NOW IT'S A NEW YEAR!

Well, OK, another thing, then.

Can't seem to tear myself away from these celadon bowls. It's January 10th today and I've started a new project - another spontaneous, out-of-my mind, painting.
Inspired by all these dragons and by another few lines in Victoria's book, I opened up my paintbox, spread out a sheet of paper and began ---

The inspiration that fired me was; 'What can I make for you?' the potter asked. The Emperor replied with a line of poetry: 'When the storm has passed, the blue sky peeps through a break in the clouds.' (Clearly referring to the minute cracks which appear in the dull, blue-green glaze after its cooling to reveal a chink of unbelievably blue body.) I allowed my hand to move rapidly, curling and curving, striking out with straight sword sweeps here and there, then I squeezed a range of brilliant colours; cerulean and ultramarine, flame red, vibrant golden yellows, oranges. Black and white. Mixing, melding, scrubbing in a sort of passionate delight mingled with 'first-night tension,' I finally stopped to view what I'd created. I saw a turbulent murky sea with a monster wave curving up and over. Glimpsed, in the lighter space between, the red-gold blinding sun.
I slept on it, and woke with some lines of poetry of my own which illustrate as near as I can without showing the painting, (which I can't because it's too big to scan.)

With one last flick of tail
Water Dragon dive;
Slips down, disappears into Depths.
Fire Dragon rise --
Opens Eye.
Storm Passes.

Water Dragon works with Moon energy: Fire Dragon with Sun energy.

JAN. 7th
Just one more thing before moving on from GREEN.

(And strangely but neatly getting away from the linearity of blogging by completing a circle, a return to those lovable rogues, Robin Hood and his Merry Men who I wrote about in my previous post, Summer Pudding.)

A nugget of information I've now discovered in Victoria Finlay's book, is that Lincoln Green, the colour with which they're famously associated, far from helping them to merge into the background of the leafy Sherwood forest, as previously thought, it actually made them stand out. Disporting themselves in the latest fashion item, the Pride of Lincoln, a green dyed cloth which only the rich and noble of that city could afford, they proclaimed to all and sundry how they had robbed the rich of their finery so they could show it off to the local yokels of Not's County.

Achieving a reliable green dye took, not centuries, but millennia, but this new green was perfected in Lincoln. First dipped into a bath of woad, (the same blue colour with which our Ancient Brits painted their bodies, and presumably their faces , to scare their enemies,) then a second dipping into a bath of weld, a strong yellow, produced a cloth of gaudy, show-off green.


JAN. 4th
Ahh! that elusive, illusive Dragon - the dragon which the porcelain artists in Tang dynasty, from that mysterious land 'South of the Qi mountains, North of the Wei river,' imperceptibly etched under that secret non-colour mi-se glaze, has it made an appearance after all? Has it decided to manifest in this portentous 2012 NewYear, because by chance it also heralds the 4,709 th year in the Chinese lunar calender? January 23rd 2012, a New Moon day, is the first day of the Chinese year of the Water Dragon. How apt!

So, although he's rather more Fire than Water, this dragon, Fire and Water are all part of the potter's alchemy - along with Earth and Air. All completely necessary in bringing into being a perfect- imperfect pot. Harmony and Balance. So, again let's wash away the Old Year and Celebrate the NEW.
And thank you Robyn for supplying the pics and for your very useful comments and info.



JANUARY 1st 2012

After all this time I'm still trying to understand this Blog thing. A log - a journal - usually reads chronologically. Today's entry follows yesterday's, and there's a time for sleep in between. Yes? This blog thing works backwards. Today doesn't follow yesterday; it comes before. In 'time as we know it,' Today's insights rise out of the seeds planted yesterday i.e. what I saw - or more important, didn't see yesterday, I begin to see today, as if they'd sprouted overnight. Yesterday I declared, This will be the year of the Paintbox and concluded with a celebration of GREEN.

