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after an unexpected half year hiatus here on flickr i thought i would give a few words of explanation about everything that has been happening. i realize i probably don't need to, but many of you have quickly become close friends, and friends don't drop off the face of the planet for a few months and then show up again like nothing happened.
i also wanted to say thanks to those friends who made a point of staying in touch, or sending me a message or an IM to check in and see if everything was ok. you know who you are. thanks. it was appreciated and definitely needed.
i'll try to give you the condensed version. but it's a bit of a complicated story.
at the end of last summer i was nearing a breaking point. after almost five years, life in nash vegas - that's nashville for anyone who hasn't lived there - was becoming an endless cycle of frustration and dead ends. dreams i had been pursuing, and waiting years for always seemed just out of reach. i was ready for a change. earlier that year, a close friend had accepted a dream job down in orlando and moved to florida. i went down to visit. in the span of a week, i had a job interview and what seemed like a great job offer. i accepted, of course, and moved down to the sunshine state.
three weeks later, the miracle fell apart. without real rhyme or reason, my new employers told me they didn't feel things were going to work out, and good luck. i was stunned. and i was totally blindsided.
long weeks passed. and then months. interview after promising interview. but no new job offer.
as the holidays came around, i made the reluctant but necessary decision to pack up and head back north to be with my family. weeks passed pursuing countless job leads there, but with no response. absolutely nothing.
i was depressed before. and now? i was just numb.
when hope continues to disappoint, it becomes easier to stop feeling all together. hope becomes a cold, double edged sword. too heavy to hold on with any real strength, and too difficult to let go.
i guess i'm just too stubborn, or maybe just too stupid, to know when i should give up. everything seemed to scream that GOD had long since abandoned me, or had never shown up in the first place. but something deep and fierce inside of me remained defiant and refused to give up hope.
i decided to trust that GOD had a plan and a purpose for everything that happened down in florida. i started searching for job leads in orlando again. one of the prospects called back. i took a risk, and the step of faith, to fly back down to orlando for the interview.
i was offered the job a few weeks later. so far it's been everything i hoped for and more. the last few months have been full of final transitions down here, moving,emptying storage units, buying expensive car insurance and all that fun stuff.
anyway, thank you again my friends for all the love, prayers, and encouragement. it's good to be myself again at long last.
and it's good to be back.
Excerpt from an early 'automatic-drawing' of sorts. Watercolour paint, ink pen, felt pen.
Mid-90's. See also: www.flickr.com/photos/47545187@N00/277348745/
When you think the night has seen your mind
That inside you’re twisted and unkind
Let me stand to show that you are blind
Please put down your hands
’cause I see you
I find it hard to believe you don’t know
The beauty that you are
But if you don’t let me be your eyes
A hand in your darkness, so you won’t be afraid
Lyrics from the song "I'll Be Your Mirror" by The Velvet Underground.
B&W version of a previosly uploaded pic. New crop, textures & tones, just because is one of our favorites... ;D
️ In Memoriam: Remembering George Harrison of The Beatles ️
Today, we pay tribute to George Harrison, who left an indelible mark on the world of music as a member of The Beatles. On this day, the 22nd year since he left us far too soon at the age of 58 in 2001 - we commemorate his life, his artistry, and the immense contributions he made to the landscape of popular music.
George Harrison, born on February 25, 1943, enchanted the world with his soulful voice, extraordinary guitar skills, and profound songwriting. As a member of The Beatles, he played an instrumental role in shaping the iconic sound and cultural phenomenon that defined an era. From the exuberance of "A Hard Day's Night" to the introspective brilliance of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," George's musical genius knew no bounds.
Beyond his role within The Beatles, George pursued a successful solo career, captivating audiences with his ethereal melodies and spiritually inspired lyrics. His 1970 album "All Things Must Pass" stands as a testament to his artistic depth and creative vision, delivering timeless classics such as "My Sweet Lord" and "What Is Life."
George Harrison's influence extended far beyond the realm of music. He embraced Eastern philosophies and spirituality, advocating for peace, love, and compassion. His philanthropic endeavors, including the Concert for Bangladesh, showcased his unwavering commitment to making the world a better place.
Today, we remember George Harrison as a visionary, an innovator, and a true icon. His music continues to resonate with generations, reminding us of the power of melody to transcend time and touch the depths of our souls.
As we reflect on his remarkable legacy, let us honor George Harrison's enduring impact by immersing ourselves in his timeless melodies and carrying forward the messages of love and unity that he championed.
Rest in peace, dear George. Your spirit lives on through your music, forever etched in the hearts of fans around the world. 🌟🎸 #GeorgeHarrison #TheBeatles #MusicLegend #InMemoriam
Vintage postcard, no. C 445.
Keanu Reeves (1964) is a Canadian actor, producer, director and musician. Though Reeves often faced criticism for his deadpan delivery and perceived limited range as an actor, he nonetheless took on roles in a variety of genres, doing everything from introspective art-house fare to action-packed thrillers. His films include My Own Private Idaho (1991), the European drama Little Buddha (1993), Speed (1994), The Matrix (1999) and John Wick (2014).
Keanu Charles Reeves was born in 1964, in Beirut, Lebanon. His first name means ‘cool breeze over the mountains’ in Hawaiian. His father, Samuel Nowlin Reeves, Jr., was a geologist of Chinese-Hawaiian heritage, and his mother, Patricia Bond (née Taylor), was a British showgirl and later a costume designer for rock stars such as Alice Cooper. Reeves's mother was working in Beirut when she met his father. Upon his parents’ split in 1966, Keanu moved with his mother and younger sister Kim Reeves to Sydney, to New York and then to Toronto. As a child, he lived with various stepfathers, including stage and film director Paul Aaron. Keanu developed an ardor for hockey, though he would eventually turn to acting. At 15, he played Mercutio in a stage production of Romeo and Juliet at the Leah Posluns Theatre. Reeves dropped out of high school when he was 17. His film debut was the Canadian feature One Step Away (Robert Fortier, 1985). After a part in the teen movie Youngblood (Peter Markle, 1986), starring Rob Lowe, he obtained a green card through stepfather Paul Aaron and moved to Los Angeles. After a few minor roles, he gained attention for his performance in the dark drama River's Edge (Tim Hunter, 1986), which depicted how a murder affected a group of adolescents. Reeves landed a supporting role in the Oscar-nominated period drama Dangerous Liaisons (Stephen Frears, 1988), starring Glenn Close and John Malkovich. Reeves joined the casts of Ron Howard's comedy Parenthood (1989), and Lawrence Kasdan's I Love You to Death (1990). Unexpectedly successful was the wacky comedy Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (Stephen Herek, 1989) which followed two high school students (Reeves and Alex Winter) and their time-traveling high jinks. The success lead to a TV series and a sequel, Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey (Pete Hewitt, 1991). From then on, audiences often confused Reeves's real-life persona with that of his doofy on-screen counterpart.
