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.

... 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.

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

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 …

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.

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.

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 ...

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