In the moonlight we find ourselves

sitting in the old moonlight

horned waning and golden

blue-silk-sheened in the night warmth

the hiding garden alive with soft movement

of light on pale leaves

and deeper shadows.

I dream of her

as she rides the night

illuminating my hot blood

showing all things

in a new light

as she slowly dies

Teaching me my memories

that death is change

that she will be reborn

in argent splendour

that the summer's heat will pass

that the night will end

that clear dawn always follows

and that we will find ourselves

renewed

These delicate and sensitive instruments.

That guide the journey, fix position, set course.

The heart that swells and beats.

The soul that yearns.

The mind that dreams.

The body that burns.

She asked me where this garden is

As if she did not know

That it lives

In our dreams

In our hearts

In our souls.

I reply languidly with a kiss

I looked in her eyes

Saw her dreams

Saw her heart

Saw her soul.

She looked back, curious

She had seen me naked

In my dreams

In my heart

In my soul.

Pool Nudes Remix

... and where are the angels now?

In the high places.

Where most people don't go.

Alone.

In nature. Of nature.

To the low places.

From the high places.

Love.

From me to me.

From me to you.

Austere reflections.

Of a hopeful traveller.

Returning.

Home.

In the land of dreams, in the sea of life, silver fish swim through dancing colours. The personal reality flows inward, flows outward.

Clouds pass by the moon.

Tired and dreamless, lost in the fogs of productivity. Marshalling resolve, the lone ronin presses on through the bamboo forest. Later, the fish will swim again ...

Goldfish. In a bowl. watches through the glass wall to the unavailable beauty beyond. Asking: 'Is the distant appreciation of beauty sufficient ...' Replying: 'This is your reality for the moment, in living this moment you know that you will not live it again. Savour its particular and unique flavour.'

Later, the goldfish bowl may fall over when the cat pounces. The goldfish escapes down a drain. Released from the sewers he finds himself in still sunlight waters. Maybe he even meets a mate ...

... or so he dreams, as he watches beauty from his bowl.

Inspired by this image:

www.ipernity.com/doc/be-blog-a-lula/2198068

... and so, after a day of sun and a warm night, the soft rain falls this morning. Soft enough to stand out in for the sheer pleasure of it's cool touch on my skin, sweet enough to glaze the petals of the roses.

Yesterday evening the air outside my bijou studio flat was filled with the scent of Gertrude Jekyll ... she has a rich scent, sensual and heady. I see that the Mock Orange will soon be joining in and then the air will become electric and langorous, redolent of other sensory memories ... a Galliano dress that fitted the fairy in Wolfords, a lost weekend of room service ... Mistress Berlin standing over me in the night garden, raking her nails into my back in a pact of blood, tracing my soul story ... further back Parvati dances as her ankle bells sing, the tabla drives a rhythm that overpowers the senses ... further back still I watch stoned as an angel dresses in a fur coat (in the days when that was accepted), and not much else but a musky perfume mixed with patchouli.

Soft rain and scent, a trail of breadcrumbs through memories of love ... I count myself fortunate indeed. I light a cigarette and savour the moment.

What is it that you want, she said, apropos of nothing.

Unexpected silence.

... but by then the question had dug its thorny parts under my yielding skin and would not let go.

What is my desire? where is the shortfall in my contentment? I started to turn it over.

Perhaps it is in the difference between the intensity of dreams and the uneven content of reality, I mused. Those head holidays I take to exotic places ... places I have to admit that I could quite happily settle in. But then my more unimaginative friends tell me that this is just escapism, unreal, fantasy ...

Happily, I don't need much to make me feel good. The natural world, even the tame world of my garden, brings me pleasure daily. Add some sun and a temperature over 18 degrees Celsius and subtract the stresses of work deadlines and ... hey presto ... I am a happy bunny.

so some first items for my wish list:

1) Less work stress

2) More good weather

But then, although I am very happy with my own company, I do also enjoy sharing my interests and my self with other sympatico types.

3) Good companions

Of course, I have all of these things so I am really putting in my want list for more of the above, or more access to 3) in particular. And maybe something more  ...  some one to share the  full extent of my desire for union,  transcendent  conjunction.  Well,  hey,  these are things that you cannot by-and-large  force.  And my way  is ,  perhaps not surprisingly, quite gentle.  I am the vampire who must be invited over the threshold and the circus girl who disappears if you look away for too long. Such is my way.

So really I don't particularly want anything and yet maybe what I want is everything. Thankfully, money doesn't interest me. Conformity leaves me cold but then so does deliberate and knowing eccentricity. Eccentricity should be perfectly normal to the eccentric, for God's sake.

OK, I digress. Reworking the Cartesian axiom: I think therefore I digress.

Now where was I ...

