16
Mar

Nostalgia - it’s not what it used to be. 

musingsofalibertine:

Memories fade and turn into a Kodak wash of yellow-green distant summers. Like instant photos in reverse, they start bright and crisp and slowly dissolve into white nothingness, everything covered in dust or snow.

Something touched up a memory today, brought back the vivid colours and deep shadows of tunnel black.

Wherever we went in the car, my dad would always drive. I didn’t know that my mum could drive until I was about 10 years old. On spotlight-bright days of 1970s summers, I would be sticking to the faux-leather seats in the back of a 1968 cream coloured Austin Mini. I’d kill to own it now. My parents bought it, brand new, for £500 with a full tank of petrol and a free year’s Road Tax. They sold it ten years later. For £500.

The seats were deep vampire red and so were my legs after they’d been welded to them for sprawling hours at a time in the August heat. Minis had back windows that would open a crack on a small shiny hinge. Not that it was worth opening them; air whizzed gleefully past and didn’t care to pop inside and help me breathe.

My dad was stubborn, like his son still is. He loved words, like his son always has. He wrote unpublished short stories, like his son once did. During the summer months, he would walk down the garden and back and be in possession of a tropical eight-week tan, the lucky old bugger. My mum would lather him up with Ambre Solaire oil. Factor 0. This wasn’t something you coated yourself in to protect yourself from the sun; you used it to fry yourself alive. Summer smelled of coconuts and my dad’s outdoor skin. In order to get even remotely as tanned as he was, I’d have to spend a whole warm season in the sun and wait for my freckles to join up.

In later years, during my early teens, I would read Yeats’ poem, Death; “… a man awaits his end, dreading and hoping all” and I would find it contrary to my experience. For my father, who, by his own unexpected departure, taught me about death’s corporeal finality when I was 18, and we were just beginning to be friends, had also taught me not to dread it.  And he taught me not to fear it.  But, like all his lessons for me to become not even half the man he was, they came indirectly, not as lectures or words of wisdom, but through stories, or actions, or small and telling gestures.

As we drove the many summery miles, on bumpy roads that throbbed through heated haze, we would inevitably pass a cemetery. My dad would always shout a buoyant ‘Good Evening, friends!’ (or ‘Afternoon!’ or ‘Morning!’) out of the car window in the direction of the stone testaments to lives been and gone. I imagined I could see the inhabitants of that final place, nebulous figures like drifts of smoke, sitting in deck-chairs by their earthy beds, laughing happily with their companions, like a gathering of contented gardeners on an allotment, and all of them raising a glass back to us in a cheery hello as we zoomed by.

Death, it seemed, was just a frivolous and endless party.

Four of the five people in this photograph are still laughing as they raise their glasses and smile at the one who remains; at that small young boy who is, as he writes this in 2014, the same age as his dad was when this picture was taken. 

Sometimes, through happy tears, there’s warmth and brightness in the oldest and most faded of memories.

image

Nan (obscured - and obscure sometimes), Great Uncle, Dad, Me (aged 3), the Mini, Great Aunt, 1971.

image

Photo Booth, 1976. Me, Mum, Dad.

18
Apr

Word of the Day 18/04/2013 - Thursday 

Thursday n. the day of the week before Friday and following Wednesday

Well, obviously. But this Thursday in particular is my @*th birthday and I was actually born on a Thursday too, which means … ummm … well, not much really.  There must have been loads of times in my interminable lifetime that my birthday has fallen on a Thursday.

Commonly believed to originate from Thor, who is one of the Avengers, ‘Thor’s Day’ is actually a more recent replacement for the older (Old English) Thu(n)resdæg or ‘day of thunder’.

The etymology of this, in turn, is a translation of late Latin Jovis dies or ‘day of Jupiter’ (the God associated with thunder).

A noticeably charmed day, simply by being the penultimate in a normal working week of Monday - Friday and bringing with it a whiff of the weekend.

7
Dec
misssecretagent:

…playing with digital art… a mixed media deviation…

The Arcane Walk



There are some shining spirits in this world who illuminate the lives of others with their thoughtfulness, their kindness, and their beautiful hearts.
Thank you, T, for the precious gift.

misssecretagent:

…playing with digital art… a mixed media deviation…

The Arcane Walk

There are some shining spirits in this world who illuminate the lives of others with their thoughtfulness, their kindness, and their beautiful hearts.

