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hasansonsuzceliktas · 5 years

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Spiritual Movies that Nourish Your Soul

One night in 2003, while channel hopping on TV, I came across a movie named Interstate 60. I read the summary and it looked appealing. The movie then started, and after I finished watching it, I watched it again. (That channel had a repeat function.) My mind was blown, my smile was wide, and I felt great. I had never watched anything like it before. That’s when my interest in spiritual movies began. Four years passed and then The Secret came along. It was also mind blowing for its time. Although it has its controversial aspects now, it was a revolution in spiritual documentaries. Oh, there was also What the #$*! Do We Know?, but it takes my interest only after The Secret. Afterwards, I became deeply interested in spiritual movies and watched many of them. I made recommendation lists for my followers in Turkey, and now I want to share them with you. I don’t want to give details about the movies, though, because you can look them up on IMDb or whatever. I want to instead share the reasons for why I recommend these particular movies. First let me be clear about one thing, though. What is a spiritual movie? Everything is spiritual. The life we live is spiritual, because everything comes out of the spirit. If we looked at it from this perspective, there is a vast number of spiritual movies. You can see the spirit in many such movies. For me, though, a spiritual movie is one that expands your view, your perceptions, your world, and your being. After finishing one, you do not feel like you are the same person that you were two hours ago. It has touched your soul and made you think and feel deeply. Some of them even blow your mind. Such movies have similar effects on others too. That is what I call a spiritual movie, so I selected movies based on that criterion.

Classic Spiritual Movies

These are the ones where I could say, “Haven’t you watched it yet? How can you call yourself spiritual?”

The Matrix You may well say, “Oh, come on! Starting with The Matrix? We’ve all watched it a million times. Give us something new!” Yes, I know. I also said it many times while checking the spiritual must-see lists of others. But last week, I watched the whole trilogy again because I wanted to find clues about “the loop.” By this, I mean the loop in our minds, which we may call dharma. I was thinking deeply about how I could get my mind out of the worldly plane. I then started to watch the trilogy and realized that The Matrix is about the trinity of mind, body, and soul. The machines could not understand love and therefore the soul, so the movie gives the message that the best way to get out of the worldly plane is through love.

Celestine Prophecy James Redfield’s novel was one of the first books I read in my spiritual awakening days. It is still marvelous, but the movie could have been better I think.

Peaceful Warrior Dan Millman’s marvelous book was adapted into a great movie. It touched many people’s souls, as I have witnessed many times. You have to read the book after watching the movie, though. The book has much more, as you can no doubt imagine.

Conversations with God We all love Neale Donald Walsch, author of the Conversations with God series, and this movie is about his life. It is a good movie.

Interstate 60 For me, this is the best spiritual movie of all time. In my mind, it’s a timeless classic. Yet when I checked other people’s lists on the web, I didn’t find this movie in many of them. It may well be that you still haven’t watched it yet. If not, prepare yourself for a spiritual feast. Even after watching it 30 times, like I have, you can still find many messages. Believe me when I say you can watch it many times over without ever getting bored of it.

What the #$*! Do We Know? This early spiritual documentary was labeled as talking heads (i.e., many experts coming together and talking about something). Quantum physics meets with spirituality and good drama in what is still a must-see documentary.

The Secret Ah! The Secret. We can still argue that it represents the law of attraction, but it is still a great documentary. It gave rise to the term “secret-like” when describing spiritual documentaries. Nowadays, when you mention The Secret, many people deride it, but it has still a special place in my heart.

Fight Club “The first rule of fight club is you do not talk about fight club.” Okay, I won’t, but I had to put it on the list.

Avatar If I feel like an avatar living on Earth, being controlled by someone’s conscious in another place, it is because of this great movie. I had to watch it again.

Groundhog Day A funny, classic movie about being stuck in a time loop. No doubt you have seen it already.

Baraka – Samsara Movies without words but with many deep meanings. Many years of work went into Ron Fricke’s movies, which are not just spiritual classics but also works of art.

Lesser-Known Movies

These great movies are adored by many, but maybe you haven’t heard of some of them

Nossolar Do you want to know how the afterlife is? Based on the channelings of Chico Xavier, Nossolar is a great Brazilian movie about the afterlife.

Bab’aziz This is the most beautiful movie about Sufism ever made. Nacer Khemir’s work is outstanding, and you can feel this great movie fill your soul. The soundtrack is also magnificent.

Chaotica Ana This is one of the best movies about reincarnation and the goddess. Ana, a Spanish art student, meets Said in Madrid and they fall in love. After Said disappears, Ana starts to undertake hypnotherapy and finds out she has lived many past lives. You can find out the rest in the movie…

The Man from Earth This very beautiful classic movie starts with a boring discussion between six university professors and turns into a great dialogue when one of them confesses that he is 14,000 years old. Still not watched it yet?

Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter, and Spring You cannot forget this movie, even after many years. Korean director Kim Ki-Duk uses the symbolism of the passing seasons to tell this story of a young Buddhist monk’s evolution from innocence to love, evil to enlightenment, and ultimately to rebirth. Please watch it in HD on a big screen please. It is a Buddhist poem conveyed through cinema.

Powder IMDb describes it as follows: “An off-the-charts genius who is home schooled and shunned after his last relative dies shows the unconscious residents of his town about connection awareness and the generosity of the spirit.” It’s the story of an albino boy with psychic powers. It is a classic, and I will never forget the scene with the hunter and deer.

Defending Your Life This movie is also about the afterlife, but its story is told in a much funnier way. It is about love, karma, and rebirth. You will remember this movie from the scenes of a Japanese restaurant in Heaven.

Serendipity A romantic movie about love and coincidence starring John Cusack and Kate Beckinsale.

Sliding Doors Just one door staying open can change your life in this Gwyneth Paltrow classic.

Little-Known Movies

If you’re saying, “Come on, we all know these movies. Give us something new!” Okay, here you go.

Valley of Flowers IMDBsays, “A great Asian love story, an unforgettable tale about passion, death and reincarnation. A mesmerizing Himalayan epic that spans two centuries, from the Silk Route of the early 19th century to the bustling metropolis of modern-day Tokyo.” It’s the most passionate story about soulmates ever made, and the love of Jalan and Ushna will take your breath away.

Looking for Muhyiddin A man (played by filmmaker Nacer Khemir, who also directed Bab’aziz) returns home to Tunisia to bury his mother. Following the burial, his father gives him an amana to take to a Sheikh named Muhyiddin. The man immediately sets out on an epic journey to find the long-lost Sheikh and deliver the amana to him. Throughout his journey, he is guided by a mysterious spiritual master and many friends of the Sheikh who he encounters along the way. As the adventure unfolds, we learn about the rich life of this Sheikh and his uncompromising love for humanity, for under his teachings, different beliefs, faiths, and ways of life can only converge and become one. The more we learn about the Sheikh Muhyiddin, the more we understand why he is so venerated across cultures and continents. Looking for Muhyiddin is a deeply lyrical odyssey into the soul of Islam through the life and the works of one of its most beloved mystics: Ibn Arabi. This is one of the best Sufi movies you will ever watch.

Happenstance Everyone knows Amelie, but did you ever hear about this other movie with Audrey Tatou. It is about coincidence and chaos theory, possibly the best one on the subject.

Un Buda IMDb says, “Un Buda follows two brothers orphaned as children when their parents were taken by the military during the ‘Dirty Wars’ of the 1970s in Argentina. Tomas is now a drifting and withdrawn young man who experiments with ascetic practices and has an instinctive compassion for others. His older brother Rafael is a university philosophy professor, detached and alone. Their struggles with each other and the world around them in Buenos Aires take a dramatic turn when they find themselves at a rural Zen center.” It’s a great spiritual movie from Argentina

Now and Forever If you want to watch an unforgettable spiritual love story, do not miss out on this one. I watched it many years ago, but some scenes still stick in my mind. IMDb summarizes it like this: “Against a backdrop of clashing cultures, John Myron and Angela Wilson find each other and over the years form a powerful bond. One tragic night, John rescues Angela from a wicked act of betrayal. Faced with its aftermath, Angela flees town, unaware that she has put into motion a dramatic and intense string of events that will forever change the course of their lives. Harboring a secret, John guides Angela to a shocking realization that will uncover the past. Now & Forever is a dramatic contemporary love story combining elements of spirituality, heart and integrity. They say sooner or later all love stories will end; Now & Forever is the exception...”

An… This Greek movie is so special for me. We watch a choice and then the consequences in parallel universes. Demetris is a handsome man with a dog. One night while out with his dog, he meets Christina. In the alternate universe, he doesn’t go out with his dog, so he doesn’t meet Christina. We watch both sides of this simple choice. But fate says, if you are destined to meet someone, you will meet him or her whatever. Why is this movie so special for me? In one great scene, Demetris and Christina sit with a coffee and share love. I later found this coffee when I visited Athens and sat with my own love. I will never forget either that experience or this magnificent movie.

Storm If you loved The Matrix, watch this Swedish version. It starts similarly when a man meets a mysterious woman with an evil man chasing her. The story then turns in a different direction. Please just find it and watch it.

Ink Ink, a mysterious creature, steals a child's soul with the aim of using it as a bargaining chip to join the Incubi, a group of supernatural beings responsible for creating nightmares. It may seem like a horror movie, but it’s not. The less you know about it, the more you will enjoy it. I know many other movies could be added to this list, but this is just a selection to start you off. There are also many spiritual documentaries, but I will share a list of these in our next issue… Read the full article

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kyndaris · 6 years

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How Long is Eighty Days - Part One

I first met her just as first semester began. Palms sweating, I glanced around the lecture hall. We had just been instructed to introduce ourselves to the people next to us. From what I could see, most had classmates they knew from high school. I, on the other hand, had been the only person in my grade to throw my lot into this particular course. No familiar faces loomed out at me. And all the others were already deep in conversation.

That was when she turned towards me with a beatific smile on her face. Her hazel eyes were filled with a mix of kindness and warmth as she took me in. Had it not been the very first day and the very first subject for the under, with the weight of scrutiny heavy on my shoulders, I might have offered an articulate response. Instead, a strange gurgling had my cheeks aflame when I realised that it had come from my throat. There went my first impression. I waited for her to turn away and condemn me as the ‘strange one’ with a look of bemusement, but she surprised me by offering a sympathetic ear.

“I’ve often been told that I take the words right out of someone’s mouth,” she whispered conspiratorially. “The first day is always the worst, isn’t it? Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

A nervous smile touched my lips. “You don’t seem all that intimidated.”

She grinned. “I’ll have you know that I’ve always been good at power. But the truth of the matter is that I’d much rather be back home instead of facing this gauntlet of lectures and tutorials. Meeting new people is always a frightening experience.”

