MY FANTASY ROOM

In my room you will find all aspects of my character, there is no ceiling here, nothing to stop my thoughts from flight. Above me the pure, clean dome of a parachute. I close my eyes and feel the thrill as I hurl myself out of the plane, no going back now! ‘One thousand, two thousand, three thousand.... Check Canopy! Then relax! I listen to the drone of the plane’s engine dwindle to no more than the sound of a bumble bee. I listen. I hear nothing but the pounding of my heart beating time as the toy town below grows bigger. Am I falling? I am weightless, just floating wherever the breeze tide takes me in a vast waterless ocean with more space than I could ever imagine. Everything I am, have been or ever will be entrusted into the care of a vast white mushroom canopy. Foolish perhaps, but what euphoria nature’s needle injects into my soul.
This is exciting..

My room has an ocean where I find total tranquility. I hold bread out to them, their colours shine and glisten as the Caribbean sun spears through the watery blue. I feel a cacophony of tiny tails brush against my skin as they twist and turn as one beautiful marine cloud of buoyant colour. No longer am I outside the picture, I am part of it as I reach out and gently stroke the strange wet flower arrangements illuminated by talons of sunlight. Protected in this watery greenhouse, never to stand in a cut crystal vase on a doyled window sill as their terrestrial counterparts suffer, nor will the fish ever hear the irritating sound of routine bubbles emanating from a miniature plastic diver.
This is freedom.

On the wall of my room hangs the sad fate of poor Ophelia lying in her watery grave. Sir John Everett Millais’ Raphaelite beauty is tranquil amidst a garland of fateful flowers, which, forever bright, remain an oil memorial on a canvas shroud.
This is sadness.

From Ophelia to Patsy. A character with a designer sack of neuroses who is barely visible behind a nictoine cloud of youthfulness. Patsy sits in my room blatantly ignoring ageism, sexism, alcoholism and any other ‘ism’, none of which applies to her. She thumbs her powdered nose at convention with outstanding panache and as she views my painting, asks if I think Ophelia’s dress is La Croix (Sweetie) or Westwood. Death would be more wellcome than the indignation of reaching the age when ladies’ knickers have an obligatory 18 inches between waistband and gusset! No-one will ever burst Patsy’s Bollinger bubble and this make-believe outrageous character makes me smile and inspires me.
This is fun.

From Itchicoo Park’ to Guell Park, this too is in my room. Gaudi’s bizarre stone trees, reptilian fountains and mosaics reflect my total admiration of mans’ eccentricities. Within me a desire to be outrageous in deed as well as thought. But my aspiration, like Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia, tower upward, unique but incomplete. Perhaps some things are better left unfinished. Marilyn Monroe, Beethoven’s unfinished symphony, Apollo 13 mission and the music of John Lennon. Had they continued, the magic may have been lost. A file submitted to the archive is soon forgotten, but those left open will stay alive, feeding on the curiousity of enquiring minds.
This is aspiration.

In another corner of my room sits Dian Fossey, she is quiet and does not speak to me, she has no need for human company. I watch her cocooned in the soft gentle blackness of a family of mountain gorillas. An old silver-back strokes her hair, comforting her. I see the joy in her eyes and the gentle smile as she relaxes into the cushion of this shy amiable giant and I know she is happy to be his pet for a while allowing the protected to become the protector.
This is admiration.

They have no fear of hunters here as the only hunter around is Orion, barely visible in the black velvet sky. His speck of light pierces through the darkness with countless companions in a timeless quest to reach us. Their light, an intimate glow for lovers, inspiration for the artist, a challenge for the scientist and for me, nature’s nocternal balm soothes, comforts, and the magnitude of it all reminds me just how small my room is.
This is awesome.

THE HOUSEWIFE - June Gamble

I married a man, not a house,
but they call me a house-wife.
How True!

At first it was a semi,
two individuals forever joined.
Very Cosy!

Seduced by ambition, the temptress,
Now she keeps him out all hours.
How Lonely!

Housewife, mother, daughter, friend,
Like four faces of an old clock tower.
All Different!

Ten years on, the semi’s gone;
We’re detached now.
Very Affluent!

Two cars parked in the drive,
Taking us in diferent directions.
So Busy!