I was reminded of the interesting history of this area by a comment regarding the upcoming mini-iper-meet there on 7th and 8th June. Normandy was ceded to the viking leader Hrolf (latinised to Rollo) by the French king, Charles the Simple, under the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte in 911 AD. Allegedly the viking longships had sailed up the Seine to Paris and the land was given to the vikings in return for them 'going away'. In time this new land of the Northmen became known as 'Normandy'.

Well, that's my little nugget of historical information for today. Now I must go food shopping - the cupboards are bare once more ... have a good weekend!

Sitting here, listening to Beefheart wailing songs of love ... the Captain being mellow for once ... and he sings, 'and my head is my only house unless it rains ...'. Now Nina picks up with Sunday in Savannah ... coffee brewing and a film to watch in a little while. The life of the modern hermit. After a busy frantic stress-filled week ... what could be finer. Coffee, jazz and chill-out.

A little remixed samba picks up the mood ... sends my thoughts cartwheeling through memories of Brazil, capirinhas and watching live samba in Rio. The band and the audience become one sensual whole - from 18 to 80 a seething syncopated mass of flexing joy. There will never be a revolution in Brazil, I am told, the sun is hot, the cachasa runs freely and it's samba time ... so who cares to change anything? 'PAY ATTENTION, DAVE' says my friend with her voice which can strip paint off walls. I pay attention.

Ella Fitzgerald now, 'Body and Soul', takes me to a more innocent age ... when love and sacrifice was enough. When the big love for eternity was still a dream to be believed in. Me? I am an anachronism therefore. But lets not go where that is taking me.

Kosheen ... I won't forget you ... my ipod is being merciless tonight.

I let you down

I let you down

I let you go

... and all the things that get said at the end, I won't forget you ...

Yup, being a hermit is a positive life choice.

... and when I get bored of it, and the wind changes or that unforeseen walks round the corner and says hi! ... well, then I will change again.

RE: SWEET SOLSTICE 21-6-04

She took the pebble carefully ... running its smoothness across her neck and throat then pushed it deeply, firmly through her flesh, embedding it in her heart ...

Thank you darling soul ... my precious blue implant causes me a little pain -  in the most delightful way ... and only when I breathe (*smile)

xxxxxxxxxxxx>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

HEART MURMUR* 21-6-04

The symptoms you describe interest me, because I believe that I am suffering from something similar. I find that I keep thinking about you when I should be working and this is accompanied by a quite pleasant painful sensation in my chest - like my heart is full to bursting. I then feel what can only be described as a hunger of the soul. What should I do?

Suggestions, pppppllleeaase! kisses, souldaveXXXXXXX

RE: HEART MURMUR* 21-6-04

something really atmospheric on a sandstone altar i hope (*smile) xxxxxxxxxxx>>>>>>>>>>>>>>take care xxxxxxx>>>>>

Don't be blue sweetness! You can do the heaving bossom bit and I'll do the eyeliner. Just been to another country house - nice clients, beautiful park ... wish you were there with me* kisses, souldavexxxxxxxxxxxxx

Through kohl rimmed eyes
She watched as fingers twisted cords around her wrists
and gently, firmly tied her ankles down ... (*smile) xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>>>>>>>>>>>

Spreadeagled on the pale, oily-smooth, marble slab in the large darkened space. The only light being from five huge candles placed in a pentacle around the rectangular slab. The air full of incense - attar of roses*. The masked figure slowly turning back to her with a golden bowl. She feels the warm oil run over her body ...

Sweetness, of course, the anointing oil is no ordinary oil. Plant extracted atropines, psilocybins and cannabinoids have been added. The effect is ... out of this world*

The heat of her limbs contrasted strangely with the cool, smooth surface she was bound to ... strangely soft beneath her skin ...

Thank you beautiful ... xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>>>>>>>>>>i'll get back on the altar (or is that you *smile) in the next couple of days - flat out again xxx - love and smiles >>>

Strong masseur's hands gently spread the anointing oil over her body. Then, a mouth, lips, tongue slides from navel to nipple. The hand scoops a few droplets of oil, touching her lips and then a finger slides into her mouth. She tastes the oil, feels something spreading through her system like fire. A first rite has been observed ... the next involves blood* ...

The thorn pierced deep, bringing with it a bone-sweet pain, a transcendent pain, ... or was it pleasure. It was certainly a CLEAR moment, before it subsided to an itch. Brush the rose petals, a rose meets a rose by a very different name. And then another impaling ...

Then … lost in visions…

Today, I am the pearldiver pushing back my wet hair. Little drops and rivulets glistening on my tanned skin. My lean form springs skyward, leaving the wooden boat gently rocking, then arcs like a golden bow toward the crystal water. No splash, just a swallowing sound as I pierce the mirror surface ... to enter my kingdom. Sound is deadened, gravity defied, vision rippling*. But I must go deeper, always deeper. That is where the treasured pearls lie in their nacreous beds. It's all a dream and I believe I can live without air. It allows me to go deeper. Is this inside or outside my head ... or both, it comes to me. This is the way, my path of bubbles signing my location.

