Where I Lived, and What I Lived For

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. 

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; 

or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion.

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. 

Henry David Thoreau, "Where I Lived, and What I Lived For"

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Gather ye Rose-buds while ye may,
    Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to day,
    To morrow will be dying.

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun,
    The higher he's a getting;
The sooner will his Race be run,
    And neerer he's to Setting.

That Age is best, which is the first,
    When Youth and Blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
    Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
    And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
    You may forever tarry


Robert Herrick

O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
      But O heart! heart! heart!
            O the bleeding drops of red,
                  Where on the deck my Captain lies,
                        Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
      Here captain! dear father!
            This arm beneath your head;
                  It is some dream that on the deck,
                        You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
      Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
            But I, with mournful tread,
                  Walk the deck my captain lies,
                        Fallen cold and dead.


Written in 1865 by Walt Whitman

Break, Break, Break - Tennyson

Break, Break, Break
BY ALFRED TENNYSON
Break, break, break,
         On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
         The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
         That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
         That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
         To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
         And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
         At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
         Will never come back to me.

Idylls of the King - Tennyson

Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur
BY ALFRED TENNYSON


That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
First made and latest left of all the knights,
Told, when the man was no more than a voice
In the white winter of his age, to those
With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.

       For on their march to westward, Bedivere,
Who slowly paced among the slumbering host,
Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:

       "I found Him in the shining of the stars,
I mark'd Him in the flowering of His fields,
But in His ways with men I find Him not.
I waged His wars, and now I pass and die.
O me! for why is all around us here
As if some lesser god had made the world,
But had not force to shape it as he would,
Till the High God behold it from beyond,
And enter it, and make it beautiful?
Or else as if the world were wholly fair,
But that these eyes of men are dense and dim,
And have not power to see it as it is:
Perchance, because we see not to the close;—
For I, being simple, thought to work His will,
And have but stricken with the sword in vain;
And all whereon I lean'd in wife and friend
Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm
Reels back into the beast, and is no more.
My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death:
Nay—God my Christ—I pass but shall not die."

       Then, ere that last weird battle in the west,
There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain kill'd
In Lancelot's war, the ghost of Gawain blown
Along a wandering wind, and past his ear
Went shrilling, "Hollow, hollow all delight!
Hail, King! to-morrow thou shalt pass away.
Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee.
And I am blown along a wandering wind,
And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight."
And fainter onward, like wild birds that change
Their season in the night and wail their way
From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream
Shrill'd; but in going mingled with dim cries
Far in the moonlit haze among the hills,
As of some lonely city sack'd by night,
When all is lost, and wife and child with wail
Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and call'd,
"Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind,
Thine, Gawain, was the voice—are these dim cries
Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild
Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?"

       This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake:
"O me, my King, let pass whatever will,
Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field;
But in their stead thy name and glory cling
To all high places like a golden cloud
For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass.
Light was Gawain in life, and light in death
Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man;
And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise—
I hear the steps of Modred in the west,
And with him many of thy people, and knights
Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown
Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee.
Right well in heart they know thee for the King.
Arise, go forth and conquer as of old."

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Far other is this battle in the west
Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth,
And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome,
Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall,
And shook him thro' the north. Ill doom is mine
To war against my people and my knights.
The king who fights his people fights himself.
And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke
That strikes them dead is as my death to me.
Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way
Thro' this blind haze, which ever since I saw
One lying in the dust at Almesbury,
Hath folded in the passes of the world."

       Then rose the King and moved his host by night,
And ever push'd Sir Modred, league by league,
Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse—
A land of old upheaven from the abyss
By fire, to sink into the abyss again;
Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt,
And the long mountains ended in a coast
Of ever-shifting sand, and far away
The phantom circle of a moaning sea.
There the pursuer could pursue no more,
And he that fled no further fly the King;
And there, that day when the great light of heaven
Burn'd at his lowest in the rolling year,
On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed.
Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight
Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west.
A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea:
Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew
Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold
With formless fear; and ev'n on Arthur fell
Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought.

For friend and foe were shadows in the mist,
And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew;
And some had visions out of golden youth,
And some beheld the faces of old ghosts
Look in upon the battle; and in the mist
Was many a noble deed, many a base,
And chance and craft and strength in single fights,
And ever and anon with host to host
Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn,
Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash
Of battleaxes on shatter'd helms, and shrieks
After the Christ, of those who falling down
Look'd up for heaven, and only saw the mist;
And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights,
Oaths, insult, filth, and monstrous blasphemies,
Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs
In that close mist, and cryings for the light,
Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.

       Last, as by some one deathbed after wail
Of suffering, silence follows, or thro' death
Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore,
Save for some whisper of the seething seas,
A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day
Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came
A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew
The mist aside, and with that wind the tide
Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field
Of battle: but no man was moving there;
Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon,
Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave
Brake in among dead faces, to and fro
Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down
Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen,
And shiver'd brands that once had fought with Rome,
And rolling far along the gloomy shores
The voice of days of old and days to be.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere,
And whiter than the mist that all day long
Had held the field of battle was the King:

       "Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world,
And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move,
And beats upon the faces of the dead,
My dead, as tho' they had not died for me?—
O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fall'n
Confusion, till I know not what I am,
Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King.
Behold, I seem but King among the dead."

       Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: "My King,
King everywhere! and so the dead have kings,
There also will I worship thee as King.
Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live
Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought
The heathen back among us, yonder stands,
Modred, unharm'd, the traitor of thine house."

       Then spake the King: "My house hath been my doom.
But call not thou this traitor of my house
Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me.
My house are rather they who sware my vows,
Yea, even while they brake them, own'd me King.
And well for thee, saying in my dark hour,
When all the purport of my throne hath fail'd,
That quick or dead thou hottest me for King.
King am I, whatsoever be their cry;
And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see
Yet, ere I pass." And uttering this the King
Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege
Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword
Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow,
Striking the last stroke with Excalibur,
Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.

       So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's Table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land:
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more; but, let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king;
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word."

       To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm—
A little thing may harm a wounded man;
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

       So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept,
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

       There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

       Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."

       To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again,
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

       Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud:

       "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake.
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost."

       So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

       Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?'

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

       To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

       Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges, lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the Northern Sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

       Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

       And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

       And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

       So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words;
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

       But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

       Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms,
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

       Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge."
So to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch'd with dust
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

       Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world,
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

       And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

       So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

       But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, The King is gone.''
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
"From the great deep to the great deep he goes."

       Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb
The last hard footstep of that iron crag;
Thence mark'd the black hull moving yet, and cried,
"He passes to be King among the dead,
And after healing of his grievous wound
He comes again; but—if he come no more—
O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat,
Who shriek'd and wail'd, the three whereat we gazed
On that high day, when, clothed with living light,
They stood before his throne in silence, friends
Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?"

       Then from the dawn it seem'd there came, but faint
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry,
Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice
Around a king returning from his wars.

       Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb
Ev'n to the highest he could climb, and saw,
Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand,
Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King,
Down that long water opening on the deep
Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
From less to less and vanish into light.
And the new sun rose bringing the new year.

Sunday Poem

Big City Dreams



Do you ever look around this city, this place you call home,

Can you look beyond the buildings, passed the glitz and glamour

Do you ever see the real life hiding in the shadows of plain sight,

Do you ever wonder where the homeless go at night?


Have you seen the old war vet walking down by the river?

His clothes are in rags and he gazes to the sky,

All he wants is for those memories to die,

Alone at night he cries, for the living and the dead, all those spirits that wont ever leave his head.


Big city dreams aren’t big city realities.


Jay’s a singer,  off to another show,  guitar on his back, walking on his own

In some west side dive bar, he pours his heart out to a beer smelling microphone,

He’s travelled all over the world, seen to all kinds of places, drives a big fancy car,

But you can travel ten thousand miles and still stay where you are.


And you know, big city dreams hardly ever become big city realities.


Sue over there works in a grocery store downtown.

She keeps the shelves stacked just right, from morning to night,

Yet deep inside her head she’s wearing her white lacy wedding gown,

For you know one day she prays, she’ll find her Mr Right.


And whilst it hasn’t happened yet, maybe one day big city dreams will become big city realities.


You see that boy waiting at the corner with the crooked  smile and hair of gold,

Not even out of his teens, yet he’s learnt how to work his assets and turn on the charm,

He hasn’t much to sell,   just lay fifty bucks down and he considers his ass sold,

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,  but dreams don’t protect you from harm.


And the city streets bleed me dry, big city dreams always make me cry, for big city dreams hardly ever become big city realities.


So I ask again, do you ever look around this city you call home?

Do you ever see the real life hiding in the shadows of plain sight?

That place where the invisible people roam.

Do you ever wonder where the homeless go at night?


Big city dreams ain’t big city realities,  no quick fix solutions, no streets paved of gold,

Yet every hour they come with heads full of dreams and hearts full of hope,

It wont take long on the streets for the young to grow old.

The only hope comes from an empty bottle and the end of a piece of knotted rope.



Big city dreams never do come true, never become big city realities.

© 2012 Copyright 

Maud XVIII - Tennyson

Maud XVIII: I have led her Home, my love, my only friend
BY ALFRED TENNYSON

I have led her home, my love, my only friend,
There is none like her, none.
And never yet so warmly ran my blood
And sweetly, on and on
Calming itself to the long-wished-for end,
Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

None like her, none.
Just now the dry-tongued laurels’ pattering talk
Seem’d her light foot along the garden walk,
And shook my heart to think she comes once more;
But even then I heard her close the door,
The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.

There is none like her, none.
Nor will be when our summers have deceased.
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon
In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,
Sighing for Lebanon,
Dark cedar, tho’ thy limbs have here increased,
Upon a pastoral slope as fair,

And looking to the South, and fed
With honeyed rain and delicate air,
And haunted by the starry head
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate,
And made my life a perfumed altar-frame;
And over whom thy darkness must have spread
With such delight as theirs of old, thy great
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there
Shadowing the snow-limbed Eve from whom she came.