The bedroom’s needs a face-lift,
‘No time’ he says, ‘Get a man in’...
Good Idea!

'TIME' by June Gamble

You lurk around me, you intertwine
constantly pulling forward, pushing me from behind
perpetual, relentless, to all mankind.

Often you’ll take a winters day,
weave it in black and weft it in grey.
then watch me as I stumble through
this sordid, troublesome gift from you.

Wherein my spirit you tightly bind
in scratchy, flaxen robes of pain.
Rivers of tears will change you mind
and you’ll drape my soul with silk again.

Then each day becomes a chain of gold
as you craft each shining hour for me.
bedecked with jewels for me to hold
and store deep within my memory.

I wait; and you drift slowly by
toying with my anxiousness.
In times of joy you wink your eye
how callous is your thoughtlessness.

No bird nor beast escapes your quest
as you give and take, and take and give.
All manner of life learn to detest
how you decide who should perish or live.

You are my friend, also my foe
without you there is nothing, and when
you have finished with me and turn to go
you will carry on; and I will end.

The son of a craftsman who worked with wood noticed a beautiful piece of rosewood in his fathers workshop which had numerous nails hammered into it.

‘Why does that lovely wood have all those nails in it dad? He asked

The father replied ‘Every nail represents a time when you have hurt or disrespected me.’

The boy was distressed by this and thought for a while.

‘I’m so sorry dad, I will changed and every time I do something nice for you, will you please remove a nail?’

‘Of course I will son, that would please me a great deal’.

After several months, the wood was free of nails and the boy felt very pleased with himself.

‘Look dad, the wood is free of all those ugly nails at last.’

‘Yes’ said his dad ‘But the holes are still there!.

THINK before saying something you may regret, words can hurt deeply and for ever.

Who Painted This?

Unfortunately, I am not the artist of this picture. I saw it whilst browsing and was captivated. I dont know the title and I dont know the artist. My task is now to find out.


I have found out - it is by Salvador Dali and is called 'Woman at the Window'.

CLINICAL DEATH EXPERIENCE

In 1988 my mother had a heart attack and was clinically dead. Fortunately she was in hospital at the time and her life was extended by another 10 years by defibrillation, drugs and the medical expertise of the staff. It was a good quality of life and a time myself and my family greatly treasure and are grateful to those true healers who made it possible.

During those 10 years my mum and I spoke a lot about her experience, she also had interest from her general practitioner, the local vicar, nurses and consultants to describe her experience to them. I recount what she told me and share it, as it gave me comfort and peace of mind. Hopefully it will also offer some comfort to those who have lost a loved one and find it hard to accept and come to terms with. I know it is their feelings of desperation and vulnerability that seek out the psychics often discredited on Bad Psychics.

The chest pains mum experienced initially were bad and she could hear little except the pounding sound of her heart beating arrhythmically. She remembered being aware of her heart’s last beat, which she described as a ‘shudder’. Medics were looking at her and as she focused on their faces the image of them appeared to her to freeze, then slowly began to dissolve ‘like a water colour painting dispersing as water fell onto it’. As she watched the image of the people faded into an extremely bright comforting light, which caused no discomfort to her eyes.

The pain ‘melted’ and she described that her body felt light ‘like wafer or tissue’. I asked mum if she was afraid and if she thought of my sister, our dad or me. She answered truthfully that she did not think of us, that she had no fear whatsoever and that she ‘felt nothing but calm and total peace, and a longing to embrace the feeling’. Mum told me she had no thoughts of anyone, living or dead, no fear, no regrets, no anxiety, no pain – absolutely NOTHING negative in her mind or body. NONE of her deceased relatives came and held their hands out to her; NO-ONE dead beckoned her; NO celestial angel hovered to welcome her – NOTHING BUT A PEACEFUL, PAIN-FREE VOID.

The medical staff defibrillated mum’s heart from nothing into tachycardia (beating over 100 beats a minute). At this point she said she suddenly felt ‘so very angry’ at being drawn away from the peace. The lights in the hospital room were bright and hurt her eyes, the noises were ‘deafening’, including a loud ‘whooshing’ in her ears as her head began to hurt and aches and pain ‘surged through her body again’. A second defibrillation calmed my mum’s heart to a more normal rhythm and thus began the pain relief and medical help that allowed my mum to live a further 10 years.