“Jamie,” I said, sticking out my hand.

She eyed it for a good half second before giving it a proper shake. “My parents have always been old fashioned. It’s a little embarrassing, come to think of it, but you can call me Cassie. Although my full name is Cassandra.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance. Cassandra.”

“Now you’re just making fun of me,” she accused, though humour laced the words.

Before we could delve further into conversation, the lecturer was quick to catch our attention and the lesson resumed. I don’t quite remember much of that first hour for Sociology and Anthropology. Although I was quick to take notes, my mind remained focused on the feel of Cassie’s hand in mine and the sweet citrusy perfume she wore.

The next time I saw her, I had just taken shelter underneath the glass overhang of the beloved central business school as the autumnal rains pelted down. Like the intelligent creature I was, I had decided to wait until the middle of the week to purchase all the necessary textbooks – believing the lines would be shorter.

Cassie was with a group of what I assumed were her old classmates. The way they exchanged banter reminded me of all those movies where the popular girl was surrounded by simpering sycophants. And yet, I envied each and every one of them as they laughed at one of Cassie’s jokes or gossiped about the things they had gleaned from the first week. It was irrational. But by the time she and her posse had disappeared from view, I was on the verge of turning green. Books in hand, I stepped out from my hiding spot with nary an umbrella and allowed myself to be drenched as I trudged towards the bus stop.

Needless to say, several days later I was sick in bed and trying to make sense of the words printed on the water damaged page. It was a miracle that it had not already turned into pulp during the deluge.

That would be the last time I ever forgot to bring something to stave off the inclement weather.

How long is eighty days? Break it down into hours and you get one thousand nine hundred and twenty. Minutes-wise, there’s a whopping total of one hundred nineteen thousand two hundred. In those burgeoning and fleeting moments of romance, each and every single of those precious minutes felt like a millennium that passed in the blink of an eye. At least, that’s how I saw the following twelve weeks as Cassie and I slowly became more comfortable in each other’s company.

Often, I found myself counting down the seconds until I would see her in the lecture we shared. Afterwards, we would head out to the library lawn, going over the readings for class. When the fancy struck her, she would convince me into skipping my next class and we would head to the nearby beach. Despite the fact that winter was fast encroaching, we would still see tourists flocking to the golden sands.

“Did you see that?” I would ask, pointing to one of the hapless families trying to take a selfie as they were battered by high winds. “You can tell which ones are from the mainland. They’re not typically dressed for a day out in the sun. Umbrellas, long sleeves – those are your hints that they’ve not been here long.”

In those too-brief moments, we flirted and teased. For me, they were the highlights of each week and I savoured the time I could spend with Cassie. And when she slowly but surely introduced me to her circle of friends, I learned quickly to adapt. Some were friendly, eager to see a new face. Others could have done well with a lesson in manners.

And as exams loomed ever closer, we would occasionally go out to the Roundhouse or the heart of the city, drinking and clubbing into the early hours. It was a different experience. The idea of grinding away and hoping to catch the eye of someone who might be interested left a bad taste in my mouth, but by the time the deadlines were knocking on the door, I took to them like a fish to water.

Of course, my grades slid a bit but I was quick study when it came to revising. It isn’t a simple brag to say that I aced most of my classes. That is, everything except for Sociology and Anthropology. Suffice it to say, I managed to scrape by with a passing mark but my overall standing took a significant hit. Cassie, on the other hand, fared much better. But she had a talent for constructing essays with surprising depth that seemed to elude me. When the marks came in, she was in the top ten percent of the class.

Thus, semester break began. And with it, the school holidays.

It was the perfect time to learn about each other’s habit beyond the confines of university. We would organise dates to the local cinema and perhaps follow it up with a karaoke session. Sometimes we would go as a group with a mixture of her friends and mine. Other times, it would just be the two of us. Those were the moments I cherished. Being alone with Cassie and talking about anything that came to mind.

I swiftly learned that though she had enrolled into a humanities degree, her heart longed for the sciences. Cassie was someone that was not afraid of getting her hands dirty. Coding and circuits and trying to figure out how the world worked. Those were the topics that interested her. But when she had expressed her desire to pursue a degree in engineering, her parents had been adamant. They had quashed any and all dreams before they even had the opportunity to take flight. Cassie bristled as she recounted how her father had sat her down in the living room and told her explicitly that her career path was set in stone. It was expected that she take over the accounting for their family-run business. And with her older sister absconding overseas, it was she that was expected to carry on the legacy.

Yet despite her frustrations, Cassie was quick to shut down any encouragement from me. She would offer me a rueful grin and shake her head. “Thanks Jamie but it really doesn’t matter what I do at uni. There’re always online courses and I’ve found that it’s actually quite fun trying to figure out all these things by myself. I mean, it can be difficult to understand why something has gone wrong but that’s why we have Google, right?”

But all of our alone time quickly came to an end in July. I can’t rightly say that my mother was negligent but she often relied on me to take care of Derrick, particularly on the days when he did not have any actual tutoring. Younger than me by four years, he stood a good twenty centimetres taller. I hated that. Having seen him swaddled in diapers (and even helped change a few) it simply seemed unfair that Derrick was all but looming over me in Year 10. I tried, once, to see if I might be able to break his kneecaps when the first signs of a growth spurt were underway but dad put a stopper to those plans.

Actually, that was a lie. And it goes to show what a poor taste I have in jokes. Derrick, the loyal brother, would find the humour in it but often my sense of funny has a tendency to put off most upstanding citizens. But Cassie had one just as black as my own. Or, at the very least, she was appreciative of the sarcasm.

Derrick and I, though, we’re close. Perhaps the four year age gap worked in our favour. What fights we did have were short-lived. Mostly because he had a face that everyone could love. And we often bantered in the privacy of our shared study room. That, of course, didn’t mean I wanted him around when I was with Cassie.

After our first ‘date’ with him playing the third wheel, Derrick was quick to pounce upon me for more details. “She seems nice.”

“What?” I asked, looking up from my bowl of noodles.

“Cassandra. I like her. Not as much as that other girl who could draw those henna tattoos, of course. What happened to her by the way?”

“She moved interstate,” I said. “I suppose being up in the Sunshine State is better than settling for physiotherapy. Alice was always ambitious and well, I was never one to put myself out there. The distance didn’t help much either.”

“That’s a shame,” said Derrick as he worked on his maths problems. Finally he set aside pencil and scientific calculator and stretched. Pushing aside his workbook, he finally asked the one question I had been dreading for days on end. “But come on Jamie, when are you going to make it Facebook official? I’ve seen the way you look at Cassandra and she seems interested as well.”

Despite the fact that he had lost most of his baby fat and there was an inkling of facial hair, Derrick still managed to look like a lost puppy. His pleading brown eyes begged for an answer and though my heart could be as cold as ice, it could not resist the pull.

A resigned sigh escaped my lips. I had wrangled with the question for so long that I had pushed it to the back of my mind. Did it really matter whether or not we took the next step? But what if she only saw our relationship as merely platonic? For several weeks I had been caught in a pit of paralysis and unable to climb my way out of it. The idea of placing my heart on the line and waiting for it to be crushed was not something I could idly do. And yet, what if Cassie felt the same?

“This is Houston and we have a problem. Contact with Jamie has been lost. I repeat: contact with Jamie Zhang has been lost. Hello? Is there anyone still there?” Derrick always knew the best way to break my train of thought. I tossed a mean glare his way as he merely shrugged. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”

“I do. It’s just…I’m scared. What if Cassie sees me as just a friend?”

Derrick slung an arm around my shoulder. “Chin up, Jamie. There’s plenty of other fish in the sea if the worst happens. But you know what mum keeps saying about opportunities. You’ll miss all the ones you don’t take. So go out there!”

It was cheesy and clichéd. But Derrick always knew what to say. For a fifteen year old going through puberty, he could be surprisingly worldly even if he was still a tad obsessed with shonen anime that included the likes of Attack on Titan and One-Punch Man, often playacting scenes in our backyard. I suppose it is true: no-one is perfect.

Heeding the advice from my brother, I asked Cassie out to talk on the day just before uni was to resume. She was eager to watch the latest winter blockbusters that had hit the silver screens. Once the movie was over, we strolled down through the bustling city streets, avoiding the main road. Years had gone by but the light rail was still under construction. Rumour had it that it would go on for ten or more years, diverting traffic from the centre of town. Finally, we found ourselves in the Botanic Gardens, overlooking the harbour.

It was not how I imagined where the confession would be, but surrounded by all the different species of flora that were still flourishing despite the chill helped push me over the edge.

Taking a deep breath, I turned towards Cassie. “I like you,” I said. Terror and a small spark of hope warred in my chest. This was now or never. Do or die. I had made myself vulnerable and now my nerves were all jumbled together as I waited patiently for her reply.

“I like you too,” she replied but it was clear that my words had her puzzled. “What brought this on, Jamie? Did you think I was going to leave after all the things we did last semester? Don’t forget, we actually have a lecture and a tutorial together.”

It was enough to confirm the feelings I had. Whether it was madness that gripped me or something else, I could not be quite sure. Yet, despite all the barriers I had put up to stop myself from giving into my base impulses, I leaned forward and captured her lips with mine.

#short story

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jeremystrele · 4 years

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A Tiny Handmade Home Built By A Father-Daughter Duo!

Tiny Homes

Sasha Gattermayr

Camilla Walker built the tiny home at the bottom of her parents’ garden in Coburg with her dad, Patrick. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Camilla at home! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The view from one end of the home to the other. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The kitchen, dining and living area are all tucked neatly into the main space, while the loft houses a separate mezzanine bed and Camilla’s bathroom is behind the sliding door! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

A plumber and electrician were the only outside help Patrick and Camilla received in constructing the home. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Although Camilla admits she probably could have been a bit more nifty with storage space, the small dwelling has forced her to only own object she truly loves and needs. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Camilla’s bedroom. Her only two requirements were that the house had plenty of natural light and her bedroom was on the ground-floor. Here, she has both! Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Patrick + Camilla Walker outside the finished tiny home, which took 8 months to complete. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The entrance to the tiny home, where Camilla looks out onto her parents’ lush garden. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The construction phase in progress!

The completed dwelling, entirely handcrafted by Camilla and Patrick. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Poppies in the garden outside Camilla’s tiny home. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

Having a bountiful garden to plonk your tiny home is definitely an added bonus! Camilla spends lots of time outside in hers. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

The lush garden Camilla shares with her parents. Photo – Amelia Stanwix for The Design Files. Styling – Annie Portelli.