Here will I lie, while these long branches sway,
And you fair stars that crown a happy day
Go in and out as if at merry play,
Who am no more so all forlorn,
As when it seemed far better to be born
To labour and the mattock-hardened hand
Than nursed at ease and brought to understand
A sad astrology, the boundless plan
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies,
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes,
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand
His nothingness into man.

But now shine on, and what care I,
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl
The countercharm of space and hollow sky,
And do accept my madness, and would die
To save from some slight shame one simple girl.

Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give
More life to Love than is or ever was
In our low world, where yet ’tis sweet to live.
Let no one ask me how it came to pass;
It seems that I am happy, that to me
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,
A purer sapphire melts into the sea.

Not die; but live a life of truest breath,
And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs.
Oh, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs,
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death?

Make answer, Maud my bliss,
Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss,
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this?
“The dusky strand of Death inwoven here
With dear Love’s tie, makes love himself more dear.”
Is that enchanted moan only the swell
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay?
And hark the clock within, the silver knell
Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white,
And die to live, long as my pulses play;
But now by this my love has closed her sight
And given false death her hand, and stol’n away
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell

Among the fragments of the golden day.
May nothing there her maiden grace affright!
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell.
My bride to be, my evermore delight,
My own heart’s heart, my ownest own, farewell;
It is but for a little space I go:
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell
Beat to the noiseless music of the night!
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow
Of your soft splendour that you look so bright?
I have climbed nearer out of lonely Hell.
Beat, happy stars, timing with things below,
Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell.
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe
That seems to draw—but it shall not be so:
Let all be well, be well.

Stolen words

Do you walk in beauty,  like the night?
Please tell me, for I’d love to know.
Can I compare you to a summer’s day, do I have the right?
Maybe we could walk hand in hand through a distant meadow,
Or down beside the lake and beneath the tree,
Would you allow me to paint your picture with bright orange poppies all around your head.
You’d laugh at all my thoughts, desires and dreams if I let them wander free,
Yet what else can I do when even my reality is equal to a dream.
I wish we could talk for hours and hours, there is so much to share,
But time is a gift so precious, there’s not a second to waste,
Oh this feeling that toys with my every waking thought is so rare,
Therefore it will not be something I’ll give up in haste.
These emotions are not new,  as all the world can tell,
Even the words that tumble here have been used before, second hand for sure.
But does it matter, does it break the spell,
Of the truth that in my heart I could not love you more.




© 2013 Copyright


A Sunday poem

A Stranger on the Train.....

The other day I was returning home from work on the train, it had been a particularly fraught and long day and therefore, my frame of mind was similarly clouded. There were a number of other passengers already in the carriage when I entered, sitting in the rather shabby green striped seats, some chatting with their fellow travelling companions, others reading books or newspapers, most just gazing out of the windows, minding their own business. I selected a free seat, without much aforethought and as the train pulled away, I looked forward to the conclusion of the journey when I’d arrive at the small apartment I call home. Although if the truth be known, I was more looking forward to a large glass of red that would be the first thing I’d attend to upon entering.

I like some of my fellow commuters without companions or other diversions of the various forms of written words, gazing out of the window and the scenery rushing past at an unknown speed. However, my absentminded mental meanderings were drawn back from the world outside the carriage to two young gentlemen sitting facing each other across the aisle from my position.  There were tossing banter between themselves, whilst they weren’t unduly loud, due to the close proximity of the seating in the carriage, I couldn’t help but overhear their exchanges.  They were jolly as their word play went back and forth like a ball between rackets in a game of tennis, and whilst perhaps they were not always the most verbally dextrous utterances, all seemed to contain an element of humour and jollity. It amused me and whilst I tried not to listen, I couldn’t help myself, occasionally smiling along with a particularly funny remark or verbal volley.  Of course, my interest was also held by the fact that these two gentlemen, of mid-twenties estimated age, were rather easy on the eye; furthermore,  one was captivatingly pretty and yes, I do mean pretty. His face, pure and unblemished, his dark hair cut short in a modern, yet timeless style, his eyes shining brightly and reasonably well-sized red lips rendered his face an almost jaw-dropping angelic beauty. Repeatedly during the slightly camp oral bat and ball game, he referred to himself by name, Michael Wilson, a name that entered my conscious mind and has since never left, a name that has sounded itself during dreams and more wakeful moments. My mood was lifted beyond any expectation or probability, and thus as the train arrived at my station, I really should have offered him, them a heartfelt thank you.

I saw his face, I know his name, he’ll never know mine, and yes, he was only a stranger on a train, our lives overlapped for less than thirty minutes, yet I know I’ll remember him and that moment forever. So wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, Michael Wilson, I thank you sincerely.

© 2014 Copyright



Maybe it's time to take another journey.......have you ever met a stranger on a train and formed a friendship or a relationship?  Have you ever encountered a face in the crowd that has stayed with you for many months, years or decades? 

The cathartic effects of getting dirty!