In the following years, Keanu Reeves tried to shake the Ted stigma. He developed an eclectic film roster that included high-budget action films like the surf thriller Point Break (Kathryn Bigelow, 1991) for which he won MTV's ‘Most Desirable Male’ award in 1992, but also lower-budget art-house films. My Own Private Idaho (1991), directed by Gus Van Sant and co-starring River Phoenix, chronicled the lives of two young hustlers living on the streets. In Francis Ford Coppola’s adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), Reeves embodied the calm resolute lawyer Jonathan Harker who stumbles into the lair of Gary Oldman’s Count Dracula. In Europe, he played prince Siddharta who becomes the Buddha in Bernardo Bertolucci’s Italian-French-British drama Little Buddha (1993). His career reached a new high when he starred opposite Sandra Bullock in the hit action film Speed (Jan de Bont, 1994). It was followed by the romantic drama A Walk in the Clouds (Alfonso Arau, 1995) and the supernatural thriller Devil’s Advocate (Taylor Hackford, 1997), co-starring Al Pacino and Charlize Theron. At the close of the decade, Reeves starred in a Sci-fi film that would become a genre game changer, The Matrix (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999). Reeves played the prophetic figure Neo, slated to lead humanity to freedom from an all-consuming simulated world. Known for its innovative fight sequences, avant-garde special effects and gorgeous fashion, The Matrix was an international hit. Two sequels, The Matrix Reloaded (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) and The Matrix Revolutions (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) followed and The Matrix Reloaded was even a bigger financial blockbuster than its predecessor.
Now a major, bonafide box office star, Keanu Reeves continued to work in different genres and both in bid-budget as in small independent films. He played an abusive man in the supernatural thriller The Gift (Sam Raimi, 2000), starring Cate Blanchett, a smitten doctor in the romantic comedy Something’s Gotta Give (Nancy Meyers, 2003) opposite Diane Keaton, and a Brit demon hunter in American-German occult detective action film Constantine (Francis Lawrence, 2005). His appearance in the animated science fiction thriller A Scanner Darkly (Richard Linklater, 2006), based on the novel by Philip K. Dick, received favourable reviews, and The Lake House (Alejandro Agresti, 2006) , his romantic outing with Sandra Bullock, was a success at the box office. Reeves returned to Sci-fi as alien Klaatu in The Day the Earth Stood Still (Scott Derrickson, 2008), the remake of the 1951 classic. Then he played a supporting part in Rebecca Miller's The Private Life of Pippa Lee (2009), which starred Robin Wright and premiered at the 59th Berlin International Film Festival. Reeves co-founded a production company, Company Films. The company helped produce Henry's Crime (Malcolm Venville, 2010), in which Reeves also starred. The actor made his directorial debut with the Chinese-American Martial arts film Man of Tai Chi (2013), partly inspired by the life of Reeves' friend, stuntman Tiger Chen. Martial arts–based themes continued in Reeves's next feature, 47 Ronin (Carl Rinsch, 2013), about a real-life group of masterless samurai in 18th-century Japan who avenged the death of their lord. Variety magazine listed 47 Ronin as one of "Hollywood's biggest box office bombs of 2013". Reeves returned as a retired hitman in the neo-noir action thriller John Wick (Chad Stahelski, David Leitch, 2014). The film opened to positive reviews and performed well at the box office. A sequel, titled John Wick: Chapter Two, is currently in production and is scheduled to be released in 2017. This year, he could be seen in the psychological horror film The Neon Demon is (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2016) and the romantic horror-thriller Bad Batch (Ana Lily Amirpour, 2016). Reeves’ artistic aspirations are not limited to film. In the early 1990s, he co-founded the grunge band Dogstar, which released two albums. He later played bass for a band called Becky. Reeves is also a longtime motorcycle enthusiast. After asking designer Gard Hollinger to create a custom-built bike for him, the two went into business together with the formation of Arch Motorcycle Company LLC in 2011. Reported to be one of the more generous actors in Hollywood, Reeves helped care for his sister during her lengthy battle with leukemia, and has supported such organizations as Stand Up To Cancer and PETA. In January 2000, Reeves's girlfriend, Jennifer Syme, gave birth eight months into her pregnancy to Ava Archer Syme-Reeves, who was stillborn. The strain put on their relationship by their grief resulted in Reeves and Syme's breakup several weeks later. In 2001, Syme died after a car accident.
Sources: Biography.com, Wikipedia and IMDb.
There's a purpose and definition to my train of thoughts as I stumble on clumsy limbs and gently rub the sleep from my as yet reawakened eyes. Is stupid o'clock and even the birds nesting in the overhead cliff face are still gargling prior to the cacophony of their dawn chorus as the light from the glorious sunrise awakens my senses and fills me with a euphoric wave of well-being that catches me off guard emotionally. There are tears in my eye. Must be the salty sea mist hitting my face. There can be no other explanation that this Heathen heart can contemplate or accept.
You are on my mind.
Damn it, if truth be known then you seldom stray from the realms of my inward contemplation, my introspective analysis of data and actions from the wreckage of my life. I'm standing on the deliciously wet golden sands at six in the morning, unshaven, hair blowing in the deceptively aggressive breeze, dirty Nike's and jogging bottoms that billow in the wind, a tee shirt that neither covers my flesh nor affords me any sense of warmth or protection from the ravages of the icy cold that causes my nipples to harden and goose bumps to take the flesh on my limbs unwilling prisoner. I couldn't sleep again. The clock hands ticked around that big round face with monotonous precision, eyes wide open and brain buzzing with questions, none of which my stupid brain could answer. Shadows on the wall from the gap in the curtains playing tricks with my mind as Spunky the tabby cat rolled over onto his back, nuzzled up to my side for warmth and protection, and gave a contented yelp as he stretched out his paws and went in search of a few more zeds in those twenty two out of every twenty four that he sleeps.
