Esdragon

NOW IT'S A NEW YEAR!

2011-12-31T03:34:00.000-08:00

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

2011-07-03T08:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-12-04T03:12:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-11T03:24:00.000-08:00

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

2010-10-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-19T09:40:00.001-07:00

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

2010-09-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-19T08:33:00.000-07:00

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

TUM-TI-TUM

2010-08-22T03:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-02T08:40:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-19T08:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-06-12T08:01:00.000-07:00

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.

A Week in Wild West Wales

2010-06-02T03:28:00.000-07:00

This is Nolton Haven, our first evening. The day began hot and bright, sunshine and blue skies all the way down from Bath.

Saint Brides, or San Freidd Monday, brilliant light cool breeze, wall-to-wall blue. Sea, sky, all to ourselves. Someone's old boat, all by itself too.

From the end of the rocky promentary at Little Haven. Tuesday morning.

Long walk, strong wind, all wrapped up in scarf and wollies against the cold. Little cottage in mid-distance; St Davids Head mountain in distance.

Our last evening, cliff top, stunned by the intensity of light, beauty and silence we had absorbed all week.

ELECTOFLATION FATIGUE

2010-05-16T02:40:00.000-07:00

Well, I think I'll bow out of the political scene now. I don't usually get this fussed when it comes to casting my vote, but you must admit this last election has been a humdinger. But now it's boiled down - now the hype and hysterics have died down - to what's being called the Dave&Nick show, otherwise, the Tweedledum-Tweedledees, the Clegarons, the Clammeroons, the whatyouwiilies, and the other side busy now trying to stir up more hilarity with their own version of the Tweedledumdedees, the Mili-Boy-Band, I've had enough excitement for a while.

So I will attempt no further political utterance until the next damn election, 5 years hence, and focus back to my usual flat world of New Energy writing and assorted Ascension maters.

MEET THE GLUMS

2010-05-12T09:05:00.000-07:00

For one brief moment it seemed there might be a real progressive co-operative, non-adversarial government - a rainbow of colours including a few Scotsnats, Welshnats and the Verdantly triumphant Caroline GreenParty. But all too soon the dream was pricked. Sad Gordon resigned but no hands were extended to Nick, and we're now where we are. But at least we got the beginnings of a completely New way of politics, and nothing will be quite the same again. Change has come and the future is ahead - as always - but with a promise of something more mature and grown-up then we've known before.

So to cheer myself up a picture or two. Spring might just be here at last.

Up the garden path!

What Did I Tell You.

2010-05-09T09:56:00.000-07:00

There it is then - crisis and chaos. Be careful what you predict, you may just get it.

I have it from my sources: Confused OAP voted for the Dibberal Lemoncrats. Or was it the Dribbleral Lemoncats? -- Dribbly Lemoncakes...

Wathc this spac3e. I'm jusht off to open another bottle of fizzy water.

VOTE FOR CHANGE, SAY I.

2010-05-06T08:15:00.000-07:00

Oh those empty, blue skies! (Well, not quite so, they're still grey and chill, but with that unpronounceable volcano's dustcloud again drifting our way, the planes 'up North' are grounded once more.) The empty blue skies I'm referring to are the airwaves free of Brown stuff, Clegg mania and that Cameron bloke. I think he's a bloke, isn't he? That's what he claims, anyhow.
But, no. For once we have a Day without any of that stuff, and instead we've had, at least on the bit of radio I listen to, nothing but artists, writers, musicians and a few good storytellers being interviewed. What a Change this is. This is what I call a Change. Yippeeee, hurrah! Let's have more of it.
Of all the interviews this morning, the one which impressed me most was Paul McCarthy, (yes, remember him? He of the Beetles fame.) He was telling us of two of his most recent projects; one, I failed to take in fully - wasn't quite tuned in yet, not quite awake, but it was the one which made me sit up, metaphorically you understand. It had been a suggestion, apparently, coming from a friend. Her idea was to have a special car set aside of the trains - a quiet room for people who wanted just not to be bothered, but where they could have reading material provided. Books of short stories. And she'd approached Paul to see if she could persuade him to write one.

And the second of Paul's projects was that he'd agreed and had written about his own pet subject, getting people to think about the benefits - to themselves, but also to the planet as a whole - of a Meat Free Day. A word with Jamie on the subject had brought him on board too, but Jamie, a step further, had suggested that two meatfree days per week was even better. So we may be in for his next series; Jamie Does Veggie Britain.

Anyway, I'm off to marinade Jamie's Moroccan fish dish for tonight's supper before that one comes on line. But not with out giving you my 5th of May Message for the Day.

Calling all UK voters; Let's go to the next level. Vote for Tomorrow. The Dualistic mode of politics we've been living with for too long, for since like forever, is bust. The Great Awakening is upon us. Dive in and cast your vote for crisis and chaos. What could be more perfect!

PRIMROSE PATH

2010-04-21T03:35:00.000-07:00

In the wake of all the doom and gloom which inspired/clouded my last blog post, the sun is illumining my mood and my garden path right now. Blue, blue empty skies for we Earthbound folk who didn't fly away this Easter brought a breath of unfamiliar silence in which to contemplate a future free of iron birds trailing vapour streams and odorous guiltladen carbon footprints. Wondering perhaps what would take their place. Magic carpets? Glass of wine and thou?

Easter Sunday

2010-04-05T08:55:00.000-07:00

If I'd remembered to take my camera, I'd have some lovely pictures of New Forest ponies to put up. Easter Sunday, and it really felt like Spring. The first sunny day for ages and the cars streaming out from Bath, as well as those heading towards us, all driven at a speed which suggested herds of farm animals penned up far too long over winter, making for their first taste of fresh, green grass in months.

We headed for the New Forest and went off track - got lost a bit - in a part of the world we'd never explored before and came upon The Cuckoo dead on lunchtime. It's a wayside inn, completely and authentically rural. A good local beer, log fire, and crowds of kindly folk drinking and eating in the garden surrounded by spring flowers, or indoors surrounded by oak and pine, flagstones and good-natured chatter. A sweety of a woman proprietor saw us to a sunny table, and with a keen but simple pride proceeded to describe the several dishes of home cooked food on offer. We settled for artichoke and celeriac soup with a touch of lemon and ginger, and a plowman's, the proportions of which seemed so staggeringly generous that I nudged Michael, hinting that a plastic carrier in the car would do nicely as a doggie bag. Both the farm-house pate and the wedge of Brie would have done us the week.

Later, at last deep in the forest, it was time to breathe lungsful of sunlit air, stroll over springy lichen, twisty roots, piles of dead beech and oak leaves, and through squelshy water-sodden ground. Ponies all around, some scrubby-looking with their winter coats peeling off, others with bodies bony and thin telling how hard a winter it had been, were nibbling at whatever nourishment they could find on the ground. Of grass we saw no sign, except on the verges of the lanes.

WINTER'S DREAD GRIP and FILM OF THE BOOK

2010-02-28T07:38:00.000-08:00

It was dark - dead of night, so it felt, when I was woken by the blackbird singing its heart out outside my window. But otherwise I'm stuck still in hibernation mode - like the whole of nature around me, it seems. My favourite tree is dead-looking and dropping all its leaves. Never done this before, and we've had it almost 20 years. But this year seems to have been its last straw in its bid to hang on through the winter, dreaming of its native Australia. Always before in February it has burst into clouds of tiny yellow, vanilla and lemon scented flowers.

I feel like I'm dropping my leaves too- hanging on - in hopes. Only last Sunday we picnicked under a deceptive sun, the day seeming to have a Spring in its steps at last. 20 Roedeer ran past and Michael, with his sharp ears, heard a skylark overhead. Yet winter is back with a vengeance and threatens us with a further round of fluey colds, or worse.

Speaking of books into films, (as I did earlier) I heard the 'critics' verdicting on The Lovely Bones. And if I believe what they say- and I'm inclined to on this occasion - my opinion, for what it's worth, is read the book! Forget the film. I shouldn't pronounce on somethingg I haven't seen, but, from what I hear, all the important elements, psychological and spiritual depths and subtleties have been airbrushed by Hollywood, box-office gloss.

FLYING KITES

2010-02-20T09:32:00.000-08:00

Half Term and the kids down for a couple of days, and the forecast was snow over Bath. The deepest snow of the winter. The fact that it didn't quite happen, but poured with the coldest rain and sleet instead only lifted out spirits slightly. Mid-day was darker than any mid-day I can remember, and buckets and bowls catching streams of drips from the gass roof downstairs, it didn't bode well for a fun time. Friday, however dawned. Sky blue. Sun, instead of water, pouring in throught the ceiling, we set off for the Rainbow Woods and the playing fields carrying our two kites.

BOOK OF THE FILM OF THE BOOK

2010-02-07T02:41:00.000-08:00

As far as I know the film Avatar didn't stem from a book, but I discovered this week that six of the books in my limited library on my short bookshelf either have been or are soon to be, made into films. I wonder what that says about my taste in literature!

But, Avatar: what can I say! Saw the 3D version last week with Kirsten. We'd gone together in one car instead of separately in two, senior citizens mindful of our carbon footprints, only to find a parking fine stuck to the windscreen. A mishap, as we'd displayed our parking ticket wrong side up, in our haste to get into the cinema before the main film started.