Never underestimate the cathartic experience of getting dirty! There I was the other morning, hadn’t slept particularly well, kept thinking all manner of things relating to Matt and that whole situation, which prevented slumbers' sweet escape from washing over me. It’s funny how strange, sometimes silly things bring back memories of happier times, for example, even now, in my head, I still play the ’Punch Herbie/Slug Bug’ game each time I see a VW Beetle! I giggle to myself and sometimes aloud. 

A friend asked me what the hardest part has been about the whole ‘USA Drama Thing’ as he called it, and after thinking for a good long while, I have to say that it probably is the lack of communication. OK, so the lack of relationship is a pretty big gap in life, but the lack of communication from him, before, during and after has been the most hurtful and most difficult to cope with. It raises far more questions than answers, and prevents any further dialogue between us. It also leaves me unable to scratch that itch of wondering how he is. It may sound a little odd given the circumstances, but I still do care for him. He may have fallen out of love with me and dumped me, but I didn’t fall out of love with him, and love is not something I can just turn off like a tap, or faucet if you're American. Which means I am constantly wondering about where he is, what he’s doing, and more importantly, if he’s OK. I could listen to the gossip from his friends, and believe that he’s going downhill, and downhill fast, that he is drinking and smoking and doing drugs, that he’s starting to be really dirty and having sex in public restrooms again. 

These things and more well up in my mind, and it’s all to do with the lack of contact, the cessation of all communications. I can’t recall any other relationship where contact was withdrawn like this; perhaps that’s because up until now, I’ve always been the one to bring things to their conclusions, to their natural or unnatural end. Well, with the exception of Ed, with whom I’d lived for a number of years, and who ended our cohabitation and life together with the rather clinical “We have come to the end of the road of our relationship” It may have been clinical, perhaps a little cold, but it was accurate, succinct, to the point. But that didn’t stop us from being in contact with each other, indeed, a few times after reaching that particular cul-de-sac on life’s highway, we’d meet up and well......get passionate. In fact, don’t tell anyone, but I have to say that during one of those meetings we had some of the most rewarding and passionate sexual experiences of my life, for which I will always thank Ed the ex for, albeit silently and only on the pages of this here blog - it’s OK, he doesn’t read it! 

 All my other past relationships have come to an end on my terms at a time of my choosing and doing, but one thing I have done, and that is remained on at least speaking terms with all of them that wanted it. Just to end all forms of communication would be extremely cruel, calloused and hateful, not something I think I have the ability or desire to be. It was with these thoughts raging in my head and long with other more practicalities, such as taking the photos off the wall, packing away the silly cuddly plushy toys and other keepsakes and memorabilia that laid me low the other morning. I needed to clear my head, cleanse my body and something that would not take either money or too much brain power. I decided the bike would be the way to go. I needed a ride, I’ve started to pile on a few pounds since coming back from America again, something to do with the eating of American chocolate, which is, was and always will be my favourite. 

 The day previous had been wet and rainy, but the other morning was dry and clear, the blue skies masking the true temperature of the outside world. I started well, down the road towards Shoreham, no route or plan in my mind, just a little ride, not far, not long, just to get some fresh air and blow the cobwebs out. I’m not sure if I was on auto pilot, or the sounds of Death Cab For a Cutie, The Postal Service and Bright Eyes on the iPod was distracting me, but I found myself on the bridge over the river Adur, forward was the relatively dry roads around Shoreham Airport, behind me, the relatively dry road from which I’d just come. To the left of me, the dryish footpath leading the main road and cycle route along Shoreham Beach, and finally to my right, the Downs Link Way, which is a rather well used path way, but mainly on unsealed ground! Guess which way I chose? 

At first, it was easy going, I built up a little speed, the damp ground of the gravel kicking up under the tyres a little, not a soul to see, just me, the freedom, the air. I cycled a bit faster, indeed top gear and as fast as my little legs could force the pedals round. Then the nice dry gravel gave way to mud, forcing me to navigate large pot holes filled with water, sloppy mud sides and heavy overhanging branches. It would have been easy to avoid such puddles, pools and mud had I been flying, or chosen a different route, but I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I was belting along, trying my best to steer round the biggest and deepest baby lakes of dirty muddy water, then I thought, what the hell, and cycled straight through the next one. Well, come on, there’s no point going off-road cycling in the damp, in the winter if you don’t wanna get wet, nor dirty for that matter. Suddenly, for the first time in months, I felt alive as the coldness of the water soaked through the trakkie bottoms I was wearing. My body tingled as the mud splattered up from the rapidly turning wheels all over my back, front side and head. I got to Bramber, not a mammoth distance, I’ll readily admit, but a great halfway point, from which I could have cycled back along the roadway, but nope, call me Queen Silly of the Silly people if you wish, but there was only one way back for me. Yep, back along the muddy track, that is the Downs Link. I’ve never been so wet, so muddy and dirty, even in my surprisingly well-kempt youth, as I was then, a couple of days ago. Brown chunks of mud clung to my face, my jacket was now three colours, white, blue and mud and my trakkie bottoms, well lets just say they have since dried to be a solid lump of earth with a waistband!

My muscles may have ached, my clothes may have been ruined, my face stinging from the wind, but my mind - cleared, refreshed indeed cleansed. For the first time in over a month, I felt like the real me again!