It’s no secret that increasingly, home ownership in the traditional sense is not a reality for many young Australians, and even more so for those without someone to join forces with. When Camilla Walker‘s parents first floated the idea of building a tiny home for her, she thought it was a bit bonkers. But after some consideration, she began to see the perks.

There are many reasons to build a tiny home. Generally, they have a low environmental impact, discourage overconsumption, and are economical to build and maintain. And for Camilla, there was the added bonus of being even closer to her beloved parents!

Located at the bottom of their garden in Coburg, Camilla and her dad Patrick built this tiny home by hand between September 2019 and April of this year. Over those eight months, the Walkers did everything themselves – drilling, jig-sawing, hammering, and painting – until the tiny, cosy cabin came to life. Despite her early reservations, Camilla has never been happier.

We quizzed her about every angle of this impressive project!

Hey Camilla! First of all, how did the idea of building a tiny home arrive as an option for you?

My parents went to a talk on tiny homes and suggested it to me as something to consider as a housing option. I thought it was a horrible idea at first! But I mulled it over for quite a while and eventually saw the plus side – no mortgage, living more sustainably with a lot less, being near my family, and building a house with my Dad. A lot of my friends were buying their first homes, which wasn’t financially viable for me back then when I was a single gal, so I built one instead with the budget I had!

Did you have any reservations about living ‘with your parents’?

Yes. I’ve been very independent for thirteen years, moving out of home and interstate when I was just 18, living in various sharehouses and overseas in London for a bit. I cringed at the idea of being anything but self sufficient. But as my friends have always told me, I have ‘cool parents’, and we foster a relationship that isn’t ‘parent + child’ so much as it is ‘adult family members who get along really well’.

We share meals, split bills, have each other over for coffee, help each other out, and particularly during Covid times I’ve felt the warmth and love of family that so many have probably been pining for. I love my parents with all of my heart, and never want to look back on life and wish I’d had more time with them.

Talk us through the construction phase!

My Dad and I built my house. Dad was a carpenter when we were kids so has unlimited skills and experience when it comes to building. He’s also endlessly creative and everything he touches turns into an eccentric masterpiece.

We had many discussions about the tiny house and how to build it. We looked at Pinterest a lot to make a mood board, watched tiny house videos and got a great feel for how to approach it. Essentially though, a tiny house is one room so you’re governed by the four walls. We sketched up the floor plan very loosely and then just went for it.

There were a few things I was adamant about – my room had to be on the ground floor (not in the loft as I didn’t want to have to crouch to get dressed) and I needed lots of windows for light and airflow. We had a plumber and electrician come in to do their thing, but the rest was all Dad and I.

How do you approach everyday life in your tiny home?

Life in my tiny home is simple – I wake up and have a coffee, and go out my front or back door to different parts of the garden. It is literally one room but I don’t ever wish I had more space. It has a kitchen and bathroom (with a composting toilet which isn’t as bad as it seems), and a shower which is plenty big enough. The only thing it doesn’t have is a laundry so I pop to the big house to do my washing. I also need to look into some serious cooling during summer because it can get pretty sweaty on a hot day!

We designed the house so that if I ever relocate it pretty much everything can be removed. For example, I don’t have an inbuilt stove, but rather an electric stove top and oven that I store under the bench. To be honest, I was a bit light on with storage (i.e. we weren’t clever to build storage into every nook and cranny) so I have to be ruthless with what stays in the house. For example, my wardrobe can only fit one season’s clothes so I swap them over every few months and put what I’m not wearing in a suitcase under the house.

What kind of life does your tiny home represent to you more broadly?

I’m a minimalist at heart and as I get older, I want only beautiful or practical things in my home. I hate having stuff for the sake of it. My tiny house represents doing life a bit differently – no mortgage, living alone (but quite communally) and feeling free. It’s on wheels so I can cruise away at any time too!

How long do you envision yourself living here?

It’s hard to say how long I will live here. I love it for now, it suits my lifestyle and I foresee growing more fond of it as time passes. But I also love change, so when the time comes for me to fly the coop again (lol), I don’t feel tied to owning a house in a traditional sense. I will either leave it in the yard or sell it, or relocate it to somewhere new!

What has been the most rewarding part of this project?

The feeling of living in a house we built from scratch! Sometimes I just stand in the kitchen and look up and I’m in awe of how beautiful the space is. I know where every last material came from, how heavy every piece of timber is, how strong its foundations are, how much insulation went into the walls, how I wondered what the hell I had done when the trailer was first delivered, and how much I dreamt about what this home would be like when I was living in it. And now I know that it’s the life for me.

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ledenews · 5 years

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Suicide? No Way – Part 5

(Publisher’s Note: This is the fifth in a series of articles that examine the passing of 19-year-old Colby Brown, a 2018 graduate of Cameron High School, who attended Marshall University in Huntington. Colby was pronounced dead on Aug. 26, 2019, once paramedics treated him in the middle of Interstate 64.) Colby Brown experienced his first plane flight when traveling to visit his cousin Dalton, a young man three years older who felt more like an older brother and his best friend. It was a 17-hour trip taken with his aunt Brooke Myers and his cousin Bailey, and the trio toured the Asian country for 13 days to taste the native cuisine, enjoy the culture, and see the sights. But there was one piece of natural beauty they didn’t get to see until, of course, Colby came up with the solution.

Because of rain and fog, Mount Fuji was not visible during his trip to Japan, so Colby got a tattoo of it on his left thigh. “We saw as much as we could see and tried as many different foods that we could, based on what Dalton told us about,” Myers said. “And we got to take a tour of Dalton’s ship, which is the U.S.S. Blue Ridge, and we took a tour of his base, too. “The one thing we really wanted to see was Mount Fuji, but we couldn’t go because of the weather. It was always too rainy and foggy,” she recalled. “That’s when Colby said he was going to get a tattoo of Mount Fuji on his leg, and sure enough, when he walked out of the tattoo place, there it was, Mount Fuji on his thigh just like he said. He told us that any time we wanted to see Mount Fuji, all we had to do was look at his leg. That’s the kind of person Colby was.”

Dalton showed his mother Brooke, sister Bailey, and Colby places where he went while stationed in Yokosuka, Japan.

Toxicology Report No. 2

On Aug. 30, 2019, the state Office of the Chief Medical Examiner released the initial Toxicology Report, one that revealed ethanol, delta-9-Tetrahydrocannabinol (THC), Marijuana Metabolite (Carboxy-THC), and Marijuana Metabolite (11-Hydroxy THC), but not mushrooms like Jon Crow told authorities and private investigator John P. Casey. Then, on Oct. 31, 2019, Wood spoke directly with Dr. James C. Kramer, the chief toxicologist for the state of West Virginia and requested a second round of testing to discover whether or not Colby had consumed synthetic marijuana, LSD, PCP, and mushrooms. Her request was accepted, and Dr. Kramer told Wood during that conversation, “It's going to be pretty pricey for the state, but this is important. We definitely want to get to address your concerns. “And we'll send what's called an addendum report, and we'll have these listed on there and whether they were found or not.” Wood received that second report early this week and the only additions to it read, “Blood – Synthetic Cannabinoids – None Detected. “NOTE: A drug screen for therapeutic and abused drugs using LC/MS/MS was performed and additional drugs were not detected.”

Colby's mother, Gwen Wood, received the second toxicology report earlier this week from the state Office of the Medical Examiner. “I was happy to see that on the second toxicology report because that was one of the things I told the medical examiner should be tested for along with a few other possibilities like the mushrooms Jon Crow had told the private investigator about. Whether those other drugs were tested for, I don’t know, but Dr. Kramer told me the second report would state if those were found or not,” Wood said. “I asked Dr. Kramer to request testing for LSD and PCP, too, because I know those drugs are around sometimes in the college atmosphere, and let’s be honest; we are talking about Huntington, where so much drug abuse has been reported over the last 10 years or so. “To this point, though, I’ve left three messages and no one has gotten back to me so I can ask that question. I just want to make sure because I know Dr. Kramer said it would be expensive for the state to test for all of that, but he told me he was going to make the request because he felt it was important for us to get the answers we need,” she continued. “I don’t know if I would call the second toxicology report encouraging, but it did ease my mind a little bit because of everything I’ve read about what synthetic cannabis can do to someone’s brain and their thoughts. The second report also has further convinced me that someone knows something that they’re not telling.” Because of that strong belief, Wood, Shelby, and Wood’s sister, Brandie, traveled to Huntington for an unannounced visit to the house where Colby last lived. The excuse was to retrieve more of Colby’s belongings, but that was not the genuine intention. “What we really wanted to do was to get our foot in the door so we could take a look around and to go to Colby’s room,” Shelby explained. “We wanted to drop in unannounced, but no one was home, so I messaged Cole Clutter, and he said he would give me the key if I went to the bar where they were all at when I called. “But then his twin brother, Ryan, messaged me back and said they would meet me at the house, but he wasn’t the only one who met us. They all came including Jon Crow and Parker D’Antonio, and there wasn’t a second when we weren’t followed no matter where we went,” she recalled. “And when the three of us were talking, those boys interjected like they were trying to control the conversation. Maybe they thought we were too stupid to notice, but nobody is that stupid.”

Dalton made sure his family members had the chance to see as much as possible during the 13 days they visited.

5-5:30 p.m.?

Wood has self-examined the social media platforms Colby had joined in an effort to create a timeline for the day he passed away, and she can prove a trip to his gym and that her son attended both classes that afternoon. She also knows he played video games with friends before, of course, he suddenly felt ill and then just up and left. Online, Colby vanished, too. “I’ve collected as much information as I can as far as to what Colby was doing on the day he died, and when I look at everything, I feel something went very wrong between 5-5:30 p.m. I don’t know what it could have been, but that’s when his phone location was turned off for some reason, and then the fall took place around 7 p.m., and we have no idea why,” Wood explained. “Was there an altercation? Did he get hit in the back of his head? Is that what fractured his skull? Were they goofing off, and he fell? I feel something happened first and then someone got scared and they did something that led to Colby being on the interstate. “Did someone do something to save their own ass? I don’t know, but I really, honestly, can’t believe he jumped like the State Police reported. I know I’m his mother and that I am completely biased. I realize that, but I also knew my son,” she said. “That’s why we keep asking the questions we’re asking, and if that leads to someone coming after me because I’m not letting this go without the answers, that’s fine with me. I’m not going to back down.” In fact, Wood would be willing if an investigator wished to take another look at Colby Brown. “If they have to come and exhume Colby, I would absolutely agree to that because maybe there are answers to be found,” Wood said. “Who knows? If those answers are found, then every parent would find out what crazy things can happen that you can never be prepared for. If that’s how they can find the answers they need to finally solve what really happened, then yes, I would support more testing on him. “You hear all the time, R.I.P., meaning rest in peace, but I don’t believe that’s what he’s doing. There’s no way he’s resting in peace with so many people believing he took his own life. Anyone who knew Colby knows this didn’t happen the way the State Police investigators are saying,” she continued. “I know he’d want me and my family to keep going on this. We realize we can’t bring Colby back, but we also know we can bring Colby’s integrity back.”