Did that take the shine off the film? Well, we managed to put the incident aside temporally, and determined to appeal to the notoriously hard-hearted car cops later, before retiring back home for a restorative cuppa and an obituary verdict on the film. A box office record breaking success, and a great deal of critical acclaim preceded its actual viewing. So what did I make of it?

Forewarned as to the ear-shattering speaker volume I was about to encounter, I'd stuffed my ears with cotton wool. Nevertheless, it was intensely LOUD. I simply don't understand why the sound systems have to blast you out of your seats in order to impress you of their message these days. Yet, there's something there which echoes the way the film begins. A U.S military colossus launches itself into space all guns blazing, the terrifying might of its metal clad, death-dealing army aimed at the heart of a distant planet. We're told that this planet is dangerous beyond imagining; its flora and fauna toxic in the extreme, and its indigenous half animal-half human inhabitants must be subdued at all cost.

Sounds familiar? Well, we've all been here before! The Evil Empire, a projection, as psychologists say of that within ourselves which is too awful, or too painful to own, now, in this unspecified future, has shifted from planet Earth and transmogrified into outer space. Forewarned about the sound-system, I'd also come to it with memories of the last time I'd seen a 3D film, and prepared myself for flying missiles. Wasn't going to be caught out this time. However, things have come on greatly since the 60s red and green specs days. The new Real3D glasses could double as sun-specs and the CGI is stunning and literally breathtaking. I mean it hits you where it hurts. Everywhere! You certainly feel it, anyway. Senses are bombarded left, right and centre, and I was prepared for that. But I hadn't anticipated grace and subtlety. Certainly there was danger to be encountered here; primitive instinct and raw nature, red in prehistoric multi-toothsomeness and claw, yet it almost achieves an intelligent sensitivity and a shimmering sort of beauty. And, I detect, an attempt on the writer's part to enter imaginatively and with some feeling into the extraordinary and unknown possibilities of how life might have developed out there in the Great Elsewhere. Pity they had to resort to that newagey eurithmics session round The Big Tree.

But Coming Soon, though, I hope, will be the three books I mentioned on my shelf: a film version of Cormac McCarthy's The Road; Jose Saramago's Seeing (to be called Blindness, I'm told, although not to be confused with his book Blindness,) and finally, Alice Sebold's book, The Lovely Bones. Can't wait to see what they've made of those.

SNOW ON SNOW

2010-01-18T03:33:00.000-08:00

Snow on snow, snow on snow. Layer upon layer.

A few pics from the bedroom window to remind me what it looked like and felt like a few days ago. Thermal undies for us and relays of food for the birds, which included some rare visitors incl. jays, fielfares and redwings. My summer blackbird atop the highest branch of the dead tree, dead centre of the photo on the right, with another feeding on crumbs and seeds on the wall in the foreground. (Note the fancied-up effect framing the picture, and the halo effect on the other! thanks to 'transform your image with photoshop.') Our two cars nicely buried under drifts of snow meant we couldn't get them out and down the track to the main road for days. But at least we could enjoy the view.

Christmas Day in the Morning

2009-12-31T09:06:00.000-08:00

I saw three ships.

I opened the curtains and there they were -- on Christmas Day in the Morning at Druidstone. This pic might need a magnifier to see them, but they're there.

A perfect morning, a million miles from anywhere, with nothing more to do but contemplate the lunch menu and a stroll along the cliff top - or see if the tide was out far enough for a walk along the Newgale sands and watch the surfers - that is if there were any waves of the right height and strength coming in. At this time in the morning though, all looked calm and bright.

Last night the dining room had been packed. Not just with guests, but all the locals - people from Haverfordwest and many of the small villages around had gathered for the annual Carols-mince pies-and mulled-wine event. We sang our way through 27 traditional carols with ALL THE VERSES. I found the simultaneous swallowing and singing more difficult than normal, possibly because the lumps in my throat were not only caused by pastry crumbs, but arose from an unexpected sense of awe and magic.

In all the years I have taken part in this kind of

seasonal tradition, I don't think I have ever been so moved. The man on my left, a real Welsh baritone, brought the memories flooding back form childhood. Crammed into our small parlour, standing round the piano, we'd sing out hearts out in the very same manner. My father's voice, a baritone himself, gave a deep, melodious vibrato backing to hold us all together.

When I'd sung in those days, a school girl at my father's elbow and then a student at the piano, I'd contributed a treble descant. Now, decades later, with a Welsh baritone this time by my side I was surprised at how my voice had descended into the lower register parts which my father had once sung. I was also hearing the words as if for the first time; appreciating as never before the language with its descriptions of sparkling silences, of awesome starlight and the crystalline calm of a winter's night. Well known carols now coming alive, spinning their stories, depicting a past when Christmas was indeed a magical and spirit-filled occasion of bitter cold and loud lament. 'Sire,' pleads the page, 'the night grows darker now and the wind blows stronger. Fails my heart I know not how, I can go no-longer.' Then Wenseslas' voice comes in, 'Mark my footsteps good my page, tread thou in them boldly, thou wilt find the winter's rage, freeze thy blood less coldly.' And then the miracle, springing green from the place where his feet have trod, proclaims the act of loving kindness the two have wrought in the teeth of all that the rude winds could throw at them blesses both giver and he who receives equally.

And so to the feasting.

The most fantastic Christmas meal ever. Plate after plate, course after course, each as wonderfully conceived and presented as the one before. Staff from the kitchen and table servers joining us at intervals throughout the meal so we could exchange recipes and swap tit-bits of personal stories.

Here, on right, Jane presiding over the turkey carving.

Boxing Day morning, view from the window, the sea showing signs of the gale which was making its way across the Atlantic, and which hit us with some force during the night. Brrrr... Our bedroom overlooking the ocean felt like being on board some rather antique sailing ship. Rugs lifting off floor and curtails blowing to and fro all to an accompaniment of lightning flashings and a great deal of rude lamenting.

Morning after the storm the day broke cold and

crisp with blue skies again. Come nightime, the

temperatures dropped rapidly and we set up Ellis' our middle granddaughter's new, state of the art, telescope on the grass on top of the cliff. Mark computerised it to point right at the moon. A completely astonishing sight! Brilliant sliver-white light with mountains and craters clear and crisp and very mysterious. a bit of refocusing and there was the 'near by' Jupiter and her moons. This time the brilliant silver-white was shimmering with moving bands of jewel colours. It was perishing cold standing there, glittering frost forming under foot, it was hard to keep my balance on the sloping ground and some of the shimmering must have been due to me shivering. So, a quick dash for the cottage in the hotel grounds where Mark, Sandhya and the girls were staying. Finally several instalments of the U.S comedy 'Curb Your Enthusiasm', accompanied by glasses of a classy wine plus occasional dips into the Xmas choX boX before we grandparents retired to the big house for the rest of the night.

CAROLS CHOIRS CAROLAS CONTRATENORS

2009-12-20T02:36:00.000-08:00

Waking up and seeing the garden transformed by snow sends me looking back - it always snowed at Christmas in days of yore when I was a teenager - Honest, it did! Midnight on Christmas Eve meant hot mince pies and warm fruity non-alcho drinks after an hour or two's walking the sparkling pavements, stopping off at the doorsteps of our Methodist aunts, uncles and cousins who lived around this Shiregreen district of Sheffield. At each house we'd give a hearty rendition of Once in David's, Silent Night, or Come All Ye to the accompaniment of well shaken collecting tins. The heartiness and the vigourousness of the shaking all helped to keep us warm, and besides the hint worked most times, and thus encouraged we'd proceed to the next port of call, before finally ending up at Ted Wragg's the choirmaster's house for well-earned refreshments. Then back home with our chillblanes to H W Bs and hang up stockings in icy bedrooms.

And of course there were Yorkshire carols too.

On the run-up to Christmas the custom for many was to gather in local pubs and inns within the City for a good old sing song. But even better was to journey further out. With my father and a few friends we'd set off in the car, on snow chains, making sure the shovels and sacks in the boot were at the ready to dig us out of drifts and provide a good grip on icy patches. We'd zigg-zagg our way cautiously up to Bolsterstone, a village high in the Pennines just outside Sheffield. The pub lights would be blazing, but before entering into the warm beery atmosphere we would stop to inspect the village stocks, a remnant of an even more distant past. The brass band would be tuning up and orders taken. None of your swanky church hymns here, the mood was merry and ready for a full-on vocal 'let's wake up the village' Hail Smiling Morn, Smiling Morn, Smiling Morn followed by While Shepherds Watched bellowed out to the much older folk tune of Ilkley Moor. Sad to say I've forgotten many of the other old Yorkshire carols now, some of them only known in and around these outer villages, but heartened to hear on the radio only this week that they are being rediscovered and broadcast. Anyone remember, There's A Song for a Time when the Sweet Bells Chime for the Rich and the Poor to pray. Oh that Joyful morn when Christ was born. Oh that Joyful Christmas Day?

Carols belonged to the people. They came from a very ancient tradition, possibly pre-Christian. Round dances (Carole) along with hearty celebratory singing, performed in the winter season and maybe around crackling out-door fires where roastings and feastings were carried on, then later gradually incorporating Christmas themes.

