A collision on the highway.
He wondered why he hadn't seen anyone coming.
Come to think of it, lately, he hadn't been able to see too many things before they hit him. It began to worry him.
Then he met someone who told him that there was no way he could have seen things before they hit him. The person said, nothing is really what it seems to be - some problems with our eyes. There's also a veil, he said........
A veil. A few things we're allowed to see; most things, we're not. Our eyes are open, but unseeing. We hear things, but cannot listen. We touch things, but we're unfeeling. We know things, but cannot understand them. We can go to the ends of the world, and not move an inch towards our purpose. We can make this a small planet, and still have to go round the world to reach another's heart. We can.....gain the whole world and still lose our souls. Funny....he remembered that from somewhere, someone. What did it mean, though ?
The smokescreen gets stronger........
Monday, December 15, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
Argus - II
The warrior always fought on the side of right. He knew there was no cause so redoubtable as to be a double shield, as the good cause. If you're not fighting the battle of good and evil, you're no warrior. In any age. And the warrior remembered Stamford Bridge, and then Hastings. He had been a housecarl, valiantly dying with his beloved king Harold.
And then, Bannockburn. The memories spiraled. Each time, he had HAD to choose. And he chose the right and swore his fealty with blood. Lewes, Evesham, Towton, Barnet and Tewkesbury, even in those days rife with treason - even Bosworth. Then, much later, Marston Moor, Naseby, then Dunbar, Worcester. And finally, at Glenfinnan, and then to Culloden field. You always rally on the side of right.
A final battle, for the greatest king alone, remains.....and the warrior waits. For the final arbitration of good and evil. Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside........ avoiding the choice and rationalising is the smokescreen of doom for this age. Behind that veil lurks the end of the world, waiting to catch us in uncomfortable stealth and then to wreak annihilation. The warrior knows that all life's important choices are for good or evil; we choose one or the other even though we might not know it.
The warrior waits....he knows the King will come.
The warrior knew the ways of this land. It was not a land of mere actuality, but of surrealism and myst. The visage of today, the veil of tomorrow. No one place was like it had seemed yesterday; and yet the warrior knew it in all weathers - the colours, the aspects, the guises, the days of cunning sun, of chill rain and frosty snow.
Shipwrecks and splinter at Land's End. The devilry of Lydford Gorge. Sunshine through the Durdle Door and lazy, benign, sunny Lulworth Cove. The pure, serene, angelic Seven Sisters at Beachy Head. Obscure, dark granite crags at Roche. Chalk cliffs at Dover, white and clean. Unending flatness of the Fens at Lincolnshire.
The incredible beauty of the woods at the Forest of Dean. Sunshine over the Black Mountains. Over the Brecon Beacons, into the savagery of other-worldly Snowdonia. 'The veil of rain drawn straight across the face of Cader Idris.' The vastness and variety of the Pembrokeshire coast. Bala Lake. Mythic falls at Pistyll Rheadr and the rushing swirl at Devil's Bridge.
Across the sea, the wild beauty of Wicklow. Lunar rocks and the sinister chill at Dunloe Gap. Ancient, grey, frosted-out Connor Pass, heavenly Killarney. The poignant yet frightening black spires of the Skelligs, looking over to distant America. Moon-like landscape north of Spiddal. Neatly stacked horizontal shelves of cliff-rocks at Moher. Sun-gilded mountains at Connemara. Weird limestone ways over the Burren. The land of the stranger and the wanderer at Donegal. The scree-strewn perfection of Errigal. The 'chair of the giants' on the Antrim Coast.
Back on the mainland.....limestone artistry. A natural amphitheatre at Malham Cove and the horrible gash at Gordale. The pomp and circumstance of falling water at High Force. Green-and-white splendour at Winnats Pass. Smugglers at Flamborough Head. Timeless eternity at Lindisfarne. Taste of Scotland over Northumberland and the Cheviots. The limestone artistry in Yorkshire - Norber Moor and Pen-y-Ghent. Each erratic boulder set lovingly on its own socle. Savage beauty in the valley at Henhole, the inventive mischief of a brook tumbling over a frosted valley.
Over into the heaven-on-earth splendour of the jewel-lakes in Cumbria, nestling among savage, knife-edged mountain ridges, and the exquisite myst of Honister Pass. Helvellyn, Striding Edge. Scafell and Skiddaw. And in between, the jewels of Derwentwater and Buttermere. Daffodils on the shore of Ullswater. Green-and-gray chill mornings, through the trees at Raven Crag, over ribbon-like, silent, still Thirlmere. A storm at Bassenthwaite. Black clouds at hemmed-in Wastwater.
And then, the surreal wonders of Scotland. A land where you are never sure of today, where tomorrow is always new and yesterday....well, if you hadn't been there yesterday, you could only write about it.
The sinister, chilling bog at Rannoch Moor, hemmed in by brooding mountains. Savage, unmerciful but unbelievably beautiful Glencoe, where the snows have still not thawed the memory of 1692. The Great Shepherd of Etive, formidable, venerable, lighting your way north. Ben Nevis, inviting and friendly but treacherous in climb. The bewitching, enchanting, story-book splendour of the glens - Etive, Nevis, Lyon. The vast reservoirs of the Scottish lochs - each a world within a world, ancient, unchanging and eternal in their serenity - Katrine, Tay, Leven, Rannoch; and the gem among gems, "like a flash of images from another world", Loch Lomond, with brooding Ben Lomond and the azurest of azure waters. Loch Ness, always the home of twisting, ancient legend and lore.
The ancient snowfields at Cairn Gorm, remnants of the great Caledonian forest; the home of all those venerable munros. Over to the west, dramatic, emotion-wrought, patriotic Glenfinnan, where the Stuart fires have never been extinguished. Trackless Knoydart, where no man has ever been - the remote Loch Hourn and Loch Nevis. The graceful beauty of the Five Sisters, and the evening sun at Plockton and Kintail, the eternal, mist-laden heights at Glenshiel, never to be revealed.
Eilean Donan, distilling the very spirit of Scotland nobly at the head of the lochs. Over to Wester Ross, the untamed beauty of Loch Assynt. Legendary and mystical Torridon. The flatness of Caithness in such a land - looking over the dramatic, hermit-like stacks at Duncansby and Yesnaby Castle. The soft sculpted sandstone cliff structures at Arbroath. The fiddlehead at Dunnottar, where gold was housed that encircled the brows of Scottish Kings.
Then, to the islands - megalithic Hoy, with that raging, proud old reprobate, the Old Man. Sculpted, musical Staffa where 'nature scoffs at art'. The inhospitable, horrible crags of the Cuillins at Skye, contrasting with graceful, fine-boned Kilt Rock where the waterfall meets the sea. Cloud-blanketed, wet, seeping fog and rain at Mull; stupendous cliffs at Gribun and the mute stones at Fionnphort, overlooking the sea. Sunsets that were more real than an artist's finest dream. Noble Aran, looking over to the trackless wastes of Knoydart on the mainland.