Before Dalton left for his base in Japan, he and Colby had a long embrace goodbye.

What If It’s True?

The question had to be asked. What if, at the end of all of the questions and all of the searching for answers, the family finds out their beloved “Golden Boy” did take his own life? “I really don’t believe in the end that Colby committed suicide, but if that’s what we find out, then that’s something we’ll have to deal with then,” Wood said. “There are a lot of reasons why we don’t think that’s what happened because of what we know he did that day, like go to the gym and go to his two classes. I think he would have spent his savings or that he would have given the money to his sisters if that’s something he had planned, but he didn’t. “If that’s really what happened, though, and there’s proof of it, then we’ll have to find out why.” Colby, a talented athlete at Cameron High School who was the Dragons quarterback, did attempt to contend for playing time with the Thundering Herd, but soon after returning to Marshall for the second semester of his freshman year, he was told he was wasting his time and likely would never see playing time. In other words, Colby got cut, and his dream of playing Division I football was over. Could that reality have driven him to depression? “We didn’t know how he was going to take that because we thought he really wanted to play for Marshall,” Shelby said. “But, when I talked with him about it I told him that he was much more than a football player to those who really knew him. It was at that point when he told me that he was actually relieved because, after the longest time he was finally going to be just Colby and not Colby the athlete. “He was OK with it after we told him he didn’t let down his family, and he even told his high school coach that he was relieved because he knew there was another quarterback the same age who was much faster than he was,” she said. “He told Coach (Scott) Holt that he looked forward to just being himself and not Colby the football player. He was a pretty damn good person even without being such a good athlete.”

Gwen's children had been in consistent communication with Colby up until his passing. Shelby also knew of a conflict that was present in the house where her brother lived in Huntington that involved one of his roommates, Parker D’Antonio. “Parker was good friends with the Clutter twins, and Colby was good friends with them, too, because the three of them were from Cameron, but when it came to Colby and Parker, well, Colby wasn’t a big fan,” Shelby reported. “Colby looked at Parker as a spoiled frat boy, basically, and he looked at him as a kid with money who would be a tattletale instead of confronting a situation. “They had a thing over a room in the house because Colby claimed the one with the air-conditioner, and I know the two of them argued over that,” she said. “I think Parker was intimidated by Colby because my brother was a good-looking guy who attracted a lot of attention from the girls, and that made Parker jealous. We believe that’s why Parker always called him “the kid,” and I know Colby didn’t like that at all.” There exist three different scenarios, Shelby insisted, and those are accidental as the private investigator concluded, homicide which the investigator ruled out, and suicide as the State Police investigating agents, Cpl. Anthony Whittington and Sgt. J.L. Joyce, reported about 30 minutes after the fall. “The more that we’ve searched, though, we feel that we may have narrowed it down to one or two scenarios,” said Shelby. “There’s just so much weirdness about this whole situation, and things just keep coming up. “I know there are people in families who have had someone commit suicide who immediately say that they couldn’t have done that. I know that’s how most of them feel because it’s a person they loved, and denying it happened the way the police say it did just comes naturally,” she added. “But yeah, this is different, and that’s because our family is different than most others, and that’s because of how close we all truly were.” Suicide? No Way – Part 1 Suicide? No Way - Part 2 Suicide? No Way - Part 3 Suicide? No Way – Part 4 Read the full article

#Cameron #colbybrown #colbydavidbrown #Dragons #Japan #marshalluniversity #toxicology #USSBlueRidge

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davidastbury · 6 years

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Think of the one who looked after your every need - who taught you to walk and picked you up when you fell. Who took away your hurt and showed you the right way and loved you and bought you shoes.

Miss Nabb Miss Nabb taught us to use the dip pen. It wasn’t easy for any of us but before long her class of nine-year-olds were producing agonised, blotted versions of copperplate script, laying the foundations of adult handwriting. She then - (perhaps as a compensation to the painful slowness and constrictions of this type of writing) - gave us large exercise books which we were to use for ‘rough work’. The idea being that we had total freedom with our rough books; we could use pencil or crayon or whatever we liked. We could write or draw; there would be no rules and no inspections - we could choose any subject and if nothing occurred to us we could write about our home, our family, our hobbies, or what we thought of her - Miss Nabb. We all became writers; we all found our voices and spent our spare moments scribbling about our lives, our pleasures, our displeasures. Miss Nabb never intruded into our privacy by reading our rough books and she would smile when told that a book was full and another one requested. Of course I wrote a lot about Stella - probably saying more than could ever be spoken - and maybe she wrote about me too. As for Miss Nabb - well, she was a genius.

On The Train Mother and daughter - definitely. Daughter, fourteen or so, has her left wrist in some sort of surgical support. Probably broken, or at least seriously sprained; she keeps looking at the plastic clamp with an expression of thoughtful curiosity, as if thinking of improvements in the design. Her mother is watching her - watching her and saying nothing!

Miss Caultart She lived in a beautiful house in the most beautiful street in Warwick - and Warwick has many beautiful streets. Near to the river and the castle. Canaletto, leaving behind his beloved Venice, was a regular visitor to Warwick and he painted many scenes of the town - he said that the river and the castle, from a certain angle, were the most perfect view in England. So Miss Caultart - she was the old lady who spotted me helping an injured sparrow in an earlier story - lived alone in her lovely house. It was unchanged from the Victorian period. I remember it had a tiny room off the hall for visitors to sit and wait to be received. It was a house that was designed to be run by servants, but there hadn’t been servants for seventy years or so, not since Miss Caultart’s girlhood. But she managed. The house had been bought by her father - a Birmingham industrialist, who had sold his factory at the end of WW1 and invested massively in land development. His children did all the right things - the boys went into the military and the civil service and the dim one ‘took the cloth’ i.e. became a minister. Miss Caultart excelled in watercolours and pianoforte. She never married, remaining in the family house as one by one her siblings moved on, and one by one, her parents died. Eventually her brothers and sisters died and she was the only one left. Her father’s trust-fund fell entirely into her lap. As her brother - the clergyman - said to her from his sick bed - ‘It’s all yours now, my girl!’ Each Friday she had her friends in for tea. This was a group of women her own age, who had buried their husbands decades ago. They were all bright-eyed old birds worth zillions. As far as I know she had only one other social activity and that is where I come into the story. She said that she was fond of cricket and one lovely summer we went together to matches at the local club. This wasn’t county standard, it was village cricket, which is England at its most picturesque. Sunny afternoons, smell of mowed grass, men in white, ladies in summer dresses, shouts from the players and a thin applause - perhaps five people clapping. They made a fuss of her at the club - she had her own ‘special’ part of the bench, covered with a nice cloth. I would pass her my field glasses from a leather case worn over my shoulder, and she would follow the action, although mostly vague about the score and certain obscure technical terms. She would raise a hand - a steward would rush over and she would indicate another beer for me and another glass of stout for herself.

From 2016 He came in on Interstate 26, through Jamison and Sangaree - Goose Creek off on the left, and finally Charleston. He had a beer overlooking the Wando River; the waters sparkling in the afternoon sunshine, reminding him of his girlfriend's eyes - the girl he loved - the girl back in Volunteers Ridge, Daufuskie Island, just east of Savannah.

Dr. Stephen Ward’s appointment book would have made interesting reading - many of his patients were public figures, politicians, show-biz, film stars like Sophia Loren. He was the best osteopath in London, certainly the most celebrated. There is a story of how he achieved his top position, how he attracted this illustrious clientele. In the early days, newly qualified and often facing resistance from orthodox medical practitioners, he was struggling to make a living. One afternoon he visited a doctor friend - I think he was a rheumatologist - at a London hospital. His friend was called away and Ward found himself alone in the small office. The telephone rang; he ignored it at first but it continued and eventually he picked it up. The hospital receptionist thought she was speaking to the rheumatologist and asked if she could put the call through. It was someone representing Winston Churchill, asking if he could recommend someone who would examine the great man who was troubled with back pain. Ward replied that the best man in London for back pain was a brilliant young chap called Stephen Ward - ‘and if you can hold on a moment I think I have his phone-number somewhere.’

Pimlico Daydream ......(1968) Afternoon sun shining through dirty windows. A scratched record plays Schubert’s ‘Rosamunde’. Danny appears to be finishing a drawing; not much bigger than a cigarette packet and he’s spent days on it. From the kitchen Big Pete can be heard singing as he overcooks something. And me? I am trying on a new shirt; taking time off work - let them wait - they are lucky to have me.

Stella and the Normans The class was divided down the middle - boys one side, girls the other. Miss Kaye seated her favourites towards the front, presumably it gave her pleasure to see them when talking to the sea of faces. I remember them as very pretty, incredibly neat little girls (we were eight-year-olds) with their pig-tails and pencil boxes. Stella was towards the back. I liked to keep an eye on her. Miss Kaye was an expert in the use of sarcasm. She never needed to raise her voice - that might have caused the head-teacher to look in - instead she would incite ridicule at her victim. We had been studying Norman castles. Our history books showed with words and illustrations what life had been like following 1066 and all that. Miss Kaye told us to close our books and pay attention. She stood at the blackboard and asked the class to describe a Norman castle. A boy put his hand up and called out - ‘It was surrounded by a moat!’ Miss Kaye replied - ‘Yes, very good, a moat.’ She wrote the word ‘moat’ on the blackboard. ‘What else?’ Another boy put up his hand and said - ‘It had slit windows so that you could shoot arrows out!’ Miss Kaye smiled and replied - ‘Yes, they had special windows. What else?’ A girl called out - ‘It had a keep in the middle, and there were kitchens.’ Miss Kaye replied - ‘Very true Tina, they had to have kitchens, didn’t they? Now - let’s hear from someone who never contributes - Stella - tell us what else it had!’ I saw Stella shrivel with terror. She hardly ever spoke, except to one person. She couldn’t get the words out. ‘It...it...it had a well as well.’ Miss Kaye looked at the ceiling. And then she started to laugh. The entire class instantly aligned to her mood - eager to enjoy seeing a victim get it. ‘“It had a well as well!” We must rewrite the history books! It had a well as well!’ All the class was laughing. Miss Kaye set up a chant, conducting, waving her arms. ‘It had a well as well!’ ‘It had a well as well!’ ‘It had a well as well!’ Stella was looking at her hands. And I couldn’t do anything to help her.

