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It was during the dream time. The time when we were suspended between universes, between light and dark, life and death. The time when I saw the falling star and the fox.
 
The world was in semi-sleep and dreaming, but as always with dreams, the dark mares flitted with manes like black water, through consciousness and unconsciousness. Tales of horror and trauma infiltrated those almost silent sunshine days. Echoes of far off battles, corridors and machinery, exhausted running feet, precious breath, the push of the ventilator and the beeping of monitors… the valiant and the dead… yes that was there, even in the quiet of the night and even in our deepest sleep. We were there, and not there.
 
Death waited in the touch and in the breath.
 
I had trouble sleeping. Woke at four each morning with heart pounding, and speeding, circling, go-nowhere thoughts. Fear prowled the room. What if. What if. Guilt blacked out all hope of dawn and made the future dark. I was alive. Did I deserve it. Would it even last? What if. What if. I rose. Made tea. Tried to read. Went to a window and watched the sky to the east and waited. Weeks… months… we were all waiting, so what was one more hour, to sit and watch and wait? We also serve, who only stand. And wait.
 
I thought of the Bristol churches with their watch towers looking eastwards, the faithful watching and waiting for another kind of dawn.
And waited.
And looking eastwards, there it was. My first ever falling star. A lonely Lyrid, falling… falling… briefly a light to our world.  Out there was hope perhaps.
 
As the sky greyed, things took form outside.
 
A moving shadow caught my gaze. It stopped. A glow of white fur under the body and face. Darkly silhouetted ears, inscrutable eyes, and stillness. Our eyes met through glass: the human being, trapped inside, locked in my own darkness and the small fox out there in the dawn. And I heard her, as if she spoke to me … no… not heard… sensed?... a message without words.
 
This is not a dream.
 
There is always hope.

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Pandemic

Synaesthesia

27/10/2013

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The image to the left partly illustrates the strange abnormality of the brain - which I have - called synaesthesia.  I'll explain why later. 

About one in twenty of us have this condition where doors in our heads (which the universal head master decrees ought to be closed) have been generously, if somewhat randomly, left open by some kindly passing subversive school caretaker.

The inner life of the synaesthesic is full of colour, texture, sound and other sensory experience which the non-synaesthesic would gawp at in non-comprehension.  We are secret travellers along forgotten ways of the mind - roads invisible - and therefore inaccessible - to others.  In past times we'd probably have been burnt as witches. Now we are an occasional scientific curiosity.

The most common manifestation is the perception of coloured graphemes;  letters, numbers and even days of the week all have their own distinct colour.   But there are other eccentricities.  I remember distinctly (being about 6 years old and on a dull and routine car journey) surprising and amusing my parents by suddenly recognising - in the different shapes, colours and textures of the trees we passed - the attributes and characteristics of girls in my class at school.  I think my parents assumed it was a precocious joke.  But to me it was very real. 

One possible explanation is that synapses which should have been 'pruned'
(Wikipedia's word) as we matured have been left in abundance, thus linking areas
of the brain which are not usually linked.  Doors left open. 

Hence the un-pruned tree in the image, outrageously and unashamedly orange, pink and purple - whose natural branching form is so archetypal in nature as a pattern of how organic matter often moves and behaves.

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Ilminster Meeting house

10/10/2013

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Built in golden stone with its ancient and elegant minster church, Ilminster is probably everybody's fantasy idea of what an English country town should be. 
It seems to have everything: small independent shops - a butcher's, a greengrocer's (with a floristry section just like old fashioned greengrocers used to have) a bakery, a delicatessen, banks, pubs and clothing and interiors shops which are eccentric and so quirkily old fashioned as to be chic.  
You'd be forgiven for imagining that not much cultural happens in Ilminster - however The Meeting House Arts Centre - run by volunteers with a nice mix of efficient professionalism and friendly community spirit- is a venue for a vast array of arty, musical and interesting events.  The photo above doesn't do it justice.  Inside it is stunningly light and pretty with lots to fascinate and catch the eye.
It was well worth the 70 mile round trip  to sit in the gallery (ostensibly t do some wood engraving but not much got done!) and chat to a stream of interesting - not to say fascinating - local people.   
If ever you are in deepest Somerset and the region of Crewkerne, Chard and
the A303 you could do worse than to stop off in this pretty little town.  The Arts Centre has a pleasant and friendly café and apart from stunning art, there's a small shop in which to browse.

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