More soon, hopefully. Comments are always welcome, so thanks in advance!!

Hours and hours and more hours

The frustrations of working in a call centre have increased tenfold this last couple of weeks as the company has seen fit to introduce a new rota of working hours with little under two weeks’ notice.  It is an eleven week rolling rota that seems to have no redeeming qualities and lacks any form of worker friendliness. There is little uniformity or even normality within its schedule of shifts, some of which have increased in length by three or so hours and I’ve yet to hear any of my colleagues utter positive words about it.  One of the key things I detest about this new schedule is a 30% increase in the number of late shifts, another aspect is the varying start times expected during the working week, thus rendering routine redundant. For example, one such week rolls along like this,  Monday 0900 – 1730, Tuesday 0800 – 1700, Wednesday 0800 – 1630, Thursday 0830 – 1700, Friday 0830 – 1700. Another week sees me doing 1230 – 2100 on a Monday, 1030 – 2100 on the Tuesday, 1230 – 2100 on Wednesday, a later start on the Thursday whilst still working till 2100 and another 1230 – 2100 to round the week off. It’ll also mean I’ll be working three complete weekends and an additional three part (Saturday only) weekends. On top of timing frustrations is the revelation that bonus payments have come down, by £50 per month if individual targets are reach. It may not sound a lot, but when you’re working a minimum wage job, 50 quid is two weeks’ worth of groceries and money I can ill afford to lose.    I could pontificate further of my dissatisfaction over a number of other work related issues, yet it’ll only bore you silly and cloud my happy mood whilst also give the impression that I’m noting but a stinky whinger,  so I’ll stop here. 

I suppose there is always a general sense of despondency when you realise you’ve made yet another mistake along life’s troubled highway,  still we learn from our mistakes,  don’t we?

© 2013 Copyright to Jason Shaw

I AM - HOME - HORSE

(2026 Edit - this post is from the archive and was first published on 6 July 2013 at 18:06. Things, facts and views may have changed since then. Removed are dates and links to a previous tour. ).

That Scottish singer with a voice of and unusual name and a voice like pure gold is back with another single and album!  Yes,  Horse Macdonald has released a single called I Am which has been lovingly remixed by Rocket Science, the team who mixed the new forthcoming album 'HOME', and is now available to download here.   Top telly chat show host Graham Norton has already given it the tune his seal of approval by playing on his Radio 2 weekend show!

For those of you who don't know, I've been a fan of Horse for many a year,  since I worked at a radio station in Sussex and heard the lovely song God's Home Movie. I was amazed by the moving song, but moved to tears by a voice that is pure, unique, and so achingly beautiful that one could listen to it every hour of every day for a decade and still not grow tired of it.  But don't just take my word for it,  Q Magazine said she was 'One of the finest singers in Britain". Iain Banks confirmed she has "A voice like folds of very rich chocolate", and the Scotsman says "Her voice wraps us up like a great big duvet".   She's opened and toured with the likes of Tina Turner, BB King, Bryan Ferry and Burt Bacharach.  Will Young has covered one of her songs to critical acclaim. Her first record deal was with EMI/Capital circa 1990, and since then she's released eight albums, her ninth comes out in August  - download 

God's Home Movie

HOME - the ninth Horse album launched on 5th August.

Horse says, "I'm truly proud of this album and delighted to announce it will be officially released on Monday, 5th August. If you can't wait for the download, a physical CD is available for pre-order here, with the opportunity to have it signed with a personal message from me." 

You'll also be able to see her live in Brighton on Saturday, 3rd of August, for an appearance on the women's stage at Brighton Pride. 

Next will be the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where Horse will be doing a very special acoustic performance at the famous Assembly Rooms on George Street, on Sunday, 4th August.   This will be the launch for the new album HOME, officially released the next day on 5th August.  During that show, Horse will play a few favourite Horse songs, but the main focus is on the songs from the new album. 

Tron Main Theatre, Mon September 9th  Horse will be doing her first masterclass with an audience, where she'll share some of her vast knowledge both as performer and writer, stories from he travels and experience. 

We are seven.......

A simple child that lightly draws its breath,

and feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said.

her hair was thick with many a curl

that clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

and she was wildly clad:

her eyes were fair, and very fair;

Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?”

“How many? Seven in all,” she said,

And, wondering, looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”

She answered, “Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,

my sister and my brother;

and, in the church-yard cottage, I

dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,

and two are gone to sea,

yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,

“Seven boys and girls are we;

two of us in the church-yard lie,

beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

the little Maid replied,

“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

and they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,

my kerchief there I hem;

and thereupon the ground I sit,

and sing a song to them.

“And often after sunset, Sir,

when it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

and eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;

in bed she moaning lay,

till God released her of her pain;

and then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;

and when the grass was dry,

together round her grave we played,

my brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,

and I could run and slide,

my brother John was forced to go,

and he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,

“If they two are in heaven?”

quick was the little Maid’s reply,

“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!

their spirits are in heaven!”

’Twas throwing words away; for still

the little Maid would have her will,

and said, “Nay, we are seven!”

