curl the hairs on your neck.)

But was or is the condition valid (ADHD etc.,) or a pharmacutical marketing plan to make serious money to keep naturally hyperactive children, well asleep?

I don't want to go all conspiratorial about the trillion dollar pharmacutical industry, pushing drugs like anyone's business, however, it could well be a research project to consider.

My point is human behaviour, despite truly intelligent men and women investigating the subject, in the end, continue to be baffled by certain responses by individuals in certain situations that simply do not make sense.

How do you make sense of insanity?

As a working teacher, there are two actions that work, for me, more often than not, despite a child's prescribed "condition", and that is treating children with respect like human beings and showing a genuine care for their welfare. I know, it sounds cliched, but it works with the hardest most cynical child.

I truly believe that some teenagers are beyond help: attempting to appeal to the better angels of their natures, never works.

But we never give up.

Beauty...

2008-02-11T03:17:00.000-08:00

A student asked or subtly hinted at the question:

What is real Beauty Mr. Middleton?

In a classroom filled with curious though seemingly uninterested children, the tone of her voice stopped everything and the mass of young adults, listened.

‘Beauty is Love. And this brings up another question, what is Love?’

All the boys winced and the young women blushed.

“When you see, hear, or feel Beauty there is no denying its reality because it has now become a part of you."

“Let me give you an example, as a child my mother would provide piano lessons for all her children, including the neighbourhood children. As a boy of nine it was pure torture. I hated it; too much like math, too mechanical, however, once picking up the guitar everything changed. I felt the notes, the vibrations, and tones, the Beauty of the music. Though to hear one of her students play Chopin or Bach sent my mind to other places, true places of Beauty, and it was then I truly knew Beauty.

The class appeared confused, their faces frowning and sad.

One very shy student, who had been shy all semester, raised his hand.

He stood up. “Mr. Middleton, is not Beauty in the heart rather than the head?”

“Yes, of course,...and your name?”

“Thomas, Sir.”

“My purpose here today in this short time is to show you the similarities and differences of Beauty and Love...and if there is a real difference.”

Then a little man in the corner shouted out:, ...one can only really love and know Beauty through suffering and pain.”

“Now I knew I was in big trouble.”

Teacher mode: “Example, please. Mr...?

He was a handsome boy, sure of himself, waiting for an opportunity.

“Pain and Pleasure, sir, are interlinked. You know it when you see it.”

‘Mr. (...) pain and pleasure in the physical sense has nothing to do with Beauty...it is not about pain or pleasure, it is simply Beauty as an Ideal...something we can see , hear, taste and know their is Beauty in our space of possibilities."

“So we can’t Feel Beauty but only through some abstract bullshit!”

It was close to the end of the session, the fu..ing bell was about to sound...

It was time, I had less than than sixty seconds to make my point.

“Let us go back to the image that I showed at the start...”

Love, adoration, awe and worship... these things are a part of love, but the Beautiful are the one’s who, and you are right, experience great pain and Love.. anyway...

This image my be a bad example of Beauty...or Love, though it strikes at the heart and will not let go. Your task is to find an object of Beauty and tell us why a person, object or ideal is beautiful to you.

Please give good reasons and your mark will be better.

Due at the end of term.

The bell rang and they sat there like deers looking into head lights...

The Lament for Icarus

2008-01-30T05:20:00.000-08:00

This painting hangs in my study as a constant reminder... One will fly too high, beyond their intelligence and ego, one's false sense of inflated self is bound to fall, as one’s nemesis follows one’s pride.

Beyond the legend and story, this is one of the most beautiful neo-classic paintings ever created.

Almost forgotten, Herbert Draper (1863-1920) is considered a Pre-Raphaeilte along with J.W. Waterhouse, as one of the most gifted artists of the period.

Draper, as most of the pre-Raphaelites’, focused their attention on mythology, legend and scenes from the bible.

An English painter, he was educated at the Royal Academy in London, and becoming a disciple of the so called “founders of the movement”, that is to say, Danta Gabriel Rosstti, surpassed their form and produced works’ of stunning magic and realism.

Although “Icarus” is a stunning work, if interested, research this artist and you will come upon a few dazzling scenes: “Sea Melodies” or the “Gates of Dawn”: alluring, sensuous and highly charged with history, myth and basic beauty...absolutely startling.

If not Beauty, at the very least, “The lament of Icarus” is striking.

The Invisible Appears

2008-01-29T23:06:00.000-08:00

In a former entry, I described a strange woman on my street, as if she wished to be invisible. I was worried because I hadn’t seen her walking past my window for at least a week.

All too often, the aged and lonely pass away or get very sick and are unable to call for help or are not discovered for weeks, months and in some cases, years.

Some of us would rather put these “types” in the Denial Department, thus their invisibility.

Well, lo and behold, on my way home from work today, their she was: green and plastic shopping bag in hands, that thick, ratty old blue coat and long woolen dress (it was very hot today!); her greasy hair wrapped around her face looking at the ground as she walked along the road.

I felt relief but saddend at the same time.

Why?

I was too concerned about getting home to check my mail and feed my cats rather than find out where she lives (if in fact she has a home) so as to ensure that in a time of crises, she will not be forgotten.

All too often, our own lives of day to day monotony or self created drama, fail to see what or who is directly in front of us.

I do believe the dictum that if you think your life is bad; check out your fellow human’s, and suddenly your own problems pail in comparison.

I am happy to know she is at least out and about, but it is taking that little step further that makes all the difference.

Modern Expressionism

2008-01-23T01:42:00.000-08:00

This haunting piece by Joseph Milton is entitled, “Inside”.

Although painted in 1998, the work does not have the attributes of typical “Modern Expressionism” inspired by the German Expressionists.

Why?

Although Milton’s use of extreme colour, merging images from other works, with an emphasis on obscure subject matter, depth and exaggerated distortion, feels to be too derivative of German Expressionism or expressionism in general.

The only difference with this “modern” work and the paintings of the 1920’s, is its content...there is no political agenda...but of course a statement is being made and that statement could well be anyone’s guess.

As is the 70’s post modern sensibility, Modern Expressionism relates itself to the notion of “collage”, a merging of many artforms in the attempt at the creation of a “free style work or movement,” that is to say, the notion of pastiche, ala The Simpson’s or the work of Brian De Palma in film. The artist has carte blanche to steal any work from anywhere, past or present, merge different media forms and present it as a piece of Art; however, God forbid, never call it “original.” As this goes against the post modern ethos, however, ironically, post modernism claims total freedom from artistic “dogma”, yet has one, and a strong ethos at that...(not time or space to elaborate.)

One would have to admit that Milton’s “Inside” is striking in its use of colour and the feelings of dread it emanates. Unfortunately, it is reminicent of another modern artist’s style that at the moment escapes me... damn.

Modern Expressionism spawned from Expressionism, German Expressionism and Abstract Expressionism of the Americans, the most famous artist from this movement being Sidney Pollack.

Then, of course, one cannot fail to mention one of the godfather’s of modern expressionism, of all the so-called post modern artists, Andy Warhol, who ‘painted’ the screens of Marilyn Monroe that continue to sell at outrageous prices.

Milton’s painting is certainly derivative from the German Expressionists in terms of their insanity, delusion and depictions of sufferring.

Something I would never buy or hang on my wall, but interesting just the same.

Visitors

2008-01-22T04:09:00.000-08:00

Sitting alone feeling the lonliness of one who lives alone.

The comforts of the television or the stereo have been absconded...

There’s nothing but the silence and the wind.

Only with the company of one’s thoughts, the candles begin to flicker in an unusual manner.

“This is not really happening.” I think.

The flames grow and dance as if alive with consciousness, drawing me in.

If they begin to talk to me, the dancing flames, I’m in terrible trouble, and I could lose my soul.

As I draw closer to the dancing flames, engulfed in their heat and dialouge, telling me of wealth and powers to come, through the window of the night come the lost spirits or the angels of light...but I do not know which...

These lights are tiny orbs of luminosity.

I count twelve of them in all, surrounding the flames of the candles, and slowly, the flames of each candle burns out, leaving only the tiny orbs of light.

The room fills with their light and all twelve attach themselves to my body.

I can feel their beingness, their love and all at once the room fills with a gentle light of ...so much LOVE.

This must be Heaven or God, I believe, when, one by one the tiny orbs of light dis-attach themselves from my body and fly at lightning speed through my kitchen window.

Their mission completed.

I feel a calmness, a peace never felt before, and stumble to my bed, falling instantly to sleep, dreaming of those special beings lost and loved...knowing we will meet again.

But truly it is the pure love emanating from the Light that comforts most of all...a complete forgiveness.

My soul falls into restfullness.

The Invisible

2008-01-18T23:52:00.000-08:00

There is a woman who lives on my street that walks by my window three to four times a week. She wears the same heavy old green coat no matter the temperture. Her hair is straight and noticably greesy covering her face, as her head is always pointed to the ground. She walks at an even pace and intuitively, I perceive she desires to be invisible...and to most, she is...

Was it the American Transcendetalist, Henry David Thoreau, who said that most people live lives of quiet desperation?

The woman appears to be around forty years of age, living alone, talking to no one; is it her choice to be alone?

Is she mentally ill? Would she run away if approached? No one seems to pay attention to her though she walks every day to the shops with her green bags, looking very sad.

The problem is that I have not seen her for a few days.

If we do not have loved one’s or family, to die alone, she would not be discovered for a long time.

My thought is to discover her abode and pay attention. Watch her to ensure this does not occur.

Because, all said and done, she is not invisible to me.

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."

2007-12-22T02:55:00.000-08:00

Now that the hustle and bustle of the Christmas season has slowly toned down, it gives one a little time to reflect on the year.

Sitting alone in my apartment with only the sound of my cat, Molly, snoring on the couch, and the pattering of the rain and wind outside; feeling content after a marvelous dinner made by my lovely friend; meaningful conversation and the occasional smooch, has made the day perfect: but one has to ask, why?

To be in love is a wondrous experience: full of pain, drama, joy and sometimes actual magic.

When in love, merely sitting next to that person is a major event.
As an artist and writer, as the cliché goes, I am in love with love.

But this time is wholly different because this love is true and not simply a passing illusion, though a true heartfelt movement, in awe of the fact that a man of my age can actually “deal” with it, really feel so awe-inspired, so in love. But I know with all my being, it is there just the same…

To be loved and love someone is a great responsibility. One’s only wish is that they are happy, thus you work at it to ensure that happiness continues.

Love is glorious but in the end tragic, because one or the other must depart leaving the other alone…and it hurts the pain indescribable.

One of my favorite “love” quotes from the poet and wit, Oscar Wilde:

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

This quote, to be sure, describes the “condition of love” in its purist visceral terms.

To be in-love is a gift.

The Singing Thanks of a Bird.

2007-12-15T03:29:00.000-08:00

It was a day one would like to forget. Sick with a temperature, my sinuses infected, in pain and feeling guilty because I needed to be at work, end of year school reports, last minute grading, the troubles of individuals – but I could not get out of bed. I took a pill and went back to bed. Then my mobile phone rang, disturbing a crazy dream.

“Sorry Craig, I hate doing this but it’s important.”

My boss, one of the Assistant Principals, a good person and a very hard and loyal person, someone who has never phoned me, no matter what the crisis, was on the end of the line.

Through my nasal infected head, my voice sounding like a hay fever advertisement,

“It’s ok Jude, what’s up?”

“There is a problem with your Year 10 reports…”

At that precise second a bird flew into my bedroom, frantically circulating the ceiling above my bed.

“You’re not going to believe this Judy, but there’s bird flying around my bedroom!”

“I know…I can hear it!”

“Listen, I’ll call you back.”

The little bird had been taken into the house by Molly my little cat, because I had forgotten to feed them, dazed in my sick physical state.

After hanging up, the little Black bird with huge yellow eyes landed on the top of my bookcase next to my medieval helmet.

