↑Shi*'s blog

... 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.

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 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.