So here I am, standing in the dampness as the tide begins to chase the horizon, each incoming wave leaving behind a veil of white foam that slowly crackles audibly as it dissolves in the air, the patterns formed not dissimilar to those that you and I used to identify, lying in the tall grass in our garden, staring up at the cotton wool like clouds as they skipped across the ocean blue sky. I must be getting mellow in my old age. I'm turning into a retrospective softy, doting on the past, reminiscing with the best of the. I'll probably get into jazz music next, and start shooting straight single malts from one shot glasses whilst dimming the lights and letting the dulcet tones of some Miles Davis number tease and invade the avenues of my soul. You'd find that pretty funny wouldn't you. I can hear you laughing at such a preposterous notion. Yeah, your laughter resonates and I can see your face right now, smiling back at me in the days before the blindness came like an assassin in the night and stole away any semblance of self worth and logic that ever I possessed.
I can't get you out of my mind. Try as I might, you are simply there all of the time to haunt my waking hours and plague the long lonely nights when the bed feels as wide as the ocean itself, as empty as my heart since you left. Spunky has those grey patches around the eyes and lower jaw that give away the truth of his longevity. At first he pined your loss, seeking scents, curling up and falling asleep ,in your old pink fluffy slippers that you left behind in your haste to get the fuck away from a past you so obviously hated. But now he seems over your loss, caring little for anything other than the hands that currently place his breakfast on the kitchen tiled floor, the lap that gives him comfort in the long and lonely evenings, and the reassurance of some loving words. In truth, don't I just long for the same as him?
Are you happy now, wherever you are? The changing PO box that I send on the mail to gives little away, and your Mother no longer phones to tell me all about you and cry softly at the end of our conversations as she recalls how perfect a couple we had always seemed. I still have reminders of you around the house, but I'm giving some serious thought to putting your clothes into some bin bags and making an uncharacteristically unselfish donation to the local charity shop in Maiden Avenue. I guess it's time for me. A man has to give up on a lost cause and move on at some point. Oh I've done the things that our friends have suggested out of concern and worry for my very sanity. I've pubbed and clubbed it, shaken my tush to loud music, drunk all manner of substances and woken up with a strangers touch and guilt for the actions of my desperation. After the fact, aside from the physical needs and emotional unburdening, there is nothing but a great black void and polite conversation as I make my excuses and slam the door behind me as I leave. They're not you, and I'm no longer seventeen and capable of bouncing back like a spongey rubber ball. This big dumb animal has a heart you know, and feelings like piano chords stretched over wooden rafters.
Did you find whatever the hell it was that you were liking for in some strangers arms? I've given up longing for the key to turn in the front door lock and you to walk back into the ashes of our former love nest, humbled and begging forgiveness, falling into my arms and begging for a second chance. I have my dignity you know. I guess sometimes the deceit of delusion comforts a broken heart more than the pain of reality and rational thinking. In my case at least I know it to be true. You are still all around me in this empty house, little reminders, a scent, a memory, a moment of joy and happiness that comes to mind every time I find a trinket under the bed, one of your belongings, even your favourite coffee mug with Garfield the cat on the front that we bought from the local market, that I still keep on the kitchen mug tree for God knows what reason.
So here I stand amidst the early morning purple rinse pensioners with their arthritic golden retrievers and polite conversation that frankly bore me. Here I am in the seafront town that we once loved and which now irritates the hell out of me me with it's accutely English eccentricities and quirky nostalgic overtones. It's just me against the world. Well, me and Spunky against the world I guess. As the tide screams yippee and heads for the horizon, I picked up my heels and start jogging in the drying sand, back along the beach front, past the cliff face towards the steep cemented ramp where my car is parked and waiting to whisk me back to the deafening silence of the house.
It's a really rather beautiful sunrise, as the golden hues of orange and yellow burst through the thin layer of clouds and the morning light permeates the coastline as far as the eyes can see. Time for a fresh pot of coffee and some pilchards for Spunky. It's the dawn of a new day, perhaps the dawning of realisation for this poor fool as I finally accept the inevitability of your betrayal and start to dust myself down and move on with my life. Right now I don't know where I'm heading or what my goals and objectives are, just getting through each single day without you like an addict escaping the clutches of his desire. You're killing me, drowning my emotional turmoil, suffocating the sense from my head, poisoni9ng my very soul without even being here to say a word. It's time to move on. This dumb ape is about to make a stand, step out from the shadow of you, leave behind the destruction of your cruel and selfish actions and learn to walk tall again, at last.
.
.
Written on April 12th 2011
Photograph taken on April 10th 2011 at 06.30am in Botany Bay, Broadstairs, Kent, England.
Nikon D700 14mm 1/125s f/6.3 iso200 -0.7 step EV comp
Nikkor AF-S 14-24mm f/2.8G ED IF. UV filter. Hoodman right angled viewfinder. Manfrotto 055XPro & Manfrotto 327RC2 pistol grip ball head. MetaGPS geotag
Latitude: N 51d 23m 19.54s
Longitude: E 1d 26m 13.78s
When we were at the cabin, Ollie and I were up every morning before dawn. It always took a while to get out the door because I had to put on so many layers of clothes! But it was worth it, I never got tired of watching the glow of the sunrise over the Collegiates. I love how it looks like Ollie is introspective here and watching and enjoying the sunrise with me.
Actually he is watching the mule deer. They were on both sides of the road. There were a lot of them in this area, and whenever he saw them on our walks, he just sat and quietly watched. He didn't wag his tail, bark, jump around, or act like he wanted to chase them. He just seemed to know that we were observing them, and if we remained calm, we could watch them longer.
I'm sure if I let him go, all hell would have broken loose. But I did enjoy the peace and quiet and deer sightings on our early morning walks.
± :: introspective series
nikon d100, tamron 90mm f/2.8 macro
© all rights reserved. copyright smb 2009
Here we see Blonde Joni looking pretty in a rare introspective moment as she ponders what to do about the tree trunk growing out of the back of her blonde head. Should she cut it down or should she simply trim the branches??
This photo was taken at a time share in Myrtle Beach in the wee hours of the morning after the bars had closed almost a year ago. Joni is proud to state that her virtue was intact and uncompromised at the end of the evening, although it may call into question the validity of the common mantra about blondes having more fun. . . .
Every image is a gentle negotiation between the seen and the unseen.
Black and white portraits and minimalist places dissolve into a calm, lucid silence—where light sculpts the hidden side of the soul and architecture reveals its poetic geometry.