The little bird sat there, motionless, except for a turn of his head, looking at me.

Molly had disappeared thus the little flying creature seemed to have calmed down, moving into shock mode.

Grabbing a towel, I approached the little one with silent caution.

Whispering, I said, “Let me see…well your feet look in good shape. There doesn’t seem to be any major wounds and your wings are in good shape as well, which is the most important thing.”

The little bird cocked his head to one side, relaxing and curiously settled.

“This is what I’m going to do. I’ll wrap you in this towel and set you free.”

The bird’s head tilted the other way, looked at me with his other eye, not really understanding what I was communicating, though my tone, to him, seemed reasonable under the circumstances.

“Ok, here we go…”

He let me wrap his body in the towel, only squirming a little. Walking to my front door, opening the screen with my foot, opening the towel, the bird shot straight and fast like a rocket – the fastest flying maneuver I had ever seen in my life!

Needless to say, I went back to bed and called my boss, hoping we could solve the problem over the phone.

Then only a few days later the miraculous happened.

After dinner, writing emails, at dusk, the most beautiful singing from a bird could be heard outside my front door.

Walking outside, there he was, the same bird, perched on the chimney next door, singing a beautiful song.

His singing was pleasant to the ear, an intention behind the song, something truly beautiful.

Thinking I was most likely being crazy, at the exact time the next evening, there he was again, singing the same mesmerizing song. I sat down on the porch with my wine and listened until he finished and flew away…like a rocket.

The little bird has not returned because I’ve been watching out for him.

I told this story to my special students at school and they now call me the “Bird Whisperer.”

The little guy thanked me for saving his life, and I believe this because it is true.

Believe it or not, it happend.

Another Love Letter...from Far Away.

2007-12-13T01:17:00.000-08:00

My lovely May,

I felt compelled to write to you to express my pure happiness that we have a chance to be together, (if only in spirit) loving each other’s company.

Although I’ve died a mere three years ago, I realise it has been a long time for you; for me, though, it has been only seconds.

To hold you in my arms today, ( A present from...and an illusion) and kiss those soft, beautiful lips felt like finally coming home again.

I do Love you so.

It’s funny or a bit strange but I was reminded today how beautiful you are!

That joyful smile, the elegant way you sit in a chair and that refined sway in your walk. Even those small and beautiful feet peering through your slippers made me want to touch and kiss them. The graceful way you carry yourself reveals a woman of tasteful sensibilities. There is an air of chic in your overall demeanour - certain panache, something I’ve missed so much.

But probably the most heart-felt reminder right now (sitting now across from you, though you cannot see me) is to hear that exquisite and sincere soft tone in your voice recalling a time when you told me that you loved me – what a breathtaking moment.

I see you walking with a cane and in so much pain, now an old woman; how you've been strong!Continue to be strong as you can because I will be waiting for you. I will be waiting with your other loved one's on the shore when the boat arrives. (Strange, you appear more beautiful in that old, tired body than you did so many years ago.)

I hope you don’t find my words too sentimental, mawkish or overly amorous, however this is the way I feel – and as you well know – this is who I am.

Only thinking of our next meeting…when I can hold you in my arms, feel your heart soul against mine, kissing you with passion and tenderness.

Until we meet again…

Adoringly Yours,

Jack

The Beautiful Beggar in the Parking Lot.

2007-12-11T04:23:00.000-08:00

Christmas is upon us once again, the decorations are unpacked and a few thrown away, as they have become too moldy living a whole year under the house. Then the flood might have had something to do with it, but Simone sorts them out, washing some, throwing away others, to then hang those decorations that survived on the clothes line…to dry.

What I love about Simone is her abounding energy at Christmas – for she is, as a human being, a naturally giving soul – this time of year is her opportunity to Give in abundance and she takes this time of year far too seriously.

“Will I forget someone, will someone get disappointed?”

My friend’s intentions are pure, but it is her day to day love and giving that ‘counts’, not a day chosen by the Roman Emperor, Constantine, to make the pagans and the Christians settle down in an effort at a compromise to avoid more blood shed between them, more than 1500 years ago.

Leaving Simone to her Christmas decorations and cooking, I decided to grab a few beers at the local grocery store.

Not just one but four musicians held a spot in front of the entrance of the store… all playing with all their might, four different Christmas songs at once, their music sounding like a cacophony of indiscernible…noise.

Checking my pockets, to make a donation, they were empty: ‘I’ll catch them on the way out’, I thought.

It was then that a woman of about thirty years of age, not bad looking, though one could see her appearance was not her top priority: when she began spinning a yarn at me at break neck speed, about not having enough money to buy Christmas presents. In the end she said,

“All I need is sticky tape to wrap my children’s Christmas presents.”

Her expression appeared pure and her story true.

I told her this would not be a problem and entered the store to make my purchases as she sat herself down on the bench just outside, waiting.

As life goes, I searched and searched for sticky tape but none was to be found. It was then I decided to give her the change necessary to buy her sticky tape to wrap her children’s gifts.

This woman was an unusual ‘street’ person because she did not ask for money but something very specific.

I decided to give her all my change which amounted to about 5 dollars.

Walking up to her, she gave me such a kind smile, as I gave her the 5 dollar’s in change.

“Sorry, couldn’t find the tape but this should cover it.”

She thanked me and as I walked away she said:

“You’re Craig, right?”

To be absolutely honest, I had never seen or met this young woman before. There was not a note of familiarity about her in the least. But she gazed at me as if we had been friends for many years.

I found this to be disconcerting and strange.

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

She turned and walked away from the store never looking back once.

Driving back home with my six pack of beer, the image of her face and the circumstances, sticky tape and beauty whirled throughout my head. Then I thought:

‘Happy Christmas to you, beautiful stranger and your children and I hope the five dollars can help in this difficult time of your life.

And you will always be a Christmas mystery to me.'

Gustave Klimt & 'fin de siecle' Vienna.

2007-12-10T00:02:00.000-08:00

The two paintings above, one a portrait of the famous philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein’s sister, Margarete Stonborough-Wittgenstein and a devilish and quite alluring painting of Salome, the young woman who danced the dance of the seven veils for King Herod in exchange for the head of John the Baptist, are two of my favorite paintings by the Austrian, Gustave Klimt, (1862-1918) then founder and president of the Wiener Sezession (Vienna Secession) in 1897.

The Vienna Secession is considered by most art historians as the first “Art Noveau” movement at the turn of the century. (Some would argue this point)

Klimt was academically trained in the “realist” or “neo-classical” style thus his later work in experimentation as part of the “Vienna Secession” revealed a sophisticated technique. (The traditionalists’ of the time labeled his work “pornographic”)

The so-called mandate of the Vienna Secession, (although they claimed to have no mandate) was to provide the opportunity for new artists with varying styles to get their work shown. Preceding German Expressionism, the artist moved from “artisan” to “artist”, no more dependent on rich patronage to merely paint “portraits” of the wealthy, but brings art forward away from neo-classicism, so prevalent in pre WW 1 Austria at the time.

Pre WW1 Vienna has had a revival of fascination for academics and historians over the last twenty years. It was a the centre of “culture” in Europe, or as the journalist and radical, Karl Kraus wrote during this period, fin de siecle Vienna was the “research laboratory for world destruction”. Vienna was a hot bed of innovation: the birth place of Zionism and Nazism; Sigmund Freud developed Psychoanalysis, (Margarete shown above was one of Freud’s patients) and architecture, planted so firmly in neo-classicism or the neo-gothic style brought the art form into what is now called modernism, led by a friend of Ludwig Wittgenstein, Adolf Loos.

The reason these particular paintings have a strange attraction for me is that they reveal, although subtly, Art’s radical change just prior and after WW1. The world changed drastically after WW1, and fin de siecle Vienna was at the centre of this change in artistic sensibilities and overall “culture” across the board.

Karl Kraus’ words, that Vienna was a “research laboratory for world destruction” in retrospect were certainly prophetic.

Artists, writers, philosophers, architects, poets and scientists moved forward during a time Europe experienced two world wars which could have led to the destruction of the entire planet with the introduction of the Atomic bomb.

For me, history irrevocably shifted in fin de siecle Vienna – and the artist, Gustave Klimt was a major contributor to this radical change.

Bullying, Intimidation & Power.

2007-12-04T04:03:00.000-08:00

The title of this BLOG starts early in life...for many of us.

My first recall was of a teacher, in first grade, having me stand in front of the classroom and ridiculing me because of my accent, that I talked too much. In fact, at the age of five, I hardly talked at all. She was one of the reasons I became a teacher, to seek out these anti-social pathological individuals, and reveal them to the world…stop them.

My second remembrance is walking home from school in Surry Hills and suddenly attacked by several boys, beating and kicking me for being a “Mick”, a Catholic and luckily, the big “Micks” were around and saved my life.

Once moving to the U.S., again, on my way to school, punched in the stomach for having a weird accent – at the time, my short life had become something between a rock and a hard place.

In our little suburb of Northglenn, Colorado, power over territory and who was the best fighter was the central focus. Bravado, machismo, muscles and fast cars placed you in the social hierarchy – the bigger, fastest, loudest and meanest ruled the streets of this little suburb. One always had to be on one’s guard, vigilant and ready for anything.

Now in adulthood, nothing has changed.

Although seemingly more sophisticated the intimidation and will to power is the same: bigger, faster, smarter and mean without appearing so is the office politics of today.

We call it “politics” but just the same, it is no different than the fat loud mouthed bully down the street – the goal is similar: power over others.

We’ve come to recognize a percentage of these self-seeking individuals as psychopathic or sociopath.

In my own experience with these people, there are blatant similarities: no conscience, narcissistic, covert, hostile with always a supercilious smile on their face and relentless towards their goal… until found out.

Once discovered, more often they will run, resign and do it with as much destruction as possible, leaving broken businesses; broken relationships, broken people in general, because the bully is not interested in the welfare of all but only themselves.

Evil is one of the hardest things to confront because we want to believe that humankind is basically good.

Confront those head on letting them know that you know who and what they are: and nine times out of ten, they will run for the hills.

Be strong.

"MONSTER"

2007-12-01T18:46:00.000-08:00

It was the 17th century poet, author of “Paradise Lost” and “Paradise Regained”, John Milton, who wrote,

“Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep”.

Is it possible that beings walk the earth that are never seen except for the select few of the chosen?

Do mythical creatures walk the earth without us noticing…until they want to be noticed or have a specific agenda with you?

It is an old American Indian proverb that the natural creature’s of this planet can only be “seen” by us if they choose to be seen.

Quantum theory proposes that we merely exist in one universe while billions of other universes exist in our very own space, (multi-universe theory) thus collisions or lapses, causing strange phenomenon to manifest. Worm-holes appear, strange entrances can exist merging two diverse universes which some have reported to have experienced the extraordinary: other civilizations, more advanced than our own…even “monsters”

Have you ever walked out into the dead of night, doing a mundane task like taking out the garbage, the wind rustling the trees, a full moon casting its light, and you absolutely feel that something or someone is watching you?

The fright or terror is real as you run back to the door and close it and lock it just in case. You did not see anything, but your intuition tells you that there was something or someone watching, waiting, and biding its time for the right moment. You want to believe it is simply your imagination, but know deep in your psyche, that someone or something was there…

A past colleague of mine related an experience to me that was astonishing, that later was corroborated by her brother, whom I met at an Orange County restaurant, a reputable lawyer and rational man; upon questioning him about this specific incident, he became suddenly reticent over a glass of expensive scotch but re-told the story in the exact way, word for word, as his sister. He waved down the waiter and ordered a double and once the drink arrived, began his story.

“Patricia and I were living in Hawaii, our parents off somewhere in Europe (as usual) on vacation. I was attending Law School and my sister was taking care of the family home and our two cats. She was home alone most of the time but this didn’t worry me because criminal activity (minor or major) never happened on the island at the time…we were too far away from the nearest town. It was the late sixties, we thought we were safe.