Yes, the warrior knew this land in all weathers; his steed had ridden all over it, from noble battle to noble battle. He knew leaf and stream, mountain and fen, glen, loch and ben, fall and cliff. It was a land that might have been distilled out of a bit of heaven, not always real but provoking imaginings that were every bit as vivid as the land itself. It lodged itself inside you; yet, you could never prove it existed. The images were always more real and tangible than the land beneath your feet.
Argus - I
The rocks had a lunar quality. They dotted hillsides that seemed to rise up on either side and disappear into the clouds. The rocks didn't seem quite as big as we actually found them to be.....
When I walked up to the crest of the hill, I saw a lunar sight. Ghostly green-covered hillsides, laden with craggy rocks that looked like huge, sharp edged crystals of a moon mineral. There was also a cairn to my right. It didn't seem real, except I was there. It didn't seem to me that anyone had been there before....so who had set up the cairn?
Mists continued to swirl.....
************************************************************************************
It was cold, rainy and chill. His wounds needed tending. Armour always slows a warrior down; luckily, he had escaped the slaughter. There was nothing left to do except take to the hills. The upper corries of Torridon. No fit place for a wounded man; but he found a cave and some warmth.
I've got to keep my memories aside,
I've got to try to live again.
And there's a time for waking up and feeling down,
It's when you have to pick your feet up from the ground.
Ride in the sunshine when you can............ there will be another day to change my history. The Cuillins always covered the horizon, black as night.
***********************************************************************************
The cairn told of someone, surely not in this age. As I ran my hands over the stone, I felt the comfort it might have given. When life was simpler. When this world was larger. Slower. When travel indeed meant to go somewhere and feel the distance. And then, when it meant stepping into another age - and stepping back would take an eternity.
There was a time when a rock guitar had grain and gravel, not to grind your teeth in the dust, but just enough to suggest depth. Steel on a cymbal felt like the clash of swords in battle. But when we sang, not of death and destruction, but of sadness, infinite and eternal longings. Of failure, but with hope waiting on the wings. We stopped to song our lives with care and music; and not to brutally pour out our anger any which way we knew. The song was always bigger than us. Sometime world.
I met a man who felt the same way,
That the world had passed him by.
Told me all his troubles,
That the world had made him cry.
Life had kept him waiting,
Regretting his pain inside.
Had to feel underrated,
And hated, besides.
Sometime world, pass me by again,
Carry you, carry me, away.
Sometime world. And the time when love, sunshine and the wind in my hair were of one picture. There is a meadow somewhere in Stonethwaite.......... I remember. The words were easier to write and the pictures clearer. Even murky teals and ashen greys were happier hues.
Her hair was golden brown
Blowin’ free like a cornfield
She was far away
I found it hard to reach her
She told me you can try
But it’s impossible to find her
When I walked up to the crest of the hill, I saw a lunar sight. Ghostly green-covered hillsides, laden with craggy rocks that looked like huge, sharp edged crystals of a moon mineral. There was also a cairn to my right. It didn't seem real, except I was there. It didn't seem to me that anyone had been there before....so who had set up the cairn?
Mists continued to swirl.....
************************************************************************************
It was cold, rainy and chill. His wounds needed tending. Armour always slows a warrior down; luckily, he had escaped the slaughter. There was nothing left to do except take to the hills. The upper corries of Torridon. No fit place for a wounded man; but he found a cave and some warmth.
Battles are supposed to change things, at least change some of the past. And sometimes you can get so weary of it all.
The next day Torridon was a blaze of sunshine. His wounds scarred, and he was on his way. He found a horse; rode south. Past Kintail, then into Knoydart. A trackless wilderness. No one would find him there and the hounds of vengeance would not find a track to lead them.
The sun stayed with him all day.......
I've got to keep my memories aside,
I've got to try to live again.
And there's a time for waking up and feeling down,
It's when you have to pick your feet up from the ground.
Ride in the sunshine when you can............ there will be another day to change my history. The Cuillins always covered the horizon, black as night.
***********************************************************************************
The cairn told of someone, surely not in this age. As I ran my hands over the stone, I felt the comfort it might have given. When life was simpler. When this world was larger. Slower. When travel indeed meant to go somewhere and feel the distance. And then, when it meant stepping into another age - and stepping back would take an eternity.
There was a time when a rock guitar had grain and gravel, not to grind your teeth in the dust, but just enough to suggest depth. Steel on a cymbal felt like the clash of swords in battle. But when we sang, not of death and destruction, but of sadness, infinite and eternal longings. Of failure, but with hope waiting on the wings. We stopped to song our lives with care and music; and not to brutally pour out our anger any which way we knew. The song was always bigger than us. Sometime world.
I met a man who felt the same way,
That the world had passed him by.
Told me all his troubles,
That the world had made him cry.
Life had kept him waiting,
Regretting his pain inside.
Had to feel underrated,
And hated, besides.
Sometime world, pass me by again,
Carry you, carry me, away.
Sometime world. And the time when love, sunshine and the wind in my hair were of one picture. There is a meadow somewhere in Stonethwaite.......... I remember. The words were easier to write and the pictures clearer. Even murky teals and ashen greys were happier hues.
Her hair was golden brown
Blowin’ free like a cornfield
She was far away
I found it hard to reach her
She told me you can try
But it’s impossible to find her
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Ride
"Ride" drummers.
There's this interesting film called The Wages of Fear (French, Le Salaire de la peur). These chaps who hire a few derelicts and nowhere-men to drive a consignment of nitroglycerine across The Andes. When I watched it as a boy at Plaza theatre in Bangalore, it scared the heck out of me - I really was paid the wages of fear.
It's a film filled with tremendous suspense, with fear being amplified to crazy heights. People say it's a sermon on the evils of capitalism........I don't care one way or another, I just like the suspense. Would like to watch it again. They don't make films like that anymore..........
Some drummers like the beautiful sound of wood drumstick tips hitting a steel cymbal...... driving the rhythm along. Maybe it's plastic tips......even better. That tinkle has a full, mature, metallic sound.
Every once in a while it's therapeutic and life-giving to think of the things that AREN'T "riding" the world. Songs like The Eagles' "You Never Cry Like a Lover" from the On The Border album. Written by John David Souther, it's a song filled with satisfying little moments - piano-driven, typical Souther-chord structure (and typically with Souther, an aimless, pointless, empty song done with great deliberation), a very potent minor chord-sequence bridge, with a beautiful, wailing, melodic lead guitar (this was before the days of Felder and Walsh). I like the fact that "You Never Cry Like a Lover" will never ever show up in The Best of Eagles or even any fan-greatest-hits-lists. You know, while we were looking at the parade, a gem passed by in the dust.
Not every drummer rides. And not every song needs a ride. It is somewhat of a particular pleasure:)
Like a rich vein of dark green, glistening hornblende in pegmatite.....or even in regular-grain granite. When geology was the muse, I searched in vain for hornblende....everyone else was after the galena (oh, how it glitters) or the garnets (how they sparkle!). No one wanted the hornblende because actually no one had ever heard of it except as inseperable from granite.