Moments suspended between consciousness and dream, memory and presence, a journey in the language of introspective visual and photographic poetry.
In ogni immagine si consuma una silenziosa trattativa tra visibile e invisibile.
I ritratti in bianco e nero e i luoghi minimali si dissolvono in un silenzio lucido—dove la luce scolpisce il lato nascosto dell’anima e l’architettura rivela la sua geometria poetica.
Attimi sospesi tra conscio e sogno, memoria e presenza, un viaggio nel linguaggio dell’introspezione visiva e della poesia fotografica.
Kelbaker Rd., Saltus, CA
March, 2010
High contrast intended to make up for poor sharpness.
Inspired by *Mike Flores, who does great self portraits. Makes me want to do more of myself.
I swear, these are the last :P
Black White.
Up Down.
Left Right.
East West.
Call them as you want.
Here are my opposite poles.
Group of sculptures called "Introspective" by Sophie Ryder, Great Britain.
Contemporary sculptures in a pre-historic landscape. Exhibition in 2017, Pilane, Sweden. When the British newspaper The Guardian appointed "10 of the best scupture parks in Europe", Pilane was one of them.
pilane.org (website partly in English)
Image is an altered still from the following video: youtu.be/M3mELFDdwNw
Many an anthropologist has told us that we humans tend to like people and partners most like us and I think this generally extends to music as well. In this vein, and after even a cursory reflection, what jumps out at me most is the adversity faced by many of the songwriter’s from this year’s list of my favourite albums. Whether it was Hayden’s roundabout tribute to the challenges and fears of raising a child with a birth defect, to Ron Sexsmith’s odes liberally spiced with a midlife cancer scare, to Grey Reverend’s battle to play his beloved guitar again or Typhoon’s Kyle Morton and his own battle as a child facing Lyme Disease, there is a common thread of liberation through music that really speaks to me this year. It bears mentioning that it was also a year of disappointments from releases by Iron & Wine, Junip and, perhaps most glaringly, Phoenix, making me especially grateful that we live in the preview-before buying days of music consumption. Still, it was a solid year where the smaller touring acts stood out more than ever, giving hope to a new lifeblood of musicians that will simply go back to the music livelihood of days gone by – singers and players who made their money almost exclusively from the road, releasing singles and albums almost exclusively to promote themselves as live musicians. There’s a lot of good sense in all of this, even though we’ve undoubtedly lost many musicians along the way as making a living from music has shifted so radically from pure album sales. In any case, the great songwriters of our day, like Ron Sexsmith, will always rise to the top, if only in the eyes of their fondest admirers. I hope you enjoy at least some of the music hat I have admired this year.
Gregory Alan Isakov - The Weatherman (Suitcase Town Music)
Boulder Colorado’s Isakov is an old fashioned road troubadour, honing his sweet Americana sound over years paying dues all over the continent. This album is a treat from start to finish, without a bad track to be found on it. His voice reminds me a bit of one of my favourite Canadian singers, Royal Wood, although he keeps it reigned in, smartly letting his well-written lyrics and pretty acoustic guitar do the talking where others might rely on strong pipes alone.
Small Sur -Labor (self-released)
Small Sur is everything I wish modern music would be: independent, honest, emotional, confident. This Baltimore quartet spins webs of simple guitar and keyboard driven beauty, soft vocals singing subtle lyrics of loves and lives and paths crossed.
Mother Falcon - You Knew (Creme Fraiche)
An Austin, TX collective featuring more than a dozen horns, strings, shouted choruses and pretty melodies. Think New Orleans street band crashing into the strings section of your local orchestra. Body rocking tunes and memorable moments abound.
Bell XI - Chop Chop (Belly UP)
Another fine example of a band so popular in the British Isles ( they originated in Dublin) but criminally unknown on thses shores. Thy owe much to the British bands that conquered before them (Coldplay, U2) although they carve out enough of their own piece of the pie to form an identifiable sound behind singer Paul Noonan’s smart vocals and crooning melodies. The album was apparently recorded in a series of quick, live takes and I like the slightly unpolished sound that gives it a slightly more “American” feel sometimes lost on the more studio-perfected British releases of recent years.
Typhoon - White Lighter (Roll Call Records)
What would a year end “Best of” list be without a release connected to the great city of Portland? This is the sophomore release for a multi-instrument group of orchestral pop-rock players with such manic highs and such dripping pain that it has managed to slip onto airways of even the most mainstream radio stations all while not selling their lyrics and choruses to the great music devil in the sky.
Hayden - Us Alone (Arts & Crafts)
Toronto’s Hayden often puts out albums that burn so slowly that I tend to forget about them still percolating on the stove this late in the year. He’s always had a place in my heart and the collective mindset of many of my fondest loves and memories – something about his low-fi personality and cut-to-the-chase lyrics, and this album features much of his best work to date. This release doesn’t fall asleep mid-album as some of his other more recent albums have, perhaps the sign of a more mature, more reflective Hayden shining through.
Ron Sexsmith - Forever Endeavour (Mri Associated)
He is perhaps Canada’s greatest living songwriter, and that’s no small feat given the likes of Cohen, Young, Mitchell, Cockburn and co but merely a fact as I see it. Trouble is (like Cohen, to be fair) he rarely releases an album that lets his simple songs and gorgeous, aged-with-wine voice shine the way it should. He goes back to his roots with this release and, although it doesn’t have any stand-alone greatest hit-type tracks, all of the songs are keepers and the album is refreshingly consistent.
Leif Vollebekk “North Americana” (Missing Piece)
soundcloud.com/leifvollebekk/at-the-end-of-the-line-version
Ottawa-raised Vollebekk hadn’t yet blipped on my radar, although he had gained some notoriety winning local pop competitions as a younger songrwriter. Some years later, now decidedly the introspective twenty-something poet, he has developed into a consistent entity of sound that pays homage to the smartly chosen best words of Cohen and the soul of a young Joe Cocker. Great songs for a ride home on a snowy night halfway between heartfelt regret and hopeful intent.
San Fermin - S/T - (Downtown)
Brainchild of young NY composer Ellis Ludwig-Leone, this is an unusually release that reminds of something that Sufjan Stevens would release if he were still putting out proper chamber pop albums. Story has it the Yale-educated wonderkid wrote the album as a classical composer would, part-by-part while holed up in the Canadian Rockies and then recruited after-the-fact to play the wide variety of vocals and instruments featured on this lush debut.