As a child Elvis decided that as soon as he left school he would find a way of lifting his parents out of poverty. The fame arrived and the money poured in. He bought his mother a mansion and a pink Cadillac and she watched in dismay at the frenzy of his new world - the management, the boys, the press, the nonstop noise. He loaded her with jewels and fashion but she didn’t want to go out, wouldn’t wear make-up. Her pleasure was feeding her son and her husband; cooking the simple meals - black-eyed peas and cornbread - she had learned as a girl. She remembered how Elvis used to sit in the kitchen with her - but he was no longer around - he was too busy. She used to call her friends in Mississippi and tell them all about her new life - saying that she wished - ‘the family could go back to being poor again.’

Jean......(1966) She worked at the bookshop for about three months. Each morning she would quietly turn up and sit at her table (in the office) very nervous and only speaking about matters relating to work, nothing else. Most of us tried to strike up conversations but she would smile and look down. I began to think she was ill or had been ill. At the start we were curious - only one thing was evident; Ben the manager was respectful and gentle with her - and this promoted the idea that she was the daughter of one of his friends - but no one was sure. She never gave anything away that might have revealed her personality; just a blank mask, a distant hard-to-hear voice, no opinions. She alone is a vivid memory.

Summer ....(the first part got in the newspapers) The school was on fire and we had to get out of the building as quickly as possible. The electric bell was ringing continuously- it was the same bell as the lesson change, but it sounded much louder, so loud that we couldn’t tell what the teachers were shouting. Everyone was running about and the main exit corridor was blocked so children were climbing out of the windows. Once outside we were herded into the playground and sorted into our classes. All the teachers were doing head—counts. It was a lovely sunny day and we were beginning to enjoy ourselves - after all this was better than being indoors. Then word got through that it was a ‘false alarm’ and again we were herded into groups to wait our turns at going back to our lessons. The first batch were marched inside - and then - they came running out, screaming. Apparently there was a fire. Again we stood in our groups and the firefighters arrived. They connected their hose-pipes to the terminals and rushed through the doorway. I had to laugh because over the door was a Latin inscription advocating calmness in all matters. The headteacher started shouting again. There would be a calling of the class registers and then would be free to go home! It was early afternoon and in all the drama and confusion, it hadn’t crossed anyone’s mind to get the school buses sorted out. Rather than wait, and face the possibility of having to stay at the school until normal finishing time, most of us set off walking. But all this about the fire (which turned out to have caused minor damage in the physics lab) is insignificant. The real excitement was the walk home. Russell was with me, along with our friends; we were all in the same class, all fourteen-years-old. We made our noisy way along the country lanes, and the sky was cloudless and farmers were in their fields. And directly in front, always keeping the same distance, was a group of girls - with one of whom - and unknown to my friends - I had sparked off a closeness! She was with her friends and they were laughing about something or other, but the magic was there for me alone. She was communicating with me in her exaggerated gestures and the way she was shaking her head and then turning round and walking backwards. I knew that she liked me because of the way she swung round - no one had ever done that for me before - no one had ever walked backwards.

Russell’s Mother And The Piano Occasionally, when Russell was out, but due home at any moment, his mother - his elegant, charming, distant mother - would come into the room and talk to me. Perhaps she thought that by getting to know her son’s friends she would get closer to her son - to better understand the way his mind worked. Or she would just talk to me, not expecting much in the way of reply. I remember her saying that she was sorry that Russell had given up his pianolessons. She put her hand flat onto the polished top of the piano, as if consoling a dear friend. He was good on the brass, but to her the piano was supreme and she started to explain why. ‘There is no other instrument that can match the piano for range of dynamics and range of expression. A simple phrase by Chopin can be as rich and emotional as anything played on a violin. Listen to this chord - now listen to this one - and this one! I am playing the same chord, just giving extra percussion to a different finger each time. I can change the whole meaning by stressing a different finger! Or if I repeatedly play this same chord with the same pressure - like this - each chord is slightly different - I could play it a thousand times and each would be different.’ And I sat and listened. My head was full of a wider wisdom - I knew - at the age of thirteen - an even greater truth than this. That the arrangement of the furniture would never be repeated - that nothing would be repeated - she would never again stand that way in front of the piano - nor look or sound the same - nor have that vague amusement in her eyes - nor would the afternoon sunlight shine the same way on the glass-fronted cabinets - nor my slight hunger - nor the sinking excitement, the tingling, the banked-down exhilaration at the thought that Caroline was in the house - and might walk in at any moment.

Russell’s Mother Buys a Car Russell’s dad used to be away on business a lot. He wasn’t around all the time, he wasn’t there to do the sort of things husbands and fathers are expected to do – and Russell’s mother made known her complaints. They decided that it would help if she had her own car – she would buy a car and learn to drive – and then she would feel less restricted. I first saw the car when Russell asked me back to his house near the end of the school summer term. It was a fabulous Armstrong-Siddley Sapphire, cream and gold, brown trim, bright chromium grills and a rather grand badge bolted to the front bumper. I stood, lost for words – and Russell laughed and said - ‘My dad will go mad when he sees it.’ - dad was away on business. I don’t think Russell’s mother ever learned to drive, or if they kept the Armstrong-Siddley for long. But one day, during the school holidays, I was invited to join the family on a ‘run to the seaside’. Russell’s dad was wearing tortoise shell sunglasses and his mother looked like a fashion model in cropped slacks, sleeveless top and a wide-brimmed hat. Russell jumped onto the back seat behind his dad, his mother sat at the front and then – joy of all joys – Russell’s older sister Caroline (with whom I had been painfully in love for a long time) came running from the house, followed by two school friends. Russell groaned. Caroline, dressed in sandals, shorts and baggy gingham shirt, loaded stuff into the boot – picnic baskets, beach balls, collapsible chairs and such like. The girls then piled in - squealing and giggling - not a word to me, not even a glance. Five of us on the long leather seat, and by divine permission Caroline was next to me. The car-door was still open and Russell’s dog leapt in and landed heavily on my lap. He was barking with delirious happiness and everyone shouted at him to shut up – he then bunched up and gave ‘half barks’. The sun was shining and Russell’s dad drove fast and the windows were down. I was lost in the chime of the girls voices – the smell of new car and cigar smoke – and the hot pressure of Caroline’s bare thigh against mine. At some point Russell’s mother turned to face me and asked – ‘Are you comfortable, David?’ – and I adopted my ‘Double-lesson of Geography’ face - my ‘Our team lost, but we played well’ face. I replied I was ‘fine, thank you’ and the dog slobbered over my neck and the girls rearranged their tangled legs and Russell muttered about being sick and tired of being squashed and I wanted the ride to last forever – or to crash and die there and then - smiling and choking with happiness.

Very impressed with a young person! Mid to late twenties, astute social observer, cool dresser, humorous and affable; born in Trinidad - a Trinidadian - a complicated upbringing, partly in USA, partly in London - some sort of big deal job in the city - married to an English girl and buying a house ‘by the river’ (it actually has a boat mooring). We chatted non stop for quite a while. He is one of those rare people with whom you can talk forever - endlessly engaging. He was curious about the attitudes of the English during the periods of black immigration; how the public responded etc. He has researched the subject but wanted a ‘live’ view from people who saw it happening. He also wanted to know how we (the public) felt about Malcolm X and James Baldwin and figures such as Lenny Bruce. I came away hoping that I might see him again. But as I was driving home, a thought crept into my mind - ‘Was he taking the piss?’

The Artist.....part 2 Very rarely have I tried to intervene (help) friends with their relationship difficulties but, being young and foolish, I tried to get The Artist back with his adored girlfriend. It was a strange meeting, sitting under the foliage in a Baker Street coffee bar, clutching a shallow glass cup and trying to look wise and conciliatory. It was strange because I was so familiar with her sculpted head - a sublime lump of shiny clay on a rotating platform in the studio. It was as if she had found herself a body, dressed in an abbreviated mini-skirt, tight jumper and wide-brimmed hat. She listened, took in what I said, and replied - ‘Do you want to know why I ended it?’ I didn’t answer. ‘It was all those milk-bottles full of his piss. I told him I couldn’t stand it, but he kept pissing in them and leaving them all over the floor.’

The Artist It was good fun while it lasted but eventually, wearied by his chaotic way of living, she had to finish it. Behind the anarchistic humour and deadly serious creativity, lay a world of despair so powerful that it would engulf and destroy her. So, as gently as she could, she ended their relationship. At first he was extravagantly upset - he moped about, muttering his misery. He had recently completed a sculpture of her head; and I must say, it was brilliant. It had been done in clay and then cast in plaster, impaled on a sturdy iron and mounted upon a stone block. With the head wrapped in a dirty bath towel, he set off in a taxi and gave it to the girl’s mother. From that moment things changed. He said that she hadn’t ‘gone’ - she was still here and always would be. He would never stop painting her.

The Gulf.......1999 The café was crowded so I shared a table with someone who turned out to be a US Marine. This was in Bahrain, in the Persian Gulf, and it wasn’t unusual to see US servicemen, as there is a huge military base on the island. So we got talking about this and that as I looked at his incredible physical presence. He had the body of a wrestler and the face of a twelve-year-old boy - thick neck, thick eyebrows, thick forearms and a watch as big as a tin of shoe polish, fastened with a khaki webbing strap. He started to tell me about his hometown, a small place with a French name, I think it was in Arkansas. He talked about how he missed his family and his mother’s cooking. He missed the friendly waves in the streets - everyone knew everyone else, and how they looked out for each other. The people were decent and honest - they didn’t cheat anyone - children were safe - doors weren’t locked - they lived plain lives - they married girls who would be good mothers - they respected the old people. I listened to all this - aware that he was asking me a question - in fact he was pleading with me. It was in his eyes, his cornflower-blue eyes. His question was:- ’Tell me…what is wrong with this?’

She has a way of sitting - of crossing legs, of tilting her head, of palm-cupping her elbow - and I surprised her (she certainly sat up!), when I gently told her that the way she sits is identical to the way her mother sits, and the same way that her grandmother sits and the same way as her grandmother’ mother used to sit My words had the effect of an unknown, yellowed photograph, a love letter on paper so old that it crumbles, a lost song that was once sung for you.

This is the blessing you can say when you see someone of unusual appearance. Of course you don't need to say it in Hebrew - English is fine but I offer transliteration for the really keen. And you only say it once - the first time you see them! בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֺלָם מְשַׁנֶּה הַבְּרִיּוֺת. Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Haolam, m’shaneh habriyot. Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the Universe, who makes people different.

