Rocking Bandstand

The blue corduroy jacket waved in the seawind and its wearer moved chuggingly along the wet beach. His face was darkish and his eyes were dark and knowing. Forever the outsider, lonely beach walks were a standard diversion for his bony frame. He glanced up to the three distinct ridges of sand. In the opposite direction another man walked, slightly quicker. Glad to be alone again, so his savage imagination may prosper a little in this soft sea air, he kept his bright eyes focused straight in front, then he also looked at the three sand ridges then heard the slaps of feet behind. She jogged with affected grace and when she found herself alone she would run slower and even start playfully zig-zagging around the rockpools. When she glanced at the three ridges of sand all three of them simultaneously noticed that each ridge was vastly different- the top one was a rich cinnamon, the middle one an old ginger and the bottom one an tea-orange. The second man then noticed the corduroy lines of the first man and turned them horizontal in his imaginings so that they would be precisely parallel with the distant peer, meanwhile the first man perceived the second man to be the shameful possessor of a melon-like head, while the girl, running passed the second man, imagined both men as being neighbouring bristles on a giant wire brush that would sweep the tiled roof of the old atheneum in a town she passed through three years previously in her bustling days. The sand ridges then collapsed into one finger-shaped whole which pointed to the triumphant, rocking bandstand.

The Power of Partial Oblivion

I do not need to look directly at that copper beech to know it and in truth it may not be a copper beech. It’s a brownish pattern out of the corner of my eye on the window. I could yield to its charms and go out there on the lawn, stare at it, hug it and then start chewing its leaves. Instead there is some force that would keep it out of my full attention. I am to write about it as a minor feature on the now scape and see if , perversely I could know it better by not knowing it at all. It seems in my limited regard of its form to appear in my head as adjectives describing human characteristics- bold, friendly, cheeky and as I touch deeper into my own character to understand it I find a place where somehow we meet in spirit. There we both become other than human and tree, something that would be described as rich, yet richness is somehow what occurs when an excess of this is squeezed into a smaller that. This is another type of richness, existing at a vibrational level one that is as indescribable as anything else that is truly marvellous.
So now in knowing the tree from the inside I can regard it from the outside; to judge the cover by the book as it were and I see that it is not bold, cheeky, nor friendly rather it is nothing other than a manifestation of is

This Hand

Bright straight flashes of orange tulips and some still frames of a tanktopped childhood in the 1940s by the fountain on the east garden and some of motion pictures, one of wild dark hair and big brown eyes dressed in blue, not me, not her, somehow a union of both in teenage wanderings in the orchards of a secret Suffolk flatland; we are rowing a boat out to a sea, the day is warm, our bodies are warm and the fantasy is that the sea is warm too but how we astonish ourselves with freezing cold dipping toes, then a gull marries the blue band around the boat. I say marries, for, somewhere in the great design of this moment there is a romantic coming together, the sea and the blue sky is the canvas and that gull and that blue band are brushstroked with the same loving hand in the same spirit of one who is casually and richly taken with the flush of spring. It is a calm hand, slightly yellow yet white as the moon in the first glow of a chilly morning. It is a hand that has stroked the bark of acacia trees, fed orphan lambs and arranged a bouquet of dandelions for his truelove and that now readies for the feel of the waxy petals of that orange tulip, first a tickle, then a stroke, then full compression, then lasting union, then somewhere in the heart of the hand becomes the memory of orange in a meadow of yearning green and somewhere in the ear of the hand he can hear the rubbing of the papery borders of this moment with the next.