Grey Reverend “A Hero’s Lie” – (Motion Audio)
L.D. Brown grew up in Philadelphia, honing his skills in a classical jazz tradition before migrating to LA and experiencing what for many would be a career-ending set-back – due to a neurological condition he lost the mobility in two of his chord-holding fingers. He spent time adapting his playing style, continuing to write songs from the heart, migrating back to the east coast (he now calls Brooklyn home), and winning over many fans in singer-songwriter circles. Touching, simple, powerful.
----------------------
Honourable Mention:
Kim Janssen “The Lonely Mountains”
Olafur Arnalds “Now I am Winter”
Night Beds “Country Sleep”
Pepper Johnson “Flat Country”
Freschard “Boom Biddy Boom”
Valley Maker "Yes I Know I've Loved This World"
Leif Vollebekk “Borrowed Time”
Daughter “If You Leave”
The Necks “Open”
Vampire Weekend “Modern Vampires of the City”
Acrylic,alkyd paint on used paper
This work is not drawn by the plan.
First, a screen is filled with the rough dot by a paintbrush, and if a certain scenery appears there, it will be made clear and will be finished. The technique of that automatism is the feature of this series.
Kitajima Hirofumi ___contemporary art Contemporary Art CONTEMPORARY ART Cool Japan Mountain
British postcard by Heroes Publishing Ltd., London, no. SPC 3017.
Keanu Reeves (1964) is a Canadian actor, producer, director and musician. Though Reeves often faced criticism for his deadpan delivery and perceived limited range as an actor, he nonetheless took on roles in a variety of genres, doing everything from introspective art-house fare to action-packed thrillers. His films include My Own Private Idaho (1991), the European drama Little Buddha (1993), Speed (1994), The Matrix (1999) and John Wick (2014).
Keanu Charles Reeves was born in 1964, in Beirut, Lebanon. His first name means ‘cool breeze over the mountains’ in Hawaiian. His father, Samuel Nowlin Reeves, Jr., was a geologist of Chinese-Hawaiian heritage, and his mother, Patricia Bond (née Taylor), was a British showgirl and later a costume designer for rock stars such as Alice Cooper. Reeves's mother was working in Beirut when she met his father. Upon his parents’ split in 1966, Keanu moved with his mother and younger sister Kim Reeves to Sydney, to New York and then to Toronto. As a child, he lived with various stepfathers, including stage and film director Paul Aaron. Keanu developed an ardor for hockey, though he would eventually turn to acting. At 15, he played Mercutio in a stage production of Romeo and Juliet at the Leah Posluns Theatre. Reeves dropped out of high school when he was 17. His film debut was the Canadian feature One Step Away (Robert Fortier, 1985). After a part in the teen movie Youngblood (Peter Markle, 1986), starring Rob Lowe, he obtained a green card through stepfather Paul Aaron and moved to Los Angeles. After a few minor roles, he gained attention for his performance in the dark drama River's Edge (Tim Hunter, 1986), which depicted how a murder affected a group of adolescents. Reeves landed a supporting role in the Oscar-nominated period drama Dangerous Liaisons (Stephen Frears, 1988), starring Glenn Close and John Malkovich. Reeves joined the casts of Ron Howard's comedy Parenthood (1989), and Lawrence Kasdan's I Love You to Death (1990). Unexpectedly successful was the wacky comedy Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure (Stephen Herek, 1989) which followed two high school students (Reeves and Alex Winter) and their time-traveling high jinks. The success lead to a TV series and a sequel, Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey (Pete Hewitt, 1991). From then on, audiences often confused Reeves's real-life persona with that of his doofy on-screen counterpart.
In the following years, Keanu Reeves tried to shake the Ted stigma. He developed an eclectic film roster that included high-budget action films like the surf thriller Point Break (Kathryn Bigelow, 1991) for which he won MTV's ‘Most Desirable Male’ award in 1992, but also lower-budget art-house films. My Own Private Idaho (1991), directed by Gus Van Sant and co-starring River Phoenix, chronicled the lives of two young hustlers living on the streets. In Francis Ford Coppola’s adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992), Reeves embodied the calm resolute lawyer Jonathan Harker who stumbles into the lair of Gary Oldman’s Count Dracula. In Europe, he played prince Siddharta who becomes the Buddha in Bernardo Bertolucci’s Italian-French-British drama Little Buddha (1993). His career reached a new high when he starred opposite Sandra Bullock in the hit action film Speed (Jan de Bont, 1994). It was followed by the romantic drama A Walk in the Clouds (Alfonso Arau, 1995) and the supernatural thriller Devil’s Advocate (Taylor Hackford, 1997), co-starring Al Pacino and Charlize Theron. At the close of the decade, Reeves starred in a Sci-fi film that would become a genre game changer, The Matrix (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999). Reeves played the prophetic figure Neo, slated to lead humanity to freedom from an all-consuming simulated world. Known for its innovative fight sequences, avant-garde special effects and gorgeous fashion, The Matrix was an international hit. Two sequels, The Matrix Reloaded (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) and The Matrix Revolutions (Andy and Lana Wachowski, 1999) followed and The Matrix Reloaded was even a bigger financial blockbuster than its predecessor.