To this day, I have never actually seen a hornblende crystal........and I still hope. To me, it was always the nugget of life, darkly lovely, hidden away in a glittering bed of other minerals. Minerals, of course, are identified by the colour of the streak they leave behind when rubbed on a porcelain streak plate. If life was indeed just a mineral, it would have an obscure streak.
Listen to Ringo ride in "Let It Be" - that tinkle is such a pure, pure sound :)
In 1962, Sam Peckinpah made this beautiful film called Ride The High Country. This was before The Wild Bunch and he still hadn't latched on to the lucre of gore - this was a controlled, loving thing about two ageing gunmen, Joel McCrea and Randolph Scott (oh, how I love this film!!!!) Along the way, the West as it really was in an age gone by, is shown quite accurately.
One of the triumphs of the film is its seemingly incidental portrait of a Wild West gone by. Of course everyone now only remembers the bloodshed of The Wild Bunch.......I haven't even seen The Wild Bunch and I'm immensely glad. I only know Sam of Ride The High Country.
Ride drummers. Particular pleasures. Not by everyone, for everyone or of everyone........
There's this interesting film called The Wages of Fear (French, Le Salaire de la peur). These chaps who hire a few derelicts and nowhere-men to drive a consignment of nitroglycerine across The Andes. When I watched it as a boy at Plaza theatre in Bangalore, it scared the heck out of me - I really was paid the wages of fear.
It's a film filled with tremendous suspense, with fear being amplified to crazy heights. People say it's a sermon on the evils of capitalism........I don't care one way or another, I just like the suspense. Would like to watch it again. They don't make films like that anymore..........
Some drummers like the beautiful sound of wood drumstick tips hitting a steel cymbal...... driving the rhythm along. Maybe it's plastic tips......even better. That tinkle has a full, mature, metallic sound.
Every once in a while it's therapeutic and life-giving to think of the things that AREN'T "riding" the world. Songs like The Eagles' "You Never Cry Like a Lover" from the On The Border album. Written by John David Souther, it's a song filled with satisfying little moments - piano-driven, typical Souther-chord structure (and typically with Souther, an aimless, pointless, empty song done with great deliberation), a very potent minor chord-sequence bridge, with a beautiful, wailing, melodic lead guitar (this was before the days of Felder and Walsh). I like the fact that "You Never Cry Like a Lover" will never ever show up in The Best of Eagles or even any fan-greatest-hits-lists. You know, while we were looking at the parade, a gem passed by in the dust.
Not every drummer rides. And not every song needs a ride. It is somewhat of a particular pleasure:)
Like a rich vein of dark green, glistening hornblende in pegmatite.....or even in regular-grain granite. When geology was the muse, I searched in vain for hornblende....everyone else was after the galena (oh, how it glitters) or the garnets (how they sparkle!). No one wanted the hornblende because actually no one had ever heard of it except as inseperable from granite.
To this day, I have never actually seen a hornblende crystal........and I still hope. To me, it was always the nugget of life, darkly lovely, hidden away in a glittering bed of other minerals. Minerals, of course, are identified by the colour of the streak they leave behind when rubbed on a porcelain streak plate. If life was indeed just a mineral, it would have an obscure streak.
Listen to Ringo ride in "Let It Be" - that tinkle is such a pure, pure sound :)
In 1962, Sam Peckinpah made this beautiful film called Ride The High Country. This was before The Wild Bunch and he still hadn't latched on to the lucre of gore - this was a controlled, loving thing about two ageing gunmen, Joel McCrea and Randolph Scott (oh, how I love this film!!!!) Along the way, the West as it really was in an age gone by, is shown quite accurately.
One of the triumphs of the film is its seemingly incidental portrait of a Wild West gone by. Of course everyone now only remembers the bloodshed of The Wild Bunch.......I haven't even seen The Wild Bunch and I'm immensely glad. I only know Sam of Ride The High Country.
Ride drummers. Particular pleasures. Not by everyone, for everyone or of everyone........
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The rider on the white horse
All night we heard guns. We were told, however, not to make a sound.....or make a move, so they wouldn't know how close we were - or far.
I lay with my other soldiers, waiting for the dawn. I felt a strange stirring about what was to come........ I somehow felt peace was coming. Maybe we would not have to fight anymore.
Have you ever felt....that history was behind you, and you stood in fulfillment of it? The weight of the ages....pressing on you, and here you were! I was restless, far too excited to stay still. At the same time, there was a lightness and calm in my being. I felt deliverance coming. I felt that history....had led to this day.
It was a strange and somewhat scary premonition. I was never one to think about history, or what it could mean. But lately the weariness of war had crept in. My strength was gone, and I could no longer tell who needed my allegience - the red or the white. But I needed to fight, for my family - to live on. And all I wanted was to hang up my sword and rest on my laurels - Mortimer's Cross, St Albans, Wakefield, then Towton.
But it had been enough. I wanted peace.
****************************************************************************************
An hour before dawn.
A thick, enveloping fog was all we could see. The word was out - there would be a decisive push before the enemy got into position.
Once more the sounds of men readying for conflict was heard, permeating the blanket of fog. The day, 14th April. The year, 1471. The day our Lord rose from the dead, centuries ago. Here we rose from the night, ready to shed blood.
We attacked without warning, and there was no time for the enemy. They had not known how close we had been that night! All the same, the columns before us were not what we had been told we'd see.
In the gradually emerging day, my eyes suddenly caught King Edward's banner - the blazing sun and the white rose. And I saw, as in a vision, a white steed. King Edward rode on a white steed, with the sun.
Why did this image capture my mind? I stood still, as the battle raged around me.
As I stood transfixed, time seemed to stop. I felt a searing pain in my thigh and then another in my side. I went down. There was a blazing white light in my eyes, but I did not lose the sight of King Edward on that white steed.
I watched as the Lamb opened the first of the seven seals. Then I heard one of the four living creatures say in a voice like thunder, "Come!" I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.
*************************************************************************************
When I awoke, the world had gotten slower......and had also gone totally silent and wordless. I looked for King Edward, and I could not find him. I was picked up from the bloody grass, and slowly led away to the top of a nearby hill. A clean, pure, refreshing wind blew over my gaping wounds.
In front of me was a vision that took my breath away and I fell faint, opening my mouth to scream and finding no voice.
I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice he judges and makes war. His eyes are like blazing fire, and on his head are many crowns. He has a name written on him that no one knows but he himself. He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and his name is the Word of God. The armies of heaven were following him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean. Out of his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. "He will rule them with an iron scepter." He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS.
I saw then, the only true one, who demanded my allegience. I belonged, like I never had in any battle on earth. I wanted to be in "the armies of heaven, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean"!! I just bowed my head and lay down. I could not raise my head because that vision was too terrifying. All strength and life had slipped from my body.