My last class was cancelled, jumping in my Jeep, decided to check up on my little sister.

Pulling up the driveway, I heard my sister screaming as she ran out of the jungle that essentially surrounds our entire house. She was headed towards the front door when she tripped and fell on her knees. Patricia’s expression was nothing less than pure horror. As she tried to lift herself up, out from the bush appeared this creature. Looking back at the incident, even now, throws me into a slight confused state because beings like the one that had been chasing my sister through the forest, just do not exist”.

What did it look like? I asked.

“Let me tell the story!”

John was now agitated, obviously re-living the moment, going to a place he’d rather not go. He took a huge swig of his expensive scotch and continued.

“To say the least I was petrified and so much so, couldn’t bring myself to jump out of my Jeep to help – not even my only sister.

Patricia managed to get back on her feet and run to the front door, slamming the screen door shut. This “thing” crashed through the screen door and was now inside the house.

From inside our house, Patricia’s almost deafening scream sounded now like a desperate, final call for help.

Of course my natural instincts rose above my petty fear and I ran into the house to see this creature on top of my sister digging its claws into her forehead.

I’ll never forget the look on Patricia’s face. It wasn’t the expression of pain but kind of an hypnotic empty gaze of pleasure.

Grabbing one of the dining room chairs, I slammed it hard against the creatures back and it winced from the pain, removing its claws from my sister head.

But now it turned its gaze on me.

How do you describe something that has no comparison to anything you’ve seen before? The only “human” quality about this being was its eyes: red, pulsating with intent: I could not look at those eyes, (a voice in my head resounded) thus turning away from its gaze, and I picked up another chair and started swinging. One of the chair’s legs slammed into its left eye. It let out a tone of voice that I, to this day, cannot really accurately describe…a whelp?

But this is the strange part of the experience. I could hear its voice inside my head!

“Tell your sibling not to cross over again, because there will be consequences.”

The “thing” bounced through the broken screen door like a mutant grasshopper and disappeared into the jungle.

Turning to my sister, she continued to have that gaze of blankness and pleasure like the insane.

After a week Patricia seemed to have recovered from the incident, but we never really talked about it until many years later”.

The table had that uncomfortable silence as it seemed all of us were reflecting on what had just been said. Then John asked:

“You appear to be an open minded individual, what do you think of the “story”?”

In my own mind and experience, I tried to come up with some totally rational explanation: a crazy ape, perhaps a homeless person with red eyes from too much cheap wine, however, sometimes “explanations” for the irrational are more far fetched than the unexplainable.

Interestingly, those vague dots on Patty’s forehead that most of the time she tried to cover with make-up, now were blatantly obvious.

So I ordered another scotch and said it was a peculiar experience, and thanked him for telling me.

Our conversations throughout the rest of the evening touched only the commonplace and superficial – politics, sports and the L.A. Freeway system.

Pulling up in my driveway to my little Hollywood bungalow, getting out of the car, the Santa Ana winds had begun, heralding the summer months. There was a full moon, but I distinctly felt someone’s eyes upon me. Turning quickly to my right as I slotted my key into the lock, two, bright red eyes glared through the bushes next door.

A foreign voice resounded in my head as I closed the front door and threw my keys on the table:

“Stop now or there will be consequences.”

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep that night.

“The Old Guitarist”

2007-11-23T18:10:00.000-08:00

This has to be one of my favourite paintings by the world renowned modernist artist, Pablo Picasso. (1881-1973)

What are we actually viewing here? An old man seemingly enraptured in his music, while playing his instrument, the classical guitar.

What draws me to this painting is Picasso’s use of colour, different shades of blue, monochromatic in tone (Known as Picasso’s Blue Period, 1900-1904) and the content, the subject matter – an old man playing music appearing lost in the notes he plays.

The old man’s fingers are almost too thin and long yet perfect for playing this particular instrument.

One could perhaps interpret the content depicting a dieing man playing his last note of music before passing on. He is either in rapture or on the verge of death.

This is typical of Picasso’s overall distorted style as the oldman’s torso is too elongated and reclining, and as mentioned above, the fingers are abnormally long and slender.

What is most curious about this painting is the mysterious presence of a woman’s portrait underneath as we can almost see her face and legs. Some art critics have proposed that it was an unfinished portrait, abandoned by Picasso and “The Old Guitarist” painted over it to save money as he was quite poor during his Blue Period, and not selling many paintings.

This painting is more than likely the most well-known of the artist’s Blue period.

“THE Old Guitarist” is an engaging and inspirational work as it has inspired poets like Wallace Stevens to write a poem about the painting and composers to write their music.

One of my all time favourites of Picasso’s entire body of work.

GERMAN EXPRESSIONISM – Self Portrait: Lovis Corinth

2007-11-21T00:38:00.000-08:00

Gustave Klimt is more famous for leading the ‘Secession’ movement of art during the end of the fin-de-siecle, corrupt Austro- Hungarian Empire, prior to WW1. Less known in popular culture is the ‘father’ of German Expressionism, Lovis Cornith.

When one has the chance and time to see his paintings, Cornith’s talent is assured but as this particular art movement is known for, his work has a disturbing quality – a style of rebellion, politically motivated and seemingly decadent.

Taken from a terrific web site, a good definition for the ‘Secession’ originating in Vienna:

“The 'Secession' marks the first appearance of a free art market ever in art history; the artist’s no longer work based on the instructions of their commissioners, but rather unleash their imagination.”

A rebellion against “Monarchy”, against convention, no longer concerned with economics, these German artists painted what their imaginations conjured.

And really, at times fascinating & daunting, German Expressionism creates feelings of danger, ugliness and torment, preceding (some say foretelling) the horrendous acts of WW1 & WW2: mass slaughter and genocide.

What is admirable about Cornith was his willingness to experiment with a variety of forms: religious and mythology, landscapes, interiors, still lives, portraits, (many self portraits) as above; experimenting with classical and impressionistic light and arrangement.

Cornith’s ‘nudes’ are extraordinary revealing the beauty and decadence of the artist’s view of the female body.

Intense, outstanding, attitude, and a personality, Cornith lead the movement against convention…and the world changed forever.

Source:

http://www.kettererkunst.com/bio/LovisCorinth-1858-1925.shtml

Marc Chagall & Plato’s The Symposium

2007-11-20T03:35:00.000-08:00

It can be observed that most of Marc Chagall's work is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events."(Wilson, 2007)

It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, coloured in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking colour and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it, because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.

My favourite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me captures love in their most revealing forms, as the author, Jonathan Wilson, writer of the latest biography of the artist states:

"Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (ibid)

This notion is apparent in the painting depicted above; the merging of “two into one”.

Chagall's life, Wilson suggests, was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort at universalizing or merging opposites, he writes,

"In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (ibid)

Chagall was a man with an extraordinary imagination, an astonishing amount of energy and ambition, and considered by art historians as one of the true icons of Modernism along with Picasso and Matisse.

Source: Wilson, J.
Marc Chagall
Random House 2007
United States

Caravaggio’s Saint Jerome

2007-11-17T22:10:00.000-08:00

This painting by Caravaggio (1571 – 1610) of Saint Jerome deep in study surely is one the painter’s best examples of his use of deep, rich colours and his attention to detail.

Why most renditions of Saint Jerome by painters and illustrators find him in his study is that he was commissioned by Pope Damasus the 1st to revise the Latin text of the Bible, known as the ‘Vulgate’ that is still in use today.

Saint Jerome was born to a pagan family circa 365 C.E., to later study the law and become a lawyer. He soon later changed his subject of study to theology where his true conversion to Christianity occurred. He was also baptised around this time.

Saint Jerome is not so much remembered for his scholarly works but for the incident where he came upon a lion with a thorn in its paw. He removed the thorn without any protest from the king of beasts…and as legend has it, the lion remained at Saint Jerome’s side for many years.

He lived the last thirty years of his life in the Holy Land more or less a recluse, continuing to translate texts, write prayers, biographies and collected a vast library of scrolls.

Because he was a scholar of the Church, his patronage include: archaeologists, archivists, Bible scholars, librarians, translators and school children.

Saint Augustine said about Saint Jerome:

What Jerome is ignorant of, no man has ever known.

Caravaggio’s life was short though full. To my way of thinking he was a true genius with a hot temper, a love affair with alcohol, and was often described as “extremely crazy”.

This painting is not one of his best however reveals his genius for colour and “realism”; now considered the founder of the Baroque period where his emphasis on deep shadow contrasting blinding light is the art movement’s definitive trademark, so to speak, and made him famous at the time.

Some art scholars have written that it was only in the early twentieth century that Caravaggio’s work had come back into vogue. I find this astonishing considering the man’s genius.

This painting of Saint Jerome has to be one of my favourites of the artist’s entire body of work.

Brothers & Sisters

2007-11-16T21:35:00.000-08:00

This painting is entitled “Orphans” (Thomas Benjamin
Kennington, 1856 – 1916) but expresses something much more than what is depicted on the surface, the children’s current circumstances.

The older sister holds her little brother, his lovely face on her lap with an expression of confusion or perhaps he is deep in thought about what to do next…

The pretty sister, her eyes closed, is resting but feels comfort with her younger brother lying on her lap: she appears content, because at least, her brother is with her, her only friend.

At least they’re together despite being alone without care.

This painting has always brought forth strong emotion for me.

There is a friend of mine who has been bitterly disappointed with his parents and their actions and responsibilities. It is not appropriate to go into detail but, however unfortunately, he is estranged from them.

In spite of this, the man has maintained a meaningful relationship with is older sisters. He can call either of them anytime, yet they like each other and have wonderful conversations – they are very close.

Although not estranged from my mother, to have a close relationship with one’s sibling is something very special. My sister and I talk about everything and have been known to over indulge on the phone sometimes, talking for hours.

To have a close relationship with one’s sibling makes one stronger, that you are not alone, can talk openly and, in the end, merely be yourself without judgements, criticisms or the fear that doing something wrong will estrange them, because when you are close they will always forgive you.

The two children depicted in the painting will have that kind of relationship because they know, after years of hardship, that they can always, in good times or bad, count on each other.

This is a sad painting but also reveals the power of love.

Musings on Sleeplessness, Climate & Evolution.

2007-11-16T19:19:00.000-08:00

It is late and sleep is impossible as the heat and humidity hangs and permeates everything…there seems to be no escape, so I sit in front of the computer and write.

Weather affects one’s mood and our general view of the world.

When civilization began, depending on one’s certain geographical location, does indeed truly determine a particular cultures development, because heat and cold play a big part on how we deal with and view the world.

The Aboriginal of Australia, for example, lived in dry desert conditions. To merely survive was at the top of the priority list, thus their knowledge of the terrain, how to attain food and their views of existence. All their time was taken up with the search for food and shade from the heat. Because of the heat and barrenness of the landscape, there was no need to change…just survival, and the “Dream Time”.

Civilization truly reached its peak in the ancient world around the fertile land surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, and along the Nile River. However it can get very hot during the summer months around Cairo. In the spring and autumn, the Nile flows over ensuring crops survive and thrive.

I guess what I’m getting at is that I miss the four distinctive seasons living in Melbourne Australia. Please don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved Melbourne’s erratic weather – four seasons in one day is not just the words to a popular song but actually true.

It was the Explorer and adventurer Sir Francis Richard Burton who, in an article he had written, attempted to persuade his reader’s that climate determines a particular races development. At the time of the writing, Darwin had crept into “scientific” circles, thus the hierarchy of man – White Anglo-Saxon at the top, (women because of their smaller brains) somewhere around third and down it goes from there, depicting other cultures as “savages”, “Non-Human”, (see Darwin’s book, The Descent of Man) thus justifying the genocide of the Australian Aboriginals, the American Indian and other inferior races like Jews, using Darwin’s theory as fact and justification for mass murder.