Now a major, bonafide box office star, Keanu Reeves continued to work in different genres and both in bid-budget as in small independent films. He played an abusive man in the supernatural thriller The Gift (Sam Raimi, 2000), starring Cate Blanchett, a smitten doctor in the romantic comedy Something’s Gotta Give (Nancy Meyers, 2003) opposite Diane Keaton, and a Brit demon hunter in American-German occult detective action film Constantine (Francis Lawrence, 2005). His appearance in the animated science fiction thriller A Scanner Darkly (Richard Linklater, 2006), based on the novel by Philip K. Dick, received favourable reviews, and The Lake House (Alejandro Agresti, 2006) , his romantic outing with Sandra Bullock, was a success at the box office. Reeves returned to Sci-fi as alien Klaatu in The Day the Earth Stood Still (Scott Derrickson, 2008), the remake of the 1951 classic. Then he played a supporting part in Rebecca Miller's The Private Life of Pippa Lee (2009), which starred Robin Wright and premiered at the 59th Berlin International Film Festival. Reeves co-founded a production company, Company Films. The company helped produce Henry's Crime (Malcolm Venville, 2010), in which Reeves also starred. The actor made his directorial debut with the Chinese-American Martial arts film Man of Tai Chi (2013), partly inspired by the life of Reeves' friend, stuntman Tiger Chen. Martial arts–based themes continued in Reeves's next feature, 47 Ronin (Carl Rinsch, 2013), about a real-life group of masterless samurai in 18th-century Japan who avenged the death of their lord. Variety magazine listed 47 Ronin as one of "Hollywood's biggest box office bombs of 2013". Reeves returned as a retired hitman in the neo-noir action thriller John Wick (Chad Stahelski, David Leitch, 2014). The film opened to positive reviews and performed well at the box office. A sequel, titled John Wick: Chapter Two, is currently in production and is scheduled to be released in 2017. This year, he could be seen in the psychological horror film The Neon Demon is (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2016) and the romantic horror-thriller Bad Batch (Ana Lily Amirpour, 2016). Reeves’ artistic aspirations are not limited to film. In the early 1990s, he co-founded the grunge band Dogstar, which released two albums. He later played bass for a band called Becky. Reeves is also a longtime motorcycle enthusiast. After asking designer Gard Hollinger to create a custom-built bike for him, the two went into business together with the formation of Arch Motorcycle Company LLC in 2011. Reported to be one of the more generous actors in Hollywood, Reeves helped care for his sister during her lengthy battle with leukemia, and has supported such organizations as Stand Up To Cancer and PETA. In January 2000, Reeves's girlfriend, Jennifer Syme, gave birth eight months into her pregnancy to Ava Archer Syme-Reeves, who was stillborn. The strain put on their relationship by their grief resulted in Reeves and Syme's breakup several weeks later. In 2001, Syme died after a car accident.
Sources: Biography.com, Wikipedia and IMDb.
My series 'Don't Touch Your Face' came from a hunger to make portraits, but sequestered in my apartment during California's Safer At Home orders meant I would be the model. I made these photos to be a daily reminder to friends and family to be mindful of their actions, to show that we are all going through awkward changes in our routine, and hopefully bring a smile.
Thirteen Things
Since this year started I have:
1. Walked barefoot on a tropical beach on 1st January.
2. Been told 'welcome home' by the passport officer as I walked through the 'NZ Residents' line at Auckland airport, with no ticket back out of the country.
3. Been interviewed by The New York Times.
4. Had a photograph published in a book.
5. Discovered how much I miss the internet when I don't have it for a prolonged period and am thousands of miles away from almost everyone I know (and need the web for finding houses, etc).
6. Met up with my brother and sister-in-law after five years.
7. Paid (a lot of money) for a visit to the doctor - for the first time ever, apart from when I had food poisoning in India.
8. Sunbathed in the nude - now that I have a garden with private areas where I won't frighten or offend any one.
9. Joined a library - with no limits to how many books I could take out (just limits on how long I can keep them).
10. Posed naked for photographs on the beach/rock pools.
11. Went to the theatre with a (Meet Up) group of strangers (I usually go alone)
12. Sat in a spa pool under the stars.
13. Started to re-evaluate my life: where I'm at, where/who/what I want to be.
Of all the shots I took for this one, only the one with the top of my head cut off was otherwise 'good' (ie, not blurred, not with a hideous expression on my face). So I'm going to pretend that it is deliberate, an 'arty' statement of this list being 'off the top of my head' or maybe that I'm losing my head, or that I'm taking the lid off and looking inside.
The last time I played 'Thirteen Things was 30th December 2007 .
A year ago today I was able to eat again.
All Saints, Alburgh, Norfolk
It was one of those intensely hot days at the start of August 2018, and the cool shade of the over-bowering trees along the narrow lanes was a blessing. You don't have to get far from the Waveney and the busy A137 taking the traffic through to Lowestoft and Great Yarmouth to find peace. Here in the folding ridges to the north are secret villages linked by lonely, jinking roads. I had just come from Denton, its church hidden in the trees in a dip and reached only by a bridge and a track through the grounds of the Hall. And now it was a short distance from there to the larger village of Alburgh, and I caught my first sight of the curiously narrow top of Alburgh church tower appearing above the trees and the barley-stubbled rises. Soon, I came down into civilisation, and there was the church, its tower towards the road.
Not a spectacular church at all, but it has a special connection for me as someone I was very fond of came from here. I was back after twelve years away, but that visit was still clear in my mind, not least because of what I had felt about it then. When I'd got home, I had written: 'Coming down Norfolk by a different road, I came out into a landscape that I knew. It was early spring, and five years before I had explored the Suffolk side of the Waveney valley at the same time of year. Here in Norfolk were the same rolling, secretive meadows, the copses that seeped and spread between the fields, the quiet, scattered parishes with mere hints of village centres. Introspective hamlets, not talking to each other, the narrow lanes that connected them veering and dipping as if trying to shake them off.
At a crossroads, an old Methodist chapel sulked under the indignity of conversion. And there were wide pig farms and ancient silage heaps and faded bottle banks outside the village hall. No commuters here, no holiday cottages or weekend homes. Everyone except me was here because they had to be. This was where they lived, where they worked. They were the modern equivalents of the blacksmith, the carter, the wheelwright. The Waveney valley is the heart of rural East Anglia, perhaps the last truly insular place in the south-east of England. I was glad to be here.
Alburgh is not a place I have ever thought of often. But now, in the crisp air, I stood in the graveyard and looked across the country at the scattered village and its setting. Beyond the houses was the ancient field pattern, the beech trees on the ridge and the rooks wheeling above them. I thought of a song of the early eighties, Pete Wylie's Story of the Blues, and his declaiming, towards the end, the words of Kerouac's Sal Paradise: the city intellectuals of the world are divorced from the folk-body blood of the land, and are just rootless fools. I had been born in a place like this, tiny and remote in the Cambridgeshire fens, a world away from now in the 1960s. But we moved to Cambridge when I was two, and I had lived in urban areas ever since. I was a city intellectual, and I stood now and looked around at the land, a rootless fool.
I first heard of Alburgh more than twenty years ago. I was living unhappily in Brighton at the time, learning to teach, finding out how little I actually knew about anything. I would cycle out to the University through the stinking traffic on the Lewes road, and often arrive cold, wet and battered by the wind from the downs. At first, I knew nobody, and I spent most evenings in my attic room listening to music and feeling sorry for myself. In the bitter-sweet autumn sunshine of the weekends I would cycle around the downs, searching for old churches, repopulating the hamlets and lanes of East Sussex with characters from Hardy and Trollope.