Then I felt my head being raised. I opened my eyes slowly, and found someone raising me up. As he did, I felt the strength return to my body and I stood up. The vision had gone; now I was walking in a garden. It was dawn.
I never felt as alive as I did then......I felt my life was beginning. The same clean, refreshing wind blew through my hair. I turned to look at the man leading me. He led me along a winding path, to a stone-cut tomb. The stone lay split open and a strange light shone forth from the tomb. It could be just one tomb I knew of - and I knew who had lain there!!!!!
I fell down in front of the tomb, and surrendered up my life. I knew, in an instant, why I had been led to this day - how history leads us along and pushes us to our destiny. My destiny was to give my life away to one who had laid down his.....for me.
***************************************************************************************
As I lay there, entrusting my feeble life into the hands of the Almighty, the vision faded. A tremendous peace filled me, and lay heavily upon my wounded heap of a body. Blood, clotted, and still flowing, covered my feeble frame as I lay on the grass. Pain returned, slowly, and I felt my life ebbing.
It was a bright, clear morning now and I was lifted away, and cared for. I lived again.
I learned later, of King Edward's crushing victory, of Warwick's end, and the victory of the White Rose. Relics of my battle.
My life was in the hands of the rider.....on the white horse. And I knew where my allegience lay - with the armies of heaven.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The cafe at the edge of the highway
What did you expect to find when you walked in here?
Look around you.
Does the bar look spanking new? Actually, it's been here a few centuries. It's known a few million tears staining its top. Some conversations have been held over it that have lived on past their time.
On the walls, there's a lot of wood - again, just a few hundred (or thousand) years old. Pictures that tell ancient tales and draw you into their cosy world. Ancient tales that don't seem a day old - why, they might have happened yesterday.
You can get fresh doughnuts and hot coffee; or fill up with sandwiches over soothing tea. If you're famished, there's a feast in back. You're bound to find that just a bite goes a long way here. Food's just the beginning here; there's so much more. There's a piano if you want to put out a tune; a stage for a really laid-back band:) There's time, if you want to work out your song. We're all waiting to hear it, and we can wait forever.
Ernest mans the bar. He's been here since the place started; I can't remember if he ever wasn't there. He's seen a thing or two; have a chat. Nothing really distinctive about Ernest, he's just a regular guy who loves his job (how many have you seen?) He keeps getting better - it's not the service, it's the conversations. It's the meeting of eyes and the connections that draw in and hold. And he's one of the best.
There's Drew at the pool tables. He can crack any code; even wordlessness. Funny thing is, cracking a code just opens up a world instead of coming up against further walls. How does he do it? Doesn't seem worthwhile to find out, I just know that he does. Shoot some pool anyway; it may help.
There's comfy wingbacks and fluffy sofas to the right of the bar; if you like the feeling of putting your feet up and reading stuff...or just napping with a newspaper on your face. You don't have to chat unless you absolutely want to. Maybe someone'll turn up and you'll end up chatting till closing time, which might be never. Funny things happen here. Funny nice.
The place never closes :)
There's a garden out back. There are whispering pines there; as well as a good old garden pond with fish in it and lotuses. Take a stroll; you can't get too far away. No one gets lost here.
***********************************************************************************
Sometimes, I think of the past in here. There was a chap who came in who'd just backed up his car over his two-year old daughter; he hadn't seen her. We'd had to put him to bed for a while before we could do anything at all with him. Then there was a girl who had just set out to kill her parents. And the teenager who had run away from home because he'd found out he was diseased and couldn't bear to tell anyone. And then of course, the chap who was brought in dead; he'd died at our doorstep.
The stories keep coming back; of course there's no forgetting. But the thing that comes back most is the healing. No one leaves here till they're okay; and some have lived in here all their lives. They still are looking for reasons to go back out; some find reasons and leave, and others find ways to help in here while they're still looking for reasons. Still others have no memory of what they came in for, but they feel safe and never think of leaving. Some in here haven't spoken a word for centuries; and we wait......... but no one feels afraid here.
Sometimes (and only sometimes) I stand at the door and watch the highway. It's too fast for anyone. Just one moment of weakness or miscalculation, or the teeny lapse, and you're gone. There's no time out there; the only sounds are of screaming voices, overheated metal whizzing past at the speed of light, and metal clanging against metal. It amazes me that people pass by the cafe and don't come in......they just go straight on.
The edge of the highway is just beyond our walls, a barren, hostile rut of mud and slime. Beyond, there is the great unknown which we've only heard of.....all we know about it is that it exists and it isn't a nice place to be. Ours is the only cafe within miles either way............. and our doors are always open.
Like I said, we never close. There's no 'closing time'.
*************************************************************************************
So come on in. What's your story?
Look around you.
Does the bar look spanking new? Actually, it's been here a few centuries. It's known a few million tears staining its top. Some conversations have been held over it that have lived on past their time.
On the walls, there's a lot of wood - again, just a few hundred (or thousand) years old. Pictures that tell ancient tales and draw you into their cosy world. Ancient tales that don't seem a day old - why, they might have happened yesterday.
You can get fresh doughnuts and hot coffee; or fill up with sandwiches over soothing tea. If you're famished, there's a feast in back. You're bound to find that just a bite goes a long way here. Food's just the beginning here; there's so much more. There's a piano if you want to put out a tune; a stage for a really laid-back band:) There's time, if you want to work out your song. We're all waiting to hear it, and we can wait forever.
Ernest mans the bar. He's been here since the place started; I can't remember if he ever wasn't there. He's seen a thing or two; have a chat. Nothing really distinctive about Ernest, he's just a regular guy who loves his job (how many have you seen?) He keeps getting better - it's not the service, it's the conversations. It's the meeting of eyes and the connections that draw in and hold. And he's one of the best.
There's Drew at the pool tables. He can crack any code; even wordlessness. Funny thing is, cracking a code just opens up a world instead of coming up against further walls. How does he do it? Doesn't seem worthwhile to find out, I just know that he does. Shoot some pool anyway; it may help.
There's comfy wingbacks and fluffy sofas to the right of the bar; if you like the feeling of putting your feet up and reading stuff...or just napping with a newspaper on your face. You don't have to chat unless you absolutely want to. Maybe someone'll turn up and you'll end up chatting till closing time, which might be never. Funny things happen here. Funny nice.
The place never closes :)
There's a garden out back. There are whispering pines there; as well as a good old garden pond with fish in it and lotuses. Take a stroll; you can't get too far away. No one gets lost here.
***********************************************************************************
Sometimes, I think of the past in here. There was a chap who came in who'd just backed up his car over his two-year old daughter; he hadn't seen her. We'd had to put him to bed for a while before we could do anything at all with him. Then there was a girl who had just set out to kill her parents. And the teenager who had run away from home because he'd found out he was diseased and couldn't bear to tell anyone. And then of course, the chap who was brought in dead; he'd died at our doorstep.