The year of the Paintbox had begun for me as I randomly opened Victoria Finlay's book at the first page of the chapter Green. The quote which caught my eye then, and which is still reverberating strongly, is superseded today by the second quote, vis 'It's not easy bein' green.' KERMIT the frog, speaking about identity. Overnight it came to me that 2012 will be the year of Green. It came to me that it will be the year of Rejuvenation, Growth and Spring. And it won't be easy bein' GREEN. This will be a Hell of a year! The year that the ancient prophesies declared The End of the World, yet the year which today's prophets tell us will be the year when humans as a collective begin the steady climb - the assent towards a New Earth.

Which brings me back to yesterday's quote and the musings around the secret and mysterious colours in the celadon range; the dragons, the phoenixes, the mists and dreams and ghostly smoky non-colours, which only royalty could possess, and the insight I had on this last night.

I wish I had a picture to put in here. How wonderful if I had a Chinese dragon illustration, especially since I chose Esdragon as my blog name. I don't have one to hand. But what did occur to me was that I did have, what I hope will be the firt of a series of spontaneneous paintings for the year ahead, one which I have already called, 'A Lighter Earth.'

Spontaneity. Maybe this also will be a key word for 2012 - for me anyway, along with Growth and Flow. A year for 'getting out of my mind' - going beyond -- into that mysterious hinterland inhabited only by those who seek out non-coloured porcelain bowls. Bowls of such preciousness and imperfection, that, as the academic consultant at Christie's, Rosemary Scott said of the skills of the craftsmen who made them, 'You can't (afford to) get it too wrong: but you have to get it wrong enough.' How scary is that! But Spontaneity is even scarier - or maybe easier. It requires 'radical trust' to leap into the unknown and fall flat on your face -- or fly. Or maybe crash into mediocrity somewhere in the middle.

Where am I going with this? Let's come back to the dragons and phoenixes and the misty, dreamy vistas, and my last-night's insights. It's as hard to recapture a last-night's insight as it is to catch a Chinese dragon. But those smoky, storm-green, sea-green colours swirled through my mind and took me to something I'd written about in my latest book, Dreaming Worlds Awake, (C p 88) where, in a dream, I'd found myself travelling out into a landscape I described as vague and characterised as dull, empty; a study in mid-grays; clouds, smoke, fog. Then Jacob Epstein asked me, 'Disappointing? Is that it?' And this is exactly what Victoria Finlay says when she finally tracks down, at the far side of a courtyard, behind an unassuming door, heavily guarded by khaki-clad Chinese security men, the few, and recently uncovered, mi-se bowls in existence. Dull, and disappointing! after journeying to the far reaches of the empire to find them.

So what is their appeal? Why so highly prized that only royalty (with their assumed refinement and sensibilities,) could see them and use them? Listen to Victoria as their secret begins to dawn on her. And my own 'far-out- beyond-consciousness' dream experience. (And also, if anyone has read Doris Lessing's The Marriage Between Zones Three, Four and Five, her glimpse of that misty region she couldn't quite reach.) Is it that this zone, or edge-of-consciousness landscape with its foggy, misty hues is where we may be taken and returned (for the most part sans memory,) but return with something in ourselves changed for the better and for good?

31st DECEMBER 2011

WITH a degree of horror, I see that half a year has gone by since I last posted anything on my blog. Summer Pudding has morphed into Eve's Pudding; New Year's Eve, 31st December, and it is my father's birthday. He would have been 110 today: I shall light a candle for him.

I've decided; this year will be the year of the paint box -- or palette -- or more precisely the new tubes of acrylic paint - a Christmas gift from Michael - and the cracked kitchen plate I use for mixing colours. In the wee small hours when I awoke this morning - it's getting to be a habit, this waking for a wee half way through the night - I opened one of my bedside books, COLOUR; Travels Through the Paintbox, at the page GREEN. My artist friend Pat Panton lent it me - it's more of a tome than a book - 494 pages - something you have to dip into rather than read cover to cover. But it's absolutely fabulous (to borrow a phrase). Fascinating. The page I opened began with a quote; "Carving the light from the Moon to dye the mountain stream." by XU YIN, the Five Dynasties poet talking about mi se, pronounced 'mee ser' meaning mysterious colour.