William Wordsworth

William Wordsworth - Historic UK

Letter's of the past.

(2026 Edit. This post is from the archive; it was first published on 23 October 2012 at 17:37. Things, facts and views may have changed since then.)

Letters

Image by Margarita Kochneva from Pixabay

You never really know what others think of you until they make it clear in some way, and sometimes when they do, it can come as a complete surprise or even, dare I say, a bit of a shock!

Such an incident happened to me at the end of last week when, out of the blue, a letter arrived from an old, old flame. Before I go on to the contents of that letter, let me tell you the intriguing story of how this physical letter got to me is as remarkable as the contents themselves. For some reason, it was sent to a place I used to work many long years ago, and when I say many, I really do mean many, ten or more at least. Luckily, someone there still recognised my name as they forwarded it to an address I used to live at in Crawley, West Sussex. Luckily, the owner still remained the same as all those years ago, who forwarded it to the Kemp Town flat where I used to reside and from there the lovely Eastern European escorts that occupy the top apartment popped it back in the post with my current abode crammed into one corner.  

Thus, the letter's unusual and utterly remarkable journey from pillar to post had finally come to a wonderfully correct conclusion. Hat’s off to the Royal Mail on this occasion for their endeavours in the delivery of the letter, and deep sentiments of gratitude are expressed to all who had a hand in ensuring its progress continued until, in my hands, it rested.

The contents of the letter, as indeed the letter itself, were a complete surprise and not a particularly happy one. The letter, as I said before, was from an old, old flame from the very dim and distant past. We dated for a relatively short time, perhaps ten or eleven months, maybe a year at the most, during the mid 1990’s. I can’t say how we got together or even why; we certainly came from different places and lived in seemingly different worlds, plus he was a full decade and a half my senior, which only added to the differences between us. Our brief relationship was, I suppose you could say was tempestuous,  fiery would be another word, we were both strong and stubborn personalities, and I dare say we both suffered from the ’I know best’ mantra and philosophy. There were times of great passion, intellectual stimulation and learning, but also times of arguments and anger, which ultimately forced the affair to be a rather dysfunctional one, which led to its inevitable termination.

He loved me, yet always resented and never forgave me for breaking up our ’beautiful’ relationship, at least that’s what his letter informed me. It also told me that he believed we could have ’gone the distance’, which surprised the heck out of me because, from my memory, we were never destined for longevity, and it was he who told me to get out of his car and out of his life when we broke up. 

There were a few other things mentioned in the letter which I have different recollections of altogether; however, I suppose that’s only to be expected, we were two different people and too different people. I would write back to perhaps disagree with his memories of our time together, or rather, offer my side of the story and my views of how it came to a bitter and fractious end. Oh yes, the end was fractious to say the least, when I said earlier he was the one to tell me to get out of his car and out of his life, I meant that literally. We’d been out at an early ‘summer’ party where shorts and shades had been the theme, somewhat surprising really, as it was taking place at the end of January or beginning of February, I forget exactly which after all this time. I, being the typical larger-than-life character full of fun I happily sported rather short black shorts complete with a skull and crossbones design on the front area. In reality, I’ll level with you, these were comic boxer shorts, yet I wore them as over shorts with nothing underneath. I also sported a ripped black ‘Boy’ t-shirt that was about two sizes too small for me, and that was before it had shrunk in the wash!  

I want to say I also had flip flops on, but if memory serves me rightly, I actually sported some Hi-Tec trainers.  It was a private party, and we weren't going anywhere else, which negated my need for cash, plus I had no pockets upon my person anyway. I don’t recall how our argument started or who the instigator was, nor can I remember how it or why it escalated the way it did. No doubt I was partly or even largely to blame, I simply can't recall, but I sure do remember how it ended. We’d gotten halfway back between the location on the south coast of this party and my home in Crawley when he slammed on his brakes, pulled into a lay-by at the side of the road and uttered the infamous last words and the opposite of Billy Ocean, ’get out of my car and out of my life’.  

As I said, I was stubborn back then, so I did, he drove off, and that was the last I ever saw of him. I then simply had no other option other than to walk home during the middle of a January / February night, wearing nothing other than a pair of funny boxer shorts, trainers and a shirt far too small for me.  I can’t say how far the distance was exactly, nor how long the journey took me; all I can say is that by the time I got to my door, the dawn had arrived and people were already on their way to work. I must have had some odd or funny looks from passing commuters. I have no memory, but it wasn't the first time I'd been seen as one of those 'Yesterday's People' coming home the day after a night before!

As I said, I would have written back to him to share my views on the relationship that never was without the benefit of rose-tinted spectacles, yet tucked in the envelope was a small card. The card was a short little note from one of his family members informing me he had recently passed away after a short illness. A surprise indeed, and I’d wished I’d read the note before the letter, a letter which he had written sometime before his death and not sent, rather than the other way around. I also wish he’d have sent the letter before he died as then he’d had gone to his grave with both sides of the story, but that of course isn’t to be, but it just emphasises to me now, how there are always at least two sides to every story, that one person’s truth can seem to be another person’s invention, and I wonder, perhaps we never really know how others see us.