Possibly though, the most memorable ritual of the Season was the annual trip to Bellvue Zoo Manchester. But not like you imagine. First we'd congregate outside the Sheffield City Hall, piling the whole of the Philharmonic Choir plus instruments and assorted members of the fan club, (wives, children, parents,) into a fleet of coaches. Then away we'd go across the Pennines to Manchester. Meanwhile a similar convoy would be crossing over from Huddersfield, the two fleets converging on Bellvue. Finally, all assembled, we'd be met by Sir John Barberolli and his Halle orchestra and choir to give the performance of the year, Handel's Messiah, in the great concert hall to the delight of the giraffes and baboons, and an audience of musically discerning humans. Performance over, the best was yet to be; The Bean Feast. Long tables draped in crisp white cloth and decorated with silver bells and holly displayed the Christmas Tea.

I seem to remember it all getting a bit out of hand towards the end after everyone, big-name soloists, Isabelle Bailey, Cathline Ferrier, and simple citizen alike, had toasted and teased and congratulated each other a few times. Barberolli climbed onto the table and strode down the middle waving his baton, glass in other hand, while his feet squashed and squished the left-over mince pies and jellies. I think the chimps had already been fed by that time and put themselves to bed.

WOWWETWOE IS ME and 'THINGS'

2009-11-25T04:16:00.000-08:00

Buckets, bowls, towels and plastic sheets bedeck the house. How much more of this to come? At least we're not meters deep in it like those poor souls in Cumberland. But after all that rain this summer how much more can the saturated ground, not to mention gutters and downpipes, take?

Apart from that moan, what's new? Sometimes when Life seems to

go on as usual, not presenting anything at all excitingly out of the

old routine, it's easy to think nothing new is happening. But perhaps the everyday on-the-surface view isn't all there is. 'Things' may be on the move elsewhere.

Writing about Jacob Epstein these last few weeks has taken me on a journey into new levels of myself. And a conversation with Crysse last evening round the kitchen table has helped to stir things up - sort of bring them to the surface, clarify, allow in more light -all that sort of thing. With the subject of Synchronicity under discussion it was interesting, and actually quite delightful to find that, just as I had been focusing on one piece of Epstein's sculpture in particular, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, I saw Crysse smile. Intrigued, I asked why. Turns out she has just written a poem on the same subject, affirming both out feelings about how synchronicity works its mysterious way.

AN ARCADIAN HALLOWEVENING

2009-11-02T09:18:00.000-08:00

I mentioned briefly that I'd begun a new book of short stories, dreams, synchronicities and correspondences. I am aiming at about 70 pages and have reached 50. Time to ask for a fresh pair of eyes to take a look, I thought. Crysse Morrison, who'd reviewed and edited my last book agreed to do the honours again - Crysse, as well as having a substantial collection of stories and novels to her credit, also writes and performs poetry at a variety of venues, the strangest of which was her recent appearance atop one of those Plinth thingies in Trafalgar Square this summer. In addition she is soon to appear on stage at the Merlin Theatre in Frome, a new venture. She also leads writer's workshops in different locations around the globe, and combines all this with a spot of novel mentoring. A woman of many talents you'd agree.

We met last night at Kevan Manwaring's most enjoyable Garden of Awen, Samhian/Halloween event at Chapel Arts in Bath, where in the near pitch dark - very atmospheric, very Arcadian with bird songs, intermittent moonbeams and bonfire smoke - I handed over the first 50 pages of my m/s. We sipped a delicate glass of bubbly and toasted Nikki Bennett who was celebrating the launch of her own book of poems, Love Shines Beyond Grief, from which she read a selection during the evening.

In keeping with the Synchronicity aspect of my title, I had just written a few paragraphs on Jacob Epstein, the sculptor. He was a figure very much in the public eye during the time I knew him - controversial, and for decades vilified and attacked for certain of his figures which outraged the public at the time because of the raw power and explicitly primitive aspects of humanity which they portrayed. Like several other artists at the turn of the last century he had a need to break through the barriers of over-civilised society to reveal underlying and universal truths and strengths beneath the surface. I was sad to think that this genius and giant of those times was now virtually forgotten. I was sad also to think that another formidable yet forgotten figure, Carl Jung the psychotherapist, who I'd also written about in the same little book, had also dropped from the scene. How wrong I was! My pen was hardly dry when I heard that Jacob Epstein was having a major exhibition at the Royal Academy, (along with his contemporaries, Eric Gill and H. Gaudiier Brezeska,) and C.G. Jung is in the top 3 best sellers at Amazon right now with his book Modern Man in Search of a Soul.

AMAZON SUCCES

2009-10-24T03:32:00.000-07:00

Yes, they did in fact post up that review after all!

After I'd written it all out again and re-submitted, I got a pop-up saying 'Ooops! you can't have two reviews for the same book.' So I don't know where they'd hidden the one I sent on the 3rd - because that didn't appear, but the second attempt with an extra para came up within the 48 hours they said to expect. Maybe I shall try my hand at reviewing again now. Anyone interested!? For a small fee I could dash you off a rave.

FURY BLOWN OVER: and a REVIEW

2009-10-18T03:03:00.000-07:00

Now I got that Obama business out of the way ... A new thing for me to explode like that! on line - that is. However, a lot's been happening during this summer break during my self-imposed rule of silence. Where shall I start...

I've begun a new book; DREAMING WORLDS AWAKE, Stories, dreams, synchronicities and correspondences, (with a scatter of short poems).

I've also been reading quite a bit too. Amazon, for some reason invited me to write a review of the recent book's I'd bought, and overcoming the old reticences and habits, I thought I'd have a go. The two most recent were, When Skateboards Will be Free: my reluctant political childhood, by Said Sayrafiezadeh, and Sarah Dunant's Sacred Hearts. I don't think I'm very good at reviews, don't seem to have the kind of mind it takes, but I did one and sent it up, only to have it rejected. Actually, I thought, in the end, it wasn't all that bad. So I do wonder why they didn't see fit. Reading other examples, yes, there are several, almost, I'd say, professional write-ups - and looking at the profiles of the contributors, they seem to have been doing this sort of thing for many years. But on the other hand there are a few rather ordinary or even poor ones. The one I gave 5 stars to, Sacred Hearts, one reviewer found nothing to say, but 'Boring, boring, boring and predictable. I could see the ending coming right at the beginning.' Pity she didn't get the bits in between, is all I can say. But then, she was from Texas!

Here is what I wrote on Sarah Dunant's Sacred Hearts; I'll leave you to judge.

This is wonderful! We have so much quality writing about these days that I always feel the book I'm reading at the time is the best yet, but Sarah Dunant's latest novel transported me so convincingly into the heart of this Sixteenth Century convent life, that I was living it alongside her. Hers is a gift which only a writer with the power to inhabit its every aspect can call up.

One facet brought home to me was how, in spite of its religious practices, some of which, in their extremes of self-induced suffering appear bizarre to us in this secular age, convent life offered women of that time the opportunity to develop innate talents; artistic, musical, horticultural and medical, with a degree of respect and authority impossible outside its walls. Above all, what impresses is the sheer beauty of its language invoking with fiery passion the love story at its heart - and perhaps inviting questions on the nature of Love itself.

The developing relationship between the two central characters, the novice Serefina and Suora Zuana, is warmly and subtly drawn. Zuana is basically a healer; knowledgeable in a wide range of medicinal plants, the remedial properties and modes of application which she has learned at her physician/apothecary father's knee. She has inherited his books - at least the ones which remained after his students and other visitors, in the wake of his sudden death, had smuggled out - as well as inheriting his intuitive and scientific mind. As a healer she cares, is compassionate, (as far as the onerous and rigid rules of the convent allow,) and the Madonna Chiara, head of the order, is canny enough to place Serafina into her care. And what a task that is! Torn from her relationship with her young and musically talented lover by a father whose interest is in making the best possible alliance with another prominent family, Serafina is uncontrollably distraught. He has sold this daughter, in effect, to the convent. A sentence no better that life imprisonment.

Madonna Chiara herself is fascinating: Zuora says of her, that, not only does she display great political skill in running a prestigious order of nuns during a time when the forces of the counter-reformation were playing out a struggle for the power to direct men's souls, but she could run a empire equally well!

As a writer myself, albeit one who came to the craft rather late in life, I bow to a Master. My own books address questions concerning life in the body and life of the spirit, but from a different perspective, not of unsustainable old beliefs, but one which takes Today out into the Future.

Maybe it was this last para they didn't like! OK. point taken!

A LONG LONG BREAK ... AND NOW....

2009-10-11T02:09:00.000-07:00

All summer I've been quiet, so gloomed and enshaded by cloud and the rain, rain, rain of it that I didn't have the heart in me to give voice. However, events in the world are coming to the boil inside me, and I'm re-energised by fury. Obama has been given the Peace Prize -- and I'm furious! Furious at all the mean-spirited fuss and the missing-the-point stupidity of all those commentators who cry out that he hasn't ACHIEVED ANYTHING YET when the fact is he's already achieved more in the few months of his presidency than many other Nobel Prize recipients managed in their lifetime. I will name no names, but ....