The book's author, Victoria Finlay, tells us; There was once in China a secret colour. It was so secret that only royalty could use it. She then goes on to speak about 'Celadon' the generic name for such mysterious grey-green colours - underglaze colours found in porcelain - the mysterious non-colours; misty, dreamy, ghostly, pale, foggy - colours of dragons, phoenixes, lotuses. Colours prized beyond measure because of their flaws. A piece of porcelain, a tiny bowl, became 'prefect' precisely because of it 'imperfections', such as the spider's-web like flaws in the glaze, or the 'crackle' - extremely difficult to achieve. You had to get the kiln temperature dead right; too hot or too cold, too fast or slow in its cooling and you had to bin it - disaster!

So, this will be The Year of Colour for me. Perhaps the year of the phoenix, the dragon and the lotus. And a day today, to celebrate GREEN.

SUMMER PUDDING

NOW we're well and truly into Summer, a change of tack. My friend Skip, aka Robert Palmer, poet and editor of my latest book, 'Dreaming World Awake,' gave me a book yesterday, one he'd found in some 2nd hand bookstore; Highways and Byways in : Yorkshire. I can't take my head out of it. He gave it me knowing I was a Yorkshire Lass born and bred, tho' strangely my thoughts had already been turning back to my heritage these last few weeks. Making summer pudding I can't help looking to my grandmother, now long dead, but seeking in memory for her cookery tips. She was a professional cook, but retired towards the end of the last war. But that's another story. This story is remembering that she'd lived as a small child on the outskirts of Sheffield and, all the time I knew her, she'd spend long summer hours gathering free food out in the wilds and moorlands where mushrooms, bilberries and blackberries grew. Her summer puds were the stuff of legend and fairey tale; once tasted, they became the standard of all that was delicious and luxurious --and all for FREE!

She'd lived along with 7 other children (back in 18' something-or-other) in a tiny cottage near Loxely Hall. Robin of Loxely. Tales of Robin Hood abounded here in South Yorkshire. Just across the border, down in Derbyshire, there was the grave of Little John in Hathersedge Churchyard. He must have been 7 or 8ft tall to judge by the size of it. As a child myself, we often made the trip in my father's old Ford car to Sherwood Forest in the county of Nottingham, but until reading this book today, I didn't realise that Sherwood had stretched, not only as far as Sheffield, but way up into the north of Yorkshire. This is going back into the mists of recorded history, of course, but it is well known that Britain was once covered in wild and dangerous forest. What I'm discovering now is how the Robin Hood legend persists across wide stretch of the Midlands and Yorkshire.

The authors of this book discuss this in an early chapter. Here I quote; The argument (of these scholars) is, I understand, that Robin was no more that "a faint western echo of the heroes of solar mythology" ; indeed, no better than Poor William of Cloudesley," that good yeoman," who modern wisdom has also relegated to the land of shadows, and who has been identified by some bearded professor with "the Nibelungs, the heroes of Cloudland." It is not now for the first time that I notice what a short and easy way there seems to be from the studies of professors into Cloudland. But let the professors e'ne go there if they will. Cloudland is a long way off; and it is moreover full of clever people, who are always a nuisance to their neighbours. We will stay upon the green earth, and watch the shadows sweeping by across the trees, and smell the fresh scents of the spring grass, and catch what we can of the lustiness of that strong, simple life among the downs and woodlands of which the old ballad writers said in such incomparable language.
"In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full mery in feyre Foreste
To here the fowlys song
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hilles bee.
And shadow hem in the leves grene
Under the grenewode tree."

December into Spring 11

AT EASTER WHEN MICHAEL AND I WERE

celebrating on top of the pass above Crickhowel, the family were taking a break in Turkey. As we, luxuriated under blue skies and a rare period of warm British sunshine, Sandhya, Mark and the girls were shivering in snowy Istanbul. Towards the end of the week, apparently, they'd visited a local photographer - maybe it was warmer inside - and all the females dressed up in what, presumably, the tourists are persuaded is Turkish dress. Or maybe it was just a lot of fun, anyway. I notice the menfolk kept well out of it! Would have been nice to see Mark in baggy pants and tuban, wouldn't it!

On top of the pass with the industrial Methyr Tydfel some miles down the valley to one side, and beautiful Crick Howell (I'll abandon trying the Welsh spelling,) nestling between the green hills far down the other side, I'm listening to sheep calling lambs, and a pair of ravens, watching them flying in and out of their nest in the dark granity-like rock escarpment above.