Appalling.

Sir Richard was truly onto something but did not have the opportunity to delve deeper into his hypothesis, flesh out his ideas. (Too busy translating (The Perfumed Garden).

In the Northern Hemisphere there is a plethora of natural resources thus the particular “races” development, adapting to the climate, (four seasons) and therefore having the time to pursue better technology, better infrastructure, etc.

When the human has no worry of where their next meal is coming from, there is time for innovation, art and the development of civilization.

I am extremely surprised that so many “educated” people consider Darwin’s entire theory scientific fact. In a word it is not, and remains a theory because he and other scientists have yet to discover the so-called “missing link”: that is to say, the link between, Neanderthal man (Ape) and Cro-Magnon.

Personally, hot, humid weather does nothing for my creative sensibilities because it’s too damn uncomfortable.

As far as other cultures and races are concerned, the “survival of the fittest” theory does not add up because the human is a highly adaptable being and will use resources that are available in their specific geographical area for survival, (the climate of the area is a significant factor).

Darwin was an intellectual but a 19th century misogynist, which, by the way was, is and has been a common view of men for thousands of years.

On that note, I’ll return to bed contemplating where my next meal is coming from….

Journal Entry – July 1, 1996 (Love is no Stranger)

2007-11-14T07:29:00.000-08:00

Context: My father had just died in April of 1996 under unusual circumstances. The man’s car was left parked on a suburban street in Las Vegas; he died alone in a hotel room in Lake Tao. My sister and I attempted to make the connection once reaching the U.S. However, even his “closest” friend was tight lipped, vague and suspicious. This diary entry was made after we attempted to drive his car back to New York…we never got there, but that is another story…

July 1, 1996.

The rocky edged skyline of the Utah desert hung ominous like ancient gods as we drove eighty miles an hour on the winding highway. My father’s car ran fine on flat surfaces but on ascents and long descents the Oldsmobile’s engine would die, and it was up to my driving sister to manoeuvre the beast to the side of the road to safety. Passing cars whooshed by a little too close for comfort. The car was stalled and would not start. After about an hour, no food, no water and the precariousness of the situation caused my nerves to fray and it was then that I began to panic.

Finally my sister, always good in disasters, waved a car down and I ran down the hill to meet them.

“My car is stalled. And I need a tow to the nearest city.”

“The nearest town is Green River, and that’s over fifty miles from here.”

He was a young man of about twenty: dark, long hair and a little beard. His girlfriend was dark too and pretty, her eyes showing glimpses of fear. Just then a policeman pulled up behind the Oldsmobile and I could see my sister up the hill talking to him, her arms waving, her blond hair blowing in the hot wind.

“He’ll take care of you, man” the young guy and his pretty girlfriend sped off and disappeared down the mountain.

As luck would have it, the cop was sympathetic and called a tow truck. He drove away too, and we remained in the canyon alone again. Intuitively, I knew the car would start. I asked my sister to try and start her again, and she kicked on first time. She put the sick beast into drive and we were mobile.

Big Mistake.

The tow truck would be looking for us and we would not be where we were supposed to be. If the car stalled again farther down the line it could mean trouble. Only ten miles later my father’s Oldsmobile died again and now in a much worse situation. If the Highway Patrol (We were in Mormon country) found us again it would mean at least a big fine, and depending on the people, jail.

The desert wind hummed at a low key through the cliffs as I sat contemplating dying of thirst and possibly spending the night in a Utah, predominately Mormon prison.

My sister got out of the car and looked around wide-eyed at our surroundings.

The red and white hills and craggy rock conveyed ancientness beyond our scope of comprehension. It was now understood, without any hint of doubt, that we were merely specks of insignificant energy within a vast universe: Alone.

Head in my hands without a clue, a single thought rang loudly like the church bells of the Vatican – that we were not wanted in this desert place. The Spirits of the land were telling us to get out and in the mean time, making us suffer for trespassing in the first place. I raised my head from my hands and looked in the rear view mirror to see a huge, blue semi-truck jam to a squeaky stop directly behind the Oldsmobile.

“Have’n car trouble you kids?”

The semi-truck had taken a big chance in stopping his monstrous vehicle on the steep decline we were currently located. The truck was still running, and as I stood on the side board holding onto the handle of the open door, the air conditioner blasted on my face.

‘I can take you two into town to call a tow truck. We’re about twenty-five miles outside of Green River.”

My sister was already gathering our baggage and dragging it to the side of the road next to the truck.

“If it’s not too much trouble. I would much appreciate it.”

Before long we were roaring along down the desert mountain in a brand new 96’ Ford semi truck: the largest transport vehicle of its kind in America.

“My names Floyd. What’s your names?”

After the necessary introductions and explaining the purpose of our trip to the U.S., our truck-driven-angel-of mercy began expounding on the important highlights of his life over the last 54 years. Floyd was born in Louisiana – pronounced, “Lozeyana”. He had been married twice, no kids, and worked for the most part on the shipping docks of New Jersey. Finally disabused from the ways of the infamous Teamsters Union, purchased his semi-truck with his life savings and chose a life on the road, transporting fresh fruit from California to New York. Like some Americans I’ve met over the years, Floyd admitted to having Indian blood running through his veins. He claimed his father was an Irish immigrant and his mother a pure Algonquin native. The Algonquin tribe hunted and fished long ago on Manhattan Island and parts of New York State before the infectious influence of white civilization. He had, though, the Irish- whiskey nose and the dark eyes of a Red man…I believed him.

My sister sat in the back of the cab on Floyd’s comfortable looking bunk sipping his Mountain Dew. The roar of the trucks engine was almost too loud to make conversation, but old Floyd persisted and continued telling us his life story in spite of the roar.

The sun was beginning to shed its last light as we thundered into Green River’s only truck stop. Floyd circled the parking lot and docked the monster in the only space left amongst a long line of similar machines. The truck stop was swarming with over weight transporters’ wearing dirty baseball caps, sipping their coffee and looking at home.

Floyd turned the engine off and slowly turned around at my sister.

“How bout you stay here with me. Your brother can go inside and see about getten a tow for that car of yours…”

For an instant, my sister turned pale, squirmed slightly and said, ‘You’ve given us no real reason to trust you, but I want to trust you – so I will.”

Floyd smiled and turned to me, “We can sit in the coffee shop and wait for you to get back with the car. I’m way ahead of schedule, so I’ve got a little time to kill.”

“Okay, Floyd. Sounds like a plan. I’ll be back as soon as I can to fix things up.”

I gave a reassuring glance to my sister as I jumped out of the truck. My mind raced through a thousand negative possibilities: kidnapping, rape, theft, and so on. We were in a bad way that left few alternatives. Before walking through the doors of the shop, I turned around and made eye contact with my sister, and nodded my head to communicate that all, in the end, would be well.

Luck, situation, time, place or the grace of God, a tow truck was available to drag the old Oldsmobile into town.

After a few too many hours, the sun had all but disappeared. I walked into the coffee shop to find Floyd and my sister and a few other truckers’ sitting around a table laughing, and joking – a jovial scene that to me, considering our circumstances, felt out of place.

Floyd stood up and put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly fashion.

“Everything okay, son?”

“I think so. The car is parked down the road at the garage, Green River’s only Mechanic. The dude says it’s the fuel pump., this little “excursion” has made a dent in our little budget. There’s a hotel up the road for $30 a night. I guess we’re stuck in this town for at least tonight or until they can fix the piece of ….”

“Could be worse, son.”

“Yea, could be worse.” in the hot desert night, I detected a tone of sadness in Floyd’s eyes.

Floyd helped us unload our luggage from his rig. I observed a feeling of sadness in his eyes.

“Well good friend, I want to say thank you for all your help. You are a true Samaritan and a gentle man. To be sure , I don’t know where we would be right now…”

“That’s ok; just remember not to take it all too seriously, too hard. Once you’re in a fix like this, you got no other choice but to move through it. Might as well do it with a grin on your face, Right?!

My sister gave Floyd a kiss on the cheek and a little hug. I shook his hand in the traditional, manly fashion and we bade our farewells.

He started his engine and pulled his magnificent machine out of the parking lot. And we watched our angel of mercy throttle down the highway until his brake lights appeared to be tiny dots, red stars in the dark of night.

Needless to say, because our car trouble was slightly worse than we thought and my poor sister got sick, because, I suspected, of the stress of our unusual plight, we remained in Green River, Utah for another two days.

It was the morning of the third day that we loaded the Oldsmobile with our bags and drove out of Green River. Over the two days of our stay, I managed to meet some very interesting and nice people – but that’s another story.

As we crossed over the border into the state of Colorado, a David Coverdale song boomed through the car speakers. The tune was, “Love ain’t no Stranger”. Looking out through the windshield of my dead father’s Oldsmobile, I decided that this was to be the theme song for our quest. I then thought of Floyd, our interesting circumstances, and decided to take his advice – and smile.

Attitude

2007-11-04T23:23:00.000-08:00

The greatest discovery of my generation is that a human being can alter his life by altering his attitudes of mind.

William James
US Pragmatist philosopher & psychologist (1842 - 1910)

Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.

Edith Sitwell, Taken Care Of ,1965English biographer, critic, novelist, & poet (1887 - 1964)

According to the American philosopher, William James, one of his greatest psychological discoveries was that, through a mental act of conscious Will and a lot of Discipline, one can change and become or achieve that which is desired.

The cliché most often heard in self-help circles is “Attitude is Everything” and, more often than not, this cliché is right on the mark.

How do you approach life?

What is your manner?

Do you have a point of view or a belief system?

Attitude is a way of behaving.

When you walk in a room are you hesitant or does the room “light up” by your mere presence?

As mentioned above, William James claimed this capacity to change one’s disposition through an act of Will and creating good habits his greatest legacy. We are the “captains of our own ships”, and what we do and how we respond to the world is who we are…and it comes down to attitude.

The famous French Existentialist, Jean Paul Sartre, once wrote:

“It is not what people do to you that matters, it’s what you do to people who do things to you that matters.”

Have a stance regardless of the crowd’s opinion and hold your position.

We can change if we really WANT to change. If you prefer to wallow in your negativity because it defines who you are, then don’t change. Freud believed that most of us need at least one neurosis just to get by.

I love to be around people who have attitude, positive and strong opinions, a manner that inspires great things merely by being in their presence.

In closing, one of my favourite quotes:

The overman...Who has organized the chaos of his passions, given style to his character, and become creative. Aware of life's terrors, he affirms life without resentment.

Friedrich Nietzsche

“Enigma” by Gustave Dore.

2007-11-04T01:24:00.000-07:00

The word “enigma” is defined as a mystery, secret or closed book. It can also be defined as a puzzle, a problem, something that requires solving. An enigma is something that baffles understanding and can never be explained: a secret that will remain a secret no matter how hard we attempt to discover, define or explain…a true unsolvable event or thing.

This has to be one of my favourite drawings of all time. What kind of man could actually create something so enticing, odd and somehow “real” calling the work: Enigma?

This drawing by Gustave Dore is one of those work’s of art where one can sit and look at for hours, continuing to discover new aspects, new things never seen before.

For me, at least, the painting somehow makes “sense” but on a very abstract “imaginative” level.

So what is Dore’s “Enigma” showing us?

The scene is a battle field as dead soldiers lie everywhere. In the background, smoke fills the air giving the impression of enormous fires continuing to rage across the land…

This particular battle was fierce, a no holds bard situation of desperation, as if the victor’s will Rule… ALL.

This is not the beginning of the battle but its end.

The central focus of the drawing is of two strange beings: a winged character, perhaps and angel, and a sphinx, a “man” with the body of a lion, appear to be embracing or the winged one asking the sphinx for mercy, begging for a truce, because everything is destroyed…nothing is left to rule - a battle in heaven between Good and Evil; any interpretation is possible, however the drawing remains a magnificent example of the human beings capacity for imagination and representing that imagination in a concrete form, an image, sharing this vision with the rest of us.