The stories keep coming back; of course there's no forgetting. But the thing that comes back most is the healing. No one leaves here till they're okay; and some have lived in here all their lives. They still are looking for reasons to go back out; some find reasons and leave, and others find ways to help in here while they're still looking for reasons. Still others have no memory of what they came in for, but they feel safe and never think of leaving. Some in here haven't spoken a word for centuries; and we wait......... but no one feels afraid here.
Sometimes (and only sometimes) I stand at the door and watch the highway. It's too fast for anyone. Just one moment of weakness or miscalculation, or the teeny lapse, and you're gone. There's no time out there; the only sounds are of screaming voices, overheated metal whizzing past at the speed of light, and metal clanging against metal. It amazes me that people pass by the cafe and don't come in......they just go straight on.
The edge of the highway is just beyond our walls, a barren, hostile rut of mud and slime. Beyond, there is the great unknown which we've only heard of.....all we know about it is that it exists and it isn't a nice place to be. Ours is the only cafe within miles either way............. and our doors are always open.
Like I said, we never close. There's no 'closing time'.
*************************************************************************************
So come on in. What's your story?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Fire and Rain
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend...
- James Taylor
I remember that I didn't want any friends. I hadn't, in fact, been betrayed by anyone, but I didn't want anyone because no one could possibly have seen what my world was like in those years.
It wasn't a bad world. It was just different. It was unusual. And no one had time or inclination for different and unusual. I do remember that I despaired of anyone being able to know such loneliness. Now and then, when people did connect (briefly), it seemed like dreams had come true; like gentle, healing breeze and the cool riverside. But mostly, it was loneliness. Harsh, cruel, depriving. Here and there, there were brilliant and intricate meadows of eternal flowers. Beautiful children played, their laughter floating eternally through my world. There were brooding young songwriters. And there were brilliant songs that played. The songs were me, and I was them.
I don't know that this world has faded - because I loved to live in it. It was harsh loneliness, but it was beauty beyond compare - filled with children, songs and flowers. Those who lived in it with me, spoke a language that only we knew. Many times, it was wordless because no words could express the depth of loneliness I felt.
Inside me, there was hurt. I didn't know (still don't know to this day) where the hurt came from, where the wound lay. But I didn't want anyone around. I don't know if this is any different today; but I do let people in a lot more now than I did then.
************************************************************************************
Long ago, I resolved I would find out what rock music really was. I had moved through all the lower reaches - acts that my friends then considered legendary. I had heard "Hotel California" and "Stairway to Heaven" in 1988; I had worked out "Child in Time" by 1989.
Something was missing. I felt it keenly. This was not rock music; it was too circumscribed and myopic. I gradually came to see songwriting as the key......and was increasingly drawn to rock that had bits of country music in it. I was headed straight as an arrow towards country-rock, but I didn't know the term then.
Then came Deja Vu, the rock music album that changed my life. I heard it in 1991. Suddenly, it was all about changing the world; and I was reliving Haight-Ashbury in the nineties!!!!!! I remember hating the fact that I was born 2 years too late..... and I did all I could to SOMEHOW call myself a Woodstock child. I read through Philip Norman's Shout! in 1991 and fell in love with The Beatles. I also heard The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" -till today, the best song I have ever heard from "the angry young man". And I was.
Of course "Blowing In The Wind" was an anthem - I caught an exciting glimpse of what "walking on air" was all about, "when you know you have your finger on pulse" and you know you're writing a classic and changing the world. Suddenly, I found I had left behind the congested and myopic walls of my rock music infancy - the herd allegiance to so-called legendary "rock" bands - Led Zepellin, Deep Purple, Pink Floyd..... and I was standing on a vast, high mountain top where there was so much freedom, light and air; where the spirits of songs rode free and wild.
In 1990, I heard about this brooding young songwriter (he had been, in 1971, but here I was, twenty years too late) who had checked himself in to a rehab clinic in 1969.....and had written of his experience in "one of rock's most uncompromising songs" - "Fire and Rain". His name was James Taylor.
************************************************************************************
How lonely it must be to battle alone with oneself !!!!! With no dreams but one's own, with no helping hands but one's own. I somehow suspected that James Taylor would put words to my feelings. This, in fact, is how it turned out:
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just cant remember who to send it to
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Won't you look down upon me, Jesus,
You've got to help me make a stand
Just got to see me through another day
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Been walking my mind to an easy time
My back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around
Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things that come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you, baby, one more time again, now
Thought I'd see you one more time again
There's just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought I'd see you, thought I'd see you,
Fire and rain, now
In a quiet corner in this lonely world......a lonely boy had connected with another lonely person.....in the words of a song. Maybe nothing really happened. But everything had happened, and I was never the same again. I didn't care that I hadn't a friend in the world - I knew James Taylor had stood where I did, and had come up trumps.
There is an always-present, deep-but-not-intrusive string-chord that begins in the second verse....and stays on almost unchanged through the song. It echoed the weight of loneliness I felt in those years. There is also some iconic drumming with brushes - some crashing cymbals that kind of "anthemize" the whole thing towards the end. Of course, the first thing to capture the attention was James' revolutionary (for me at that time) picking on the guitar.
To this day there hasn't been a song like "Fire and Rain"..... and I've heard the best of the best - you name it. Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, even Guy Clark. I'd say, even Emmylou!!!!!! But James Taylor had brought expressions to feelings I didn't know I'd had. A world had opened up where I could understand what makes "Brown-Eyed Girl" the song it is....and how Jackson Browne could write a song like "The Pretender" that captured the hollow emptiness of an entire generation - the 70's.
Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose,
Won't you let me go down in my dreams......
*************************************************************************************
Today, loneliness is a hallmark for me. But it is not fragility - it is resilience. And it is a tower of strength. When I hear a song, I can instantly connect with the songwriter. I know the muses, I know the language, and I can guess at the person inside that writes the song.
But it was "Fire and Rain" that had propped up a lonely, tired, exhausted little boy and helped him stand.....to face a world where no one knew him.
Fire and Rain........and Jesus.
- James Taylor
I remember that I didn't want any friends. I hadn't, in fact, been betrayed by anyone, but I didn't want anyone because no one could possibly have seen what my world was like in those years.
It wasn't a bad world. It was just different. It was unusual. And no one had time or inclination for different and unusual. I do remember that I despaired of anyone being able to know such loneliness. Now and then, when people did connect (briefly), it seemed like dreams had come true; like gentle, healing breeze and the cool riverside. But mostly, it was loneliness. Harsh, cruel, depriving. Here and there, there were brilliant and intricate meadows of eternal flowers. Beautiful children played, their laughter floating eternally through my world. There were brooding young songwriters. And there were brilliant songs that played. The songs were me, and I was them.
I don't know that this world has faded - because I loved to live in it. It was harsh loneliness, but it was beauty beyond compare - filled with children, songs and flowers. Those who lived in it with me, spoke a language that only we knew. Many times, it was wordless because no words could express the depth of loneliness I felt.
