Christopher's Online Journal

Another rap across the knuckles for not keeping the journal up to date. It's not like there's so much going on that you can't find the time, it's just that, as yet, the ritual, or the habit of contributing to the journal has. not bedded in. Unlike meditation, which is kept to religiously (non-pun intended), with its own time, and place, and purpose. Maybe that's what's missing here, a purpose; should it be something to look back on in my dotage. Or does it need to be more of a here and now purpose; perhaps to make me smile, or at least to be questioned about what would make me smile. Maybe I could make it a question and answer visitation. Image courtesy of Arno Senoner on Unsplash Along the lines of: what did you have for breakfast, or do you want a coffee, or how does that video look now with the music added. To which I would reply: bacon and eggs, with a slice of brown toast, buttered; yes I would like a coffee; I think the music helps, even if it isn't my

The dreamwork is coming along nicely; already I am at over sixty days of taking notes, although as yet I have not spent much time in dream analysis, other than to be thankful for a new variety of dreams, which have moved away from work-related situations. Meditation is  also  proving fruitful, the process now includes writing, reading, and listening to music, as opposed to following guided meditations performed by other meditation teachers. No doubt I will return to their wisdom, but for now I am enjoying my own practice. I came across Gesture when I was looking back at the Poetry Otherwise course which I attended in 2005, led by the inspirational and well-loved Paul Mathews at Emerson College. Paul has a link to Rudolf Steiner House on his website  paulmatthewspoetry.co.uk from there I found Goethean Psychology, and a workshop with Graham Kennish which I duly signed up for. I learnt, or maybe I learnt again, that gesture accounts for a very large part of our means of communicating

Is Adobe Premiere Elements just too clever for its own good, are there just so many checks and balances which it performs that it becomes almost impossible to use intermittently. I say this because after a period of not using it the re-learning curve is almost not possible to master. What causes that awful ringing noise when I try to record a voiceover, what have I overlooked, for surely it must be my fault. And away from audio, pray tell me why when I adjust a clip in pan and zoom does it then change the clip length on the timeline; which is the master and which is the slave (yes, I know that Adobe is the master and that I am the slave). Finally, because the rant makes me ever more angry, why does the time to do a task have that wonderful ability to not be in real-time but rather in Adobe's flexible-time which elongates as and when it wishes. All this when I should be celebrating Sheffield Wednesday's first victory under our new manager Darren Moore, especially as it came agai

I'm killing time, before the time for kick-off; after seven defeats on the spin the rim is becoming tricky, and we need something wicked to stick to. At 19:45PM precisely the whistle will blow, the secretions will flow, the sears will know that their predictions are out of kilter. At 21:30PM or thereabouts the truth will out, the pathway will be set down, to the fall of the final curtain, for certain. I of course am optimistic; it is in my jeans, it was in my schoolboy football shorts, the sort you would never be seen wearing now, anyhow I took a video-poem to The Arts , our monthly artistic gathering, and here it is:

The double-gang dimmer switch (leading-edge) is on order, to be collected in the morning when hopefully it will be light enough to turn off the electricity into the Old Stables and bring a new light experience inside and out. The two Roxy compact disks have arrived and are now on iTunes, and on the iPod via playlists. I have also written a short note, about these minor luxuries, on which I fritter away my minimal funds. Image courtesy of Mick Haupt on Unsplash The tables have been moved into an (almost for certain) final position. All now to do is to find a place for all the things that have gathered themselves onto the said table during the reorganisation. A reorganisation which is in effect a return to the original layout of several years ago; yes, we are all at our most comfortable with familiarity are we not, certainly this particular chap is more at home with what he knows. Here is a poem from this morning's creative writing gathering where it was well-received, if in no way u

What is it that sets the storms in motion, how taut is the wire, even before it is stepped upon. And how effective is the writing, in bringing the rocket ship back to earth, of pulling one out of the stormy seas, onto the more soft and submissive sands. I ask you this as a way of asking myself. What is it about confusion that one finds it so alluring; and for how long to be confused, how long before the confused soul sees, or appreciates the blue skies of light relief. Image courtesy of Stephen Leonardi on Unsplash So once more it is back to reaching for refinement, as opposed to building the new. Yet again it is the time for cut and paste, as opposed to shutting up with haste. How many places to discover or rediscover, how many poets on mountain ledges to accompany, or to be inspired by. There it is then; more questions than answers, more wonderment at the wonder of others. Last night's film was about Keith Richards. And yes, the question is: how the fuck did he do it! There must

The temporary log store is demolished, three years is long enough for some old fencing, and plastic sheets, to obscure the view. And what will we repair the area with; decking, to the floor and the wall, or more slabs of concrete, or imitation stone. Certainly, the washing line must be moved. Also work is required in the old stables. Yes the wood-burner is installed and burning wood, but more is to be done, with the first spring clean in over thirty years...oh sorry I was singing along to Rod Stewart. Actually, I was listening to Brian Eno, it's very much been his day after last night's video of his career from Roxy onwards. Brilliant Programme, immense guy. Watch it if you can, it's on Amazon. No midweek football this week, so no defeat to look forwards to; is it forwards or forward, I was pulled up about that yesterday. Here's the poem: Description Should I begin with the roof-light Or the wood-burner Stood on a slab of Derbyshire stone Itself supported by small pyram