Where I sit, here under this old thorn tree it feels like I'm on top of the World. Today, Easter Day, my new book was published on Lulu.








Flat out now. Has it all been too much, all this excitement? Michael set off and climbed up into the Kingdom of the Eagles - at least he joined the ravens up there, and on his downward path, took this unauthorised view of Esme, the author, Out to the World.




Michael, back from the raven's tops, resting under the old thorn tree. We both look, as our friend Skip said, like a pair of old hippies. I prefer to think he looks like the wise old man. Maybe the shaman. I'm sure it's a magical tree. Certainly a magical day for us both.

UP AND DOWN THE PRIMROSE PATH

FIRST; A Silly Song for Spring!

Spring is springing,

Birds are singing.

Sun's beams abound

But the warmer it grows,

My fingers and toes,

Plus the tip of my nose,

All remain unaccountably froze.

Three in a bed

And Lauren practising Telemann

Family relaxing. Oldies exhausted.

Sickening, isn't it. I'm going to have to break the universal law again, No sooner did I swear I'd never swank about my grandchildren's achievements after Ellis's musical genius results last December, than her youngest sister Artibella arrived yesterday shyly whispering her news. 'Look at my tee-shirt grandma. I've been playing in a tournament at school, and they've made me captain of the rugby team. I'm the only girl in a team of boys, but we won the tournament. Best out of 6 games, all really difficult, but we won, and they gave me this tee-shirt and a lot of games equipment for the school.' So I just had to ask her to pose for her photo in the corner of the room. Didn't I!

This is Arti playing another sort of

game. This time with Dad-dad

Michael. In another corner.

CHRISTMAS DAY AT DRUIDSTONE A rare sight. Our hotel, The Druidstone, poised above icicles on the cliffs above the beach. I was kicking myself at not packing my camera at the last moment, but this picture was taken by Chris Segar. A photographer who knows what

he's doing, Chris and his wife were also a guests at the hotel, and he generously gave me some of the shots he had on his camera. Later in the day he also took several stunning views of the Christmas Day sunset over the sea. After the cold start, the day itself was crisply perfect. Blue skies and calm blue sea, with people taking a walks on the long, golden beaches all the way from Broadhaven to the south to Newgale to the north along the coast until sunset. The sunset colours that Chris captured were amazing; pearly violets, blazing oranges and golds, and I'm hoping to find a way to download a few to add a very different aspect to this unusual but monotone view above.

AND NOW, BREAKING ALL RULES
that say one doesn't praise one's own offspring in public.... I learned last night that Ellis, my middle granddaughter, age 12 had taken her music exam at the Guildhall School of Music with a pass mark of 98% This qualifies her for playing in an adult symphony orchestra. Her instrument is the double bass, the choice of which came about when at the age of 6 she went with her father Mark, one Saturday morning to buy a quarter-sized cello and returned with a half-sized double bass. The 98% mark is the highest ever given and is beyond 'distinction' grade.

Fond parents are aburst with pride - Grandparents Michael and Esme are bereft of words. This is the girl, who a years ago was taken to the Royal Observatory at Greenwich and asked a bearded chief astronomer if she could press the button which opens the great telescope lens. He asked he what she wanted to be when she grew up, and got the reply, 'an astronaut.' 'Go for it , girl' he told her. ' I wish my own granddaughter was as adventurous and brave as you.'

WITH GREAT SADNESS I return to my sprig of Glastonbury Thorn pictured in our garden a few weeks ago --- before the arctic winter befell with a vengeance. I used this image and some accompanying text for my this year's Christmas card. No sooner were they collected from the printer than I heard on TV news that some fool in a fit of mindless violence had taken a chain saw to the original tree which stands below the Torr and cut it to the ground.
So in honor of that 2000 year old parent tree one of who's offspring shoots, (so it's said) is now rooted in our garden, here's the picture again. (Unfortunately and mysteriously it somehow got deleted.)