Thank you, T, for the precious gift.

20
Nov
misssecretagent:

Wednesday, October 31st, 2012Early this morning, I finished something that I set out to do nearly a year ago. 153 pages later, I wrote the words “The End” to my first screenplay, the final stroke of which I have envisioned for quite some time now. There will be a long road ahead in the process of molding these pages into something much larger, so pardon my absence while I chase my dreams…And as it is also my birthday today, or more appropriate to what I seem to feel these days: a re-birthday, I am inspired to quote the etheric words from “Becoming the Phoenix,” as this is the time of the Scorpio, symbolized by the mythical Phoenix bird, representing resurrection, rebirth and immortality.“I flew straight out of heaven, a mad bird full of secrets. I came into being as I came into being. I grew as I grew. I changed as I change. My mind is fire, my soul fire. The cobra wakes and spits fire in my eyes. I rise through ochre smoke into black air enclosed in a shower of stars. I am what I have made. I am the seed of every god, beautiful as evening, hard as light. I am the last four days of yesterday, four screams from the edges of the earth—beauty, terror, truth, madness—the phoenix on her pyre.”

This makes me happy.

misssecretagent:

Wednesday, October 31st, 2012

Early this morning, I finished something that I set out to do nearly a year ago. 153 pages later, I wrote the words “The End” to my first screenplay, the final stroke of which I have envisioned for quite some time now. There will be a long road ahead in the process of molding these pages into something much larger, so pardon my absence while I chase my dreams…

And as it is also my birthday today, or more appropriate to what I seem to feel these days: a re-birthday, I am inspired to quote the etheric words from “Becoming the Phoenix,” as this is the time of the Scorpio, symbolized by the mythical Phoenix bird, representing resurrection, rebirth and immortality.

“I flew straight out of heaven, a mad bird full of secrets. I came into being as I came into being. I grew as I grew. I changed as I change. My mind is fire, my soul fire. The cobra wakes and spits fire in my eyes. I rise through ochre smoke into black air enclosed in a shower of stars. I am what I have made. I am the seed of every god, beautiful as evening, hard as light. I am the last four days of yesterday, four screams from the edges of the earth—beauty, terror, truth, madness—the phoenix on her pyre.”

This makes me happy.

23
Oct

I think, Frodo, that maybe you will not need to come back, unless you come very soon. For about this time of the year, when the leaves are gold before they fall, look for Bilbo in the woods of the Shire. I shall be with him.

Elrond Half-elven, The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien.
Sometimes I wish there was a boat waiting for me in the Grey Havens and I could slip away down the long grey firth as the light I carry glimmers and is lost. Sailing far away until I behold “white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”
Sometimes I wonder if that is the only peace I shall find.

I think, Frodo, that maybe you will not need to come back, unless you come very soon. For about this time of the year, when the leaves are gold before they fall, look for Bilbo in the woods of the Shire. I shall be with him.

Elrond Half-elven, The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien.

Sometimes I wish there was a boat waiting for me in the Grey Havens and I could slip away down the long grey firth as the light I carry glimmers and is lost. Sailing far away until I behold “white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.”

Sometimes I wonder if that is the only peace I shall find.

13
Sep

 

inatoms:

“If I could only touch you and create a ripple in all you know,” said the book.

This particular book has created tidal waves right down to my very core, right down to my atomic level.

It has been a particularly beautiful, sometimes painful, occasionally heartbreaking, and a distinctly life- and attitude-changing read that has made me reassess my past and probe the dusty chambers of my heart. The book has the prime location in my bookcases. I will turn to it again and again in years to come. But for now, the last pages flicker in an autumnal breeze as the final chapter dwindles to its last words.

I … love … you.

(via inatoms-deactivated20121128)

13
Sep

Daily Thought 

misssecretagent:

Only by rising and reaching out can you find your center. Learn to hear your heart over your head as your mind will often keep you in the confines of what you have always known. To lead with your heart requires that one is willing to follow its guidance fearlessly. If man could be as unconditional in his heart- expanding without restrictions or boundaries much like the universe, it is astounding to think of how much more complete one would become.