Stella’s House I think I only went into her house once - at least I can only remember the one occasion; not that I remember this one occasion because something memorable happened, because nothing did. We were simply in her house together; two seven year olds. Stella was a solemn little girl who hardly ever spoke but there was absolutely no tension. In the same way, everything she did had a mature purposefulness. Her family were very poor, you could see that, everything looked worn-out, but they did their best to make it look nice. She asked me if I wanted a drink of tea. I asked her if she had anything else, and she replied - ‘No’. She made the tea and filled a teacup - I remember it was chipped and had flowers, and she spooned in a lot of sugar because she wanted to make it nice for me.

This is the Blessing you should say when you see an elephant, an ape, or a long-tailed monkey: ‘Blessed is He who makes strange creatures.’ If you see beautiful creatures and beautiful trees, the Blessing is: ‘Blessed is He who has such in His world.’ (Talmud, Tractate Berakoth 58b)

Development They have built houses - 3,4 even 5 bedroom houses - on the fields of a small farm I knew as a child. Impressive large houses with tiny gardens all huddled together; family homes for happy children. There used to be only one house; black stone and a leaning slate roof; occupied by a mysterious man who, according to my parents did ‘dreadful things to children.’ So I was told that I must never go near. The words ‘to children’ got me - it inflamed an indignation at what was right, and what was wrong. Why was I being warned? It was apparently okay for the man who did dreadful things to children to live in his horrid house and keep sheep and cows and have his beer delivered in a lorry. Would it not have been okay for him to live there if he did dreadful things to grown-ups? I tried to express this line of thinking but was told to shut up and keep away. So I avoided it. Thinking of the man was frightening and I gave him a position of prominence in my Parthenon of Terror - he was up there with my dread of being kidnapped by cannibals or seized by an octopus, or sinking into quicksand, or being squashed and swallowed by a huge snake.

This is the Blessings to be said when you see the first blossom on trees:- 'Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who did not leave a single thing lacking in His world, Filling it with the finest creatures and trees, So as to give pleasure to all of mankind.' (Talmud, Berakhot, 33.2)

The Watchmaker In his tiny shop, he spends most of the day fitting batteries into customer’s watches. Not very skilled work – for someone who trained at Omega and once repaired high quality timepieces – but he makes steady money. I once asked him how he got started – did he want to be a watchmaker from an early age? He answered me - ‘I never planned being a watchmaker – I didn’t know what I wanted to do. At the last year in school we used to get employers coming round and giving talks. Once a silversmith came and I thought it was interesting – I asked if I could be a goldsmith, but they didn’t do that – I am glad now because gold isn’t easy, it is very soft. So I became a silversmith; mostly doing repairs or commissioned pieces; I also learned engraving. Later, I applied to go over to watches and my firm paid for me to live in Switzerland and I learnt French and German. Years later, I set up my shop and worked on watches, but then quartz came and people stopped using mechanical watches. I do fairly well out of battery replacements – people cannot open their watches themselves. And I deal in scrap gold and when there’s a decent amount in the safe I go to Birmingham and sell it on.’ I think he will retire soon. He’s not that age yet but he looks tired. Not long ago, as he was locking up for the night, he was jumped by thieves. He refused to open the safe and they knocked him unconscious. The shop was closed for three weeks. I have known him for many years and he looks ill – the jewellers glass slips down his face and his hands shake. I have noticed the tricks he uses to steady his hands, pressing his forearms against the counter-top cabinets, but his hands still shake.

I was at an event once - the sort where you sit down at a table for eight and they feed you. On my right a twinkle eyed oldster in a Daks blazer who started to tell me about the business he had founded in textiles. In his wheezy, heavy-smoker - (‘but-given-up-now’) voice he croaked out the words ‘couture’, and ‘fashion‘ and ‘Paris’ and ’bespoke’. I naturally made the appropriate ooo’s and aaah’s and smiled when needed. On my left, an octogenarian woman - sun tanned nut brown - tried to whisper to me. Her eyes narrowed conspiratorially! I put my head to hers - and caught the hot thunder of her voice in my shell-like. ‘Don’t believe a word he tells you - his stuff was market stall schmatter!’

Something Wrong I once saw a rabbit hit by a speeding car - it was thrown up in the air; then rolled; then settled roadside. One second later I saw his/her mate - ears raised, looking back, confused, aware something was wrong. All the laws of day and night broken - as broken as that scrap of warm fur lying roadside.

Love At The Ritz He was in love with her! Right from the time when he was a boy and had kept photograph cuttings of her from magazines tucked inside his bedroom books. Pictures of her concerts pressed between the pages of ‘European Birds - An Essential Guide’. And then he met her; face to face. He interviewed her for his university newspaper. Gushing and nervous, choked by her perfection, he told her that this was a dream and that he had followed her career all his life (he was nineteen). They got along very well. A few months later he received two tickets for a London concert, plus a little note inviting him to tea at her hotel. And so they sat together in a cushioned corner, under chandeliers, glass and gold and glitter, a buzz of conversation, clicking china, a waiter’s squeaky shoes on the marble, a pianist in a bow tie which made her smile. In fact a lot made her smile - she was smiling all the time. He was happy beyond words, happy beyond his dreams, happy to be so close to her, happy to be sharing the same air!

Presence I stamped the snow off my shoes and climbed the eight steps up to the row of doors. The doors were unchanged - still the same heavy mahogany frames and brass push rails; the same polished glass. I thought of my friend Geoff Marshall who, long ago, used to work in this building. Some intuition made me stop and stand still - holding onto the handrail as if time itself was standing still - and all I had to do was breathe very slowly and close my eyes. It is as simple as that...you just have to breathe slowly and close your eyes.

Only Once Countless others will look at this same beautiful coastline and say, in many languages, roughly the same things. As will countless others - millions of them along the chain of the centuries. But we both know, even as we say these same things, that we have had our share and are grateful and accept the sound of the waves saying - ‘For you, never again.’

Man On The Bus I’ll limit myself just to his appearance - just to his hair! Hair that has gone thin and bears no trace at all of its original colour; developing, in advanced maturity, into a yellowish grey, tinged with ginger. Everything will be this colour one day - following an (accidental) nuclear war. His hair is the non-colour of our nuclear winter. The hair, thin and unruly, has been greased into submission and forcefully combed in directions which it would not have voluntarily chosen. The man retains his loyalty to a style that was adopted by the late film-star Tony Curtis - in fact the style was named after him and was hugely popular in the 1950s. Unfortunately, the style requires a fullness in order for the bouffant to be successful and while this may have been the effect enjoyed by the man over many decades, it is no longer achievable. Instead of the luxuriant ripple of hair from each side of his head, meeting and merging at the back like two rivers, or a bird’s wings - instead the strands stand off as if resisting. The strands look like a mesh of metallic wires surrounding the man’s head, rather like some sort of protective helmet.

A Little Boy With A Wise Face! Every afternoon he is with his parents on the terrace. They have their drinks and cakes and ice-creams. The little boy sits and watches - everything! His mother and father aren’t all that young so the little boy must have been a lovely surprise for them. His parents are at the age of seeing the end of their own youthfulness - and because of this they actually understand what being young means. Of course when people are young they have no idea of the meaning of the word. And so his parents are recreating their interpretation of youth - lots of laughter, ‘knowing’ looks, knee-nudging intimacy, secret jokes and oblique references. The little boy is pleased and watches them like a parent.

Balcony Thoughts The balconies have a partition wall on each side to give you privacy. Next door cannot see into your balcony and you cannot see into theirs - unless you lean out, perilously, which isn’t easy because the walls project slightly. The partition walls are about five inches thick; no doubt cheap cinder-bricks skimmed over with cement and then painted. The other purpose of the partitions is to stop a burglar from accessing your room; or making his way along all the rooms in the row. And yet he could still do it - in fact you or I could do it. You would have to stand on the low balcony wall and grip the partition firmly between your palms - and then swing your leg across onto the wall on the other side. Hugging the partition wall tightly you can then manoeuvre your body outwards and across; and then your other leg. Gymnastically this is not too taxing - at ground level! It would feel different on my own third floor, with a leg-breaking thirty feet drop onto grass - and more different still on the ninth floor. Why not try it? Of course there is no need - so why even think of it? But you do think of it, and being a male an odd sort of machismo can start to creep into the mind. - ‘You don’t want to do it because you are afraid - admit it! If you don’t do it you will feel bad about yourself, because it will bring back memories of that work you once did on a roof and everything started to bend and the sky wasn’t straight and they couldn’t get you down. You’ve got to do the things you are afraid of - all the self help books tell you that.’ Anyway...I’m going down for a drink.

Afternoon Adventures Being stalked by the hotel bore - he’s after me because I wouldn’t be drawn into conversation with him last night. He’s English (of course) newly retired, red-eyed, bay-window belly, braying voice deceptively reasonable but ready to pour out the hard opinions. I am sitting in my balcony, at tree top level, watching birds choosing partners - it’s that time of year and they are making odd movements. Every so often he appears - looking for a victim - and I duck behind the balustrades. French children are playing a chasing game on the lawn - I peer over the potted plants and I can hear them chanting - ‘Vite, Vite, Vite!’

Tunisia 2018.......#7 Odysseus docked near here - he dropped anchor and tried to work out where he was. He must have looked at these same rocks and bays, and the same blue/green sea. The sea that had taken so many of his friends - all lost forever - nudged by sea creatures, nibbled by fish, pushed and pulled, helpless and eyeless, losing their weapons and their beads - never again will they kill those they do not hate - never again see those they love.

Love. .....(1962) She was the boss’s daughter; he was the lowest of clerks. She would call at the factory most afternoons, straight from school, and would do her homework or read magazines in a small office near to a loading-bay. And then go home with her father. The boy worked in the loading bay and he fell in love with her instantly - devising pretexts for going through the small office. Sometimes he would linger, pretending to be searching for delivery notes and the like, but secretly eating her with his eyes. And then they started to speak; at first shallow comments but she understood the depth of his compulsion, the force of his need which wiped away caution. He interpreted her stillness as an indication of acquiescence - and would stand beside her and they would talk (one eye looking out for the boss!) and not knowing what to say he would whisper how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. When the big school holidays came round he was very unhappy. She feigned unconcern. Having shared her secret with a friend, this was viewed as the best tactic. The boy explained his plan - every night at 11.00 they would go somewhere to be alone and think of each other. So that is what she did. Bedroom door firmly shut - lying on her bed - just the sound of her breath as the excitement increased - imagining him - not letting him speak - blinking - shocked and delighted.