Darkening vision ... always almost there as I lose consciousness ...

Come on in, the water's fine!

'she's feeling very girlie and vulnerable because she doesn't realise that those little lines around her mouth are an easy target for the kisses that take such joy in all the words that put them there...'

'I think I'll be a raven haired amazon today' she purred to soul, kholling the rims of her girlfriends eyes, and daubing her lips with pomegranates....

to graceful damsels dancing in the wind, their long slim limbs entwining with the strands of weeping willows ....>>>>>>>>

You beautiful person! I could just cover you in honey and lick it all off again!

William Gibson must be very happy. Let's hope more of his future gazing comes to pass. He imagined future virtual environments in which virtual avatars could interact as in reality. The ultimate post-geographic dream. For now I will continue wending my way towards the foothills of this massif*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

soul looked round but the figure had gone. Walking up the dusty curving marble stair from the ballroom, leaving a trail of footprints in the dust. In the minstrels gallery she finds the footprints of the other and proceeds to follow ...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT … 18-6-04

She sits leaning over a desk, a VDU screen staring blankly back at her. Her whole body language says, 'Tired' and 'Tense'. Then two warm hands rest gently on her shoulders, one brushes her long blonde mane to one side and moist lips kiss the nape of her neck, lightly. 'Relax', a soft deep English voice whispers in her ear and then the hands begin to firmly massage those locked muscles at the base of her neck. After a while, as the slow rhythm of the massage starts to kick in and she begins to relax, two thumbs find the uppermost tsubos to either side of her spine and apply a deep pressure. 'Breathe in slowly', the voice says and the pressure is released. 'Now breathe out', and the pressure is renewed, this time a little deeper. 'I can feel the chi connection now, darling one', and she feels it too. Some more breaths and the next tsubos are energised, and so on down her spine. She's feeling good, better than she has for a while, it's good to relax deeply. A hint of humour enters the voice, 'Of course, Dale Cooper's advice holds good - every day give yourself a little treat: that extra double espresso, a quick catnap at your desk when you should be doing something else, something different and unexpected just because you want to ...'

****************************************************

'She's magic ...', she mused, looking at the henna tattoos on her long pale hands as she slowly, gently kissed each finger tip (*smile)

********************************************

MAGICAL REALITY 20-6-04

I had a dream last night and woke with the certainty that I should write to you. I can only remember the tiniest fragment of the dream but what I remember makes it significant and, perhaps, timely.

My old Jungian therapist is calling to me, telling me to get up, go somewhere, do something. We are in a room in a house, not unlike my own. She is behind the large sofa on which I am pretending to sleep. I have covers and as she speaks I pull these up around my head, hiding. I know that she stands in front of the large French doors to the garden, bathed in light. She becomes impatient, telling me that I cannot hide and that I need to go.

As you can imagine, I woke up thinking that this was where I am in a nutshell. On the other hand I am moving within again and my sense of the magical in everyday life has never been stronger. Not the magic of ‘Abracadabra’ but the magick* of signs and portents, of seeing. Carlos Castanada’s Don Juan says at the very beginning that the first step for the sorcerer, the brujo, is to learn to see. Much the same could be said of the artist, or for that matter the landscape architect*. Whether ‘seeing’ significance is magick or psychology or marketing 101 is a matter of personal mindset – but for me the world has always been magical. My weakness is that I have been ambivalent about this for most of my life, believing deep inside me but denying on the surface. I guess my early experience with belief was not good, but I need to have more faith and I definitely must learn not to be afraid of expressing who I really am in terms of belief. I have been spiritual all my life and have run shy of shouting that fact out in this material age.

It feels good – each kiss landing on my fingertips like a butterfly. I look at the henna patterns that grow like rippling vines across the backs of my hands. I smile, closing my hand, still looking at the back of my left hand. I slowly rotate my wrist, my fingers now upward, visible. Wrapped around something. My hand opens and in my palm a stone, a pebble from a very distant beach somewhere. Smooth, polished by the sea, like a flattened ovoid. Lapis. ‘This is for you to keep, *****, guard it well.’ I put one finger to your forehead, lightly, in that special place just above and between your eyes. ‘You can always see me here’. I smile, and fade from sight.

Full moon washing over desert outcrops as he makes his way down a droughted arroyo. No rain has been seen here for several years. Sparse tufts of struggling vegetation form a dark counterpoint to the pale sand, marking out a way ahead. He pulls back his hood and rubs what remains of his grey stubble, narrowing his eyes as he looks ahead. A flat outcrop in the distance, catching the pale light. A figure standing there looking over the distant valley below.