Inside me, there was hurt. I didn't know (still don't know to this day) where the hurt came from, where the wound lay. But I didn't want anyone around. I don't know if this is any different today; but I do let people in a lot more now than I did then.
************************************************************************************
Long ago, I resolved I would find out what rock music really was. I had moved through all the lower reaches - acts that my friends then considered legendary. I had heard "Hotel California" and "Stairway to Heaven" in 1988; I had worked out "Child in Time" by 1989.
Something was missing. I felt it keenly. This was not rock music; it was too circumscribed and myopic. I gradually came to see songwriting as the key......and was increasingly drawn to rock that had bits of country music in it. I was headed straight as an arrow towards country-rock, but I didn't know the term then.
Then came Deja Vu, the rock music album that changed my life. I heard it in 1991. Suddenly, it was all about changing the world; and I was reliving Haight-Ashbury in the nineties!!!!!! I remember hating the fact that I was born 2 years too late..... and I did all I could to SOMEHOW call myself a Woodstock child. I read through Philip Norman's Shout! in 1991 and fell in love with The Beatles. I also heard The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes" -till today, the best song I have ever heard from "the angry young man". And I was.
Of course "Blowing In The Wind" was an anthem - I caught an exciting glimpse of what "walking on air" was all about, "when you know you have your finger on pulse" and you know you're writing a classic and changing the world. Suddenly, I found I had left behind the congested and myopic walls of my rock music infancy - the herd allegiance to so-called legendary "rock" bands - Led Zepellin, Deep Purple, Pink Floyd..... and I was standing on a vast, high mountain top where there was so much freedom, light and air; where the spirits of songs rode free and wild.
In 1990, I heard about this brooding young songwriter (he had been, in 1971, but here I was, twenty years too late) who had checked himself in to a rehab clinic in 1969.....and had written of his experience in "one of rock's most uncompromising songs" - "Fire and Rain". His name was James Taylor.
************************************************************************************
How lonely it must be to battle alone with oneself !!!!! With no dreams but one's own, with no helping hands but one's own. I somehow suspected that James Taylor would put words to my feelings. This, in fact, is how it turned out:
Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone
Susanne the plans they made put an end to you
I walked out this morning and I wrote down this song
I just cant remember who to send it to
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Won't you look down upon me, Jesus,
You've got to help me make a stand
Just got to see me through another day
My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again
Been walking my mind to an easy time
My back turned towards the sun
Lord knows when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around
Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line to talk about things that come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you, baby, one more time again, now
Thought I'd see you one more time again
There's just a few things coming my way this time around, now
Thought I'd see you, thought I'd see you,
Fire and rain, now
In a quiet corner in this lonely world......a lonely boy had connected with another lonely person.....in the words of a song. Maybe nothing really happened. But everything had happened, and I was never the same again. I didn't care that I hadn't a friend in the world - I knew James Taylor had stood where I did, and had come up trumps.
There is an always-present, deep-but-not-intrusive string-chord that begins in the second verse....and stays on almost unchanged through the song. It echoed the weight of loneliness I felt in those years. There is also some iconic drumming with brushes - some crashing cymbals that kind of "anthemize" the whole thing towards the end. Of course, the first thing to capture the attention was James' revolutionary (for me at that time) picking on the guitar.
To this day there hasn't been a song like "Fire and Rain"..... and I've heard the best of the best - you name it. Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, even Guy Clark. I'd say, even Emmylou!!!!!! But James Taylor had brought expressions to feelings I didn't know I'd had. A world had opened up where I could understand what makes "Brown-Eyed Girl" the song it is....and how Jackson Browne could write a song like "The Pretender" that captured the hollow emptiness of an entire generation - the 70's.
Deep greens and blues are the colours I choose,
Won't you let me go down in my dreams......
*************************************************************************************
Today, loneliness is a hallmark for me. But it is not fragility - it is resilience. And it is a tower of strength. When I hear a song, I can instantly connect with the songwriter. I know the muses, I know the language, and I can guess at the person inside that writes the song.
But it was "Fire and Rain" that had propped up a lonely, tired, exhausted little boy and helped him stand.....to face a world where no one knew him.
Fire and Rain........and Jesus.
Dream.....because sometimes, they come true.
Dreams.
Most of the time, they give us no chance either way - they make us think (obsessively, sometimes) of places way beyond us; and having once caught us by the scruff and captured our imagination, they never leave us - they haunt us sweetly. We're caught without a chance either way.
By definition, dreams stretch us. A dream isn't, by definition, easily achievable - if it were, it wouldn't be a dream. For who dreams of what is easily within his reach? I don't know what people mean when they speak of "small dreams". I have none. All my dreams (and I suspect, everyone's) are eternal ones. Seemingly unreachable ones.
If you have a dream, hold on to it with all your heart. Don't let anyone deter you from it. Why do I say this? Because, by definition again, everything within our experience and reach tells us "this is impossible". And we mock ourselves. Sometimes cruel blows fell our dreams. A dream shattered is a tragedy beyond human comprehension (of course, we can discount the "dreams" of the wicked) - one of the greatest consequences is a crushed and broken spirit.
But dreams have a way of coming true - sometimes we work with all that's within us and spend all we have to make them happen; sometimes they just lead us, tripping merrily along, to their blossoming. Not all dreams come true; but don't stop dreaming because of that. In fact, all the more reason to dream!!!! I'd say - dream, because they sometimes come true.
Abhinav Bindra, perhaps, had a dream. Perhaps, in his dream, he even thought of the other few billion of us; perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he just had to prove something to himself. But now the future is forever changed; this will be an eternal reference point for the history of sport in this land of ours.
Whatever Bindra did today, the brightest light in the diamond was that he had held on to his dream with all he was; and walked steadfastly towards it, one faltering step at a time.
Don't ever forsake a dream. You will, in a sense, forsake yourself if you do.........because our dreams never forsake us.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Where......the river flows - I
Jacob's well was there, and Jesus, tired as he was from the journey, sat down by the well. It was about the sixth hour. - John 4:6
Jacob's well!! Jesus sighs. A story of a thousand years and five hundred comes tumbling back. Years rolled away, to a clear, clear day. I was there!! A thrill of remembrance.
For everyone else - Jacob's name is but a revered memory. Just a foggy memory - they told me about that old man in the synagogue when I was a child. They told me about Joseph too - some tale of jealousy, a doting father and a journey to Egypt. Just a story....who knows. They say this - this is the well. At least the water hasn't run dry...... who knows whether Jacob really existed? Who cares... a thousand years and five hundred anyway. And the story has certainly run its course, surely it's over.
Townspeople walk by.....who is this handsome stranger? He looks like a Jew - so what does a Jew want here?
