Workshop World

In the shade of the pine, with pebbles and sand at my feet, I sit on the log barrier to have my photograph taken. Kate somehow manages, even though it is just after noon, to bring the flash into action; it was clever she says later, to the accompaniment of beating drums. The pine brush carries it's own random patterns, the rings of the sawn log gives away it's age, it's full time of life over, before helping to form a new human support venture. Times, and places run their course; where once there was unfettered imagination, and freedom of will, there is now ageing and signs of repetition, which in turn leads to decay. We are all  in need of the search of a new beginning, a new motivation; it is no longer sufficient to talk of community, or to dance around the word retreat, or to paint the words of grace and patience onto fine ceramic mugs.

Age of Community

The dust of previous occupancy smothers any possibility of individual reckoning. Like a swathe of blankets thick in felt and embroidery the weight of others is overbearing.

Yet this place names itself the community, so I wonder why do I feel so estranged? Rather than becoming engulfed in the question I judge it better to retreat to the pebble beach, take solace with the solitary fishermen, cast my cares to the clouds, abandon my thoughts to the rolling sea. The talk turns to Finnish lodges, space in the heart of the forest, a place to sauna and swim au natural - this sounds more like an enlightened engagement with life to me.

Canadian Band WIP

I’ve got to go out in my garden
Go out and see what moves me
For there's something very sexy
About the band in the room
Below my hotel bedroom

This old earth body, this old earthly body, this old earthly body burns to hear the songs of wanting, with fragrant shaken waters, water of the same kind, this old earthly body turns to cheer the songs of the whisper and the wanting

With reeds and creeds, and kaleidoscopic seeds this old earthly body stakes out its turn for the songs of wanting; songs lost among the longing, lost among the longing and the wanting; we shake, we ache, we dedicate our loss of love in turn for the whispered songs of the longing and the wanting

That love lies lost, lost among the longing, lost among the longing and the wanting; songs are the whispered deeds, songs are the care less creeds, songs are the earthly needs, songs are the seven seeds of love; that love lies lost

Lost among the songs for the longing, lost among the whispered songs for the longing and the wanting

She turned, he turned, their elegance burnt deep
into their friendships
He learnt, she learnt, their clothesline turned the earth from cotton into cotton
They consecrated with a purpose, the serrated edges of papyrus reed, laid bare the words for their seeds to feed the earth
To feed the cosmos and to feed the whole of its starlights

This old earth body, this old earthly body, this old earthly body burns to hear the songs of wanting, with fragrant shaken waters, water of the same kind, this old earthly body turns to cheer the songs of the whisper and the wanting

With reeds and creeds, and kaleidoscopic seeds this old earthly body stakes out its turn for the songs of wanting; songs lost among the longing, lost among the longing and the wanting; we shake, we ache, we dedicate our loss of love in turn for the whispered songs of the longing and the wanting

That love lies lost, lost among the longing, lost among the longing and the wanting; songs are the whispered deeds, songs are the care less creeds, songs are the earthly needs, songs are the seven seeds of love; that love lies lost

Lost among the songs for the longing, lost among the whispered songs for the longing and the wanting

He burnt, she burnt, their elegance turned deep
into wilder passions
She turned, he turned, their clothesline learnt the earth burned cotton out of cotton
They conjugated with abandon of purpose, the serrated edges freed they laid bare the words for their misdeeds to reseed the earth
To lead out into the cosmos and to lead out into the whole of its starlights

I’ve got to go out in my garden
Go out and see what moves me
For there's something very sexy
About the band in the room
Below my hotel bedroom

The deluded ramblings of a working class Yorkshireman who believes attention to detail and commitment to aesthetic beauty would solve our countries lot

There is much to be done
Sufficient work for everyone
But first to rebuild the spirit
Energise; engage with all

Some to work with hedgerows
Some to work with books
Work in towns and cities
Work with claws and hooks

Everyone to find their own self
Yet encompass communal pride
Everyone in congregation
Plus time for their solitary side

Some to work in organisation
Some to simply do
Work to be the ethic
To grow and prosper too

Strive towards the good life
Quality to be indigenously bound
Everywhere aimed at pleasure
Fresh life for sights and sound

Some to bring on excellence
Some to support and aid
Work of a thousand varieties
With reward only honestly
And truly and evenly fairly paid

Hardness falls

The ochre coloured balloon of sadness
Landed fully on his tummy
It rolled into the valley of love
With the air filled canary yellow gossamer

For a short while it was out of his hands
No longer his decision
He waited (easily)
For happenstance to have her way
Her response was to hand the baton back

In respite; the lost weekend was over
In a matter of weeks and days
Not the months or years he had hoped for
The calculations, the meditations

They had then to recommence
Mindful of what might be effected
And what they may be affected by
Time to read yet another wellbeing book