I remember during one of our deep conversations regarding life and death, asking her that when her time did come, if she could, would she come to me and give me a sign that she was ok. She laughed and said ‘Of course I will be ok – I will be dead, there is nothing NOT to be ok about’. I asked her again and she gave me a categorical ‘No’. She told me she that she loved me and that I would always have her close to me, in my memories and in my heart. She told me ‘When my time comes, then it will be over for me, I will have had my life. I don’t want you to dwell on thoughts of death. Life is for the living.’

I am lucky! We left nothing unsaid, we still debated and argued and carried on as a normal family, but we said ‘I love you’ more often and we hugged a lot. None of us have any regrets.

AUSTRALIA'S DOG FENCE

I had never seen a Fence like this before. A barrier of wire mesh six feet high, older than the Berlin Wall and longer than the Great Wall of china. A Fence so controversial that a nation of people including politicians, conservationists, tax payers and animals lovers accept the reason for it’s existence but question the ecological effect of it’s continuance. I am referring to the wonder of south-east Australia, the “Dog Fence”, all 3,307 miles of it. Snaking across the outback from the cold surf of the Great Australian Bight in the south, all the way to the cotton field of eastern Queensland, this epic Fence exists for only one purpose, to stop dingoes from killing any of the 123 million sheep within it’s boundary. Considering that Australia flourished on the woolly-backs of this £3 billion industry, it is not surprising that the government agree the need for a proper maintenance programme, paid for by a tax levied on woolgrowers.

Travelling along various parts of this wire mesh river in their souped-up four wheel drive vehicles, is an army of bushmen. To call them “shepherds” would conjure up images of solitary, tranquil individuals - and that could not be further from the truth. These woolgrowers are tougher than any ‘spaghetti-western’ cowboy you could image. Their jeans and checked shirts are splattered with the blood of lambs whose tails have been cut off to avoid blowfly infestation. The skin of these bushmen has been baked brown under an endless blue sky and powdered with a dusting of red sand, they scan the Fence through eyes which are half closed against the dust and the strength of the blinding sun. Mile after mile after mile their eyes skim the Fence looking for damage and areas in need of repair. The maintenance of the Fence cannot lapse as one dingo can kill up to 50 sheep and lambs in one night. Not for food, but just because this cousin of the coyote and descendant of the Asian wolf is a ceaseless hunter. Dingoes will chase down anything from red kangaroos and wombats to rabbits and lizards, but they favour the slow, panicky sheep. A small wolf-like creature, the dingo is a leggy dog, with a long muzzle, short pointed ears, and a bushy tail, usually ginger in colour - or so I was told. Because, ironically, the only dingoes in view were the rotting corpses impaled on the Fence. Their scalps removed by independent bounty hunters who can earn from eight pounds for the scalp of a young dingo and up to £200 for a problem dog. This creature, who has inhabited Australia for over 3,000 years coexisting with Aborigine tribes, is officially classed as vermin. As such, it is subject to the most horrendous form of death. Large metal claw traps are set, a sardonic sense of compassion compels the trappers to coat the teeth with strychnine in order to ease the animal’s death. Even though one trapper can kill around 200 dingoes in a year, estimates put todays population at more than a million. Therefore, the need for the Fence is even greater today than when it was started, and that was over 100 years ago by pioneer bushmen travelling with camels. Steel posts are erected in place of the ancient sagging wooden poles, new plastic coated mesh panels replace the rusting old ones, holes made by emus, wild pigs and camels are mended and tunnels dug by burrowing wombats are filled in. The dingo, however, is not responsible for any of the damage to the Fence. He prowls along it’s length, under the dust red sky of evening, yelping and howling at the tempting delights within the Fence’s boundary.

The ongoing battle between the woolgrowers and the dingo has escalated far beyond the protection of sheep. The ‘dog Fence’ has become a terrestrial dam, confusing the natural behaviour of Australia’s indigenous animals. Red and grey kangaroos, the great protected symbol of this continent, having freely penetrated the Fence, are without a native predator and their populations have exploded inside the Fence. They have now become the rivals of sheep, competing for water and grazing land and in response, governments cull more than three million kangaroos a year marketing the meat and hides. Could it be that the economic future for Australia’s biggest export will lie in the cultivation of kangaroo products? And if so, will the Fence be allowed to fall into disrepair or will it’s maintenance be upheld for the protection of the kangaroo instead of the sheep. At this point I will resist the urge to quote any anecdotes concerning ‘woolly jumpers’ but would remind you that no matter how mighty the predatory skills of the dingo, it can never compare with the disruptive influence that man exerts on the environment.