Art in the truest sense of the word. ( Left click on image for better view)

Gustave Dore’s “Enigma” is currently housed at the Musee D'Orsay in Paris.

The Fall of Lucifer

2007-11-03T02:45:00.000-07:00

Gustave Dore was a prolific artist if nothing else; though he had the gift to draw and make an adequate living at it, supporting himself and his family. Why this French sketch artist, illustrator and lithographer has continued to be of great interest was his choice of subject matter: myth, legend, poetry, and scripture. He managed to capture a moment in a myth or specific biblical story, for example, and make the viewer believe in the written tale.

In present time we label this profession, illustrator; and in the 19th century he was not considered an “artist” but a gifted person who had the skill to draw, (artisan) however, as his work spread in popularity, certain publishing houses clamoured for his work.

Despite certain opinion, Gustave Dore is an artist; his interpretation(s) of legend and poetry, particularly Scripture, reveals true imaginative insight.

This illustration of the fall of the Arch Angel Lucifer captures the angels ambivalence, who, as a favourite of God, had never “really” wanted to choose the side of Satan, (thus he is experiencing second thoughts) therefore the drawing, he holds on, about to fall into Hell.

Lucifer is the Angel of Light and Beauty, who was tempted by Satan to go against God and His creation of the Human and instigate a War in Heaven, ending in the Fall of the Celestial and the Fall of man.

This drawing is part of the "Paradise Lost" epic poem by John Milton.

Excellent…

“Is it you?”

2007-11-02T08:17:00.000-07:00

“Somewhere in Time” has to be one of the greatest films, personally, to maintain its power, no matter how many times it’s been viewed…because it’s about True Love.

True Lover’s lost in the “Circle of Time” has always had a certain fascination, because we do search for the “other”, someone else that will make us somehow happy, perhaps, the strong feeling of finally returning home again and becoming one; our other half.

The film is based on the novel by Richard Matheson, (Bid time Return) who also wrote the screenplay for the film… and was permitted a cameo role.

The term, “soul mate”, has become a cliché, but most of us, (either are consciously aware of it or not), continue to search for our other half, the “one” that will make us ‘whole’ once again.

This is a Platonian idea from the Symposium, that is to say, at one time we were beings of two, thus the gods became jealous and separated us, and our true destiny is to find our other “selves”.

“Somewhere in Time” (Matheson) takes this notion further and creates a story of fantasy where it is possible to meet, the protagonists “true” soul mate yet, it is doomed.

This is a lovely film and novel. Christopher Reeve played the part with aplomb and realism. Jane Seymour as the beautiful 19th century actress (Miss McKenna) was at her prime…a picture of beauty.

When Richard impossibly returns to the 19th century and meets his one true love, we are never sure whether it is a mental illness or something real?

In the novel, Richard has a brain tumour, and writes his story and dies. Richard’s brother wants to believe the story is true but never follows it up to prove or disprove the story.

Why?

Because whether the story is “real” or not, the idea that we can travel through time to meet our true “other” self is something that is truly astonishing and Matheson’s book and the film somehow makes it possible.

One of my favourites.

Daniel - God's most Beloved...

2007-10-30T05:34:00.000-07:00

Briton Riviere (1840-1920) painted this famous biblical tale at the young age of 37, (1872) of one of God’s favourites, Daniel who, in the entire Old Testament, Daniel is the only man God refers to as the “Greatly beloved”. (Daniel 10:11)

This painting was always and will continue to be my favourite depiction of a scene from the Old Testament.

I remember our huge, golden bible as a child, and the full scales print of this beautiful painting; laying on my bed staring at the picture wondering why the hungry lions would not eat the old man.

He looks upward from the Den in prayer as the morning sun shines upon him as the lions walk around the dungeon, uninterested in his presence. (Observe the lion looking up in the direction Daniel is looking and the lion's expression)

Daniel became the enemy of the Devil because of God’s great Love for him. Daniel also, one of the designated “princes” for the King of Persia, recently known as Babylon, and conquered by the Persians, rises through the political ranks and becomes one of King Darius’s most valued consultants.

"Then this Daniel was preferred above the presidents and princes, because an excellent spirit was found in him; and the king thought to set him over the whole realm" (Daniel 6:3).

Satan filled the hearts of the other “princes” with envy, thus they plotted against him, finally finding one act or transgression, he prayed to his own God and not the King – this was law in the new Babylon.

Daniel is thrown into the lion’s Den, and to the shock and dismay of his enemies, the lions ignore the “most beloved”, and over time grow to love him.

Riviere preferred to paint animals more than any other subject matter. In this painting it is evident he has payed special attention and time to the lions: perfect in form with natural expressions.

The original currently resides in the Manchester Museum in the U.K.

"Princess Tarakanova"

2007-10-29T01:05:00.000-07:00

This beautiful painting (oil of canvas) created in 1864 by the Russian neo-classical artist, Konstantin Flavitsky; (1830-1866) truly and emotively depicts the princesses’ utter anguish as her room fills slowly with water.

This is a relatively unknown painting by many, however, more importantly, the tale behind the image is vague at best and only when the Soviet Union in 1980 created a postage stamp of the painting, commemorating the 150th anniversary of Flativsky's birth, that interest in the work’s history began in earnest.

What is known, however, is that the princess was imprisoned in the Peter and Paul Fortress in Saint Petersburg during the time of the city’s great flood – this story is only a legend: the painting, showing her standing on top of her bed to avoid death, her anguish is plainly evident.

The legend tells that she was the daughter of Aleksey Grigorievich Razumovsky and Elizabeth of Russia. Why this beautiful young woman is in a prison cellar during the great flood is a mystery.

Personally I find this painting spellbinding, putting my spirit wholly into the scene, and wanting to save this poor and beautiful damsel in distress.

Perhaps it is my all too Romantic sensibilities coming to the fore.

I believe the painting currently resides in the Russian museum of Saint Petersburg.

Absolutely captivating…

“Anguish”

2007-10-28T04:51:00.000-07:00

In my early college period before attaining any “degrees”, I thought it necessary to enrol in classes like “Art Appreciation”.

As any university student will tell you, undergraduate work is like a smorgasbord of endless choices of study. It was at that long ago time that I came across “Anguish”, and realized, why art is in the world.

When seeing this painting in the original, a few weeks ago at the National Art Gallery of Victoria, turning in an innocent motion while gazing in a dazed state of mind: became awe struck, the painting literally created a pain in my gut, stunned me, the blood drained from my face and a tear rolled down my cheek – I couldn’t move…

The baby Lamb is dead. Mother sheep continues to do her duty and protect her young child despite her little one being obviously dead.

The crows gather and wait and will continue to wait until she gives up and permit the mob to devourer her baby.

This mono copy does not in any way do the work justice, but as its theme is strong, relates the message that the painter wanted, and that is, the world can be a terrible place: one on one for one’s survival. However this painting takes this notion further and that is, the instinctive Love of a Mother and Child.

We see the cold breath from her mouth, as the mother calls for Help. But she is alone and there is no hope because the lamb is already dead.

This is certainly "anguish" in its purist and most repulsive form.

ALBRECHT SCHENCK (1828-1901)

The Annunciation

2007-10-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

Many artists for many years including the Master, Leonardo da Vinci, imagined this critical moment in the New Testament, as the Arch Angel Gabriel, (The messenger of God) announces to the young Mary (no more than a young teenager) that she is pregnant and His name is Jesus - He is the Son of God and God has chosen her to carry him, give birth and care for Him throughout His younger years.

In some interpretations, for example, the painting by the Pre-Raphaelite, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, depicts the virgin almost in fear and the angel Gabriel, overwhelming, perhaps intimidating. In da Vinci’s painting, who, by the way, only painted the wings of Gabriel as he was only an apprentice at the time, does not capture the power and grace of this critical and significant event.

In this interpretation, Waterhouse depicts the Messenger Gabriel offering flowers, subtle, sensitive and ensuring he does not frighten the young woman.

Mary is in the midst of painting, writing or weaving and, upon seeing the Angel Gabriel, puts her left hand to her heart and her right hand above her head, (Halos (rings above their heads) have been added. Did Waterhouse paint them? - surely not his style.) showing she is certainly experiencing a Visitation: still, there is that expression of shock. The angel Gabriel tells her how and what to do and to find the good man, Joseph, who on that very night, has a Big dream, and is told what he must do…

To be sure, there are two significant events that define Christianity: the above painting of the Immaculate Conception & Jesus Christ’s Rising from the dead after his terrible crucifixion. Faith in these events and the Love of God continue to resonate and can be found in words, sermons and in this case, a beautiful painting by a gifted artist.

This painting was completed in 1914, only two years before the artist’s death.

Of all the interpretations of this significant moment in the New Testament, Waterehouses’ rendition, at least for my point of view, feels to be the most real.

“The Head of John the Baptist”

2007-10-26T05:44:00.000-07:00

This is one the last works that Caravaggio ever painted. Circa: 1607.

The Head of John the Baptist is set upon a large plate by the alleged executioner. The ugly man appears neither pleased nor displeased with his work, and is merely following orders; though is aware of the prophet’s status amongst the Jews and the ‘reason’ for his execution.

Holding the plate though looking away in apparent shame is Salome, the daughter of Herodias.

Herodias, however, appears curious, somewhat pleased, whose image seems to merge with her daughter, Salome.

The head of John the Baptist is appalling, an expression of a man not exactly dead but in the midst of prayer…

According to the Gospel of Mathew in the New Testament, King Herod was having an affair with Herodias. Herodias is the wife of Herod’s brother, Phillip.

John the Baptist, the cousin of Jesus Christ, publicly announces the transgression of Herod and Herodias as against Jewish law. This public announcement causes John to be imprisoned. He wastes in prison and is tortured for many weeks while the followers of the prophet grow increasingly angry, crying for his release.

Something must be done...

It is Herod’s birthday and his entire court is in attendance. Herodias’ daughter, (who is not named in the Gospel of Mathew) on her mother’s request, dances for Herod, (the dance of the seven vales) and, as he is quite drunk, he promises with an “oath” that he will give Salome anything she desires. As this is a conspiracy planned by Herodias, her daughter requests the head of John the Baptist to be given to her in a “charger” (basket).

Herod winces but to not lose face with his court, orders that the execution be done...and the beheading follows only hours later.

In this particular scene, after the terrible deed is done, Salome takes the head to her mother with the help of the executioner and this is what we see in the painting.

This painting by Caravaggio lacks in his usual spectacular use of colour, almost, as some biographer’s have claimed, reflects the painter’s troubles at the time of the painting…and Caravaggio had a knack for getting himself into trouble.

Despite it lacklustre appearance and dismal content, the painting has always shocked my literal senses, somehow making this particular scripture ‘real’ and not simply a legend.

All would agree that this painting is another example of bringing his subjects and contexts to life - Caravaggio’s genius.

This piece is not one of my favourite works by the troubled Italian master, but certainly, when set against scripture, always fascinating.

Caravaggio & Judas Iscariot.

2007-10-23T09:43:00.000-07:00

Judas Iscariot is not mentioned at all in the New Testament until day’s before Christ’s torture and crucifixion.

We have allegedly found the actual Writings, “The Gospel of Judas” telling a story that is quite different from the Gospels of Mathew and John...

The Aramaic scroll tells of a conspiracy; that in order for the prophet’s foretelling to manifest, Jesus, had to be “turned in” betrayed, by one of His brethren. Thus Judas volunteered for the job, keeping it a secret from the other disciples. This makes sense because it is beyond my understanding how a man, an intelligent individual, who has seen and felt the signs, wonders and miracles of the Lord, could possibly betray Him for a mere 30 pieces of silver.