13
Sep

 

inatoms:

You believe in ghosts.  Of course you do.  The ones whose name is spoken in a chance sentence when you least expect it.  The ones that you hear in the notes of your favourite songs and in the drops that bounce off the windowpane.  You still feel them.  I know you do.  Haunting your chest and casting shadows at the back of your throat when you tell someone that they don’t exist, yet all you can ever really do is habit their pictures often to make sure they’re still there.  

We are all haunted.  

(via inatoms-deactivated20121128)

13
Sep
129 plays

misssecretagent:

…this is one of those songs that makes me imagine that I were adrift somewhere far away… a post-everything sort of world, quite literally post-structure: post dualism, post feudalism, post physical, post twinges of pain, post ambiguity…

DEATH CUBE K
MAGGOT DREAM
DREAMATORIUM

12
Sep
misssecretagent:


We are pushed to align straight, persuaded from the spiral.

The Non-LinearOne of the greatest deceptions of man is that we are taught by society to be linear when nothing organic truly is; we are cyclical beings by nature. We are instructed to form opinions based only by logic rather than by heart, we are told that our lives, like our fairy tales, are finite with a beginning and an end. We are instructed that the path to follow is the straight and narrow, and anything that deviates from this is an interruption. We are told that curves and twists are not ideal in this world, where space and time cannot bend.But everything bends in the universe. It is a simple truth that the curvatures of our bodies reflect the phi ratio spiral of a sunflower, which in turn are micro images of the sacred form of celestial bodies swirling around us. But we are not told these things. Because they say we are confined to three spatial dimensions, we are told that we are powerless to change the hands of time- the passage of time, which they say, moves only in linear and not cyclical form.We are told that bending the mind would shatter reality. We are told that things should be structured in rows, in a line, in uniform consistency, not by sweeping arcs or bent angles, or arches. We are pushed to align straight, persuaded from the spiral. And yet what we should be told is that the circle is an archetype of our psyche that is older than the sun, moon and stars, and we are at its center, the inner circle. And thus to come full circle is to beckon the sacred and divine, and an infinite energy and wholeness with the cosmos.

misssecretagent:

We are pushed to align straight, persuaded from the spiral.

The Non-Linear

One of the greatest deceptions of man is that we are taught by society to be linear when nothing organic truly is; we are cyclical beings by nature. We are instructed to form opinions based only by logic rather than by heart, we are told that our lives, like our fairy tales, are finite with a beginning and an end. We are instructed that the path to follow is the straight and narrow, and anything that deviates from this is an interruption. We are told that curves and twists are not ideal in this world, where space and time cannot bend.

But everything bends in the universe. It is a simple truth that the curvatures of our bodies reflect the phi ratio spiral of a sunflower, which in turn are micro images of the sacred form of celestial bodies swirling around us. But we are not told these things. Because they say we are confined to three spatial dimensions, we are told that we are powerless to change the hands of time- the passage of time, which they say, moves only in linear and not cyclical form.

We are told that bending the mind would shatter reality. We are told that things should be structured in rows, in a line, in uniform consistency, not by sweeping arcs or bent angles, or arches. We are pushed to align straight, persuaded from the spiral. And yet what we should be told is that the circle is an archetype of our psyche that is older than the sun, moon and stars, and we are at its center, the inner circle. And thus to come full circle is to beckon the sacred and divine, and an infinite energy and wholeness with the cosmos.

12
Sep

 

inatoms:

To be a successful writer, I believe one must have the ability to engineer a thought to a limb; to not only describe the summertime, but afford the reader a subtle breeze, a chance drizzle or even if just the sand between their toes at a crowded beach.  I’ve only recently discovered that by tousling words around with similes and metaphors, you form expressions and with expressions, you can arrange a bouquet of flowers for a woman who never gets them, release a hummingbird from its ribcage and impel a Malaysian snow.  To be a writer, I believe you need more than just a muse, rather the ambition to touch them with simple words.  

For a while now, I’ve been wanting to write you a letter, just a simple letter to remind you that I have not forgotten, that I still think of you, but I live in a box of pencils that break when I try too hard.  Here I am trying to make a sheet of paper beat to the tempo of my heart.  

(via inatoms-deactivated20121128)