A 6:30AM start. Yes, on a Sunday. It just happened, it wasn't planned, but it was already light. Two good exposes last night. The first one was the people who have infected Tom Waits' music over the years. It was fascinating but came to an end swiftly, at the turn of the century. The second was a portrait of Nick Drake. Be a little careful with when you choose to watch this, it is a heartfelt window onto the sadness which can invade life. I bought my first Tom Waits album, Rain Dogs , in an underground (physically) record store in Belgrade when it was Yugoslavia. I have no such authenticity with Nick Drake. I, like many thousands of others, fell for the post-death marketing exposure of Pink Moon on Volkwagen's Cabriolet adverts. Could more have been done for Nick Drake. Did we need to do any less for Tom Waits. I'm just ever so thankful, to have come across them both. Here is a poem: Bedhead There is a warmth, a certain serenity As if the star sign of Saturn alone shou

That I have felt the good life in so so many places That I have traced love-lines on so so many faces... Where does one go When one has been gifted these opening lines... Those lines followed the reading of  The Nightfisherman Selected Letters of W.S. Graham W.S. Graham Edited by Michael Snow and Margaret Snow The blog isn't in any way a letter is it So how to be so personal So sincere As when writing letters to a friend To be able to work through The joys and the sadnesses The peaks and the troughs Of the mental and physical tortures endured In my case, to listen to Love's Born Again From their Forever Changes album As I lay in the warm bath Smothered in Molton Brown fragrance Is there any need for a poem today? I suppose we must: Might I write of you As I write Of spring entering summer Might I write of you As I observe The words of Pablo Neruda Might I think of that place Beside the apple blossom Where we might lay together Might I think of that hut Which, with a lover’s to

A neat morning meditation, with writing. A good morning of poetry. A trip to the tip. Now the blog. What a life, and a friend struggling with sciatica, which I wouldn't wish upon anyone. Tomorrow it is football, and even with a new manager, it's just not possible to think too positively about the outcome, especially as their centre forward used to play for us, and they always score against their old clubs, don't they. Afternoon tiredness is creeping in. I have taken to having a nap, especially after I read that sleep is good for the brain. Yes I know its not good to be overweight, which sleep might not help, but hey ho. The cottage is booked for the fishing trip with my eldest son. On the cusp of September and October so we got a good discount for limited occupancy. It is a long trip, but at least my sons will be able to meet up. Here is a family poem, but more related to Southern Ireland than Cornwall: Family Familiar They’ve travelled from far off states, to sample seas w

The blood pressure is impressive. The blood test is taken. The feet are checked with doppler and jel. The weight weighs just a couple of pounds more. The follow-up appointment is made, next week, when the results are back. Properties in Budleigh Salterton and Bude are viewed, but alas they are still outside our price range. A mid-terrace in Chagford almost fits the bill. Why is there this interest in continuously looking at properties, when the likelihood of our moving is next to nil. Instead of worrying about the physical world, and our place in it, why not spend more time in the imaginary worlds of daydreams, musically accompanied contemplations, and mindful, or mind-less meditations. The football wasn't great, we lost to our South Yorkshire rivals after all, but the manager is upbeat, he says there were lots of good things in the game, we just need to work on our rhythm and our self-belief, especially in the final third. A long time ago I went to a Chagford for a Christmas meal

Circa 10:00AM to begin the installation of the new wood-burner, brought forwards by one hour, thanks to yesterdays laying of the support tiles. There is a little bit of excitement; just imagine the Old Stables now warm in a trice, instead of never getting warm with the old stove. Then imagine that come October, or November, or December time, when we can all go out and about again, doing whatever it was that we used to do. Although now of course we will also have to be on zoom, so that those folks from out of the locale's earshot can still reach us. And after my football rant the other day we have a new manager, he sounds like a good sort, and he is already talking of us fans as the 'army'. I think I'd better draw a line under this, can't have too much good news in the one day now, can we. Here's the poem: Good News Kept Quiet I'm sad that I can't tell you It's just that I don't know how I'm not the only one trapped this way As a congregation,

The new manager is appointed, also his assistant, and a first-team coach. Reading between the lines, his old club did not want him to leave. So what drew him to S6? Did he have a friendship with Christ Brunt, when he was at West Bromwich Albion, did he hear stories of great games between the baggies and the owls. Football is a cruel game; what happens now to the caretaker and his assistants? Is their short spell in charge sufficient to have them pushed on to the teeming scrapheap, of less than fully successful football men. The coming days will see which regimes, and principles, are to be adhered to. As a fan, we move from the final dismal forty-five minutes on Saturday, to a Wednesday night game with a new beacon of hope. A phone call to my younger brother fills in the gaps; apparently there is a rumuor that one of our old managers is going to becoming Director of Football, apparently he gave this new manager his first break into coaching. Circles. Wheels within wheels and all that. T