In the Caravaggio painting, both subjects, Jesus and Judas, look to know exactly the role they need to play…and both appear not happy about the situation.

Judas’ “burning” kiss of betrayal is portrayed in this beautiful painting.

I believe this particular work, like many of Caravaggio’s paintings, can be gazed at for hours, seeing and finding new aspects about the story it tells from the New Testament.

Most all of Caravaggio’s paintings are rife with meaning.

This one of Jesus and the infamous kiss is just one of them, the kiss of “planned betrayal?”

Beautiful.

The Magic Circle

2007-10-20T06:06:00.000-07:00

This particular painting at least appeared in the public domain circa 1886. The painter, J.W. Waterhouse was only 35 years of age upon its release. (Though I believe this work was painted much earlier) This work caused protest from religious circles though naturally applauded by critics.

The Academy acknowledged the work for its unique subject matter and the artist's apparent knowledge of its content.

What exactly is occurring in the scene?

The Black Arts is a complex procedure of ritual and chants. In order for any true magic to manifest, a "magical Space" must be provided to ensure the Dark One's can enter without fear of reprisal from those who had not fallen from grace. In other words, the witch is creating a safe place for demons to appear, listen and perform the Black Arts on the sorceresses request.

This painting is subtly different, however.

As is well known, practising old pagan rituals was & is a very dangerous activity.

What is interesting in this scene is all the subjects of evil associated with the Black Arts, are outside the circle, Frogs, Ravens and other unidentifiable symbols.

On the inside of her circle, as she draws with her large wand, beautiful flowers and her, a beautiful women, remain within the magic circles confines. The woman is creating a space of protection from the one's who only wish her harm.

The neo-classic attention to detail as Waterhouse is well known, lacks in this painting, thus it is much older than 1886: later we see his art grow and his attention to detail more focused.

Certainly not one of his popular paintings, ironically, upon closer examination, reveals a pagan's desire for good, beauty and to rid herself of a situation, that she did not forsee.

Although somewhat stereotypical, a la Macbeth, the paintings irony, her wish for protection from harm using the Black Arts, makes this image unique.

Modern Technology amongst the Forest

2007-10-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

Most Saturday mornings around 6 a.m., we do what we call our 50 minute jaunt, that is to say, as work is not pending, we can exercise and take a scenic path through the forest that lies behind suburbia. The lush trees and creek that runs along the path, including the wildlife flying overhead and across our feet, and a glorious lack of people makes the excursion pleasurable and a perfect activity to begin the weekend.

After about 45 minutes of brisk walking, nature began calling, loudly, thus I searched franticly for an unnoticeable tree off the path in order to handle the situation which, by the way, was about to hit “Breaking Point”.

Fortunately, we had made a full circle around the forest and up ahead stood a modern facility for such emergencies.

It was a small building made of polished steel with various buttons and symbols one associates with Star Wars movies.

“Now”, I thought, jumping up and down like a madman, “Which bloody button should I push?”

By sheer luck, I pushed the correct button that caused the heavy sliding door to open, and immediately closed once I was inside the small space. The walls were polished stainless steel and not a speck of dust could be found. Upon beginning to relieve myself, elevator music of the most lame variety blasted through the ceiling above me, a cheesy rendition of “What the World Needs now is Love Sweet Love.” Needless to say, this caused me to jump slightly forcing my aim to falter. Nothing too serious. (However, I thought: were the tolilet police about to crash in and arrest me for terroist urination.)

Once finished, an automatic voice boomed through the speaker with a computer voice like “Al” in the Kubrick film, 2001 A Space Odyssey: “The Toilet will flush automatically after you wash your hands in the sink to your right. Please follow the instructions carefully”

Pushing the button with the symbol “soap” a small portion squirted in my hands. The second symbol for “water”, once my hands were underneath it, rinsed them thoroughly, and lastly the drying mechanism (once my hands were in the correct position) shot forth hot air which, all said and done, had the capability of giving me second degree burns. Once the dryer stopped, the toilet flushed and the heavy steel door opened. The voice said,

“Thank you for using “Never-Waste, we hope your experience has been a pleasant one.”

The heavy steel door closed behind me, seeing the lush forest and my friend, I felt to have been returned to earth after an alien abduction, and relieved to have been returned to earth safely.

We then walked to the nearest coffee shop for a double-shot macchiato, as my nerves were slightly frayed and I had actually witnessed all our futures to come.

“On second thought, make that a triple-shot.”

'The Naiad'

2007-10-17T06:50:00.000-07:00

If one attempts to immerse into a certain artist, writer or poet, will discover a theme or motif that casually travels throughout their particular body of work.

The Pre-Raphaelite, J.W. Waterhouse, had at least two obsessions, his model, Muriel Foster, and his focus on water spirits, nymphs, sirens and other mythical water beings.

Although most his female subjects were characters or representations of ancient myths and poems, his model, Muriel Foster, appeared as the main star, the leading lady in all his work. She was the "Marilyn Monroe" of the 19th century art movement...though her true identity was kept secret because of the social mores and hypocrisy’s of the time period.

Muriel was indeed a classical beauty.

This painting, The Naiad, has always intrigued me because the Naiad has the expression of pure wonder and curiosity, almost intently surprised as if the boy is hurt in some way. She has seen a human being for the first time: and luckily, while he sleeps by the river.

What is a Naiad?

Always connected to a body of water, it is their world and they depend on the water for their existence. The ancient Greeks believed after many encounters with these beautiful beings, that they had inspirational powers and the knowledge of healing. Some also believed they could predict the future…they were special divine beings connected with divinity and growth.

I love this painting for many reasons: the beauty of the Naiad and her cautious curious expression as she peers at the half naked human, covered in what appears to be an animal skin: perhaps a leopard or something more mundane.

The Naiad are divine spirits of a natural existence. They are shy, humble and fearful of the out side “real world”. Thus this painting is special as it is a first encounter between the human and the divine. (Of course in the pagan sense)

One of my all time favourites.

Hylas and the Nymphs & Muriel Foster

2007-10-16T07:29:00.000-07:00

My favourite art movement aside from German Expressionism was the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and my favourite artist from that time would have to be John William Waterhouse.

Waterhouse, like most of the Pre-Raphaelites, painted exotic scenes from poetry, myth and legends. It is a neo-classic style that more often tells a story, depicting a particular dramatic moment.

In a previous BLOG entry, I wrote about visiting the Victorian National Gallery and witnessing the original ‘Ulysses and the Sirens’ by Waterhouse, and how seeing the original painting against my print, that has hung on my walls for years, was a much more meaningful experience, as one can see aspects in the painting that one cannot see in a mere copy.

What is most interesting about most all of Waterhouse’s paintings is that he used the same model for most of his work. She was one of the best kept secrets in the art world for many years. Most of J.W.’s paintings, whether depicting Sirens, Nymphs, garden scenes or historical representations, this model’s face is in just about every painting. Who was she and what was Waterhouse’s relationship with her that captivated him so, inspiring so many beautiful paintings?

We have come to discover that her name was Muriel Foster. She is the quintessence of classical beauty with that lovely face and slender figure. It was only in 1981, where a sketch by Waterhouse was discovered, and written along the bottom of the drawing bears her name.

She first appears at the speculative age of fifteen in Waterhouse’s 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', where, from that point on, she appears in most of his paintings until his last unfinished work because of his death, 'The Enchanted Garden', which is considered the artists’ best work despite being unfinished.

We see Muriel Foster grow older with utter grace in Waterhouse’s paintings, the most distinctive being 'My Sweet Rose', seeing her in a beautiful bohemian green gown, her elegant red hair, tied back, smelling a rose, and her lovely slender hands touching the flowers.

As it happen to be the Victorian era, where sexual hypocrisy reigned supreme, and most artists at the time always sketched their models in the nude at the start of their specific project, (A common practice of the time) rumour did and has run out of control about their ‘true’ relationship.

In present time, who really cares, but I have my own thoughts on the matter…that she was his lover, inspiration and ‘muse’. Waterhouse had all the middleclass façades: a good family man who preferred to live in Italy than London. He had six children and loved them dearly, supporting his family from his art.

In Hylas and the Nymphs, Ms. Foster’s face is on all of the dangerous water beings.

This story is from Greek mythology, where Hercules and his long time companion, Hylas, travelled with Jason and the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece. It was known throughout the ancient world of Hylas’s beauty…he was sought after by many queens and royalty because of his incredible beauty. Because of his unbending loyalty to Hercules, half human and half god, promised to never leave his side.

In the painting by Waterhouse, are Hylas’ last few moments before being pulled into the magical pond of the enticing nymphs, who could not resist taking him, because of his incredible beauty.

This happened on an unknown island where Jason and his crew stopped to retrieve water and food to continue their quest.

It was time to set sale but Hylas had not returned. Hercules searched the island for hours for his friend but he has already been taken to another world. Hercules refused to leave without his long time companion. Jason promised to return once his quest for the Golden Fleece had been accomplished.

Hercules wandered the island for many years in search of Hylas, his echoing screams unrelenting. It was there on that small island that Hercules died of a broken heart, never to see his beloved Hylas again.

This painting depicts the exact second where Hylas looses his life...taken by the nymphs, all of them with the face of Muriel Foster.

This is a wonderful painting focusing on a specific dramatic scene in the tale. The print, the second one I purchased of Waterhouse, has a significant meaning for me, that is to say, love lost, beauty and the steadfast loyalty of a friend.

Novel Finally Completed

2007-10-15T03:00:00.000-07:00

There was an interview with a prominent writer that I watched on television years ago who said, “To be a writer is like being a student who always has homework to do.” I remember a prominent screenwriter saying too, that writing journals was a good exercise because he was always compelled to fill a blank page.

Writing is an interesting art form.

My journals go back twenty years, and it is astounding to go back and read where you were, how you were feeling and your responses to life’s vagaries, exaltations and tragedies.

I’ve always, in one form or another, put pen to paper, attempting to express my feelings, work out a problem or merely record the events of the day.

My first attempt at writing a novel was in my teens, but it was merely a “copy” of the novel I loved at the time, “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn. The story was about Stalin’s imprisoning of all the great scientists, writers, poets, engineers, and forcing them under Concentration Camp conditions to “Work for the State”: A beautiful though tragic true story.

I gave up after thirty pages.

As the years progressed, my short stories continued and will continue because the art of the short story is a wonderful exercise as it is compact, succinct and, of course, short. As a writer one feels that gratification of completing a tale in a relatively small amount of time. Writing a “novel” is an entirely different genre.

I remember making several attempts at a novel, the best being 12 years ago, ending at 50,000 words and the damn thing read like the confused babbling of a mad man, and, which was obvious at the time, the story would never go anywhere, as was the author too… at the time.

My new novel seemed to write itself.

As a teacher of High School, time is all important: lesson plans, meetings, troubled students, troubled parents, and troubled staff members and so on…therefore to have the energy to write something like a novel is difficult unless one has the discipline of a Christian monk…which, to my dismay, do not.

Over the last six years, I would write a chapter or three and, mysteriously, the tale would take off from where it left off as if time did not exist.

Though, similar to a conscientious student, that “homework” would be hanging above me like the sword of Damocles, descending and swinging slowly, my death inevitable.

This novel was always on my mind.

What I like about this novel is that I could never imagine writing a tale like this….so strange, so out there…

As a writer, my pleasure is that it is complete; if the book is published…cool, but that would be just icing on the cake. The joy of writing the piece over the years is the true gratification, though if others have the chance to read it and enjoy the tale, all the better.

Thank God it is Done.

Sirens

2007-10-09T08:09:00.000-07:00

Of all the ancient poets, Homer has maintained modern civilizations imagination, because the stories epic proportions of his tales capture the human condition… even today.