Visits A very early memory! I was about four or five and I would go with my mother to visit Helen, her eldest sister. On one occasion she asked me what I was doing and I replied that I was... ‘playing with glass.’ Being partly deaf she had misheard me - what I had actually said was...’playing with grass’. There was a minor panic and then everything was sorted out. Thirty years later I was again visiting her - this time she was in a nursing home. She had survived several strokes and could no longer speak and her hearing had gone long ago. The secretary at the home needed to fill in certain details on their paperwork - they wanted to know her date of birth. I told them - 4th April 1888. And then I sat beside her and I remembered that early incident. I wrote down on my pad - ‘I’ve been playing with glass’. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and started to nod her head and there was a smile - an unmistakable smile - in her 19th century eyes.

Ablutions He enjoys his cold showers although to be honest he is a bit of a cheat. A real cold shower is when you step into jets of icy cold water and it is the shock that makes you feel good (afterwards). Instead he has a conventional hot shower and then, in bearable graduations, he adjusts the regulator until the water is chillingly cold. Stepping out, feeling pleased with himself, he’s ready to face the world - so to speak. It is so different to how he feels when getting out of a hot bath - emerging shivering - broiled and bleached - dull minded and despondent- staring at his grey/white skin and hearing the voracious gulp of the released plug sucking away his thoughts and energy, sending all his fond dreams down the drain.

Skill I like watching snooker, particularly the drama of the opening shots. This comes over on TV, but there is nothing like being in the atmosphere of a sports hall and seeing it live. I particularly like the opening shots when the strict formation of the balls is shattered and multiple patterns of possibilities flash across your eyes. And then you marvel at the mastery of the player’s plan - at his skill and intelligence. It was similar when Ian ended his relationship with Lorna. We didn’t understand what was happening. One eye closed to avert distraction, he sent off a perfect screw-ball curling around a delinquent red and knocked a pink on a straight run towards the cushion - where it wobbled deliciously and then plopped into the pocket.

Snow Two people walking in the snow – getting on in years - linking arms – unsteady. Freezing cold; a dusting of snow blowing across their legs. I can see them passing a picnic area and the man is pointing to something. Perhaps they once used it – perhaps a summer day long ago – and started a fire with snapped twigs and watched them crackle and hiss in the flames – yellow and red flames, hardly visible in the sunshine.

Тимошенко Степан Прокопович In the 1960s it was unusual for girls to study engineering - but I do remember one! She came into the bookshop quite regularly, lingering in the sections marked - ‘Engineering, Civil and Structural, Mechanical, Fluid Mechanics, Materials Management...’ and so on. My colleague Frank, gazing at her in wonderment, would sidle up and ask if she needed help. If thinking about someone continuously, and being disinterested in nearly everything else - and if the focus of each day is the possibility of seeing that person are to be taken as symptoms of being ‘in love’ - then Frank was truly in love. At the start of the new academic year I would set up tables and load them with titles on the student’s book-list - many published in the International Student Editions of John Wiley and McGraw-Hill. Frank’s dream-girl would leaf through certain ones, sometimes smiling to herself, sometimes frowning. Once she came to the desk and spoke to Frank - I moved away. After she had left the shop I went across to him. ‘If only you had heard her! He said. ‘Heard her - what do you mean?’ I asked. ‘If only you had heard the way she said “Timoshenko”’.

Cross Street, Manchester I sometimes pass a doorway and the memory comes back, bringing mystery and pleasure across a gap of over fifty years. In that doorway (I’d be happy to take you there!) I came face to face with Benjamin Mendelssohn; an important figure in my early days. He was coming out; I was going in. As usual he was resplendent in dark-blue pinstripe and polka dotted tie, looking every inch an ‘old-world man of letters’ and gentleman-publisher (which he was). There was a young woman with him - mid twenties, very thin and frail, as if recovering from a serious illness. She was so thin that her head appeared to be disproportionately large. She was holding onto Ben’s arm, as if her legs, wobbly as a newly born calf, couldn’t support her. I remember she wore a sheepskin coat with the collar up, and a bright tartan skirt fastened with a huge safety-pin. When Ben spoke to me she looked at me and smiled - but only her mouth smiled, her eyes were dull - smiling wasn’t something she found easy. And I felt that I knew her - she seemed vaguely familiar- but didn’t know how, or why, or when. Because of traffic noise, I couldn’t properly hear what Ben was saying, except it was something like ‘...and let me tell you Anne, David is one of the busiest young men in town. He is so busy that we must not detain him!’ I walked along the corridor struggling to recall how I might have known the young woman.....that tilt of her head...the dark hair that should have been thick and strong, but lay lank and flat....the intelligence in her gaze...the few accented words...the spindly fingers...a writer’s fingers! I didn’t dare seriously to let my mind enlarge any more on this - I felt my legs becoming as unsafe as hers. Was it possible that there had been a miracle - that she had survived - that Anne Frank was alive.

Pret a Manger She’s just finishing her second French Butter Croissant! Why don’t people eat breakfast at home? Anyway, she’s enjoyed it. Delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth, checking her phone – her face resumes her normal expression. Young people are difficult to read, but she isn’t young – youngish, but not young. She has the face that she has worked for, the face she deserves – she settles, as she sips the last of the cafe au lait, into her true face – the one that the dormant artist in me would like to draw. Instead my heart goes out to her and I wonder if there is someone who can say to her – ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Who is Sylvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her?....’ (Two Gentlemen of Verona) Well, I could tell him! Sylvia Hulme was twelve and she always had a swarm of younger children around her. I was the same age and was part of a gang and we spent the long summer holidays playing in fields and woods near the lake. Somehow, one sunny day, our two groupings met up, and sat on the ground and talked. One of Sylvia’s friends organised the younger ones and although I couldn’t see them, I could hear them laughing and shouting – and then they started to sing nursery songs. Sylvia was very much the boss but she was also gentle and understanding; she spoke to everyone and used their names – she had a forceful personality. I don’t know how it happened – was there a pretext, had words been exchanged, had I given an audacious signal or had we mesmerised each other? Whatever it was, Sylvia and I got up and walked together into the half light of the trees - the mushroomy smell – the moss and dampness – the sky no longer above and earth no longer below - if you get my meaning. The next time I heard of Sylvia was through a friend who told me that she was having private lessons in book-keeping from the superbly named Mr Byron. Mr Byron was an early-retired teacher – a tormented Romantic figure, fulfilling the promise of his name – from whose house came an endless parade of seventeen-year-old girls, all paying their four shillings an hour to get good ‘O’ level results. I was eager to make contact with Sylvia so I waited across the road, facing the iron gates of maison Byron. She was very beautiful and was amused to see me waiting. Yes, she was having lessons in basic accountancy and no, she didn’t like it. She had other plans – she was joining the Navy, although her parents didn’t know that – yet. And that was it. I never saw her again, or heard about her. I went home, thinking about what she had said – she was going to sea – going to sea, sea, sea. And then THAT afternoon came back – full force. With the wet grass and the smells and Sylvia taking hold of me like someone who knew what she was doing. And beyond our own breathy noises, how we could hear the children singing a clapping song:- ‘A sailor went to sea, sea, sea To see what he could see, see, see But all that he could see, see, see Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea !!!’

Sketch of Ricky He is trapped in his house - the centrepiece of complex family disputes - standing at the open fire, sucking on a cigar, discussing business. Talking of the future opportunities! Ignore the multiple bankruptcies, divorces, the ‘pending legal actions’, and the adult children who don’t speak to him. Seeing him like this - you cannot help but be won over. You are drawn into the mood of everything around you - the charming house - (despite the rotting window-frames) - the ticking clocks - the second large brandy - the music of his voice - his yawning cat called Vashti and the sly glances of his flighty young wife.

As Told to Me....#5 ‘When I was young I was ill. How ill? That is impossible to answer. I cannot talk about it because remembering how ill I was could make me ill again. I know some people say it helps to talk about it -‘share it’- and so on, but it doesn’t work for me; quite the opposite. ‘There’s something that really gets me - if I had known the right person at the right time I might not have become ill. I needed something but there wasn’t anything for me. It would have made such a difference - I would have not become ill. ‘But today, when I see someone suffering the way I had - and with all my direct personal experience, I’m sad to say that I am as remote and cautious and useless as everyone else.’

Alex and the Interview...........for Leyla Shortly before the summer of love Alex was shortlisted for a position with MICA (Manchester Institute of Contemporary Arts). They wanted a poet and Alex certainly ticked that particular box. He, and a short collection of other poets were invited to appear before a committee and explain, in twenty minutes, their case for being chosen. Alex was apprehensive about what might be expected of him if he landed the job and we all did our best to reassure him - everyone bought him drinks and said that it was purely topshow - at the very worst he might be summoned if the Queen was visiting the university, of if a janitor won a Nobel Prize. The selection panel was headed by a twinkly-eyed professor who wore corduroy and woolies. In my one and only conversation with him he actually said (I am not joking) that he found young people ‘stimulating’. There was also a female academic who frowned when speaking to a male, but her face illuminated into a ghastly tennis-club-dance smile when speaking to a girl or woman. I cannot remember the other team members. By the way...the good ship MICA sank with all hands in 1992 and a few survivors were washed up on beaches as far apart as Boston and Botany Bay. Some lived on to become visiting professors of this and emeritus professors of that. We all advised Alex to have an ‘early night’ before the morning of his interview. Alas he didn’t listen to our appeals - instead he drank his way down all the pubs as far as All Saints and at some point collapsed. He woke up in his bed-sit room with no memory of how he got there. During the previous evening he had been sick several times and had lost his false teeth. A club he used for after hours drinking, refused him entry and there had been some sort of fight - not serious, but there was an exchange of punches. He turned up, sans teeth and with a swelling on the side of his face darkening ominously - smiling through his hangover and ready to discuss poetry.

Ian again ! It’s a characteristic of young people to take things to extremes - friendships, loyalties, drinking and so on, including of course, romantic activities. Lorna shared a house with a varying number of friends, friends who hardly saw her at weekends because she stayed in her room with Ian, her tireless boyfriend. Occasionally she would emerge, disheveled and heavy-eyed, to load up a couple of plates, mumble a few words and then elbow the door closed. Then there would be a resumption of the various sounds of agony and ecstasy - the thudding of bare feet, of straining furniture, of objects being knocked over. Once, Ian talked about how he wanted to get to the very limit of intimacy; to get ‘beyond’ Lorna’s physical beauty and reach her very soul - her essence. He felt this might be possible by becoming satiated with her body, by reaching so far into his obsessions and compulsions he would find a liberation and cruise on the plateau of a sublime contentment. His efforts were doomed of course. I looked at his haggard face and wanted to tell him not to worry - that everything he searched for was conveyed to him each time Lorna squeezed in next to him, flicked back her hair and gently placed a hand on top of his.