I hardly went into town at all. Everybody seems to love Brighton, and they can't understand it when I say that I don't, but perhaps I was too often miserable there. In my memory I still associate Brighton with debt, and with the transience of being a student. And then, extraordinarily, a brief, doomed relationship, a love affair, became the one vivid thing, a brief, sweet memory of my year in that brash town.
She came from Alburgh, and at first I thought she meant Aldeburgh in Suffolk, and she said it again, Ar-brer, and showed me on a map. How narrow was the single bed we shared, how intense those brief few weeks. And she loved me more than I could possibly have loved her, for I had already met the woman who would become my wife. And so it was messy, and then it ended. But Alburgh still existed, of course, and so coming here I remembered.
If that had been all there was, then I wouldn't have thought it worth mentioning, but there was also the Kerouac quote, and I had recently gone back to the village where I was born. It was a tiny hamlet, off of the Cambridge to Ely road. My mother had been born there, my parents married in the Church there. I was baptised there, and so were my brothers.
At one time there had been three farms, a shop, a railway halt, a pub, a school, a church and a chapel. I'm not looking this up in some mid-19th century White's Directory, I remember them from the 1960s and 1970s. Now, they were nearly all gone. The farms had been built over, the pub, shop and chapel converted to houses. To stand beside the railway line, you'd need a vivid imagination to guess that the halt had even existed, as the expresses screamed through at over a hundred miles an hour.
The church and the school survived, but only because this was now a commuter village. Every morning, hundreds and hundreds of white-collar workers left their identical modern houses and piled up the A10 to Cambridge and Ely. I knew nobody there any more - my grandmother was dead, and all my relatives had left, or were lying under the frozen turf of the little cemetery. It made me sad. I thought that perhaps this was what growing old was, seeing change and resenting it. And so I liked Alburgh because it appeased my sense of loss, as if something might survive after all.'
All this then, gentle reader, was in my mind as I returned to Alburgh after twelve years away. The tower I had seen from Denston churchyard, and which bobbed its head above the copses and the rolling fields as I approached it, stands tall and proud, four-square to the road, the aisleless nave and chancel disappearing into the narrowing churchyard beyond. An imposing sight, though not a huge tower, merely large in proportion. The bulk of it is probably 14th century, but the bell stage with its enormous bell windows is later, a late medieval addition. It looks awkward, because the new building technology no longer required that the buttresses should continue up the bell stage. But the effect is unfortunate, I think, like the unnaturally small head of a large man. The buttressed pinnacles on the four corners are a more recent confection, for the very top of the tower collapsed in 1895, and what we see at the top now dates from the dawn of the new century.
The west front must have been rather grand once, with large niches flanking the window, but the canopies of the niches have gone, either vandalised by protestants or more likely worn away by the passing of the centuries. In proportion with the nave, the south porch seems bigger than it is. A 1463 bequest for the porch by the Wright family is recorded, but it now looks all of its Victorian restoration.
And so, I am afraid, does the inside of the church, a big 19th century barn with a lot of the anonymity you'd expect of this date. And yet, there are neat, local, rustic touches, and the pride of the early 20th Century parish in the boys who went off to war and never came back is still evident, great lists of names rather haunting in their context. Surprisingly, the roof is old, and it spreads impressively across the wide nave. A beautiful gilded rood screen dado is almost defiant in the face of all the restoration. There are pretty little gilded gesso saints in niches on the buttresses along the front, but I think the colour is wholly modern.
Echoing it, perhaps inspired by it, insipid apostles flank the altar and its simple reredos, a William Morris-style hanging. Turning back, the tower arch lifts tall and dreamily, light from the west window flooding the reset font below, the space becoming an echo of the wide chancel arch at the other end of the great roof. There's a pleasing harmony to the whole piece, and perhaps the Victorians should not be blamed for too much.
And so, that was all, my return to Alburgh. Just another church, and yet, like all medieval parish churches, a place full of stories, and memories, hopes, fears, regrets, embarrassments, delights, hungers, desires, agonies, beginnings and endings. Here, I sensed around me a building that was a touchstone down the long generations, and a beacon across miles and oceans. Just another church, but always and everywhere and forever. Think of the millions of people who can trace atoms of their being back to this place! Think of the lives touched by people who stepped out from this parish! And that's true of anywhere of course.
I went back outside and pottered around the graveyard. The heat was stifling after the coolness inside the church. A large dragonfly buzzed around my head and then veered away on the currents rising from the long grass. I sat down on a bench facing towards the newer headstones, and placed on the arm of the bench I found to my surprise a painted flintstone.
It had a message painted and lacquered onto it. On one side was a pink heart, and the words 'I ♥ Norfolk'. On the other side, the artist had painstakingly lettered in tiny writing 'congratulations on finding a Norfolk Rock', and asked the finder to 'either take me or rehide me'. It was extraordinary.
I slipped it into my pocket, not sure if this counted as taking it or rehiding it, possibly both, and thinking to myself that it felt like the goal of a pilgrimage. I wandered over to take a look at the more recent graves, which included a number in the last twenty years with her surname on. It is a common one in this village, but I wondered if any of them could have been her parents, who I had not known. I thought that she had probably been married in this place, if she had ever married, and so I said a silent prayer for all the people I have ever known and lost touch with, wherever they may be in the world, whether or not they remember me, or think of me, or are even reading this now.
I stood for a while, thinking of the years, and then got back in the saddle, shaking off a maudlin veil which was beginning to settle over me. I kicked off into a rush of heat lifted by the sudden breeze of my movement. A long stretch lay ahead of me now through delicious rolling back lanes with melting tarmac, zigzagging down into Harleston.
I asked her to be introspective, and this was her response. i think she is beautiful You can see more of her in my set "Ashley". Taken at Boyd Pond Park Aiken South Carolina with a Canon 5D Mark ii.
www.messersmith.name/wordpress/2010/11/29/walking-the-ten...
After my last post, all cheery and grateful, I'm ahead far enough on happy credits to grow all sombre and introspective again. Today I took delivery of a lonely, stormy Sunday. Last night I attended the annual Country Women's Association Quiz night, a sort of mega-Trivial Pursuit distraction which provides the folk of Madang with an evening of aimless and good natured competition.
Since this is going to be yet another soul-searching ramble through the back alleys of my cranium, let me first demonstrate that I am not in a bad mood at all. These are among the finest bananas I have ever had the pleasure of smushing up in my still toothy gob. Somebody brought them up to the beach at Blueblood a couple of weeks ago. I must have eaten about six of them. As you can see they are rather small. They are incredibly sweet and the flavour is slightly reminiscent of green apples:
See, that's a happy thing. You may find little flakes of freeze-dried happiness elsewhere on this page. Let's see what happens. I'm winging it.