What the hell did they all expect? What is it about humanity that they want a Messiah, a Saviour or God himself to wave a wand and bestow Peace upon us. Down the ages we cry,' Why doesn't God .... Why did He allow...? Why does no-one 'up there' save us from ourselves?' Has no-one heard about free will? God's gift to mankind has always been choice, and if Arafat, Hamas and Fatah, Netanyahu, Al Qaida, Mugabe or whoever, whatever choose not to hear they cannot be forced. And force is what they choose to wield. They are the force; they have the force, and by God they're going to hold on to it. And may I remind you that Bush believed in it too -- and Obama is not George Doubleyoo.

In this secular age we congratulate ourselves on no-longer believing fairytales about this thing we've called God - or for that matter Allah. Yet we seem to have inbuilt a childish longing to have Someone Up There fix it for us. With God dead, we fixate on having a World Leader to do the impossible for us, and we thought we'd found him in Obama. We sensed his visionary intelligence - felt him to be someone special - a breath of fresh air - someone New who could Be The Change we'd hoped to see. Well, maybe he is! but what he brings is the message that We too must be the Change, learning step by step as we go forward together, that we can no longer be bystanders at the game. We are the people and we're All in it together.

Peace is not a thing; it's a process. A long, patient arduous process of negotiation and often of compromise. It requires strength of purpose, hanging on, going on when all seems against you and you seem to be standing still - or worse - going backwards, but carrying your light, holding it high, maintaining your vision. Let's give him and ourselves a cheer. Full support - we're with you!

BLACKBIRD SINGING

2009-07-01T08:02:00.000-07:00

Oh, that damn blackbird! It been singing for me all day. I sometimes join in - I can whistle a bit - lick my lips, roll my tongue in what I hope is the optimum shape for sound quality and aim a few musical phrases at it to which it replies right back by copying my crude notes, and adding extra cadences of its own. Then I whistle back and it answers again, but so beautifully, professional and perfect with its tones, undertones, countertones, overtones, chucklings and chortlings, burbling and bell-tinkling, and that curious golden liquid escaping from a crushed and rusted tin sound.

But it doesn't mind me at all: it seems to enjoy the game of back and forth even tho my efforts are pretty pathetic. Yet I'm enjoying it too, and not caring that I'm a poor partner. I wonder if it sees me as a monster-sized chick? As the night comes on it's still perched on the top bare, branch patiently coaching me in the arts of song?

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

2009-06-25T04:18:00.000-07:00

1/ The reason we have time is - so that everything doesn't happen at once.
Attrib. Alb Einstein.

2/ If at first you don't succeed... then sky-diving's not for you.
Attrib. Arfa Smiff

3/ Clarity is more powerful than any medicine.
Kuthumi (Lal Singh) "Wonderful ... that was one of my better moments. Glad you liked that, Esme."

4/ Simplicity is clarity's best friend.
Kuthumi

CREATOR'S PLAYGROUND

2009-06-12T04:07:00.000-07:00

I recently did an interview with Marisa Calvi who lives in Australia. We met in Cyberspace: it makes world wide travelling so easy! We both have more than a passing interest 'New Energy'. What's that? I'll make some attempt to communicate that in my own way - but you could say it IS communication - being 'in touch' in a very immediate and you might say intimate sense, of touching - depth of feeling - touching into other realities - expanded realities. Expanded consciousness. To take a quote from Tobias, (who's Tobias?) ... we long ago placed these New Energy tools in place for us to use at exactly the time we find ourselves in right Now... "But we had the wisdom to place these tools without even knowing what they were; without knowing exactly what had to be done but knowing that it could be done; without having to manipulate or manufacture a certain tool or a certain system or structure, but to know that at this time when we came to this place on the path that those tools would appear and they would be appropriate and they would be of the New Energy not of the Old."

"...would appear, and would be appropriate .." so I think that's at the heart of it. It's about meeting the challenge, whatever the nature of the thing may be, writing a poem, speaking in front of a live audience, meeting sudden illness or bereavement, financial crisis, but meeting it in the moment, directly from 'the source', which is linking to ones own direct pipeline to interdimentional wisdom - an inner knowing which comes from a place beyond 3 D, dualistic thinking.

I met Marisa on the Shaumbra Creations section of the Crimson Circle Newsletter for February 2009 which was hosting a review/presentation of my 'This Strange and Precious Thing.' She had also recently written a book - a very interesting book - a channelled book. (She tells the story much better than I can, so you can follow her link http://www.newenergywriting.com/ and click on her June 2009 Newsletter which will take you to my interview, and thence to the rest of her website for more about her book.) It is the story of an Egyptian Pharaoh as told by himself - a personal and sensitive account which, unusually for anything told in a first person voice from those distant times, takes us empathetically and respectfully into the world of the feminine experience.

ALKANTARA REVISITED.

2009-06-04T03:46:00.000-07:00

No, I haven't flown right back, it's just that more images are coming in. And not just images in the form of photos, but mind images - remembrances, vivid pictures in my mind, colours streaming in, sunbursts, scents, echoes of conversations had turning into new discussions I might have in the future, or food for thought about things I might write about later.

There's a story I could write around the conversation I had with Rosa and our host Abdel concerning characters in a book and a very strange piece of synchronicity about a strangely gifted tortoise called Cassiopeia.... but that's for another time. But for now, this, taken by Mark, is Sandhya and me just before boarding the plane home.

And this (right) is us tripping out amid the fluorescent bougainvillea again.

Now, this. This image below, when I first saw it at a smaller scale with the figure on the left seeming to merge into the background, I took it at first for some local Moroccan lady and wondered when I was shot. Obviously not when I was present. When I enlarged it I realised with some surprise that the lady in question was myself at the carpet emporium!

It was, of course, from the guided tour we all three of us took that day we went round the Medina.

Another image, (below right) taken by Mark when I was back at Alkantara luxuriating in the shade by the pool no doubt, is quite astonishing, I think. I'm not sure where it was. It may have been at the Riad itself, or somewhere they visited on their own, but it reminds me of the pose of certain goddesses carved on the outside of ancient Indian temples. Yet it has that beauty, delicacy and magical quality which comes with the play of light and shade of Islamic art.

INTERLUDE

2009-06-04T03:11:00.001-07:00

Oh to be in England!

After all that exotic Moroccan colour, and after the shock of that wet, cold grey/green return from Fez in early May, Spring has sprung at last - not only sprung, but leapt into full summer heat. Wonderful! The birds sang their hearts out for a while, but now they're becoming drowsily quiet - except for the cawling and cackling of the corvus family. No, not the noisy neighbours, but crows and jackdaws and such. But if you listen hard you can still catch the sweet twitterings of green and goldfinches and a few swifts on the wing.

Our colours might be more subdued, (and these photos don't do them justice, but try just clicking onto one,) but there's nothing like the sounds and scents of an English garden.

COLOURS

2009-05-09T02:20:00.000-07:00

I've put this up purely for the astonishing colours of the bougainvillea behind yours truly, and for the fact (which I've just discovered) that, if you enter my Blog from the link on my website, (and apparently not otherwise,) you can, with one click enlarge the photo to way beyond screen size. Well, my screen size anyway. So, ignoring the central figure (please) a burst of quite the most improbable colours will explode in front of your eyes. This is an invitation, not a must-do directive. But if, like me, you get that grey/green English chill, and 'where is the summer gone, the blue, blue skies, and whence that golden, skin-basking, sunbathed warmth?' feeling creeping over you, a moment or two spent stepping into the picture and breathing it in, might just bring you a quick, free flight from present reality. (Works for me, anyway.)

One click on the extreme left arrow on the top bar will exit the enlargement.

If you don't have it, my Web-address is: http://esmeellis.co.uk

OUT AND ABOUT

2009-05-07T03:27:00.001-07:00

SUNDAY, and we decided that if I was going to see what the Medina had to offer, we should ask Alkantara to contact their guide and the man with the wheelchair, a rare piece of equipment in this part of the world, and, as we were about to discover, struggling to make our rickety,wobbly passage through the thousands of men, women, children and donkeys crammed into the narrowest of alleys, an object of wonderment to the populous, if all the curious, but not unfriendly stares were an indication.

Sandhya wanted to visit the shop where argan oil is made. Another rarity - bouncing with vitamins of all sorts. I'd read about it too. Make sure you're not palmed off with the inferior stuff diluted with olive oil, we were warned. Our guide knew his stuff however; this was the real MaCoy, and the white salwah chemised and businesslike young woman who claimed her establishment to be a woman's co-operative, soon launched into her sales routine. Orange flower, lavender, rose, chamomile and eucalyptus skin creams and hair oils. Oils for cooking and salads and, mixed with honey and pounded almonds, as a delicious dip for bread - tastes slightly of burnt chocolate. Four women squatting on the floor were hard at work peeling the tough outer skins of what looked like a knobbly nutmeg. Separated flat seeds were then either roasted for the culinary oils, or ground between flat, hand-turned grindstones and thence into a bowl. The amount of oil produced was minuscule, and it was easy to see why a small bottle cost so much. What wasn't so clear was why we were asked to give the women dirhams before leaving the shop. My idea of a co-op is that everyone is payed an equal share of the profit, and not a small pittance dropped into a basket.

Next stop, an instrument maker. Musical instruments of every kind. We were shown and had explained to us any number of strange stringed or woodwind examples. The one which intrigued me above all was described as the most ancient type of string fiddle in the world. I asked the elderly owner, a great and revered craftsman musician, if I could handle it carefully. There were just two strings, and to my ear, they gave the same sound. But in his hands a tune of strange sorts was coaxed out of it. He seemed delighted to have his picture taken.

