Now I do not even believe
in words like 'sad'. Maybe i did once. No more, I am lucky. And if I did it was
long ago.
I could say that that day on an
aeroplane did cement something in whereby I knew I was beyond any sorrow, even,
because I really was alive, when i had thought half of me maybe a little
dead. I had never been more alive not content in that one long
conversation. Though I still regret how one sided I needed it to be. But when
you chance across the right person to at least tell some of your real story too
– because she was the most centred and secure person I had ever met, and i didn’t
know that i needed just one ‘grown up’ to actually converse with rather than
some fey false emotional response that only ever gets in the way. I learned
more in those few hours than i ever had from anyone. I also learned that there
was no certain answer, no gold plated key. And i trusted what i heard - and that is rare, too rare, so knew that i
felt i learned things based on honest words.
But that is two people. Even if
unbalanced in platform. Art i suppose can only really ever come from one source, one experience, one journey.
I could write a long introduction
but it is so dull being I always have so much to ‘explain’, when i know there
is so little to explain. Only simplest forever prejudice and ‘difference’.
I shall stick in a little.
But in fact I start with a
picture. I know what great art is. Though have always found even the word
pretentious. But a photograph that jumps into my mind so starkly – his jump so stark, whenever i even hear the word ‘Glasgow’ must qualify. And it’s
funny how often that image has popped up the last few weeks.
However to me I find most art
dilettante. Unless there is a purpose. Or at least unless there is some deep
poignant story in the background. And
how can that be in any picture without some words too? That is a thing i have
long struggled to ponder even half adequately. And i am good at pondering.
Letting a question percolate for years
and it always sooner or much later becomes a decent cup of dawn coffee just when
it is needed. That’s the meaning of that lovely word ‘kairos’. But that one has
never come.
I started a first 2020 internet
stream of consciousness jotting place in 2020. This is about 2020 too in fact.
Except my 2020 I know is lasting forever. The sublime perfect new in-the-moment
utter glory of it. And I am allowed to say that
- it isn’t glib, I have just as much reason to live in only sorrowful
worry as any of the most badly affected. But never did. Beyond the first week.
The words one is good. In fact
the only bad thing is I don’t have the time or wish to be writing it all the
time, as i would wish. I only write when i feel joy welling up within, and as
that has been almost every moment since
April 2020, i have lament. That i ration machinery to usually only five
am to about eight. And have to ration because in fact for several decades due
living in a very rural fringe unless I am up at 5 and straight at it, just to
send up a few photos like these may take half an hour. And it is exhausting all
that waiting.
Back to the doodling. My oh my it
is poetic. I went for a new style - or
rather just clicked into a different gear. I thought myself silly at first but
no it has continued and is my voice. But every word is true. It is only about
joy or rather something deeper – truly having let go.
And then there is an interesting
little codesil... qualification. The only person I ever really care for – worry
about even, she must never know it exists. I guess she will have needed me to
be hurt like all the rest. And as i know what love is – to let her have what
she needed, no matter what, so be it, but so carefully incognito I must be.
Here too.
I have only invited one person to
each page who knows my name. Please respect my wish. It is not my wish - i love all openness, but is the need of a
young woman who deserves no more quandary. Indeed deserves what she needs – to forget.
Now if that sounds all health and
safety risk analysis and frickin officious. If you knew the story not only
would you understand but would see it as
just another stanza in a tragicomic so Homeric and Ancient Mariner it would be a
verse of light relief. Because i have no idea what on earth next, but i love
every eventuality in the quantum uncertainty it has always been. Especially in hindsight
this episode. March 2018 what was hidden up in this old tree, i can honestly
say nothing so poignant and tragic and real modern Britain, even if i live in
the most ancient of very forgotten Britain,
was ever secreted away for safe keeping in that natural hideyhole up high, by
any of the so many curiously confusing generations before.
These pictures were taken today.
I dislike pretentious words like art and ‘study’ but is there one better for so
many days I have captured by camera not the ‘mood’ of the day – just random natural
forces and waves of energy tricking my
minds eye into slightly different perception.;
but perception of what? Good question although i say it myself. Because the
story behind what was secreted and why it had to be, though categorically not ‘criminal’
is nevertheless categorically one of death of everything, but the story.... and
what a story. Of course it would set her free if she let us put it out. But
even the best educated in the best of literature no longer are taught that.