London Night 1964....‘ The French Pub I was standing in the crush at the bar next to a group of ex-Legionnaires (Légion étrangère). Still bolt upright, still with shaved heads, still with fellow soldiers who would die for each other - all roaring with laughter at the mustachioed charm of Gaston Berlemont. Guttural French, harsh desert French - not the Cointreau warmth of Baisers Voles. And then I saw him coming through the door at the top end - the Poet! Blinking (although blind) - shocked by the noise and smell and smoke, hesitating, as if about to change his mind. His friends gathered in the corner, against the wall covered with photographs. They all claimed to be writers but to be accurate not one of them actually wrote anything - instead they got drunk every night and argued about what literature should be about. I saw the Poet shouldering his way through the crowd. Layer after layer of Soho regulars - the loved and the unloved - those who felt at home and those who had no home - the drunk and the diseased - the dough-faced prostitutes - the Cypriot pimps - the unfrocked priests - the newly discharged and recently released - the Trinidad newspaper vendors - the boxing referees - the club dancers clutching their bags of costumes - the fat and the thin - the women dressed as men - journalists - film stars - worldly Americans in tweeds and rimless glasses - a belligerent visitor demanding a pint glass - a wrestler with a young man who looks like a choirboy - a man with scars who (despite the danger!) you cannot help staring at - the loner who desperately want to talk to someone - the blazered bore telling war stories. I put hand on the Poet’s arm and say who I am; I guided him to the poet’s corner.

Learning Our Lesson Whatever she wanted we got her. Whatever she asked for we doubled it. Whatever one of us got for her the other one added to it. Whenever she wanted our time, time stood still for us. Whenever she needed specialist help we begged the services of friends, some of whom have dropped us. There was no end to what we would do for her, but there was an end - and it shocked all of us. People now say - ‘Well, I bet you’ve learned your lesson!’ And we have to agree, and we nod wisely - (knowing that we would do exactly the same again.

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annamcnuff · 11 years

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Reflections on bike ride through the 50 states

“America is just like the UK, only… bigger, right?”

I’d like to ask you all a favour. If you ever happen to be within earshot of such a comment, please make a beeline for the offending individual (even if it requires a Starsky & Hutch style roll across a car bonnet), cup their face firmly between your hands, lean in and scream “Nooooooooo.” It’s a common misconception. And one that I harboured myself a year ago. The truth is that our beloved countries are hugely and unbelievably different - both physically and culturally. I could write a thesis on the points that set us apart; Laws, history, work ethic, transport, environmental issues, to name but a few. My personal fave however, is language & communication.

Never before have I been so acutely aware how we British dance around our sentences - using colloquialisms, semi apologies and flowery comparisons to get a point across. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. In fact, I’m the worst offender of the prolonged prose. Here’s an example:

British: “Umm would it be possible, to perhaps, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble, to have a cup of coffee? And if there was a bit of milk hanging around in the fridge, that’d be lovely too.”

American: “Yeah I’ll take a Coffee. Milk. No sugar.”

THE GOOD TIMES

Oh my there were many. So so many. More than I’d ever hoped. Watching grizzly bears forage in the shadow of the Mount McKinley. Finding myself on the road at dawn in the desert, alone with no sound beyond the whirr of my wheels. Cresting that first pass in the Rocky Mountains. Striding through the plains of Wyoming, a herd of mustangs running alongside. Perched on a rickety bench, watching the morning sun creep above the North rim of the Grand Canyon. Finally leaving Route 50, America’s Lonliest road. Stargazing at 2am in Colorado. Looking out at classroom of excited schoolchildren, kids as young as five telling me they want to be an adventurer when they grow up too. Welling up when leaving families who’d taken me in over a storm. Eating breakfast with an 85 year old Grandma, listening to her tales of love lost and a life well lived.

THE BAD TIMES

Let it be known that it ain’t all rainbows and sunshine in Adventureville. Battling chronic knee pain for 2 months. Camping alone in Northern Wyoming, scared witless that a bear might come wandering by. Pitching my tent in a bush between an interstate and a freight railway line, a train shaking the ground every two hours. Pulling two people out of a car wreck in Colorado. Setting out to ride 120 miles in pouring Iowa rain, being soaked to the skin, verging on hypothermic and searching for a motel within 20. Riding into Cleveland on a busy road in the dark, fearing I’d be hit at any moment. A motor home passing far too close and almost sucking me under the back wheels. A campground owner treating me like vermin. Getting homesick with 6 weeks to go. Facing 30 mph headwinds.

WE, HUMAN BEANS

Are you still with me? Awesome. Perhaps pause for a cuppa, and go grab yourself a biccie? This shiz is about to get real.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the past 7 months, it’s that we’re a race governed by fear (hold those cries of ‘Steady on, love’ and hear me out). I know it makes evolutionary sense that we be wary of situations that could potentially cause us harm, but somewhere along the way, we took it too far. We began to spend our time focused on the things we can and can’t do, rather than the things we could.

I could have been attacked by a bear. Or a man. (Or a half man, half bear.) I could have been run over by a truck. Then again, at home, I could slip and smack my head on a work surface in the kitchen. I could get knocked down by the 281 as I cross the road in Teddington Town. In fact, the chances of the latter things happening are probably higher than the former. What am I do to? Stay out of the kitchen? Not go outside? Well that’s just ridiculous. Precisely. It is.

The truth is we don’t like doing things beyond our usual remit, because they expose cracks in our character. Weaknesses. Parts that we try to keep hidden from others to ensure we maintain a perception of us as a high functioning member of society. It’s only natural. I do it too. Yet nothing frustrates me more than hearing “I’d love to do that” To which, nowadays, I tend to go into bitch mode and reply: “So do it then.” It’s probably actually that you a) don’t want to do it badly enough (which is totally cool), b) it’s not a priority right now (again, totally cool) or c) that you’ve given yourself a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t. And what’s more, convinced yourself that those reasons are valid ones.

The only difference between me having spent the past 7 months blowing my mind, and having… not, was deciding that my excuses were just that. And that it was actually an option to go. Which, not having any real responsibilities and being at the point in my life that I am, it was. And I’m grateful for that. In short, when are you ever going to regret trying to do something that you really want to do? I’ll give you a clue, the answer is: Never.

If there’s one precious secret I’d like to share, it’s this: When you put yourself out 'there’, way beyond your comfort zone, indulge in endeavours that cause your heart to beat fast and your chest to tighten - amazing things happen. Doors open, opportunities arise and most importantly, the painful chinks in your armour heal. The cracks that threaten to make you fall apart - they seal over. You become far stronger than you’d ever imagined. You grow, immeasurably. You surprise yourself, and you find it a far easier process to meet your own gaze in the mirror. We’re animals after all. In testing circumstances it will always come down to fight or flight. And you’re not very well going to lay down, are you?

I, A HUMAN BEAN

So what have I learnt about myself? Well. There are a few things I always suspected to be true. And then there’s a few new faces at my personality party.

Accept help where help is offered: I really don’t like asking for help. But what dawned on me through the trip is that sometimes the best experiences come from letting others save your British Bacon. If a stranger walks across a campground at breakfast time, and offers you coffee and a banana - newsflash, they want to give you coffee and a banana. In fact, it’d be ruder not to take it. From here in in I will be doing my best to accept all offers of coffee and bananas, among other things.

Please yourself, and only yourself: I’ve always held the belief that you should only really satisfy yourself in this life. I don’t mean be selfish, being proud of who you are and the way you behave goes hand in hand with treating others as you would like to be treated, after all. I’ve got two star based tattoos about my person, because I love stars. And I love stars because they remind me how marvellously insignificant I am. And that in the grand scheme of things no one really cares what you do, so you may as well do as you darn well like. That’s not changed.

Cut the comparison: We’re all so hard on ourselves. Constantly criticising and comparing the way we look, act and what we achieve with our peers. Facebook and Twitter can turn to tools of self destruction, and it’s exhausting. I do it a lot, and I’m trying my best to let it go. It’s incredibly difficult. And I know I’ll lapse from time to time. But I also know that comparing yourself to another person is downright ridiculous. It’s verging on insane. If you’ll excuse the cheesy trumpets and rousing theme music - there is no other like you. So please stop it. And I’ll try my best to do the same.

There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely: I haven’t really been lonely at all on the trip. In fact, I’ve felt more lonely at times in London, surrounded by people, than I have on my tod in the middle of the desert. I could be biased, but to spend time in your own company, you’ve got to be pretty good friends with yourself. I mean, you can’t have too many anxieties or insecurities, or they’ll eat you up from the inside out. So I think a little alone time is a great thing. It forces you to reevaluate whether you’re truly happy with what you’re spending your precious time on the planet doing. And that’s why so many people shy away from it. Because they’re not.

There’s a difference between being a bad ass, and a dumb ass. Pushing on through pain, bashing out 130 miles, dragging yourself out of bed when all you want to do is sleep - that’s badass. Winding up on a busy road at the mercy of trucks, ending up soaking and freezing with no shelter in sight and heading out to ride in a big storm - that’s dumb ass. And it’s been one of the greatest learnings of the trip. Dumb ass actions will only get you, and possibly others into trouble. And for what? So it’s bad ass action only from here on in.

WHAT NOW?

I’m going to write a book. Because, well, I’ve rediscovered that I love writing. And that there’s a real joy and art in sharing a good story. I hope some people will read it, but at worst it’ll be a record for any sproglets I have in years to come. I have no doubt it will be a tortuous experience, and don’t be fooled into thinking I have the faintest idea what I’m doing, but it seems to me like a marvellous new challenge for the next 6 months.

I’ll be refashioning the www.thebigfive-o.com into a historical record of what went down in Five-O town, and starting up a new blog - to host tales of all future adventures. If you’ve enjoyed following this one, don’t let this be the end of something beautiful. I’d love it if you made a mental note of the highly original www.annamcnuff.com. You’ll find me waiting for you all there with open arms in the very near future.

Tomorrow sees a return to work at Sky TV. To a bunch of people I love spending time with, and a job I do actually really enjoy. I doubt it’ll be too long before I’m off again somewhere for an extended period, but in the meantime I’m throwing myself back at working life 100%. And cramming every spare second around it with mini adventures. Adventure is a state of mind, after all. And my brain is addled forevermore.

Lastly, I can’t thank you all enough for sharing this trip with me. For the support, kindness and untold levels of awesomeness you’ve wafted in my general direction. Whatever future mischief lies in wait, you guys will always be my first adventure army.

One love. Peace out.

McNuff xxx

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