Anybody out there?

I know, I know, I crawled under a stone and everybody went away with their own business.

 

But I'm thinking I might come back and carry on with my ramblings...what do you think?

 

 

 

 

Where did that Year go?

On my last post I left out the word Year, but didn't realise it until now! Furthermore I left it out twice, and still didn't notice it!! I even had a kindly response and still the penny didn't drop!!!

 

Call it a senior moment, call it a gremlin. Call it whatever you like, I lost a year and didn't even notice it. There's not many people that can say that on Jan 2.

 

Hey, just thought, here's a different spin. You may call it a year, others may call it something else. So whatever your New is, enjoy it.

And it's a Happy New from him and a Happy New from me!

Sea gulls dancing in a snowy scene

 

 

A Happy Christmas, and very possibly white Christmas, to everyone

 

 

Man catching mackerel, 1985, Laura Ford

On a snowy Saturday morning in 1985 I went to a temporary gallery in Islington, London and bought this pastel drawing by Laura Ford. It was unframed, so I took it to the Brompton Gallery and had a hand painted frame specially made for it. I also bought a sculpture by her partner Andrew Sabin, which, sadly we no longer have.

 

The point of all of this is that the picture must now be moved from the wall it has adorned for many years. Where will it go? Can we still keep it?  

You can't keep a good poet down...

Or so the newly published letters of T.S. Eliot seem to show (The Letters of T.S. Eliot Volume 2 1922-1925, published by Faber & Faber). He came under intolerable pressures during this period yet he still managed to write some of the best poetry of the 20th century (not withstanding Ezra Pound who is, in my opinion, the giant among them all). If you are unfamiliar with his work, start with The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Here's the first stanza to give you a taste:

 

    Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'

Let us go and make our visit.

 

 

And so it goes on beautifully, atmospherically; this, by the way, is the poem that has the famous line:

 

     In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

 

 

Enjoy Eliot, he is proof, if proof were needed, that pleasure comes from pain: in this case our pleasure, his pain!

 

 

Happy halloween everyone!