Jesus......runs his hand over the stones. Yes....Jacob. Israel, actually, that's the name I gave him - what a man he had been! No one remembers or cares, but this whole story started there, in one sense. Actually with his grandfather Abraham. "Descendants like the sand on the seashore", I told him. Hmmmmmm. A thousand years and five hundred later.....here they live, walk and make their lives. My promise has long been forgotten - the 'descendants' are here, but they don't know a thing about their past, where they came from.
Does anyone really dare to think the story's not over yet? For the few who believe, no it's not over...not till eternity, no..... the 'seed of Abraham', well, they're not all here yet. They will come from the farthest corners of the earth. All through the ages. They will be one. No one but me will be able to count them. Abraham will see it!!!! In years to come, they will be tourists here....and they will remember this day. They will tell the story to their children, to their children's children. This well...... will be revered.
That's all later. For now.....let me play my part. Let me WRITE history.
I'm bushed..... let me sit down here, and remember my son Israel and my son Joseph. What a sweet memory! How dearly Israel loved Joseph! I kept Joseph in the palm of my hand - my wings overshadowed him all through. Israel....will see him again. He isn't dead! He's in my hand.
Memory lulls my tired head....to sleep. Let me put my head on these stones. Israel will remember that so well!!!! A stone pillow.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
My little fluff-ball
This little fellow gets no press.
But that's just it - he wasn't meant for any. If you saw him, you best just watch him bring peace to your own soul. You don't (really) (necessarily) go out and TELL anyone you actually saw him.
In any case, no decent Indian lists worth the name have much to say about this chap. Oh yes, listed he is, but sadly, he is migrant. He doesn't even belong here most of the time. He just spends the winter here. So.....most people here don't even know him.
Winter...is almost over. Gone are the days when we wore thermal stuff. The town thaws. Trees lose their leaves. Everything's bare. Gone are the first iced-out mornings when you passed by a lovely green thicket and heard a "tchuck". You looked. You craned your eyes. But never one did you see. This endearing little fluff-ball is hard to see. But he lets you know he's there. That "tchuck" is one of the most comforting sounds promising a snug winter. And the Blyth's Reed Warbler........forages industriously through the thicket.
And God alone knows from where he comes. He's been halfway round the world, surely.....Iceland, Alaska, Finland.....Argentina perhaps. Or even Australia. Should ask someone to lay in wait for him on Christmas Island. And then come winter and he's back here...to his favourite thicket. Another of life's miracles just unfolded.......
Come April, he will leave again......back halfway across the planet. To another thicket, another moor... somewhere on this planet.
Come back soon, my little fluff-ball!!! I'm gonna tend that thicket very lovingly.....for you.
But that's just it - he wasn't meant for any. If you saw him, you best just watch him bring peace to your own soul. You don't (really) (necessarily) go out and TELL anyone you actually saw him.
In any case, no decent Indian lists worth the name have much to say about this chap. Oh yes, listed he is, but sadly, he is migrant. He doesn't even belong here most of the time. He just spends the winter here. So.....most people here don't even know him.
Winter...is almost over. Gone are the days when we wore thermal stuff. The town thaws. Trees lose their leaves. Everything's bare. Gone are the first iced-out mornings when you passed by a lovely green thicket and heard a "tchuck". You looked. You craned your eyes. But never one did you see. This endearing little fluff-ball is hard to see. But he lets you know he's there. That "tchuck" is one of the most comforting sounds promising a snug winter. And the Blyth's Reed Warbler........forages industriously through the thicket.
And God alone knows from where he comes. He's been halfway round the world, surely.....Iceland, Alaska, Finland.....Argentina perhaps. Or even Australia. Should ask someone to lay in wait for him on Christmas Island. And then come winter and he's back here...to his favourite thicket. Another of life's miracles just unfolded.......
Come April, he will leave again......back halfway across the planet. To another thicket, another moor... somewhere on this planet.
Come back soon, my little fluff-ball!!! I'm gonna tend that thicket very lovingly.....for you.
Meat-deprived foodie cravings (don't look in my eyes now)
It's gonna be a crazy, crazy day.
But early enough, a sweater, jeans and a jacket. Pastrami on rye and a large pickle. With a hot pot of coffee. And no one around in the Deli. Early morning light streaming in through the windows. Not many people about.....
That'll do just fine. Can take anyone on after that :)
Sometimes a crazy craving for pastrami on rye so consumes me.............. No decent deli worth the name in this 'ere town :(((( !!!!!!!
But early enough, a sweater, jeans and a jacket. Pastrami on rye and a large pickle. With a hot pot of coffee. And no one around in the Deli. Early morning light streaming in through the windows. Not many people about.....
That'll do just fine. Can take anyone on after that :) Sometimes a crazy craving for pastrami on rye so consumes me.............. No decent deli worth the name in this 'ere town :(((( !!!!!!!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
If you're awake at four.....
It's time to go now. Don't have to sit and wait.
The pieces never were made to fit. It's one of those crazy jigsaws in which a few essential pieces are lost in the years gone by, with some pieces only waiting for years to come. Either way, don't lose your hair......yes, there is a picture but you can't get all the pieces. You can't imagine how beautiful it is just yet. Don't really know if you have what it takes to see that.
And yet, it's 4 in the morning. The darkest hour is almost here. Everything seems distorted, nothing in perspective. Thoughts, racing through with open swords. Memories, ripping through the lower reaches, where the bleeding never stops. Tears.....are for children. I don't have any tears. They had their day. This isn't day; it's night. And there's no one on this side of the planet. Funny how well you can remember people after they leave. Funny how this all seems familiar; it's all I've known. Do people actually sleep through that hour.....four in the morning?
"The finest hour that I have seen
Is the one that comes between
The edge of night and the break of day
It's when the darkness rolls away."
I was led to believe that my father comes in the morning. He apparently waits for me, with hot breakfast on coals, in the clear, hazy light of morning. By the seashore. I was also told that he's got something to ask...... It's a mighty good thing he comes in the morning....I was beginning to sink. And I'd waited FOR EVER!!!! Can't even stay awake anymore.
This time I want no words. No more thinking about it. No more waiting. I'm ready now. It's time to take my father's hand. It's time to have breakfast and look forward to the light of day, and another. And another. Always. And it's time to look into his eyes, and say YES. To anything he asks. AND FOR MY OWN SAKE, DO IT!!!
It's time to leave the pieces to themselves. I've got to stop making them fit - look, see my hands. That's blood that's stopped to hurt. I don't remember any hurt. Funny!! Must have hurt sometime - that looks nasty now. But I can't remember a thing. And look here - that's clotted. Dried up. THAT CERTAINLY HURTS now....
Those pieces; if you look at them for what they are, there are sharp edges you can't play with. But I don't remember those edges; they just seemed nice to hold and have. Can't even remember when the toy broke and the pieces began. I have to tell myself the truth and stop lying - they're all I have and I have to give them up now.
My father says I don't need my toys anymore.
Gotta sleep. Don't wait up for me at four.