As I plan to intersperse scenes from last night's frivolities here and there as I plod along, I may as well get started. This is our intrepid QuizMaster, Shane McCarthy overseeing the presentation of the craft projects. Each table of six participants was required, on pain of merciless ridicule, to create an object d'art from the miscellaneous contents of a cardboard box. Imaginations ran rampant on the theme of "Christmas Carol":
Once again I found myself facing a dilemma, the magnitude of which might seem trivial when seen from some remote location outside my skull. Over and over again, because of my life situation, smack dab in the middle of everything which meant anything to us, I have to decide if I'm going to do this or that and wonder what my reaction is going to be. The problem is that there is no more us. There is just me. The range of effects which I have experienced has fallen between the extremes of euphoria and despair. I honestly don't know beforehand what is going to happen. I'm just along for the ride.
This is a tender minefield. While that expression may seem an oxymoronic, it is not. All that is happening here is that my community is allowing me the freedom to find a new normality. People are treating me as if everything is business as usual. This is exactly what they ought to do. The minefield is of my own device.
I had waited for an invitation to a table at Quiz Night until I felt that I had to take some active part in my life once more. Two days before the event I called two friends asking, in a not-so-transparent manner, if they had a table and if it was filled. Later that day, I did receive an invitation, after I mentioned it, from another friend. So, committed as I am to allowing life to carry me where it will with as little interference from me as is prudent, I accepted with a mixture of gratitude and foreboding. I'm such a drama queen. Everything has to be a big production. Nothing is easy. Truthfully, I blame my mother, but don't tell her.
It is a minefield, but it bears me no malice. It is simply there, inert until provoked. If I stay in place, I won't get anywhere. I'll stand and take root in this miserable existence. I can walk gingerly, experimentally, but I know that the odds are against me. I've already stepped on a few and I have big chunks missing here and there. The wounds are painful, but they heal rapidly, some more rapidly than others.
There is fun aplenty at every Quiz Night. Ridiculous, giggly fun. Here three teams compete to determine which can most rapidly expend an entire roll of toilet paper by wrapping a team-mate in it:
Following the analogy of the minefield, I'll tell you a true story (really) about a related metaphor, The Point of No Return.
When you note that you have reached the geometrical centre of the minefield and you count your injuries, it dawns on you that you are only half-way home. Injury-wise it might make more sense to retrace your steps and return to GO, not collecting $200. Yet that way lies the madness of arriving back at the beginning and realising that the only reasonably safe option is to once again retrace your footsteps back to the point at which you turned around and proceed from there. You could have done that without wasting energy. Rational decisions at this point are extremely difficult to reach.
Late one Sunday afternoon in the early '70s, I roared away from Chicago Midway Airport in a US Army UH-1 "Huey" helicopter with my crew of four en-route to Decatur Illinois, our home airfield. It was a late departure and each of us had a severe case of "get-home-itis"; families and jobs awaited us. I was Pilot in Command, as sorry a situation as you could want. I was neither much of a pilot nor much of a commander. Deeming that we had sufficient fuel, we lifted off post-haste.
Shortly after passing Kankakee, we could see a massive line of thunderstorms ahead of us. This is my no means unusual for a summer evening in Illinois and it seemed that there were plenty of non-flashing holes through which we could safely pass. We fluttered on, listening to AM radio rock-n-roll through our helmet speakers. After a while it was becoming more and more obvious that we were going to be doing some ducking and weaving. I tapped my finger on the fuel gauge. My co-pilot nodded and frowned. I considered a hop back to Kankakee and a miserable night with a grumbling crew in a motel and rejected it.
We dodged thunderheads visible only by their fireworks and suffered some moderate turbulence which reminded us how long it had been since lunch - just long enough. Nobody wants to barf into his helmet bag. With all of that dodging and searching for holes, I could see that fuel was going to be a teensy-weensy problem. The chatter on the intercom went significantly silent. Everybody knew that we had just passed the Point of No Return. I was wondering precisely how many Army Regs and Flight Rules I had already busted. I was about to bust a few more.
Well, I see that it's time to shorten this long story. We passed safely, if unsteadily through the flashy Texas Line Dance of cumulonimbus incus aircraft washers and into the still, star-studded air of central Illinois about twenty-five minutes from Decatur when the Twenty Minute Fuel Warning light began excitedly to advertise its presence. Uh-oh. As pilots are wont to put it rather indelicately, the pucker factor increased by an order of magnitude.
Let me take a break from that breathless and somewhat pointless reminiscence to show you our creation: (and then I'll try to explain the inexplicable)
I sincerely hope that you can see that it is a manger scene, complete with a tiny, fuzzy Baby Jesus. I contributed, somewhat distractedly, the snowflake and the exclamatory Moo from the spotted cow.
So, was there any point at all to the helicopter story? Probably not. But, if I had to guess, I guess it would be that we are sometimes so distracted by what we so desperately want that we are unable to recognise what we so desperately need. Now, connecting this somewhat tenuously back to the minefield thing, a few of those mines might capriciously explode into bouquets of roses, unlikely as that might seem. Others will blow a leg off. Some might be duds. The problem is that I must keep moving and the only way I know the intent of a mine is to step on it. You know, my situation is not a bit different from yours, now that I think of it. Humpf! And I thought I was special.
Some things which I fervently desire now are not yet available to me. Someday some of them might be. Time will tell. Time will also tell whether they were things which I actually needed. Other things, things which I do not currently yearn for, may turn out to be the things which I need. It would have been such a senseless tragedy if I had killed my crew and myself in a flame-out crash because I did not want to spend a night in a motel in Kankakee. That is what I needed. I realised that most certainly when that warning light came on.
I'm striving quite earnestly to keep my eyes peeled for the warning lights. Right now, I know that I can't trust my desires to be in my best interest. Though some, with that fearful symmetry, burn as bright as William Blake's tiger in the forest, I can never forget the minefield. It is not just a figure of speech. I must move forward. Carefully.
So, with that hopeful thought, I will give you a happy, pretty face. No, not mine. Though I have now made myself happier than I was a couple of hours ago I am still no prettier. Writing does that for me.
This is the lovely smiling face of Michaela of Vienna, who rescued me from an evening of solitary regret:
Saved again by a sensible and loving friend.