Well you know where that thought got you, don’t  you? Best not let that mouse gnaw into the liquidity of the brain, it sure is dark in there and a bit gooey; I mean tacky and sticky; how all those nagging worries and painful exorcisms get stuck; you know what I mean surely. Blessed be the contemplator who washes the passages clean with the inhalation of a rose’s perfume or the practise of gazing into a book, the stare into one single word where a kind of magic takes place, where a zoned out, tranced out instance within helps sort out the rubble stuff, the nonsense of it all, like after a heavy rainfall we all love the freshness on the grass and in the trees; even if we have been caught out in thunder and lightening we don’t mind getting drenched in that newness, the beginning of something unexpected, do we?

Waiting for the purple bloom

IMG_0072Which way will weather blow sunshine to let the tiny flowers show us their bloom. Weather Cock from The Red House knows, the old iron vane can see it from up there above the roof tiles, a home that took so long to build, took so much graft and money, it became lost to the imagination. Purple blankets on moors only come when soil is ripe, not burnt up, comes once a year if luck has its way.  Ah to walk amongst the dark violets, pale purples, an envelope you can feel surround you. Soak it up I say. It is here already on Carrbrook hills and Saddleworth Moor, teasing the eye, the treasures just need the smile of the Sun, lacking this week. Blow winds blow, puff up your cheeks and make room for summer, make room for something new, other than too many clouds, too much fear and hatred, too much cut and run stuff, make room for blessed hands and feet that always have room for forgiveness.

How it flys

P1100315Don’t you just hate it when you have a brilliant idea about what you are  going to write about, and then you don’t write it down straight away, and then you completely forget what it was in an instant; well, that happened again today. So this blog isn’t about whatever the idea was, this is about memory, how after the age of say 60, the holes begin to appear and keep on coming, a sponge effect, it’s like fishing in vast chambers of nothing, dumbfounded. Those synapses try to fire up to no avail, well usually that’s what it’s like, but occasionally Eureka flys through the jellied brain from some hidden depths about four hours later and jump starts the lost machinery and heh presto, it’s as if you have never forgotten anything.But most of the time if you don’t write it down those Crown Jewels stay in the tower, security tight as ravens. But don’t be fooled, the helix chain of memory never forgets painful events: the ruler slap on a small child’s palm, the gas mask at the dentist, the sweet sickly oblivion, the agony of childbirth, ( some say this fades with time), the betrayal from friends, the betrayal of myself, the countless endings of love, the repetition of loss, never quite believing they have all gone, left this arena of joy. Let me never forget the joy under my white hair, my shrinking world 🌎, let me wollo in laughter, eyes that sparkle, hugs and kisses, that absolute marvel of human kindness and compassion left in the world, left in me.





IMG_7732.JPGYou can’t always see some birds, insects or animals,

they have unique ways of hiding who they really are

unlike dogs or cats as plain as a bowl of tomato soup

drool of tongue and cunning of ears, but you and me,

all of us uprights dine daily on a feast of masks,

a batman of lies.

It’s a kind of game, dressing up from the props cupboard,

a new mr or mrs Ben, as if by magic we become another,

our roundabout of daily lives in a world of our own,

the belief that others know who we are, how we feel,

of course they do!

Each course of our meal can be layered, filo pastried,

ghosts in the fillings, deception in the salted caramel ice cream.

Take a heart, consider the soft bloodied pulp, the bruises,

the volume of noise in memory

be kind be yourself

be kind

be you.





Heading the write way!

anc28If, what a little word, and yet it can say so much, for example this sandpit in the photo was bliss to these two children, lucky boy and girl, look there is even a wheelbarrow, the pure pleasure of sifting those fine grains of yellow grit, bliss in the security of the back yard behind all the closed doors of Burford High Street in the 1950’s. If we had been manifested in other skins, in another part of this planet, who knows what bubbles might have been blown. If for example I had started writing at an early age, I mean expressively, then my shadows may have dissapated at an earlier age, if my awareness had been fully functional, I guess. If, well we could all say if now couldn’t we. But we have only got what we see in front of us today, haven’t we. If we choose to keep picking up our suitcases of rubble, well it could be a weight on the shoulders, let alone the heart. If for example rejection hangs around in the side pockets of your rucksack, refuses to budge, well then it could take a lifetime to feel free, I guess. If during the dance, the movements of quickstep or dive-bombing or soft shoe shuffle we manage to squash or kick off that sticky tricky yucky shadow stuff, so be it, and if we do, goodness knows what we could manage to cope with in the here and now, like today if we feel all is lost, not as we would really like it, or if someone has been real mean and said hurtful words about you and yes rejected that essence of you, well who knows, how it might be in this moment, the springboard to see everything in 3D or 4D or 5D is a possibilty isn’t it?

First blog post

This is the post excerpt.

cropped-2009_0421headflamborough0051.jpganc13anc21First blog post As I head towards the end of June 2017 I can’t help but feel wet, yes, dripping wet, soggy even, I recall only a few weeks ago my life was jogging along in some kind of happy supported idle. I had found after sixty odd years of searching for dare I say it LOVE and acceptance for the being that I am here and now, a mixed up bag of tricks formed by family and experiences multifold. I don’t know if our lives are written in stone  or sand, but that element of swift change is always a bloody shock, the unexpected, the pole shift of consciousness if you like, that all was indeed not as you ever thought it really was. Tough, I’m sure you would agree. I’v read quite a few blogs over the last few years and some of them are really informative and entertaining, but some of them are just far too egotistical, diary diatribe, all the ins and outs of what someone has done each and every week, I don’t care if you have to wash your knickers twice, leave it out will you. So here I am at the crossroads again, not exactly sure which path I will be following next.  So I will somehow be writing something about it, and I will try not to bore you folks, Ta ta for now.