Our guide standing behind him.

On to the great mosque Kairaouine, 'the oldest university in the world' according to our guide, and founded in the 9th Century by Fatima, one of two sisters who each endowed Fez with thoelogical establishements. The massive doors were being closed for noon-day prayers as we arrived, and we were told to take our photos quickly. I aimed my camera and shot, hoping I'd managed to snap the breathtaking splendour of the outer courtyard, which moments before had been crowded with tourists, but its light must have been too brilliant because I only captured the family who were emerging as the

doors closed.

A last look at the streets. Outside the ancient Caravanseri which a thousand years ago stabled camels, horse, mules and the merchants and drivers from every part of the Oriental world, and from the wild Northern lands too, no doubt. Gold, jewels, spices and slaves were weighed and exchanged inside. Now it is The Museum of Wood. Trunks mainly of Cedar, several different species, diagonally sliced and highly polished stand in the lower floor. The higher floors are where rich merchants slept and feasted.

The Tannery: showing in the distance the dwellings of the thousand year old city, housing the hundred thousands of Fessi citizens. Leather goods of all kinds, slippers, purses, are sold in the cramped streets.

Sandhya wondering how to exit the carpet warehouse after having been seduced by rounds of mint tea and a sales speel so polished, erudite and long winded that we almose went home with this wondrous Berber hand-woven kilim.

A last look at the Alkantara garden. And the street close to the Bab, the Medina Gate where we were to meet the taxi for the airport. The street where we did buy (Mark, white tee shirt right) bags of black and pale green olives, dried apricots, gigantic delicious dates, bags of perfect almonds and dried muscats on the vine.

RIAD ALKANTARA FRIDAY AND SATURDAY

2009-05-06T08:01:00.000-07:00

Mine, all mine.

Yes, this is my room.
At this scale you can't see the intricate detail of the carving around and above the doorway to my bedroom, or the wrought ironwork of the windows, all of which open out into this quiet courtyard/ sitting room. Mark and Sandhya's room is opposite on the other side of the courtyard. To the left is the library, a red velvet upholstered reading room and music room, complete with inlaid chess table and pieces ready for a game. If, suddenly, you couldn't resist the urge to find an aficionado partner to give you a game before retiring for the night, presumably.

On the wall to the right (but picture left) is a wonderfully carved arched decoration with minute forms echoing the arches in the pillars outside on the terrace.
Almost without exception, everything here is perfectly symmetrical, but these tiny forms slightly disobey the rule, giving the impression of ripples, like a waterfall in white stone.

Inside the room. By the time we were shown to our rooms on the first night - and of course, the taxi driver had still been waiting for us at Fez airport. As so too the men; the guide and the wheelchair man, both standing patiently in the dark cold square - it was around 2.30 a.m. After examining the room and the turquoise tiled sunken bath and shower, I turned the key in the door and flung myself on the silky Egyptian cotton bed sheets and closed my eyes. Fearing that I'd be asleep before managing to undress if I wasn't careful, I opened them again. I don't think I'd noticed it was a four-poster bed until I peered up through it to the ceiling high above. Gasp! A fantastic, intricately carved and painted cedar wood ceiling.

Corner of room. Stained glass window looking onto courtyard and door to bathroom, view also from flat on back, looking up through bed-post.

Night, night. I'm going to give that pool a go in the morning.

MOROCCAN IMPRESSIONS

2009-05-06T03:26:00.000-07:00

First, a 3 1/2 hour stop-over at Casablanca. The plan, for Mark and Sandhya, was to take a taxi and sample the nightlife. The airport was modern and sterile with its marble floors and aluminium seating - few people at that time of night. Leafing thro' the guide book the discovery was: Casablanca, a huge city, is noted for its extreme poverty, prostitution, violence and crime. H. Bogart's 'Here's looking at you, kid,' along with the brimming eyes of Ingrid Bergman, was filmed, on set, in Hollywood. Suddenly the taxi drive lost its appeal. From 10.30 onwards crowds of people, men with women, the regulation 12 steps behind, all dressed in white from head to foot, men's heads covered in crocheted white caps, began streaming in. Some had brilliant gold flasks around their necks: we guessed they were pilgrims.

Our plane was late. Growing concern. Would the guide still be there the other end? It was way past midnight, and unusually cold. And the guy with the wheelchair? Without these there'd be no way we'd find out way through the Medina to the Riad, and no way I'd be able to walk it even if we could.

1/Sandhya on terrace, 2/ me ditto,

Fez breakfast; big jug of Arabic coffee, orangejuice in blue hand-painted pitcher, little hot round breads and pancakes, 7 kinds of confitures, cream cheeses and olives taken on the Bougainvillea Terrace overlooking pool, next morning, Friday, 1st May. Dazzling; stunning; I decide to spend the day here, maybe test the water in the pool, even swim, have a salad fron lunch in the waterside gazebo while the other two go off exploring. It's obligatory to have a guide; without one you'd never find your way out of the Medina - maybe not get out alive. I'll leave all that till tomorrow.

View of terrace from across the pool.

MOROCCO BOUND

2009-04-27T03:57:00.000-07:00

I'm off on the road to Morocco ....... It feels surreal - an unlikely dream I haven't yet begun to believe in, and by the time I get back with, what I hope will be evidence that I wuz there, maybe it will begun to sink in. It will be a very short trip, but I'm hoping to bring a few pics to prove it to myself, and I'm powering up my new(ish) camera's batteries ready for whatever catches my eye. Like a dream, none of this was planned in advance, the opportunity came out of the blue, so there's no more to say just now, except I'll put up some photos after I return.

Talking of dreams, this last few weeks my nights have been full of weird and wonderful multi snippets of moving pictures and strangely coloured scenes from outerspace - or is it innerspace? A plethora of disturbing, intriguing, affirming images and visions which I don't have time to record just now, but which shower me with material for much future writing and philosophising. Watch this space.

EASTER SUNDAY EGGSTRA

2009-04-12T01:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, we had the bananas, now we have EGGS! The quartet of bantam Speckledie hens which Michael bought to put into an old hen-house he'd been given about a month ago, have cleverly managed to present us with two brown eggs (each the size of a large grape!*?) in time for our breakfast this Easter Day morning. HOW DID THEY KNOW? Maybe the full moon on Good Friday night had something to do with it.

After a couple of weeks for settling in, they're now ranging free, pecking and scratching among the herbage and verdure for interesting beetles and grubs. That's when they're not eating their expensive fowl pellets and porridge oats. Haven't got the figures, and so haven't yet worked out the costs, the profit/loss calculation - the setting up costs, the feeders and water containers, luxury bags of bedding hay, roofing materials, rat-proof and fox-proof netting, not to mention their top quality, twice-a-day pellets, versus the profit on the first two mini eggs, but with luck, come the end of their life, it's a fair bet we might just break even.

EASTER MONDAY

"Look! Is that a black sheep over there? Two white ones and one black.''
"Careful! Don't get too close, dear."
"Why not? It's not as if they're bulls or anything, but they do look strange, don't they. And so BIG? Why do they have such LONG necks?"

What a fabulous Spring day! Easter Monday. We packed some sandwiches, fruit and cake and took ourselves off into the heart of the English countryside. We headed for our secret spot, a dome-shaped hillside steeply - almost precariously, overlooking a wooded valley, where at the right time of ear you can find five different kinds of wild orchids.

To get there we walked through a pasture, keeping our distance from a flock of surprised, and surprising llamas, on through meadows and woodlands carpeted with primroses, intense violets, wild garlic and bluebells - and not a human soul! We spread out rug on the orchid hill, though on this April day the grass was short, green, and primrose strewn. Catching the breeze, clouds of mini flowers from blackthorn and cherry dusted the ground around us. Blue sky from end to end with circling and corkscrewing buzzards calling like aero-kittens as the only sound audible in the miles and miles of silence.

MARCHES ON

2009-03-26T03:39:00.000-07:00

We're the best part through with March already and there have been so many To DO's on my To Do list that I've had no time to update my blog. Probably also, none of this busy-ness was this least bit interesting to others. However, just in case... I'm in the midst of having a full new website created which will include, not only a page/pages devoted to each of my three books, but pages also of a selection of my sculpture and a few paintings and drawings.

Many of the sculptures I managed to complete in the years when I was still involved with three dimensional work were life-size figures, and many, if not most of these have been left behind in one way or another. Sculpture, unlike your two dimensional stuff, is hard to store. You can't slot it into racks or put it up in your loft. It's heavy. It's bulky. And reluctantly, I had to leave several of my figures behind over the years in gardens or fields, or other people's sheds. Some of my earlier 'oeuvre' were stolen from the studio I shared in London during the time I was away that year in Rome ('58/59'). I guess I was shocked for a time when I returned and found them gone, but life was all movement in those days, and I soon moved on. So, in short, I now have only bits and pieces, a handfull of small bronzes and ceramics plus a couple of life-size figures.