Yes, we're back!

(2026 Edit - This post is from the archive; it was first published on 17 December 2008 at 04:15.  Facts, feelings, and beliefs may have changed since then.)

It's been a long while since I last posted here, sorry about that, let me make it up to you and do a flying thru time update. Oh,    where do I start? There's been so much happening,  and yet so little as well, I'm completely lost at the chronological order of things, so I'll just battle on with the random thoughts of things that have come and gone since I was last bashing the keys of this old laptop! America has a new president, Mr Obama stormed ahead of Palin and the Tortoise to become the first black guy to be elected to such high office over that side of the pond. Will he do a good job? Only time will tell, but let's face it, he probably couldn't do a worse job than Bush.....can he? The economy has pretty much crashed as far as the media is concerned, and the Global Downturn Credit Crunch has well and truly shown its ugly head and is starting to snap at the heels of the normal people like you and I. Well,  actually,  it hasn't really bitten my arse too much so far; in fact, it's had the opposite effect on my life. The VAT rates come down by 2.5%, which, be honest, doesn't sound a lot, does it? But, as a certain supermarket proudly claims, "Every Little Helps!" Also, I love going to the checkout/tills,  thinking it's one price and finding out it's a little bit less. Another good thing about the global recession for me personally is that pretty much all the shops have got their January sales on now, everything seems to be 10, 20 or even 30% off, now that is a result! The only sad fact is that Woollies is no more, yep, sadly, the great discount store Woolworths has not survived the first bite of this dark economic time and gone belly up. Matt and I took a visit up to the Brighton store in Western Road, which felt more like Western Baghdad. It was without a doubt a war zone, I was scared for my life in there, caught in the cross-fire between the bunting and the pick 'n' mix! Anyway, folks, jingle, jingle, jingle all the way, Christmas is coming at such a fast rate that I'm almost knocked arse over tit. Are you ready? Have you done all your shopping? Is everything all sorted? I've done all the presents, I've got all that side of things done, but the food, well, we'll do that at the last moment, so it's nice and fresh, after all, I'm working all the way up until 8am on Christmas morn, oh,  I'm so looking forward to those sprouts and mashed roast potatoes!

Here's Matty!!!! It had been ages since the last blog post, although it really doesn’t seem like it has been such a long time. Time has really flown by since the last posting. Jason and I haven’t been up to too terribly much. We have gone out a few times to Mo’s for dinner, which was nice, and we also went to Portsmouth, which was a unique experience for me. Just last week, Mo had us over for a veggie bake before she took her winter holiday to Oz. There is just something about her cheese sauce that reminds me of home. Maybe it’s because it tastes a lot like white gravy in America, but just a little cheesier. Mo was doing fine along with everyone else in the family, and we had a lovely (Few) bottles of wine and the excellent dinner she made. 

Portsmouth was a few weeks back and was a really neat experience for me. The train ride alone was worth it all. It gave me a really great insight into how different England can be, one minute you're in the middle of a busy city and the next, you're in the middle of farm country. Jason took me to various places in the mall of Portsmouth and around and along, and eventually up the Spinica tower, which we spent most of our time on. Halfway up the tower, there is a glass panel across the floor that you can step on, and while I was treading over it almost nonstop and looking down, Jason stood quite a long way away from it, that is, until I pulled him over it and made him stand on it for at least a little bit. I can’t think of a more unique building like the Spinica tower in the States. It’s really one of a kind.

A little bit after that, Jason and I had our movie and Television series spree, where we watched a few seasons of House and went to the pier to see the starlings fly around in their flocks. They almost look like a giant ink blob that is oozing throughout the sky. Jason won me a Piglet plushie, and I got him a Danger Mouse set. I also found out that I cannot play the game Dance Dance Revolution, or Dancing Stage, for you Europeans anymore. Kind of a shock since I was #1 in America for a while online, and could handle anything really with no problem, only to find that now I tire and fail at even the easiest of stages. I guess if you don’t use it, you DO lose it. Hehe. Lately, Jason and I are having our first Christmas together, Advent calendars, Christmas trees and all. The rents have sent out the majority of the packages that I will be receiving thus far, as I only have 34 days left before I have to head all the way back to Yankeeland (Shudder)… We received a lot of cake mixes, one of which I made a few hours ago for Jason and I to enjoy before he gets home. Along with that was an unexpected birthday present, which was a game card and the expansion of World of Warcraft. Being the gamer/geek/nerd that I am, I had played that game a lot in the past and quit from boredom. However, there is plenty for me to do now, and I was surprised to find that Jason even likes to play a little bit, but if I told you he had a level 13 Blood Elf Warlock, he would probably kill me. (It’s our secret, right?)