AND, BABY, IT'S COLD OUTSIDE. WOW! Better stay in. What a shock it was after that glorious November -- all those colours; trees bedecked in gold, amber and russet, blue skies and sunshine for weeks, that we're suddenly into Arctic weather. Temperatures soaring ? --there must be a word for an unbelievably rapid fall, but can't wait for it to emerge -- as I need to look out some extra clothing quick. Back to double underwear and porridge for breakfast long before the anticipated date. Winter Wonderland, if you want to see it that way from inside your house, but a bit of a pain if you're having to dig out your car from a snow drift before venturing out to forage for food.

11 11 11

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone.
In the ranks of Death you'll find him.
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
'Land of Song,' said the Warrior Bard,
'Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee.'


The Minstrel fell, but the foe-man's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under.
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords assunder. And
Said, 'No chain shall sully thee, thou
Soul of Love and Bravery. Thy songs
Were made for the pure and free,
And shall never sound in slavery.

(This is from memory and not necessarily
correct -- I wrote it because I wanted to!)

HARRY PATCH, the last surviver from the 1st W.W. died last year agge 111 (anothe 11 nunber!) He is buried locally, down the hill from where we live in Combe Down.

GLASTONBURY THORN.

It is fabled that Joseph of Arimathea on his visit to Britain in the year A.D 63 brought the Holy Grail to Glastonbury. It was here that his staff took root and budded miraculously on Christmas Day. Almost as miraculously, an off-shoot of this tree is in full flower in our garden right now, along with masses of red berries. As you walk beneath it you breath in its sweet honey-lemony scent.

It has been a wonderful autumn this year, especially for the range of colour in the leaves.
A few days ago Micheal and I took a trip - about an hour's drive from Bath - to a lesser-known
area of Wiltshire known by the locals as, The Golden
Triangle, because it sits between three A roads.
There are a few minor roads crossing the triangle
so very little traffic passes through.

Ancient Inns, big country estates, and pastoral landscapes
take you into a world which is, or was, typical of Southern England. M. spent 3 days here on a recent course given over to the work of Marie-Louise Von Franz called
The Way of Dreaming. He stayed in a splendid house, met
some inspiring people and ate lushious vegy food, all among
the glory of the autumn leaves, rolling green pastures, surrounded by lakes, on one of the estates down here. He was so taken with it all that he brought me to see it
on Monday.


This is from a local village Inn, The Angel, and depicts another legend; Saint Michael, or The Archangel Michael killing the Dragon.

Across the village square is an even older inn; The Lamb.

And finally, a shot of lambs safely grazing.

OCTOBER

MAY in OCTOBER --- or our Christmas flowering
Glastonbury Thorn -- otherwise a variant of the
old fashioned May Blossom, bursting into bloom-
and scent- to boot, in late October, complete with
blood-red berries.


The legend is that St Joseph of Arimethea brought Christianity to Britain along with the Holy Grail. His staff took root, budded, and burst into flower on Christmas Day. And, yes, ours usually is in flower on that day. But this years it's gone a step further and produced red berries and white blossoms together!

The last few days we've had mildness and sunshine, the garden abloom with roses and vivid orange, carmine, gold and magenta flowers of all kinds. But today we're promised frost. Wonderful if it adds sparkle to the May blossom, but too much like it's heralding a long, cold winter for my taste.
Who knows! Let's see.

MORE FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE

Typical Welsh farmhouse with windows that look like it was also used as a chapel.

Boats on the Saintclair's quay inlet looking inland.

Same inlet looking towards the sea.

Brent? geese on the brackish water lake near Dale.

And a view of the oil refinery faint in the distance at Pembroke Docks with the oyster beds in the foreground

I WOULD LIKE TO CALL THIS FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE, although having to use myself and one shot of Michael as the figures. Here I am at the far end of the promontary at Little Haven, drinking it all in.

From past experience, trying to fit text to pics is frustratingly time-consuming, so this is the best I can do for now.

And here, at Saint Non's is a view of all that space. I tried to capture a moment when the sun caught a sliver of yellow-green on the distant hill top, but when I pressed the button it had faded. Nevertheless the sky was well worth recording.

What I so love about this part of the world is that you can seem to have all these miles of beauty to yourself.

Down by the riverside at the Cathedral of Saint David, Micheal is contemplating a walk on the water!

A black Welsh cow contemplating the montain whilst chewng on it cud.

Figure in the landscape contempating the same mountain. (And if she looks right she will see the sea.)