The pieces never were made to fit. It's one of those crazy jigsaws in which a few essential pieces are lost in the years gone by, with some pieces only waiting for years to come. Either way, don't lose your hair......yes, there is a picture but you can't get all the pieces. You can't imagine how beautiful it is just yet. Don't really know if you have what it takes to see that.
And yet, it's 4 in the morning. The darkest hour is almost here. Everything seems distorted, nothing in perspective. Thoughts, racing through with open swords. Memories, ripping through the lower reaches, where the bleeding never stops. Tears.....are for children. I don't have any tears. They had their day. This isn't day; it's night. And there's no one on this side of the planet. Funny how well you can remember people after they leave. Funny how this all seems familiar; it's all I've known. Do people actually sleep through that hour.....four in the morning?
"The finest hour that I have seen
Is the one that comes between
The edge of night and the break of day
It's when the darkness rolls away."
I was led to believe that my father comes in the morning. He apparently waits for me, with hot breakfast on coals, in the clear, hazy light of morning. By the seashore. I was also told that he's got something to ask...... It's a mighty good thing he comes in the morning....I was beginning to sink. And I'd waited FOR EVER!!!! Can't even stay awake anymore.
This time I want no words. No more thinking about it. No more waiting. I'm ready now. It's time to take my father's hand. It's time to have breakfast and look forward to the light of day, and another. And another. Always. And it's time to look into his eyes, and say YES. To anything he asks. AND FOR MY OWN SAKE, DO IT!!!
It's time to leave the pieces to themselves. I've got to stop making them fit - look, see my hands. That's blood that's stopped to hurt. I don't remember any hurt. Funny!! Must have hurt sometime - that looks nasty now. But I can't remember a thing. And look here - that's clotted. Dried up. THAT CERTAINLY HURTS now....
Those pieces; if you look at them for what they are, there are sharp edges you can't play with. But I don't remember those edges; they just seemed nice to hold and have. Can't even remember when the toy broke and the pieces began. I have to tell myself the truth and stop lying - they're all I have and I have to give them up now.
My father says I don't need my toys anymore.
Gotta sleep. Don't wait up for me at four.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Evening. The Fourth of May.
The great abbey was visible through the trees, still, serene, unmoved in the soft evening light.
"A few minutes and I'll be there", Somerset thought.
Amazing, when it's all over.....how little time there is to think about it. Lay down arms, lay down arms.....tomorrow is another day. If tomorrow comes. We never have time to think through our low moments.....life never eases up.
Ride hard. Ride hard. Edward looks for me. Edward? Actually saw Richard riding off after the fleeing Lancastrians. It matters little - here's the abbey. Refuge. The lap of God.
************************************************************************************
What a lovely evening!!! See how the light plays on the grass. The sun gently soothes wounds to bring healing.
Slowly, painfully, it all comes back as the wounds are tended - we were so hopeful today!! Exhausted, but hopeful. We all knew this was the day....when it all ends. That upstart Edward would face his treason today!!! Our beautiful, wronged Margaret......would smile. In many, many years. The wrongs of many years - righted for ever at sunset.
Why had we to fight? We could have waited, slipped away.......to lie in wait another day. If only we had made it across the Severn! Why did Wenlock not follow us? It must have been treason.
Now it's over, there's nothing left, but to wait for what tomorrow brings....Margaret, bound for ever, her spirit broken, never to hold her head up again. Prince Edward - cut down. Youthful hope - crushed like a blood-red rose. King Henry - God rest his soul - he would be released. For ever. But he would be king no more. His blood - poured out like water. Never again would his blood course through a king of the realm.
And what of me? Somerset mused. Must get across the Severn. Must find Jasper. Must not give this up. There'll be a new day, a new battle. Edward must die!!!
As evening fades away into night - the last Lancastrian day ends. A bloody entry in the portals of history. At the abbey, the sun sets - over a few red roses in the gardens.
************************************************************************************
Two days later...... more blood.
The abbey's closed now - to forget, if possible. To forget that men could come to God for sanctuary, and be spurned. That men could seek refuge, only to be dragged to their deaths. For centuries, the abbey stood - a refuge. A safe place. Hallowed portals, where many entreaties poured out age after age, many million dreams...asked of the Almighty.
Now....blood lay on the stone floors in great crimson knots. Could not be wiped away. Grim death clung to the cloisters. No one came to pray. For many a year. The tide of blood had not ebbed. Somerset....lay headless in the town square.
Today, the abbey stands. Men still come to pray - for ageless things. Not for mere roses. Do they remember that bloody May evening so many years ago ? Perhaps not. Most don't.
A few red roses.....grow in the gardens. Some white ones as well. When evening comes, the sun still shines on both.
"A few minutes and I'll be there", Somerset thought.
Amazing, when it's all over.....how little time there is to think about it. Lay down arms, lay down arms.....tomorrow is another day. If tomorrow comes. We never have time to think through our low moments.....life never eases up.
Ride hard. Ride hard. Edward looks for me. Edward? Actually saw Richard riding off after the fleeing Lancastrians. It matters little - here's the abbey. Refuge. The lap of God.
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What a lovely evening!!! See how the light plays on the grass. The sun gently soothes wounds to bring healing.
Slowly, painfully, it all comes back as the wounds are tended - we were so hopeful today!! Exhausted, but hopeful. We all knew this was the day....when it all ends. That upstart Edward would face his treason today!!! Our beautiful, wronged Margaret......would smile. In many, many years. The wrongs of many years - righted for ever at sunset.
Why had we to fight? We could have waited, slipped away.......to lie in wait another day. If only we had made it across the Severn! Why did Wenlock not follow us? It must have been treason.
Now it's over, there's nothing left, but to wait for what tomorrow brings....Margaret, bound for ever, her spirit broken, never to hold her head up again. Prince Edward - cut down. Youthful hope - crushed like a blood-red rose. King Henry - God rest his soul - he would be released. For ever. But he would be king no more. His blood - poured out like water. Never again would his blood course through a king of the realm.
And what of me? Somerset mused. Must get across the Severn. Must find Jasper. Must not give this up. There'll be a new day, a new battle. Edward must die!!!
As evening fades away into night - the last Lancastrian day ends. A bloody entry in the portals of history. At the abbey, the sun sets - over a few red roses in the gardens.
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Two days later...... more blood.
The abbey's closed now - to forget, if possible. To forget that men could come to God for sanctuary, and be spurned. That men could seek refuge, only to be dragged to their deaths. For centuries, the abbey stood - a refuge. A safe place. Hallowed portals, where many entreaties poured out age after age, many million dreams...asked of the Almighty.
Now....blood lay on the stone floors in great crimson knots. Could not be wiped away. Grim death clung to the cloisters. No one came to pray. For many a year. The tide of blood had not ebbed. Somerset....lay headless in the town square.
Today, the abbey stands. Men still come to pray - for ageless things. Not for mere roses. Do they remember that bloody May evening so many years ago ? Perhaps not. Most don't.
A few red roses.....grow in the gardens. Some white ones as well. When evening comes, the sun still shines on both.
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