Other than all that, nothing else much has happened. We are still just happily living life as it comes, and are happy to have each other's company while we can. I can see the nocturnal amiss closing up the gates of time that I have left here, and even though I don’t really want to think about it and refuse to most of the time, there are some times when I have to think of how I am going to handle getting a New apartment, job, etc., when I get home. It’s a lot to do for a 19-year-old (well -20 tomorrow), but I know I will be able to handle things fine as I always seem to. Don’t sweat the small stuff, just live life as it comes and smile. Other than that I have been working on a few things here and there, attempting to work on a game that I have been making for 1.5 years now which is seemingly becoming more and more unlikely that I am going to finish coding, and writing a collection of short stories that are told like campfire stories which revolve around six teenagers and shows just how fragile people are, regardless of their sexuality and skin colour. Last week, Jason and I went out to the front to get rid of some stale bread, which we threw to dozens and dozens of pigeons, and I had a little surprise of one who was so brave that he (or she) perched on my arm and ate bread right out of my hand. I am pretty sure that is the first time I ever held a bird for more than 2 seconds, and the first time one ate out of my hands. Usually, I am not so hot with animals.   On our way back, we ran into an elderly woman who asked us if we could get her some items from the co-op, which Jason and I happily did and brought them back to her. I wasn’t sure what had happened and why she was left alone, but it worried me that she wasn’t getting enough to eat, and I also wondered how many people took her money and scrammed. Hopefully, she rested with a full tummy, and everything will be alright for her. I think that we are going to check on her later on today as well, just to make sure.

Yesterday we travelled up with a massive suitecase to see the old folks, that are my parents, who, apart from bringing me into the world and are completely mad, were full of fun and happiness and filled us up with egg sandwiches. Tomorrow, Matt and I are off up to the big smoke that is London on Matt's Birthday treat. I won't say too much, as he'll be casting his eyes over this shortly, and I don't want to let the bag out of the cat! 

Matt and I often discuss the cultural differences between our two nations, but I'm proud to be British, and here are just a few reasons why. Only in Britain... can you get a pizza to your house faster than an ambulance. Only in Britain... do supermarkets make sick people walk all the way to the back of the shop to get their prescriptions, while people can buy cigarettes at the front. Only in Britain... do people order double cheeseburgers, large fries, and a DIET coke. Only in Britain... do banks leave both doors open yet chain the pens to the counters. Only in Britain... do we leave cars worth thousands of pounds on the drive and lock our junk and cheap lawn mower in the garage. Only in Britain are disabled parking places in front of the ice skating rink. And just because it's Christmas, here are some more reasons to be proud of our country folk! 3 Brits die each year testing if a 9V battery works by placing it on their tongue. 58 Brits are injured each year by using sharp knives instead of screwdrivers. 31 Brits have died since 1996 by watering their Christmas tree while the fairy lights were plugged in. British Hospitals reported 4 broken arms last year after cracker pulling accidents. 18 Brits had serious burns in 2000 trying on a new jumper with a lit cigarette in their mouth. 5 Brits were injured last year in accidents involving out-of-control Scalextric cars. And finally.........In 2000, eight Brits cracked their skulls whilst throwing up into the toilet. More soon, my little fruit bats!!

Brighthelmstone

(2026 Edit - this post is from the archive; it was first published on 19 August 2008 at 03:44. Facts, feelings, and views may have changed since then.)

Brighton is a wonderful place, cosmopolitan, vibrant, bohemian, colourful, queer and a true 24-hour city of the new generation. But it's also a town with a rich and equally colourful history, part of that iconic history of the town surrounds the lovely West Pier, now little more than a ghost rising from the sea.

Photo Slbs / West Pier, Brighton /

CC BY-SA 2.0

The West Pier has a special place in my heart. Every time I pass it now, I think of the former glory and I feel a strange connection to the distant past. The West Pier was built between 1863 and 1866 by the Brighton West Pier Company and designed by the doyen of pier engineers, Eugenius Birch of Westminster. The original construction consisted of iron screw piles, which supported iron columns with an iron girder work supporting wooden decking. It originally had only two square kiosks at the entrance, two octagonal kiosks with minarets in the centre and four more octagonal kiosks at the corners of the large pier head platform.

Later additions were the central windshield in 1890; the pavilion at the head in 1893, which was designed to seat 1,400 people and converted into a theatre in 1903; the concert hall in the centre in 1916, and the raised entrance at the shore end in 1932.

The pier was closed during the Second World War and was cut in two to prevent an enemy landing. When it reopened, the theatre was converted into an amusement arcade. Scenes in the very famous film 'Oh! What a Lovely War was shot on the West Pier, in which many local people had parts, although I wasn't one of them as it was released four months before I was born!

By 1970, the owners of the pier wanted to demolish part of the structure, however the pier was listed to protect it, yet years of disrepair and neglegt meant the pier head was too danagerous for the public to walk and thus sealed off. Five or so years later, the rest followed suit and completely closed. There have been many plans to redevelop and restore the old lady of Brighton over the years, it became the only Grade I listed pier in the country in 1982. Some basic restoration work had taken place, but two fires have ensured that there is nothing left to restore.

I've watched the pier from afar, walked on part of it when I was a little nipper and seen films about it. I've also watched flames dance over the little that was left and consign the once grand old lady of the sea to history and nothing but memories of a bygone era.

Brighton's West Pier Trust