Goodbye 2014 - Hello 2015

GOODBYE 2014

A Turning Point

A Pivotal Moment

A Year

I lost close friends and colleagues to premature death

A time of deep reflection

A Professional Career

Life is rich with my Grandsons Dafydd and Izaak

Friends in my 3 sons Thomas, Sam and Robert

Janet, wife, enduring friend – 34 years together – alone again naturally - the boys have flown

I look to a future – a time of great change, optimism

Bring it on - 2015

Little Lies

Watch

Little Lies

“All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable."

REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE.

"Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—"

YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES.

"So we can believe the big ones?"

YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING.

"They're not the same at all!"

YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET—Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED.

"Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—"

MY POINT EXACTLY.”

Terry Pratchett - The Hogfather

Parent Happiness

Parents ......
Its a simple fact that....
You will only ever be as happy as your unhappiest child....

Its the price we pay......

Children are forever, not just for Xmas .......

Little humans

Dont you just love them

Soho (Needless to Say) Past, Present, and Future (Al Stewart) 1973 I was 17 Years Old  I lived in Mayfair And walked the Streets of Soho at Night with my Friends "Wendy House"  Soho Needless to Say Some Members of Wendy House - Left to Right Philip Herbert, Dave Barton, Davina Boyd, Amanda Wise Listen to.... Soho - Needless to Say

Rainstorm, brainstorm, faces in the maelstrom Huddle by the puddles in the shadows where the drains run Hot dogs, wet clogs clicking up the sidewalk Disappearing into the booze shop Rainbow queues stand down by the news stand, waiting for the late show Pin ball, sin hall, minds in free fall Chocolate-coloured ladies making eyes through the smoke-pall Soho (needless to say) I'm alone on your streets on a Friday evening I've been here all of the day I'm going nowhere with nowhere to go Football supporters taking the waters They're looking round for the twilight daughters Non-stop strip club pornographic bookshop Come into the back and take your time and have a good look Old man laughs with flowers in his hair Newspaper headline "Middle East Deadline" Jazz musicians are down on the breadline Soho (needless to say) I'm alone on your streets on a Friday evening I've been here all of the day I'm going nowhere with nowhere to go Soho feeds the needs and hides the deeds, the mind that bleeds Disenchanted, downstream in the night Soho hears the lies, the twisted cries, the lonely sighs Till she seems lost in dreams The sun goes down on a neon eon Though you'd have a job explaining it to Richard Coeur de Lion Animation, bar conversation, anticipation, disinclination Poor old wino turns with dust in his eyes Begs for the dregs from the bottom of the kegs, man You've never seen a lady lay down and spread her legs like Soho (needless to say) I'm alone on your sheets on a Friday evening I've been here all of the day I'm going nowhere with nowhere to go Soho (needless to say) I'm alone on your streets, or am I dreaming I've been here all of the day I'm going nowhere with nowhere to go

The Rubaiyat - NO GOING BACK

The Rubaiyat - of Omar Khayyam

Reflections on Mortality and Wine

This was a favorite of my Father - he loved this poem.

The Rubaiyat is an ancient, one thousand year old, cynically humorous, and savage reflection on mortality.

The moving finger refers to the narrative of your life story - and it tells you simply that there is "NO GOING BACK"

----------------------

Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai 
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp 
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way. 

I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head. 

And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean --
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen! 

Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit. 

You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse. 

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it. 

And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, 
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help -- for It
As impotently moves as you or I. 

IN FULL

THE RUBAIYAT

THE MOVING FINGER WRITES...

GET USE TO IT!