Brothers & Sisters

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.

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)

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

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.

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

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?”

“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...

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"

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”

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

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”

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.

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

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

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'

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

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

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

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...

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...

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

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

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

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)

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.

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

The Crying Girl

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

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.

Romantic, Fairy Tale Love

A new file for my “musings” BLOG, because unfortunately the hardware in my laptop crashed to such an extent that, it had to be replaced by a new one, hence, everything that did not get backed up, including unfinished articles, BLOG’S and teaching plans, unfinished letters, short stories, power point lessons for the Senior levels – poof! – they are all now floating somewhere in cyberspace, and irretrievable.

What a fool!

The irony is I tell my students everyday to back their work, “Physician Heal thy self!”

Most my writing is on line, my novel had been backed up (luckily) and most reviews are all on Amazon. However those few short stories that needed to be completed, well, if they are worth it, they’ll come up again.

Alone in my apartment, sitting on couch, laptop comfortably in position – candles alight around the room with a little jazz playing in the background. Atmosphere is something that can take one down to the depths or raise one to creative ecstasy. I enjoy soft light, slow music and incense burning; a pleasant atmosphere –books surround the room as my old friend, George, my cat, lies his head on my lap…strangely, when one feels that one’s heart has been broken, almost nothing can take that terrible feeling of emptiness away. There are many distractions, but no matter what is going on, that indelible memory of pure Love and Separation is carved in your consciousness and, for me, in one’s dreams…

I cannot remember who said it, Oscar Wilde or perhaps Yeats, that the true poet or true Romantic is, “In love with Love”. Why? Out of all the emotions, virtues, morals, Love is the one thing that permeates all that is good, all that is Beautiful.

To have the chance to experience true Romantic Love with a fellow human being, for me, was miraculous, something that should not happen at my age…but it happened.

Romantic Love can be described as child-like, innocent and pure. All the feelings erupt – butterflies in the stomach, with hints of true hope that real happiness is possible, that it really exists; you’d be happy just to be next to them, and if push came to shove, you would certainly, without hesitation, die for them.

One day you’re in a scene at the focus of all that Love: a miracle, an unexplainable Wonder, you find yourself with Them. The focus of all that love, and it feels so unreal, but she smiles like a Beautiful unknown Being from Heaven.

Fairy Tale Romance can and does exist but it never lasts, because as always, the god’s get jealous and the “wonderment” disappears.

If ever, the opportunity presents itself, jump in, “boots and all”, may you feel Love, so pure, so innocent, Romantic and totally Beautiful?

You will never be the same.