However, gathering the remains of my stuff together has been a bit of an emotional roller coaster. A piece here, a piece there, and what surfaced was a sense of a lifetime's work being drawn together. One charcoal drawing, e. g. was done at the British Museum while I was a student at the Royal College in the mid-fifties. An aluminium figure which was cast on a trip back to Sheffield visiting friends who were teaching in the sculpture department at my old college in Psalter Lane. My friend Derek had invited me to try out their facilities. I'd brought a couple of things with me carved from polystyrene blocks, and we decided that sand casting might be a good way to tackle them. Sand casting bronze was a traditional craft in Sheffield, and I'd often watched the men at work there in my student days, fascinated by the process. We'd never had this facility in the old Art College, but the building had since been extended and modernised, and money lavished on all kinds of equipment. I was eager to try some of them out for myself and get to know how this 'new' material worked. You don't often get chance to play in a sand pit! We set the blocks, plus runners and risers in the sand mix, tamping it down in the old familiar way, then melted the aluminium. When it reached the right temperature we poured it into the cast. Happy days!

BANANARAMA UPDATE

2009-03-12T11:06:00.000-07:00

YES, WE HAVE BANANAS!

AND on my birthday, too! Not only 'A' birthday, but my 3/4 of a century day.

What a golden gift. And what's more, they are delicious! Wowee! I'd love to share them with you, but you know how it is ....

I hadn't expected them to come through that winter, certainly not to ripen. Not until we had some good sun, anyway. But early Spring! Pure gold.

STRANGE THINGS WITH ATLANTIS RISING

2009-02-25T07:51:00.000-08:00

This Saturday, 21st Feb. saw my debut appearance on the shopfloor of Waterstones, Bath. Here I am seated at a small table in the act of signing books. The delightful lady joyfully examining one of the copies is my daughter Sandhya, whose unexpected arrival took me completely by surprise. It was a day of surprises and the unexpected.

There had been a write-up in the local paper a couple of days previously. I was in good company; I spotted the cover of my new book at the bottom of the page below an article on the Bath Literary Festival featuring its artistic director, Sara LeFanu; a cover picture of The Other Half Lives, 'an edgy thriller', by Sophie Hannah; ditto of Sir Menzies Campbell in conversation with Don Foster; and ditto of the forthcoming appearance of Melvin Bragg at Topping & Co with his latest autobiographical novel, Remember Me. Was inclusion in all this illustrious company pushing my luck just a bit far? And what about that headline for The Strange and Precious!; ''Miracle' author weaves love and sci-fi into her new novel." Some header! Well, I though, that's the Bath Chronic, for you. Hope no-one comes along on the day expecting blue smoke and a sparkling magic wand. But something even more extraordinary happened.

It certainly amazed me, anyway.

I had been told by Claire on behalf of the management at Waterstones, to expect people wanting to come up to talk to me about the book. I had to think about that: it's such a complex story I wasn't sure how to approach it. I wrote an Outline, printed out some reviews, compiled a sheet of background scientific research, and wrote an 'About Me'. On the Friday morning I did a few last-minute posters to pin up and took them into town. My write-up in the Chronicle had begun one paragraph; The Island, (which Plato claimed to be the last remaining tip of lost Atlantis,) is the setting for this many-layered story. This gave me an idea; something interesting, not to mention important, to talk about. I enlarged that quote, put it in context, and printed it out ready for the morrow. I'd also checked my emails once or twice in case anything important had come in. It had been a busy morning: I called it a day and had a lunch break.

Later in the afternoon, around 3.30 I checked my emails again. As I opened my BT/Yahoo page a 'breaking news' announcement popped up. I don't usually take much notice of popup news, but there at the top was this item headed; Has The Lost City of Atlantis Been Found? Astonished, I quickly printed it out in economy, b&w print, thinking, Here is something I can definitely use at the signing. The Island is certainly a place where Strange and Precious Things happen; I had already pointed this out when I gave my little talk at the launch, and here was yet another example - the universe presenting me with this last minute gift. But why not splash out and print it out in colour, I told myself. I opened up Yahoo again, but now, only minutes later, it had gone! The news item was no-longer there. I stared in disbelief, realising that if I hadn't opened it up just when I did, I wouldn't have seen it at all!

I felt quite miffed at not being able to have the colour version, but it occurred to me later that there was a way to go back onto the news archives, which I did. I'm so uninterested normally that I'd never looked this closely. But the synchronicity of the thing appearing at the exact moment I opened up and then disappearing again was amazing.

In the version I've managed to upload here the image of the sea floor grid is unfortunately difficult to decipher. And the text impossible to read. (I'll search for a better one later.) But, briefly, is says; "A perfect rectangle of criss-cross lines has been found 620 miles off the coast of West Africa. Is this the lost city of Atlantis? Bernie Bamford from Cheshire, UK found the figure while using Google Ocean to explore the sea. Its existence is even more perplexing as the grid is about 3.5 miled down.

Some believe it is the city of Atlantis, a great civilisation that Plato believed sank around 9.700 B.C. Dr. Charles Orser, curator of historical archaeology at New York State University and an authority on Atlantis said, "The site is one of the most prominent places for the proposed location of Atlantis. Even if it turns out to be geographical, it definitely deserves a closer look."

2009-02-17T04:27:00.000-08:00

After the Big Freeze, comes the thaw: after the cover, comes news of the book itself.

Everything seems to have been at a standstill for weeks, frozen and snowed in , and to top it off a bad cold which just wouldn't go away. Sore throat and fits of uncontrollable coughing just when my Waterstones 'signing event' was coming up. People would want to come up and talk to me about the book, the management told me, and here I was unable to croak out a simple sentence without red-in-the faceness, streaming nose and eyes, and the need to dash to the loo to be sick. However ...

Fingers crossed (all of them and toes too,) I shall be there at Bath's major chain bookstore this Saturday Feb 21st from 11.00 a.m. to 1.30 ish. If I hold out that long. AND at the same time, I shall be appearing on the pages of the Crimson Circle Shaumbra Creations site for the month of February. Here is a link:
http://www.crimsoncircle.com/Newsletters/CC-Newsletter-CurrentIssue2009-cover.htm
I hope it works.

If it does and you decide to investigate, it should take you to the Crimson Circle Newsletter Home Page. Look down the left until you see; Shaumbra Creations. Click on it and scroll down that page. Half way down is a picture of Esme Ellis and another pic of the book cover, PLUS a piece about the book itself.

Everything is suddenly on the move. A bit in the local paper and an interview for BBC Radio Bristol on the horizon, too.

* Crimson Circle is a world-wide organisation for Quantum Leap, and New Energy teachers and creators.

COVER STORY

2009-01-25T08:37:00.000-08:00

It's time I said something about this book, then. I thought I'd begin with the cover. That would introduce it nicely. In visual terms there were two main characters I wanted to portray, but they needed a background. I thought first of all I'd try to paint one myself, or maybe take a few photos and piece them together. But then this idea came to me to use a piece of fabric which I had in my possession. It was silk, it had the right sort of colours and was already hand painted. But to make it more my own I wanted to change it in some way, so I scrunched it up and flattened it by placing a piece of glass over it. The result was 'ripple'. My friend Skip, (Robert Palmer,) came in at this point and together we took photos of it, which he then transferred onto the computer where, side by side, we gradually pieced together my ideas for the cover.

Then I made images of my two main characters, the boy and the girl. All good stories have a boy and a girl. But in this case at least, Finn, the young male character, was a boy with a difference. For one thing he arrives on the scene after having spent a few hundred years surfing the Multiverse. He has been summonsed by Gaia, Mother Earth, just as Humanity is on the verge of a major transition, a crisis point in World history, and plummets down through the stratosphere just as Annya, our main female character is floundering in the sea, close to drowning.

The fabric I used for a background has just the right touch of ambiguity. It suggests the sea, while at the same time it is a metaphor for 'the veil' which certain esoteric writers speak of as that which separates us, the living, flesh and blood humans, from those they speak of as being 'on the other side.' These are not terms I feel comfortable about using myself, and I didn't consciously choose a piece of silk with that term in mind. But once in place it felt right, and almost as if someone other than myself had had a hand in its choosing.

O
O

And this is something else which deserves a mention: there was, on many an occasion during the writing of the book, a sense that 'my uptheres' as I call them, were constantly dropping in from time to time, not only with encouragement, but with vital pieces of information at the very moment when I was floundering myself, or felt as if I had come to the very edge of a precipice and didn't have the slightest clue what I was going to say next. I have acknowledged this at the front of the book, crediting figures such as Adamus Saint Germain, Tobias, and the voice of The Reconnections, via Daniel Jacob.

WORD FOR THE DAY

2009-01-25T08:08:00.000-08:00

IN-AUGUR-ATION. I just heard today that this word comes from 'augurdre' meaning reading the omens from the behaviour of birds. This was a Roman custom where a chosen priest and a highly placed politician consulted the auguries who spoke on behalf of the gods. These two illustrious representatives of the people would scan the skies looking for the sacredmost spot, the temple in the sky, where it was decided the birds would appear. Then after prayers and incantations were finished they would watch for the very next bird to appear in that space. Thus spoke the gods.

Keeping well in mind that I'm now speaking of We, The People, three days before the Inauguration in Washington a great bird appeared in the sky, and was brought down to earth by a company of its fellow avians -- following me, are you? What transpired a second or two later was by any standard, a miracle.

WE, THE PEOPLE

2009-01-22T04:13:00.000-08:00

Well, I watched and listened - listened carefully, and for myself, I can now come off the fence and say, he IS the real thing. WE, THE PEOPLE, means it's roll up our sleeves time. We are the Hope of the World; we are The Dream we have been dreaming. And we just elected a great guy to stand for US, but not to carry all our expectations that he'll do the work for us.