A Friend in Need!

There are times when I wish I could just say ‘No’ then I wouldn’t have an African Grey parrot locked in my downstairs loo keeping me awake by pretending it’s a phone! Allow me to explain.

10.30pm, (Monday)
Half an hour between the end of one episode of ‘Spooks’ and the start of the ‘cant wait till next week episode?’ on Sky 896 (or some such number which I invariably get wrong and end up with some 95 year old bloke in raptures over the benefits of his juicing equipment!!).

Time to make a cup of tea and a beef & mustard sandwich before settling down to find out if Adam still has the balls to be an MFI agent……. Nope I mean an MI5 agent. Personally I think he lost it when the Iranian Embassy acquired the night vision goggles which allowed the satellite to pick up the 6-second signal needed by intelligence in order to stop the virus in the London underground! You may disagree…. But I digress from my beef sandwich.

My 9-year-old border collie alerted me 0.5 seconds before the doorbell rang that someone was at the door. Not sure how he does that, I can only guess he hears or sees the frequency waves as they rush faster than a speeding bullet from the door to the cordless bell box, it’s a doggy thing. My neighbour of one week Fiona (who’s actually called Flor but I’ve been calling her Fiona all week) pushes past me in floods of tears and slams the door behind her locking it in the process and ushers me through to my own kitchen. Well she actually tried to get me into the integral garage, as her house is a mirror layout of mine, oh how I laughed at her obvious error! But then realising the situation I don’t mind admitting I panicked, after all I only had one slice of beef left and sod etiquette I truly had my heart set on that sandwich!

10.50pm (still Monday)
Looking at the clock I surmised that my date with Adam and the rest of the ‘Spooks’ entourage would probably have to be postponed till next week. Fiona/Flora was sobbing and as I tore off a few sheets of Tom & Jerry kitchen roll (bogof at Tesco) I secreted my sandwich behind the breadbin with the stealth of a true ‘Spooks’ aficionado. I thought for a moment whether this called for a cup of tea or glass of wine. I find certain situations vary in the type of beverage required, the death of a family pet would, in my opinion, and in the first instance call for a good strong cup of Tetley accompanied by an adequate ‘dunking’ biscuit. On the other hand boy-friend/husband trouble screams out for a nice bottle of Shiraz! Seemed to me we were talking ‘Shiraz’ problems so I poured us a glass.

‘Don’t let him get me’ sobbed Flora/Fiona (can I just refer to her as FF from now on?) and at that point her mobile rang. Through her sobs I could just make out the other party’s annoyed wailings. Boy was she in trouble for bothering the new neighbours with her domestic situation at this time of night! The new neighbour was me, as FF is one half of the couple that moved in next door just over a week ago. Up to now I had only met the guy whilst he moved in and he seemed nice enough, we chatted over the fence and I had learned that there was just him and as he put it ‘my partner’. Well, as there was a really chunky guy hanging curtains at the time, I naturally assumed that was his partner and I must admit got rather excited at the thought of having a gay couple to help me shop, teach me to make quiche and accompany me to Scissor Sister’s concerts.

FF is still on the phone, ‘Why should I tell her I watch porn? You do too!’ (Ho hum, time for another glass of wine, this is getting interesting). Then she snaps her mobile shut with vengeance and informs me that she is really worried about ‘her little Minky’. Call me perverted but at this point my mind is wandering into the exciting world of pornography it just didn’t occur to me that her little Minky was a cat! FF then tells me through Shiraz sodden snot, that he had slapped her and to be honest I was thinking along those lines myself at this point.