It has been a long time wandering in the high places. A long time without meeting a soul. He crouches down, releasing his pack and his katana. Sits cross-legged.  Reflecting, conjuring, imagining ...  seeing with his eyes closed.

Yes, he finally decides, it is the time, the place ... his soul knows it and she awaits him. Many times he has travelled through her eyes, felt her light joy, shared her dark despair. Now a time for new beginnings, for collaboration,  a new quest.

He watches Nemain climb the sky in her full glory. Feels that full moon invigoration. The cold desert breeze running down the arroyo bringing the nightime scent of the grasslands above. He knows that when he meets her, that shadowy figure waiting below, they will be one, they will be 'I'. Words will be unecessary ... there are few enough to be said.

He stands, harnesses his pack and sword. Time to move forward ... time for his story.

THE TWINS 27-3-04 ... letter to B

It begins with a dream …

No doubt in my mind that this is one of those Jungian anima dreams. I know the feeling by now – when the subconscious is active. Not having my trusty analyst anymore is a drag, I could do with turning this one over. It’s very simple but experience suggests that there is often a lot more there than is first apparent. So, it’s an anima dream. The overall tone is up. The twin reference is emphasis. It shows me indulging my fetish, lightly – it’s a fun thing*. The anima figure is complicit and ‘leads’ me through a series of visual cues, to be myself, to lighten up, to just ‘do it’. Much as you do …

Some gift to love the summer sun

            To soar the life wind for eternity

            Smell luscious skin

            Eat the juicy waxed peach

            Picture the smooth lake shine

            At your knee I learnt to worship

            Rose petal language

            To swim in heart sea love

            Open like an oyster

            Revealing the pearl

            To taste the honey from your lips

            Our tongues elaborating delicate symphonies

            As the heavens dance

... not what Tori Amos had in mind but nonetheless her phrase came to my mind.

Yesterday, a clear-skied intense blue sunshine day - unexpected and a particular delight at this time of year! I was taking a party of landscape & archeology students around several eighteenth-century parks and it was the perfect day to be out in Arcadia. We went in search of Lancelot's lost lake ... a little journey of discovery for all of us. Donning our Holmesian mode of enquiry, with a little Howard Carter, and a smattering of Horace Walpole, we braved the overgrown mass of saplings. Lo, the dam wall still stands proud! but alas the sluice has washed away. We trace the outline of what was the bank while discussing what a hidden Elysium this must have been back then. A hidden pool, set in a glade ... imaginings of sporting Nymphs and Dryads. We find some ancient and immense stumps of the designed planting, now gone except for these mossy memories. I say written on the land, a book to be read. Remains of a building platform ... a folly perhaps on this small mound by the lake? The group conjectures assignations and sweet trysts in this giardino segretto in an imagined scented bower. The group is playing, learning, imagining, analysing ... having fun in the sun.

The sun is beginning to set. We are on a seventeenth-century terrace with a simple pavilion to either end. The obligatory 'class of '08' field trip photographs have been taken. The light is low and orange-red. A special thing happens then ... the course tutor proceeds to the vote of thanks to the guest tutor and guide for the day, me. She says that thank you is not enough for the experience we have all shared. More syllables are required and a new word ... she makes a long ullulation, as example ... and then, the whole group joins in ...

I stand there, smiling shyly, touched deeply. Another memory for the treasure chest.

The figure stood silhouetted against the sky and the sea. Standing on the shingle shore, black cloth flapping gently in the sea breeze. Black cloth from head to toe – just the shape of a person with their back to the viewer. Oh yeah, and the long scabbard of a sword mounted across the back. The figure turns around to look at you, only eyes visible. Ninja, Assasin, Thuggee.

The sword flashes out in a single flowing movement, cutting the sky, the sea, the beach, as if it were stage scenery. Maya. Walking through the rent fabric, then …

A middle-aged man stands in the hot sun of a city street. If you have the sight, and you look carefully, you could swear that what you see is a black clothed Ninja … with dark plum varnished nails!!! You shake your head, it’s all illusion and mirrors.

Another cut of the katana and it’s snow you see, hanging, clinging to the tracery of branches in the trees in an English garden. The Ninja peddling a hot word processor …

What does it all mean?

Nothing, nada, rien, niente, zip.

It is/is not.

In Berlin ... in the Fall ...

THANX 13-6-02

My eyes looked at you

stared

twin mirrors

like mystic doorways

something crossed

into my soul

found others

in the darkness

outside it is light

but inside

in the darkness

your stockings

and latex

bind me

And he feels Her finger nails tracing down his back - cold and firm their lines upon his skin...

"I'm tracing your soul story" she whispers in his ear, and runs a finger cross his lips now tasting of his blood - warm and sweet and vivid red....

"Continue..."