And the same figure, seconds later seated on same rock, with same sea behind to the left, but so bright it seems to have blotted figure out. Either that or evening has descended unexpectedly.

SAINT DAVID'S

One more from our collection, Michael down by the riverside at St.David's Cathedral contemplating a walk on water!

TUM-TI-TUM

Michael and I seem to be spending more and more of our time, these days, dissecting and discussing the lives of the people of Ambridge. Analysing the Archers as if they were REAL! Oh, my Gawd! Tum-ti-tum-ti-tum-ti tum!!!!

Also heard on sound radio, BBC, a few things that made me laugh out loud: British-born Jamaican reggae poet, vegan and Royal bauble decliner, Benjamin Zephaniah being interviewed this week on why he left behind city life to settle in a small village in Lincolnshire. In Birmingham he'd go out of the front door and walk past house after house after house - every one the same. In this village near Spalding he'd leave his house, walk for 20 miles, turn round and still be able to see his house in the distance nestling in the trees. 'What about racism. Wasn't that worse in small village life than in the big City.' Benjamin paused - 'That's certainly what I thought . In the early days there I used to hear people muttering in shops and pubs - although I don't drink myself. I heard them complaining of these immigrants coming here taking our jobs, marrying our women, until I realised they were talking about those stranger-invaders from Norfolk.'

Another news snippet: A posse of Canadian police raided a cannabis farm but hadn't got far inside before they spotted several black bears. Obviously planted with the intent of keeping out any unwelcome interference from the Law. The officers fled! At a safe distance they turned to look back and noticed all the bears peaceably lolling and sitting around -- presumably, according to the image which leaped into my mind - quietly enjoying a spliff.

Summer moving on

TODAY ..... there were a dozen Goldfinches in the garden feeding on magenta flower-head seeds.

That's all! If I had a picture ....

However..... they'll bee onto these very soon -- as soon as the bees move over.

HOT JAZZ MIKADO

It's the end-of-year school concert. Performance begins 6.30, but a little rehearsal back home in the kitchen, and some sisterly hairstyling support in the living room first.



Lauren, who left Malorees junior after her 'dramatic staring role' as a New York reporter in her end-of-year musical 2 years ago, attempts to achieve a convincing top-knot effect for younger sister Ellis's Japanese lady role. while Arti, the youngest, plays a soothing bassoon solo in the kitchen.

Soon, in the school hall, the lights are about to go up, the audience forgather, and the stage is set!
(conceived and painted by their mother Sandhya, who teaches at the same school.)

Meanwhile .. SOMETHING DRAMATIC is about to happen. The audience begin to go wild, as the players get into the swing of things to the strains of a very professional 6 piece jazz band.

NOW FOR THE SECOND ACT .

The Japanese ladies of the court (featuring Ellis, mid stage in pink with a cream flower in her hair) gather round the Mikado. After much dramatic hoo-ha where Nanki-Poo 'returns from the dead' to save the town, and Ko-Ko make the ultimate sacrifice by agreeing to marry the no-so-young lovelorn Katisha, the wedding celebrations of

Nanki-Poo and YumYum can at last take place. And of course, they all live happily ever after...

June, flaming June. And home again.

Complete contrast but home sweet home is great too. After that amazing week in Wales where the wild flowers bordering the narrow lanes overwhelmed the senses - not to mention the knock-out effect of all that space and light and the silence of having it all to ourselves, the more gentle return to our English garden was wonderful in its own way.

Poppies everywhere. A madness of poppy.

Here in the purple passion corner the special dusky purple ones had opened fro the first time and bloomed while we were away.

And here again the giant blowsy pink ladies joined the dance with the bee-bells and the nature spirits lurking among the leaves.

And a splash of scalding scarlet frilly ones.

By the end of the week Michael had finished his splendiferous seat, created from Victorian ironwork rescued from an old garden and been in our shed for maybe 20 years awaiting the turning into realty of the initial vision. Some beautiful hardwood shaped, sanded and drilled to fit the original Victorian scrollwork.

Perfectly placed now to catch the last of the evening sun, we can sit, glass in hand, plates on knees, sipping and enjoying an outdoor Spanish omelet.