11.20pm
My dog beats the doorbell once again. Being full of bravado (or is it bravada for the feminine? – must look it up) courtesy of the ‘Spooks’ episode, I answered the door. He, (the gay guy who is not) leans casually against my front door whilst I struggle holding back my radar dog. I surmised that he hadn’t come round to borrow a cup of sugar and called FF to the door. Now at this point I thought it best to retreat back into the kitchen and have another glass of Shiraz. I could hear them arguing further, first a deep Irish tone, then her frantic shriek, and then a louder Irish retort followed by an outlandish shriek. Fearing the ‘un-gay’ guy had smacked her again I rushed down the hall to have a go at her myself (well my sandwich was beginning to curl) only to see FF rushing down the street chasing her little Minky, my radar dog chasing FF and of course I joined in like some surreal Benny Hill sketch. It seems that on demanding the ‘un-gay’ guy return her little Minky, he rapidly obliged by throwing the poor wee feline out of the window.


11.50pm (still Monday)
Now let me advise you, pink fluffy kitten heel slippers are definitely NOT what a girl should wear whilst running down the middle of the road chasing a dog, who’s chasing a mad woman, who’s chasing a cat! It can, and did result in the need for a complete pedicure, but again I digress. I don’t mind bragging that my dog is definitely better trained than FF’s little Minky, Before reaching the bridge at the end of our street, I had him under control and obeying my every command. It may well have been a fluke that the aforementioned fluffy pink mule flew off my foot and landed radar dog a solid kick in the balls, or it may have been the fact I was strangling the poor little bugger by his collar. Nonetheless, we wandered back to the house whilst FF disappeared into the darkness still in pursuit of her little Minky.

12.00 midnight
I could see the ‘un-gay’ guy pushing what appeared to be a wardrobe down his drive and into the road. Now I could tell from the earlier argument he is Irish, and having been on a St. Patrick’s Day doo, I know many of them possess a strange Celtic madness, but the ‘midnight wardrobe pushing’ thing was a bit too crazy for even me – and I’m from Glasgow! Nevis, the radar dog, whimpered pathetically as he struggled against passing out from choking so I quickly pushed him into my house to recover. The ‘un-gay’ Irish guy continued to wheel the ‘wardrobe’ further into the road. Now my neighbourhood is a nice place, the residents of which would never tolerate the following to be left on front lawns or drives. They include:- shopping trolleys, dismantled cars, dirty broken ‘Early Learning Centre’ multi-coloured slides, dog pooh (cat pooh is almost acceptable because one never can tell where the little buggers have done it), discarded Christmas trees and (although never confirmed) wardrobes! My dander was well and truly up! On closer inspection the ‘wardrobe’ was clearly a very large parrot cage. Not that the parrot was very large, in fact it was rather small compared to other parrots I have known!?!? The cage however was humongous and made even bigger by the attachment of a large African tree bolted to the side (perhaps to make the parrot feel at home – I have no idea). Liam, the ‘un-gay’ Irish guy gave me the impression that he no longer wanted FF living with him as he parked the parrot behind . FF's car. Feeling as though I ought to acquaint myself more with the situation and being well brought up in that I pride myself on dealing with all types of social/confrontational circumstances, I politely enquired after the parrot’s name. Now having watched ‘Lion King’ numerous times, I’m fully aware that such creatures often bare a name indigenous to their area of origin, and whom am I to question the existence of a Massai Chief proudly bearing the name ‘Charlie’?

Sometime after Midnight – Too tired at this point to recall the exact time!
At this point Laim returned to the comfort of his parrotless/catless home, no doubt for a good night’s sleep after having put up with Charlie’s infernal jungle screeching for so long, but not before letting me have a cat carrier for FF’s little Minky. I thanked him politely (am I fucking mad?) and he left - probably to watch a bit of porn on his own.