There are many, many examples including the representation by the 19th century painter, J.W. Waterhouse, and his rendition of Ulysses’ long journey from the useless and proud war at Troy. Over his long journey home they have to sail through the Halls of Hercules, his loyal followers obeying his every order. The Halls of Hercules, known for its deadly songs of wisdom and destruction of the Sirens. As was commonly known, ships never ever passed through because of the Sirens words and songs, causing the ships to dash against the rocks, the ship mates dragged under, slaves of the Sirens, forever.

As the story goes, Ulysses created the famous Trojan Horse that led to the destruction of Troy and create the vengeance of Poseidon, the god of the sea, against Ulysses…thus Ulysses’ treacherous and suffering journey home.

The Sirens knew of this vengeance from Poseidon, however, did their best to dash their vessel and the men on it, including the impressive, Ulysses.

In this Waterhouse painting, commissioned by the 19th century curator of Melbourne’s Art Gallery, ( requested Waterhouse paint this particular scene; and paid a pittance... the painter’s only second painting) J.W. Waterhouse soon over time, working in Italy, painted wonderful, beautiful depictions of myth, art and life. And delivered the work, landing in our museum, where it has moved from time to time, but most often hangs in the Melbourne Gallery.

Australia owns this painting as it was specifically commissioned by the then curator of the National Gallery of Australia. (Interesting choice of subject matter) This was the young Waterhouse’s second painting he ever sold. Thus the start of his inspiration and productivity.

The print of this painting had hung on the wall above my desk for many years: wonderful memories. Ulysses an inspiration for so many essays and story’s, sadness, sorrow and pure joy.

The print continuous to hang above a conspicuous place in my flat.

The questioned must be asked?

Why did Ulysses order his men to tie his body to the mast of the ship? He then ordered the crew to cover their ears as best they could: wax, cloth, anything and ignore the song.

“Tie me tight to the mast and do not follow any of my orders until we’re through the halls of Hercules. Cover your ears and not listen to anyone until we are through…”

As the sailors row through the hall s of Hercules, the Sirens emerge from the water and descend from the sky.

Their song is sweet, alluring and seductive. They promise everything that a man would ever want…though the crew continue to push their paddles, pushing harder and harder through the halls yet can just make out the screams of their leader, Ulysses pleading to row ashore and join them…but they never do.

This is the scene of the painting: the curious and brave attempt to understand the “unknown”, and be free; the loyalty of a few men, despite the temptations, cover their ears, because they want and need to get home.

Once through the halls of Hercules, the crew untie their master as he falls into a heap of sleep. Two of the crew take their leader below to his bed to slumber, which he does for many days.

Thus the story continues.

To finally see the original of the painting was dazzling, the colours true, the painting stunning, the story more clear…

To actually experience, to see a painting close to one’s heart was a gift.

An aesthetic moment to remember.

Striving Writer's Diary cont...

2007-09-23T20:52:00.001-07:00

December 3, 1951

The famous Parisian café society, the literati, lends itself accurately to the many descriptions writers have made over the last century. Everyday for three to five hours I would sit outside surrounded by an array of humanity: French, German, Swiss, Russian et al. putting pen to paper, drawing and painting. I’d attempt to express the tales that continually ran through my little mind…but something was missing…heart or deep passion?

Something or someone was missing…

I was tired of the French communists believing that it was “the” answer to the world’s problems.

I refuse to join their meetings but they’re relentless…

Stalin and Hitler were always neck and neck in the evil stakes, but history focuses on the German’s…Stalin makes Hitler look like a school ground bully. But the French intellectuals were either socialist or died in the wool Marxists’… what fools they are. It seems that good intentions (in ignorance) are paved to Hell.

The new year was approaching and I was determined to finish my book..

My beautiful partner and son had plenty of money, as she came from Austrian aristocratic stock, and her family managed to maintain their wealth. She loved me and our son and she continued to support me in my writing pursuits.

So I would return to our little flat and she would be reading to Karl in French, English, German or Russian, depending on the night, and I would arrive with my M.S, half drunk, self absorbed, selfish and grumpy.

Margi would always insist on reading my day’s work.

On that night she was not happy, as I had written not a single word because of self pity and alcohol, and because on that particular day, artistic neurosis took precedence.

My excuse, as always, was “writer’s block.

Magi kissed me tenderly and said, “Tomorrow you’ll write pages of beautiful prose, right? Now love, Karl.

Karl was Magi’s son from an unfortunate encounter during the war, but I loved him like he was my own.

My little boy was not only special, but a miracle. At four years of age he’d ask, “Dada, French or English?”

Thus we would read a book in the language of my choice, usually English or French.

The little man would fall asleep…and I would too.

Then everything changed.

Writer's Diary continued...

2007-09-23T10:43:00.000-07:00

November 10, 1951

Scribbling page after page of rubbish at the “Dome” this afternoon. So immersed in my work, I lose track of time and come to realise the restaurants dinner patrons have begun to arrive. The owner of the establishment, Henri, has always been unusually patient with my lack of purchasing power: two cups of tea and a little glass of port the entire day. In the end, finally, after a few disturbing looks, he approaches my table.

“How is my little Australian poet today?”

“Disappointed, Henri.”

“Why, monsieur?”

“The words are flowing but lack meaning and heart.”

“Ah. Possibly a glass of wine to start your artistic blood boiling!”

“Possibly, Henri.”

Henri’s expression turns suddenly curious and he asks:

“Was any of your family in the Great War, monsieur?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. My grandmother’s brother, Jack Reeves, fought on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War.”

Henri sits down in the chair opposite me and rests his chin on his hand looking even more curious and sentimental.

“I do not mean to pry, monsieur, but did he survive?”

“He lasted until the end. But because of excessive exposure to Mustard Gas, he died within three months of arriving back in Australia.”

“I’m very sorry, monsieur.”

“That’s alright, Henri, war is war and is always a terrible thing.”

The noise level had risen as more guests arrived and filled the tables around us. Henri remained seated in front of me gazing above my head as if remembering some important and sad chapter in his life. After a moment, his eye’s cleared and stood up from the table and disappeared behind the counter and soon reappeared with two waiters, a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. He passed the glasses all round and poured the wine then slowly raised his hand in the air as if to make a toast.

“Ladies and Gentlemen”, his voiced boomed across the restaurant in English. “I want to toast my little Australian writer but, more so, his Grandmother’s brother, Jack. Who fought bravely on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War!”

Henri raised his glass higher in the air: “TO JACK!”

Reminiscent of the glory war films of the 30’s and 40’s, everyone in the “Dome” stood and raised their glasses and in unison toasted my grandmother’s brother, Jack.

“TO JACK!”

“Viva la France!”

“Viva la France!” the crowd resounded.

After a delicious meal and several bottles of wine later, Henri and I closed the “Dome” for the evening. He escorted me back to my little apartment, our arms around each other, stumbling and singing through the foggy streets. At my doorstep, he drunkenly planted two sloppy kisses, one on each cheek – sentimental kisses – and bade me adieu!

Walking up my stairs, I could hear him singing, (out of tune) “Waltzing Matilda” in his thickly accented, baritone voice. I waited on the landing, propped up against the banister, until that wonderful song faded into the soft light of the Parisian dawn.

Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

2007-09-23T10:35:00.000-07:00

November 1, 1951

The dream is always the same: I’m sitting on a boat train floating into Paris, gazing at the little red rooftops and the old men along the shore, dinking wine, laughing and arguing, and dancing together with expressions of pure joy. Sometimes I’m flying from Marseilles, free without a plane, wishing only to be with my lover and my cat beside a blazing fire and a book.

Then I wake from this dream looking up at the ceiling in utter excitement: “I’m finally here…I’ve finally made it!”

I roll out of bed and start a small fire to warm our tiny bungalow. She is asleep. After drinking my first cup of strong coffee, I sit down at my little desk and resume writing the tale already in progress. Looking out my small window, the winter light of the Paris morning is beautiful, despite the dark clouds and the patter of rain upon the sea of multi-shaded roof tops extending over the Latin Quarter and beyond. Below my window I hear the shop keepers opening their doors for the day’s trade. Along the gravel paths, too, young Parisian girls are riding to school on their bicycles, ringing their bells” “Bon jour, Bon jour” - Ting-Ting Ting-Ting.

After writing for some hours, the clouds dissipate and my friend is still asleep due to too much wine and conversation and love. Completing the day’s work, I walk down the winding staircase outside onto our narrow street. The air is crisp and pungent with the smells of fresh bread. Sitting at my usual table at the “Rue de Fleurus”, I order an old red wine and notice a beautiful woman at a table in the corner, writing frantically, like the fate of her soul depended on its completion. A strange looking little man joins her and her eye’s sparkle with joy. As my French is poor, they speak very quickly and I only here certain words, names of philosopher’s, I believe: Husserl, Kierkegaard, and Heidegger. Finishing my wine, I leave the beautiful writer and her little friend with the wandering eye to their soft debate.

‘Is she still sleeping, I wonder.’

Climbing the stairs to our little home, I open the door to find her sitting by the fire, wrapped in her red dressing gown and a woollen scarf around her shoulders. She is reading my morning’s writing.

“This very strange, and at the same time very beautiful.” she whispers.

“It isn’t finished.”

“You don’t have to finish it. It is beautiful just the way it is.”

Our old cat yawns, stretches and jumps on her lap. The three of us stare into the fire as day turns to night.

Oscar Wilde in the depths of Love Lost

2007-09-22T01:12:00.000-07:00

In a letter to his Lover:

"You came to me to to learn the pleasure of life, and the pleasure of Art.

Perhaps I've chosen to teach you something much more wonderful - the meaning of sorrow and its beauty."

Your Affectionate Friend,

Oscar Wilde

"The wallpaper and I are fighting a dual to the death; one of us must go."

A diary entry while in Paris after leaving the Reading Gaol- alone, destitute and very poor.

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

My favourite Love quote from Mr. Wilde, because those that truly love someone ...will always wait.

"The heart was made to be broken”

This I believe to be true.

Oscar Wilde: a true romantic, a tragic poet and a man of LOVE.

Another Lost Love

2007-09-17T23:44:00.001-07:00

To pine for a recent former lover, the sadness all prevailing, one’s desire to even live, one’s greatest goals and aspirations fall by the wayside because that Love that once seemingly existed has now ended – and without this love, one deeply feels life is not worth living.

It has been said that it is a dangerous act indeed to wallow in this lost love, and if you have read Goethe’s novel, ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther”, know that the young man merely wanted to fit in, stumbled into Love and lost, thus, in the end committing suicide. One can forgive young Werther as he was a boy, naïve and a true idealist.

But for one to really Love a new woman with such passion as an older man, reveals that at least the “capacity” to love, so intense and sublime, brings hope that it is even possible for someone who has experienced life on so many levels, can fall so totally in love with a woman.

Sadness, grief and sorrow are emotions connected with a great loss.

Reflecting, however, does not one’s experience, age and inevitable cynicism, (a better word would be jaded) excuse him from this terrible pain?

Well it seems that these passionate emotions are not only intended for the young because one can continue to feel the pain of a lost love whether 13 or 60 – there are no ‘statutes of limitations’ on romantic and passionate love. But it feels as though the older lover, because of their experience in life, will feel the pain in a more powerful way. Perhaps because they realize life is all too short and the experience may never come again.

What is so difficult is to rationalize in one’s head with the emotions of one’s heart. We “know” wallowing in, and feeling this sadness, are to some extent absurd, but the heart pays no attention, and continues pouring forth the sadness and love – the feelings of loss.

Love is a mystery without any clear-cut answers…

Rainer Maria Rilke
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.

Francois de la Rochefoucauld
When we are in love we often doubt that which we most believe.

When wanting to withdraw from life because of some pain or sadness, I often remember a line from a poem by Emily Bronte:

“No coward’s soul is mine.”

Memories of Childhood (The Challenge)

2007-09-17T00:31:00.001-07:00

Ten year old boys have a way of spurring you to heights you would other wise not even imagine. Their cruelty as well would surpass the most evil of men.