I think I felt the Earth shift once more. Gaia felt it too, and rejoiced. And in my own humble way, this shift - both the shift in consciousness - the acceleration of the expansion of New Energy, and the actual material reality of the earth beneath our feet - is what I have been writing about in my new book, This Strange and Precious Thing.

If you want to read more about it visit my webpage at: http://www.esmeellis.co.uk/ That is until I get more detail up on my blog.

Having just posted this I discover that the said, D Jacob has put up another of his own which seems to contradict my 'roll up your sleeves time' comment. Not the first time we've disagreed! However, I don't think we actually have. The way I see it is: We, the People are beginning to take the power into our own hands and arrive at the realisation that WE, INDIVIDUALLY have the power to change our reality. That phrase itself is becoming a cliche, but what does it actually mean? If it simply means acting out of the past; acting from the good old, narrow old, self with its grab it all and hold onto it, devil take the looser, mentality, then nothing will have shifted. But neither will the world have changed if we go on adopting the victim role and expect our leaders to magic the solutions to all our problems and inadequacies. So, the question is still; what is our reality? Well, maybe reality is much more than we think it is. And our power to activate change is also greater than we have dreamed of before, because WE are also much more than we think we are. And, again, this is what my new book is about.

OBAMADAY

2009-01-20T03:28:00.000-08:00

Today's the day, but everything's been said, and I can't come up with anything new. From around the world, anyone who's anyone at all, or no-one at all, have been asked their angles and opinions, and we've heard them all, so many times by now that the comments already sound like cliches. Maybe we can only wait and watch now - and hope. Yet as I say this an email has popped in which may have something new. I've quoted from my friend at The Reconnections once before, but I might just squeeze him in again. Here is an excerpt:---

From Daniel Jacob of The Reconnections.
"Everyone has at least one passion. Every heart harbors some secret joy. Many of us have simply lost hope, or forgotten. NOW is our time to remember! NOW is the time to move towards that passion. Step by step. Little by little. Don't worry about doing what you "should." That's a paper tiger. What is it that you REALLY WANT, deep down in your soul? What makes your heart skip a beat, and your blood flow faster in your veins? The more you follow after that, the more ENERGY you attract to yourself.........FLAMES, which have power to warm your spirit, and lift it higher and higher. Do what you can, right where you are. Begin by TELLING ONE PERSON what your passion is. Take a risk. Passion shared is passion multiplied. Step to the line. If you can't speak it, write it. Once the energy is given a chance to breathe.......it takes on a life of its own. If you encounter obstacles in realizing your passion, don't give up. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MslbhDZoniY Step back, give the situation time to "breathe".......and go do something easy.... something fun. The Reconnections call this "HackySack Wisdom." Play. Doodle. Do something "pointless," to restore a sense of FLOW. Or do something simple, that carries no resistance with it. When you feel relaxed, replenished, go back and check on your passion again. Still stuck? Keep flowing. Let that situation be. Go inside and reaffirm your desire......letting go of doubt. If your brain is screaming "Try harder!" ........let your body play,instead. Don't push. Don't let yourself be pushed. Life is no longer about pushing..... Though there is plenty to observe, as we move along life's journey,sooner or later we must come to grips with the fact that LIVING IS NOT A SPECTATOR SPORT. And neither is re-birthing a country. The central focus of Barack Obama's Presidency has always been: "This isn't about me, it's about YOU." Many people on the Capital Mall today were seen wearing t-shirts that read: "This is OUR Inauguration." This is something we must all do together. Divided,we fail. United, we will rise to become more than we ever imagined ourselves to be! "

2009 AND ALL THAT

2009-01-03T04:34:00.000-08:00

And we all seem to be back in the land of the Eyeless (and Toothless) in Gaza. How long does it take? An eye for and eye; a tooth for a tooth, and this is where we end up. Again. Again. Again.

"Promise was that I should Israel ..... deliver;
Ask for this great Deliverer now,
And find him Eyeless in Gaza ,,,"

"But what is this strength if it has not within it a double share of wisdom?" from Samson Agonistes: John Milton.

The Augument
Samson made Captive, Blind, and now in the Prison at Gaza, there to labour as in a common work-house, on a Festival Day, in the general cessation of labour, comes forth into the open Air, to a place nigh, somewhat retir'd there to sit a while and bemoan his condition. Where he happens at length to be visited by certian friends and equals of his tribe, who seek to comfort him what they can; then by his old father Manoa, who endeavours the like, and withal tells him his purpose to procure his liberty by ransom; lastly, that this Feast was propclaim'd by the Philistins as a day of Thanksgiving for thir deliverance from the hands of Samson, which yet more troubles him. Manoa then departs to prosecute his endeavour with the Philistian Lords for Samson's redemption; who in the mean while he is visited by other persons; and lastly by a publik Officer to require his coming to the Feast before the Lords and People, to play or shew his strength in thir presence: he at first refuses, dismissing the publik Officer with absolute denyal to come; at length perswaded inwardly that this was from God, he yields to go along with him, who came now the second time with great threatnings to fetch him, Manoa returns full of joyful hope, to procure e're long his Sons deliverance: in the midst of which discourse an Ebrew comes in haste confusedly at first; and afterward more distinctly relating the Catastrophe, what Samson had done to the Philisins, and by accident to himself: wherein the Tragedy ends. John Milton; Samson agonistes; first published 1671

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

2008-12-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

I just heard Gillian Slovo being interviewed by Mariella Frostrup on Open Book, say, "Fiction gets us closer to the truth. You have to really inhabit your characters - live them deeply however loathsome they may be on the surface. Non-fiction obfuscates the truth because it is loaded with facts."
This was a discussion about writers' relationship to their characters, often members of their own families. Gillian Slovo appeared before the Truth and Reconciliation Committee along with the men who murdered her mother. She came to know them intimately.

THOUGHT TWO (Same day, but can't remeber who said it.) The consolation of the Imagination is NOT imaginary consolation.

CHRISTMAS WAS ...

2008-12-28T08:19:00.000-08:00

Queens Park, London. A Blazing fire. Watching Wallace and Gromit with the three grandchildren plus mum and dad and daddad Mikey -- and oh, the new dog: the black kamikaze whirlwind with eyes like saucers and blood-drawing needle teeth. A manic pint-sized pooch name of Tet Suya (hope I've got that right.) Pushed in face; inch-high legs with a wagglethumb of a tail; thinks he's a bull fighter. That's because he hasn't been out of the house yet and has nothing to measure himself by, except soppy humans who minister to his every need -- at the moment, anyway, and when he's not taking leaps at the baubles hanging on lower branches of the Christmas tree or chewing the electric cables. This activity, he's learning, triggers wallops with rolled up magazines.

The tree, an 8 footer fills the bay window space, and is knee-deep in pressies and decked with lights.

Then there was the goose-feast. The bird had been brought up from the Devon/Dorset border by Michael three days earlier, and now, cooked to a turn by Sandhya, it reposed on a dish of fresh bay leaves, its golden-brown breast topped with bouncing and glistening cranberries and succulent slices of quince in a red wine gravy. Squeezed between the crackers and the glasses were its companion dishes; crisp roasted potatoes, a dish of roast pumpkin, onion and chestnut, and another of thin green beans with shitake mushrooms. There was a strong Japanese flavour to the whole day. From the cups of green tea, to a new DVD of Spirited Away from the wonderful creative imagination of the Japanese film director Hayao Miyazaki who made Howles Moving Castle and Laputa, to the minuscule Tet Suya; name meaning Arrow of Philosophy. At least the arrow bit was fairly accurate.

That was Christmas. What more do you want!

MIRACLE BIRTH

2008-12-03T06:16:00.000-08:00

VERY LITTLE TO REPORT LAST MONTH, not because there wasn't anything going on, but because there was too much - a lot of family stuff including older generation illness and death. But also more work than I could cope with around the business of finding eager buyers for This Strange and Precious Thing, i.e. my new book. Marketing! That's the last thing I wanted to let myself in for, but it seems to be the inevitable consequence which follows writing a book.

And now it's December. And Christmas rushing up. Lordy, Lord! Which brings me to ... BANANAS

Late last Spring I noticed a strange bump. We have this banana tree in the house - we've had it since it was a baby, and almost lost it at the old house where we kept it in our conservatory which went unheated through the winters. Twice it almost gave up the ghost. But three or four years ago we downsized, and moved to a two floor cottage in Combe Down. Small as you enter it from the street, but amazingly spacious when you get inside - and, it included a built-in conservatory at the end of the sitting room. So our plants, as it were, live inside with us.

Discovering this bump one day, I took a closer look. A strange growth! I had to look closer. Hard to believe what I was seeing. Hidden under its great green leaves was a purply flower and a couple of mini bananas. My friend Kirsten, who was with me at the time and heard me squeal in disbelief, rushed over, camera in hand. (She just happened to have a camera in her hand.) Maybe this is everyday stuff; maybe everyone has bananas growing in the corner of their rooms, but for me it was sheer magic.