FF came wandering up the street, little Minky firmly in her arms clawing and scratching fiendishly. Through her now diluted Shiraz snotty tears she informed me that Liam had given me the wrong cat carrier and that her little M would not fit in that one…..
‘Yes he fucking will!’ I informed her whilst helping little M into it with the aid of my foot.
We placed it on the worktop in the kitchen out of reach of Nevis (remember, my radar dog) who didn’t know whether he should eat it, lick it, chase it or screw it – so he just lay down and licked his balls! Meanwhile FF and I began to shove Charlie’s wardrobe up my path and into my hall, having constantly to change my hold on the cage as he attacked my fingers (need for a manicure as well as the aforementioned pedicure now). This obviously was the longest journey Charlie had been on since his birth/hatching in the deepest darkest corners of Pets at Home, Sheffield Retail Outlet and it appeared he was suffering from slight motion sickness – yes, you could say (altogether now) he was as sick as a parrot!! Anyway, we decided to take him upstairs so as not to inflict any further mental torment on my poor wee doggy but after 10 minutes of struggling with bitten fingers, wheels falling off and dints in my staircase wall, we, in true ‘girlie’ style, realised that it wouldn’t fit (where’s a Pickford’s man when you really need one?). In hindsight it may have been possible if either of us had thought to unbolt the African tree attached to the wardrobe – but where’s the comedy value in that? The only alternative with the exception of kicking them all out and going to bed, was to wheel Charlie and his wardrobe (minus the tree) into my downstairs loo, where he spent a relaxing night pecking a hole in my guest towel whilst impersonating a trim phone (seems he was older than he looked).

FF decided to take her squished up Minky and herself to her mother’s for the night, as for me, I had another glass of Shiraz and a dried up beef sandwich. Liam did return early next morning and rather sheepishly apologised for the whole incident, and wheeled Charlie back to his house. Lets face it, after dinner parrot stories are rare, in fact I have only ever heard one concerning a little old lady and a masturbating parrot, but that’s another story.

My new hobby - Manipulating ordinary images using 'Photo Shop Pro 8'.

SPIDER WEBS

A friend of mine recently posted a light-hearted status on a social web site stating he had a spider in his sink and had been questioning the spider why it didn't just go away. The comments were all encouraging the demise of the poor creature, such as 'pour bleach on it', 'squash it', 'pour boiling water on it'. It reminded me of this picture I took during the recent cold spell at a friend's house.

Does our alleged supremacy give us the right to destroy a creature capable of creating such beauty and symmetry?

I think not!

POMPEII

Once I walked in the rain, thro’ a silent street,
on a cold October day.
No traffic, no sound of hurrying feet,
no laughter of children at play.
Just the hiss of the raindrops, that raised puffs of dust
as they beat on the dry arid ground,
Disturbing the stillness and breaking the silence
that hung, like a shroud, all around.
And still the rain fell, till the dust ceased to rise,
and the water spilled onto the road.
Found the ruts that were worn there by chariot wheels,
became little rivers that flowed
Past the wine-sellers shop, with it’s vast earthen pots
once filled with the wine of the land.
Now empty, and crumbling, the pottery tumbling
to lie in the bottom, like sand.
Next door, in the bakers, stood great cones of stone
where the miller had once ground his wheat.
His last batch of bread there, now blackened and charred,
tho’ it ne’er felt the stone oven’s heat.
And I wandered through houses that still retained signs
of beautiful homes they had been.
I walked on mosaic of many designs,
gazed in awe at each wall fresco scene.
Then I stood on a stage, where actors once played,
surrounded by tiered seats of stone
And I mused on the plays, and the great tragedies
lost in time, never more to be known.
Yes, I peopled that town, with ghosts from the past
Shared their lives for a moment that day
Then the rain ceased to fall, and a silence so vast
dropped it’s shroud, once again, on Pompeii.

FULL CIRCLE (1975)

This planet Earth which man in frenzied haste
Contaminates, pollutes, destroys with nuclear waste
Lays bare that which was green and pleasant land.
Dear Mother Earth, how can you understand.
A thousand million years of your creations
of oil, coal and ore to feed the nations
for all eternity, are now no more.
Mans need, or greed, is greater than before.

What will this generation leave behind, what heritage
for people doomed to follow in some future age.
A plundered Earth, with nothing more to give -
A planet, dead, with no will left to live.
“What then” we ask, to which our men of learning say
“Men will survive when Earth is dead for they
will venture forth in space and build a nation”
But whence the fuel for space-ship emigration?

Thus in their man-made poisoned hell they meet their doom,
And mighty building tumble down to form their tomb.
With empty womb now, will our tired old Mother Earth,
concerned and plagued no longer with mankind and birth,
spin off, and find a place among the stars
To rest some million years or so, and heal her scars.
Till Nature, never daunted, starts again to plan
A microscopic life that will evolve, once more, to man.