Brent Phraser had charm, smarts and natural leadership skills. He had the looks of an elite German Arian: cropped blond hair, cold blue eyes and spoke with the authority of a SS officer. He was handsome, brave and intelligent, and we all looked up to him – he was also a Master bully.

Brent was the leader of the Belford Drive gang. A group of ten year old boys who thought they ruled the territory of our one block street. As most boys at that particular age will do, Brent would put up dares or dangerous challenges, usually directed at a single member of the gang. If you complied and succeeded, your membership and acceptance in the gang was assured. Non-compliance or failure, however, resulted in banishment – an unthinkable fate worse than death.

The days of summer that year, 1967, were hot and long. Our small gang roamed the outer fringes of suburbia known as the field, the ditch and the lake. We swam in the lake to escape the heat, played war games at dusk in the field using rocks and dirt clods as weapons in the field, and along the ditch, constructed secret fortresses made from pieces of wood and clay.

One sweltering afternoon the gang decided to head for the lake to catch a swim. Upon our arrival, we found Brent standing beneath the largest tree at the shore of the lake with a coiled rope lying at his feet.

We all knew instantly that a challenge was about to be proposed.

“What’s that for?” one of the gang asked.

Brent smiled. “It’s a swing you idiot!”

“Cool”, David exclaimed. “What a neat idea!”

“And one of you pansy asses gotta climb that tree to tie it: Any volunteers?”

No one uttered a word.

Brent smiled. “See that branch up there – that’s where it’s gotta be tied.”

Our gazes followed Brent’s pointing finger to the thickest, highest branch of the tree. From the lake’s surface to the branch, it had to be at least twenty meters. (Sixty feet).

“Well, Brent shouted, who’s it gonna be?”

“Why don’t you do it, Brent? You’re bigger than all of us.” I said.

To this day, Brent’s sardonic smile remains firmly in my memory.

“I don’t think so, bubble butt. You do it!” Brent shouted.

The gang burst into laughter of embarrassment.

“Craig the little wimp. Forget it. He’ll fall and break his neck.” Tim said in a cruel tone.

“Shut-up ass hole!” Brent shouted.

“C’mon, Craig. You’ve been putting up a lot of dares lately, but not taking any!” Danny exclaimed.

“Yea, man!”

C’mon, pussy!”

“Yea, faggot – let’s see you break your skinny neck.”

The exclamations and insults reached a crescendo as I peered upwards towards the intended branch as the late afternoon sun blinded my vision.

“Well?” Brent asked. “Are you gonna do it or not?”

Brent’s eyes scanned over the whole gang. He picked the rope up and walked towards me, smiling like a professional executioner, whose pleasure in life resides in seeing someone else’s pain. He tied the rope around my waist and pushed me towards the tree.

“You got a choice, faggot. Either you climb the tree or we’ll kick your skinny ass. It’s up to you.”

Let’s face it, my honour was at stake. There was only one place to go, and that was straight up.

Small wooden boards acting as a makeshift ladder extended up the trunk of the tree, but only about two meters, the rest was an improvised guessing game between life and death.

Then something very strange happened.

Closing my eyes, Captain James T. Kirk from Star Trek began his preamble:

“Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the star ship Enterprise. Its five year mission, to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations – to boldly go where no man has gone before!”

Opening my eyes slowly, I found myself horizontally wrapped around the highest branch of the tree.

I could hear David below saying, “Hell, I’ve never seen anybody climb a tree that fast before.”

Either by the hand of an angel or the extraterrestrial help of Captain James T. Kirk, I found myself hanging for dear life around the highest branch of this 300 year old tree. In an instant the realization dawned on me: my angel or Kirk may have helped me up here, but they sure as hell were not going to help me down!

“Don’t just lay there, stupid. Tie the rope!” Brent ordered.

My body had frozen – I couldn’t move even my little finger.

“Are you gonna stay up there all day pansy ass?”

“He looks like he’s dead or something.”

Brent yelled, “Tie the rope you little shit!”

Tim yelled, “Should we call the fire department or something?”

The gang all laughed in unison.

As afternoon turned to evening and slowly into night, each member of the gang wandered off one by one, leaving me alone to deal with my own plight.

A cool wind skimmed across the lake and the rustling of the leaves around me soon was the only sound…

“Damn if I’m leaving my friend alone in some fricken tree.”

Looking down through the shadows, I could see Dave pacing around the trunk of the tree.

“You gotta do something, man! You gotta jump. The water looks deep enough. Jump, man. Friggen JUMP.”

A gust of wind thundered across the lake. I shut my eyes tightly and slowly loosened my grip around the branch. Letting go, my decent was fast and painless. I found myself submerged in the cold, murky water of the lake.

Coughing and spitting, my body finally surfaced. Dave had jumped in after me, and now was dragging me to the shore.

We now sat side by side on the shore of the lake in the dark. Both drenched to the bone, we began to shiver from the cold.

“You wimp! Why didn’t you jump four hours ago?”

“I don’t know. I was just, you know…stuck.”

We left the lake and walked home on that clear and warm summer’s night. We talked about important matters like Cathy, Jenny and Sharon – the three “fox’s” in our grade. We also talked about football and the last Star Trek episode on T.V., and for some reason, nothing about the day.

Later that night, after a hot shower and a beautiful dinner, I laid in bed thinking about Brent Phraser, Dave and the Belford Drive gang. Was it important to have a lot of friends? Or was it alright to just have one good one? I fell asleep that night without answering my thoughts.

As I grew older, the answer to these questions started to become clear.

Although now living continents apart, Dave and I are still close friends.

The Consequence of One Choice.

2007-09-16T08:01:00.000-07:00

When one reads the multi-versions of the Arthurian legends, including the originals’, Malory’s and Tennyson’s poetry, there is a predominate theme that moves through all the interpretations: Only those that are pure of heart can discover the cup that Joseph filled with the blood of the dying Christ on the cross: The blood of Jesus Christ.

In this Edward Burne- Jones later painting, an angel appears to Sir Lancelot in a dream (one of the greatest of all the knights) and tells him he will not find the Grail because of his betrayal, his flesh-bound transgression, his affair with the beautiful Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur.

One can see that Lancelot has reached his end: he’s exhausted, and is finally told that because of his adulterous affair with the Queen, the wife of his King and best friend, his searching is all in vain, but it is an angel that informs him of this fact.

If one observes the painting closely can see that the angel has empathy for Lancelot and of course wants him to succeed but, as a messenger, must tell him the truth: because of his betrayal and all the terrible consequences that this love affaire created, the destruction of Camelot itself, there is no forgiveness, at this point in time, thus he must rest, and do what he can as an essentially Good man, but the Grail, this lifetime at least, will not be found.

According to the legend, Lancelot fades out of the story and is not mentioned again.

The only Arthurian Knight in the legend that actually finds the Grail is the young Sir Galahad. Galahad’s motivations are pure: his love of God and to bring back Camelot back to its original glory.

This, of course, never happens.

Galahad never shows the new so-called regime the Grail or what it means. It is said that because of his love of God, the angels came to him when he was an old man, and carried him to Avalon.

The blood-line of Christ continued, and Galahad’s mission was to ensure it would…and according to legend the Grail continues.

I find this painting by Burne-Jones very sad.

Sir Lancelot was also a Good man but fell in love with his King’s and best friend’s wife, Guinevere.

He relented to temptation…I have compassion for Lancelot because like me, he’s human.

The point is Lancelot was always aware of what he was doing, and thought he might get away with it…he couldn’t help himself – love between humans is and continues to be a mystery.

Edward Burne-Jones was fascinated with myth but what makes his paintings so important, is that he focuses on specific aspects of the story which reveals the entire myths meaning.

I love most of his work though this painting, for me, hits hard.

Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

2007-09-13T09:36:00.000-07:00

The Crying Girl

2007-09-12T04:42:00.000-07:00

It was sometime yesterday or last week, (my time perceptions are meshing) while travelling into the city of Melbourne for no reason other than to feel the energy of its streets, a beautiful young girl, no more than 25 years of age, suddenly fell into a deep grief, sobbing, not the wailing type, though a quiet somewhat restrained release of pure sadness.

The woman’s sadness was palpable, contagious as I felt like weeping with her. No, I thought, do not interrupt, and let her sadness release naturally.

At first I felt compelled to ask her if there was anything I could do to ease her pain. I wanted to help her but did not have the courage to do so…

Our train reached Flinders Street Station and finally came to a grinding halt. The passengers began standing up, gathering their belongings…but I waited. I could not even bring myself to look at her out of fear of possibly embarrassing the woman.

After a few moments, when most of the passengers had left the train, she gathered her small back pack and headed towards the outside platform. I slowly stood up too, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, walked directly behind her with the only thought in my mind: is there anything I could do to help this woman experiencing so much grief and sadness.

As we walked along the crowded platform, I could not help looking in her direction. I noticed her long auburn hair caught under the strap of her carry bag; where, ever so gently and with such grace, pulled her hair out from under the strap. She lifted her head, her body pushed consciously straight up and true as she ascended the escalators with the rest of the crowd. Through observing her subtle body movements, I saw a raw courage in a fellow soul ; feeling so much sadness only moments before, deciding to carry on with life despite life’s pain.

There are moments that require us to ‘intervene’ in a strangers’ life, and the motivation to act is instinctive. In this case, a mere kind word might have helped this beautiful young woman, but out of a cowardess, chose to sit back and let the important moment slip by.

I regret this moment but must remember to act in the future when at least a simple kind word might ease someone’s pain…if only a little.

The Emotion of Sadness

2007-09-11T03:25:00.000-07:00

The emotion of sadness throughout my life has never really manifested in its most all-consuming form. In my superficial thought-wanderings, I’ve always equated the emotion of sadness with grief. My conclusion was sadness and grief are in the same “genre”, so to speak, but to experience sadness alone without the grief is a new experience for me. Included in this emotional genre, if you will, is sorrow.

Most of us have experienced sorrow when a loved one passes on, this is only natural: however the emotion of sorrow and grieving are interlinked in a profound way.

The death of a loved one brings forth sorrow and a grieving process begins, and as the old cliché states, “Time Heals”; which is more than likely the last the thing a person in grief wants or needs to hear.

I’ve lost family members who’ve passed on and felt deeply sorrowful, angry and so on. Death is part of life, but we sometimes terribly miss those we love that pass on, and it sometimes can go on for many years. It is just the way it is on this planet, which, really, for the most part, we do exist on a “pain planet”.

My point is that sadness can almost be classified as an emotion without sorrow or grief – this emotion can be felt all alone.

This notion came to me this week while spending a delightful (in the end) evening with my only sister who really knows me, she said “When our sister died, you were grieving, when father died you were grieving, but looking at you at this moment, knowing you for so long, I’ve never seen such sadness in your eyes.”

To attempt to describe this emotion, sadness, as not part of sorrow or grieving is difficult.

One walks at a slower pace, like wading through water. Complete strangers on the street look at you and their expressions reveal concern. You are aware how you feel, and have been indoctrinated not to feel this emotion, but it continues despite all efforts to rid oneself of it. Then, of course the guilt sets in for feeling sad in the first place. Sadness brings on attitudes of meaninglessness, the world losses it colour, its purpose, its true Beauty.

Years ago I would have blocked this emotion of extreme sadness into the recesses of forgotten memory. ‘It’s not right to feel this way, banish it from your mind and pretend it doesn’t exist.’ This strategy has worked in the past, but in time it surfaces again, and usually at the most inopportune moments.

This BLOG was never meant to be a “confessional” or day-to-day diary of my life, which really I find adolescent – one never wears one’s emotions on one’s sleeve – though today the emotion of sadness prevailed and my only thought to combat it was to write about it.

I feel no grief, I feel no sorrow only a deep sadness – and this too will pass.