UPDATE 1: MIDSUMMER SURPRISE

Throughout the dreary summer -- remember it? -- it rained -- but the flower flourished and the nanas kept on growing. Today I fondly inspected it again, wondering if it had taken fright at the frost on the windowpane. But the bananas are still defiant. A proper hand of half sized fruit, and I'm beginning to hope they'll go on growing through the winter.

UPDATE 2: WINTER WONDER

A LITTLE VERSE for November 4

2008-11-06T03:56:00.000-08:00

This verse by the poet Rumi was sent to me by a great friend in the U.S. Daniel Jacob, on the morning Obama was elected.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you;
Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what
you really want: don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

More WORDS FOR THE DAY

2008-10-26T02:46:00.000-07:00

EAT YR HART OUT, KIDS. U DIDNT INVENT IT.

My grandmother, when she was a child, and that was way back in the eighteen-whatevers, was handed a piece of paper by her grandmother, (and that was even wayer back in Victoria's glorious reign,) on which she'd written :----
YY U R, YY U B, I C U R YY 4 ME. Get it! (Too wise your are, too wise you be, I see you are too wise for me.)

DRAGONS ON THE MOVE!

2008-10-24T04:13:00.000-07:00

What's all this dragon business, then? Scary, or what? Well, let's have a look.

Dragons have appeared all over, from Wild, Wet Wales to China. And in this part of the world they've got a bad press, eating all those virgin princesses - well, princesses in general, I suppose. A complex and universal symbol, according to the Illustrated Encycolopaedia of Traditional Symbols; J.C Cooper. A book I highly recommend. ...combining the bird as spirit, and the serpent as matter. ... the breath of life, and the life-giving waters. In those long-ago days the beast represented the Sky gods and their earthly embodiments: emperors, queens and kings.

Breathing fire and lightning, they symbolised the four primal energies combined into One: the earth, the waters, the fire and the air. But also, in the good old days, they embodied male and female in a balanced whole. But like all good things this original state didn't last; they became ambivalent and finally they split. In our neck of the woods, the Occident, they came to be seen as dangerous, negative, evil. The fearsome powers of the dark beneath the Earth; monstrous, chthonic, undifferentiated, destructive. While in the Orient they continued to streak the heavens as beneficent celestial powers.

Yet, at some point inbetween, in Greece for example, they were regarded as guardians of the gold within the earth against whom a creator has to strive for mastership, and which the hero must fight and conquer. Or as the poet Rilke says, 'Our deepest fears are like dragons guarding our deepest treasures.'

Will that do for starters? I wish I had a picture. Maybe I should try to paint one.
_____________________________________________________

I sit down with my materials, sketch book, pastels, paints, with this picture in my mind, but I soon I realise that the image is beyond me to put down on paper. The colours aren't like anything I've seen before, and I don't think pigment paints can capture them. The dragon I see is gold, but purple violet incandescent earth-red all together - all at the same time. In fact it's more the colours than the dragon's form that I'm aware of. Its shape is the usual thing - prehistoric lizard sort of head with fiery, bulging eyes you can't meet and can't look into. Its body, scaly, spiny, massive and heavy - powerful, thrashing its tail - so you can't catch it -- hold it in your vision long enough to paint it. It doesn't say still. It changes and shimmers, and moves so lightly, as if it is made of silken thistledown. So transparent that you realise you're seeing into it, and it's like looking into a cauldron - molten streams of metal, different metals all swirling, mingling their various colours, which as your eyes are drawn further down into the maelstrom, become everchanging streams of water, pouring into fathomless, underground lakes and seas.

It's all still and silent down here among these unnameable blues and greens - a silence like a long-held breath - - 'til you begin to wonder, how long. You're transfixed by a tension - a building pressure - and then you see bubbles rising to the surface - bubbling, boiling - and the pressure mounts, forcing jets of steam up and out.

They come roaring and rumbling like thunder, out from the dragon's nostrils in clouds --thunderclouds, dark and ominous, rolling and filling the sky - until, watching them, it seems they're starting to soften. And the thunder in the deep cavern belly which had been shaking the earth, begins to turn to a purr. The dragon's breath mists, silver and shimmery, releasing pearly scales of honesty, luminous moonpennies, and snowdrops glinting with a million frozen crystals - falling soft and quiet, covering the Earth.

2008-10-16T02:28:00.000-07:00

So, I just couldn't get it in the right place, so here's another! Two for the price of one. You can never have enough of a good thing, says Grandmother Dragon.

What's all that about? This dragon thing? More on that later.

THE END OF CIVILIZATION AS WE KNOW IT?

2008-10-14T08:28:00.000-07:00

Look! I've got to say something. All this time it's taken - gestating - and then the launch a month ago, giving birth, getting it out there, and I haven't said anything yet about This Strange and Precious Thing, my new book. But what's really itching me just now is the little preamble I decided to give at the launch. I'd already read excerpts from it to different small groups of people in the weeks and months before it was finally printed, and not wanting to bore people by reading the same again, I thought I'd try to tell them what I thought the book was about.

I know, I know. If a book doesn't speak for itself, then what's the point of it. So, maybe that was a mistake, but I really wanted to clear a few things up. This categorisation thing, for a start. What kind of book is it, Fact or Fiction? That was easy. It's fiction - but what kind of fiction? Straight, literary fiction, or, as one reviewer had said, sci-fi? Or yet another - two actually -had declared, fantasy? Then yet again, is it a love story? Is it a man's book or a woman's? As far as I was concerned it was all of the above.

And then I wanted to go further and give some indication of the wider context in which it is set, and the underlying and deeper significance of the background without making it sound impossibly complex or serious - which it isn't. So, on the 17th of September I came out with this statement: WE'RE LIVING IN STRANGE AND CHALLENGING TIMES - YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED. All this stuff happening about us at the moment. A whole load of new characters about to hit the stage, dramatis personae. Last year it was the devastating Caterina. This year it's Gustav and Ike. Then come Freddy May and Fanny Mac -- seasons topsy-turvy, credit crunches escalating to financial meltdowns. Famine, flood, war and pestilence - you know - the list goes on and on. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping towards the abyss! -- Are we about to get flushed down the pan? Is this The End of Civilization As We Know It? Well, YES! Why not? As far as I'm concerned, CIVILIZATION AS WE KNOW IT is well past its sell-by date.

Well, you may also have noticed, that two or three days later.... .... Perhaps you'd all better sit up and take notice!

But that still leaves a few more of my prophetic utterances to come. My take on Fantasy, for instance. Fantasy, in my book, is another word for Potential. But perhaps I'd better leave that for another time. Today, after all is a day to celebrate another of my granddaughters birthdays. The middlest one this time is ten years old today! Three granddaughter's birthdays in three weeks - the eldest one come next. I wonder if I can find pictures for them too.

WORD FOR THE DAY

2008-10-04T03:38:00.000-07:00

I heard this only today - on Today, as a matter of fact, radio 4. Some incredible geek has read and digested all 20 volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary and come up with this --

Onononoflab--- or was it Onomonoflaph .... Hells bells, what was it? Blast! I've forgotten it! Anyway, I can tell you what it means: it means some blithering old duffer who starts spluttering with frustration when he just can't recall the word he's searching for.

Odd, that! Been my problem all along, that.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY

2008-10-04T03:32:00.000-07:00

That little angel sitting inside you - oh, yes, everyone has an angel inside - but did you realise it is a child?

Watching some old footage of the violinist Pinki Zucherman last night, what impressed me - apart from his incredible mastery - was - well, it wasn't just youthfulness - he was young in those days, after all, (I mean this was maybe back in the 60s and 70s) but it was something else, something I couldn't put my finger on. And it wasn't just him. I noticed the same thing in his flautist wife and the other friends playing with him - particularly Jacqueline Dupres. He was on fire! incandescent with some undefinable spirit.

It wasn't until I watched him playing with the English Chamber Orchestra - brilliant musicians all - but - none of them had this thing. Impish, Puck-like, Pan-like. And then it struck me: the spirit, the angel inside is always a Child. That's where the miracle comes from.

JUMPING IN

2008-10-03T04:03:00.000-07:00

Written September 26th 08

Well, you have to begin somewhere so I might as well blaze in on a wave of glory, riding piggy-back on this picture which Crysse took last week when she graced the occasion of the launch of 'This Strange and Precious Thing.' That is, as soon as I manage to crack how to paste up pics. I might even start with a picture of my youngest granddaughter who is celebrating her 7th birthday today at Leggoland.

This is the one with the comic teeth which she was wearing on her 5th birthday, and perhaps paste in another, a really nice one of her without the teeth.

She's got teeth in that one, of course, but her own, and demurely not on show.

Just ten days ago I was celebrating the birth of my third book.

Bath writer, Esme Ellis, is how Crysse (Morrison) on her Sept. 21st blog, described me. Writer! But I've never been able to see myself in that role. Words, either in speech or on the page, don't come as easily to me as they seem to come to others. For the best part of my life I've communicated with my fingers - No, I don't mean sign language - I mean through my art, and in particular, my sculpture.

Any formal education I missed out on when, come the eleven plus, way back then, I opted, or rather my mother, bless her, spied in the list of tick-boxes for all the secondary schools on offer at the time in Sheffield, one we hadn't known about; Junior Art School. We did English and maths, and all that, but minimally, and I left at the age of 15 for a full-time course at the Sheffield College of Art. So, That's it. I've begun.