Bothered

To those of you that do not do the work week after week

Do you not realize that you affect others by your actions ?

For life is not a free ride as you seem to think

Often success is only perhaps 5 % inspiration

Followed by 95% perspiration

That means that the more you put in

The more you get out

Grades are not the only way to mark an education

The other is the contribution to not just to class

We get out of life what we put in

Even when we might not like what is being taught

You never know you might just learn something

If you put the work in

The surprise is that often biting on the Brussel sprout of life

Is not as bad you might think

I write as a struggling student

Who tries week  after week

Often reading things that seem to have very little meaning

But at least I can place my hand up

And contribute with an open honesty

Soon you may have to go out into the world of work

You may find that no matter how cute

Or charming you might be

Others will suss you out

And when they do

Perhaps instead of complaining

Pause and reflect your own input

For by not  doing the work week after week

You affect not just your education

But mine as well

 We really do create our own reality

And as one of the polite masses

I'm tired of you affecting mine

 So to be honest if you cannot be  bothered

Then neither can I with you 

Now I have to go

As next week's reading calls 

I have been working on a book for a long time.
The book is will be called Raki Without the Bollocks, and here is an extract of an idea I'm working on.

Newbie Group

A few years ago I had an idea for a spiritual and paranormal exploration group as it struck me that many people seem to be interested in the whole area but had very little idea where to start.

With the aid of few friends I created a group called the Newbie Group, the concept was explore some aspect of the spiritual or paranormal every fortnight, at first we met in a pub, then as the summer season kicked off we moved to a local wellbeing center.

Most groups or development circles seem to be run by someone with a particular talent, what was unusual about this one was that I had talent or agenda other than providing something that people wanted to participate in. Often this meant calling on the many and diverse skills of my friends to provide a small talk or demonstration each week. The only cost was a small a small one to cover costs, the feeling being that if someone took the group for one meeting, during the next they might learn something from someone else's area of expertise.

 My role during the meetings was to act as a ring master, sometimes asking questions to clarify some point. We always started with a small mediation and ended with one, this to me always seemed to make sense as it ensured that the group was always in the correct space and provided a very definite start and ending to the meeting.   

We were very lucky to have Dr Alan Jones supporting the group from the very start, what Alan provided with his immense understanding of how the mind interprets stimuli was a counter balance to the more mystical aspects of the group. Alan demonstrated that often what we think happened was not what actually what  happened. For  instance  for one of the earliest meetings he provided a  piece of film of a group passing a basket ball among themselves, what he did not tell us that someone dressed in a monkey costume ran through the group and waved at the camera.  Most of the group, and I hate to admit myself included never noticed the person in the costume. Only when told about the man in the costume and shown the film again did the everyone  see the what was clearly on screen for at least 30 seconds. What was very clearly shown that often we only ever see what either what we expect to see, or perhaps what we want to see. The human mind that by its very nature is always slightly behind events creates patterns to allow an understanding of the world around us. So in essence what we think has happened is not what actually happened.

The world that we think is so real and solid is often a construction of our own ideas ..

Wow that is a really deep idea, OK I think we better both take a deep breath and think about that for a moment.

How often are we sure that we see something, but when in fact what we have seen is our  own interpretation of those events. I'm not discrediting the validity of those experiences, just creating a space where we at least allow the possibility of  another understanding of those events. I have met many in not only the 'New Age' world but also in the more general world (to be honest I do not see any difference) that seem to be unable to accept that we are all fallible and that what we understand of the world around us is based on our own personal bias.

For example, if a car was painted down its middle in two different colours, say red and green. Two people on different sides of the car would swear that car was only the one colour. Unless they could walk around the vehicle they would naturally assume that the whole car was the colour that they could see. Apart from being a really unusual way to do a cut and shunt job, what this clearly shows that we can never be truly sure that what we experience is what actually has happened. This does not invalidate the experience, just means that everything is open to more than one interpretation.

I stepped back from running the group after I started at university, I tried to ensure that the group continued, but it taught me that often the best way to make things happen is by having a benign dictatorship. One of the other things running the group taught me was that I could it and did make it work. Some of the egos that that seemed very secure became threatened by the most gentle questioning and this was something that I had remember when Dez Richards asked me to co present on his new radio show.

By our minds very nature what we understand of the worlds is an illusion. But it is one that allows us to function in it, but please do not mistake it for being real. 

One  last term

Like warn out sailors facing one last push

The students drift in ones and twos

Facing the last part of something far greater

Simple words say so much

"How much have you done?"

Always the answer is not enough

Only 6 weeks left and  our world changes for good

The experience has changed many beyond all recognition

Others less so

They used to sent the upper classes to Cambridge to learn to rule

 What has Falmouth  indoctrinated us into?

Not to rule

But maybe to think for ourselves a little more than most

To question and create a new World with things that they have helped unlock

Yes one last push to safety

Once more into the library we go dear friends

Remember those who dropped out

Not everyone found a place

But soon it will be to time to create a new one

After one last push again

 I feel the library beckon   

Reflection

The recent events of the last week have made pause for thought.
People reactions to the death of Margret Thatcher have raised some questions.
Whilst I would never condone the reactions of some, for instance holding parties etc..
It must be remembered that she with her party did split the country, those who loved her and those who hated her.
When she came to power Britain was almost on its knees, being only 8 years old at the time and living in Cornwall I do not remember the rubbish piled high or the dead not being buried, the unions running wild and industry creating badly made products that no one wanted. But if the solution to those problems was the policies that her party ruled the country with for 15 years then was it really worth the cost?
We now have very little skilled working class jobs anymore, once to aspire to be a fitter, welder, printer etc etc would have been an option for those with a working class back ground. You worked as an apprentice for up to 7 years and came out as a skilled person, but you also gained the values of those who taught you.
Within this system based on mutual respect, one of the most positive  aspects was the idea of social responsibility, that the more you have the more you need to put back to help others.

One of the perhaps nastiest legacies of that period is now that seemingly we live in a society where it is right not to care for others, that the idea of social responsibility almost seems dead. Perhaps best shown by the banking system...

When it was suggested by a younger student that all   I'm is an 'arm chair' critic, the question is do they vote?
At the very least and even with a voting system inherently unfair as ours, to vote is at least to give give a right to comment. But if we really ask the question of nature of how politics affects us and what can we do, then all I can answer is that politics affects every aspect of our lives, every choice we make is a reflection of our own individual political perspective.
Compared to the politicians  that we now have at least Margret Thatcher was upfront about what she stood for unlike the faceless lot we now have. It must be remembered that during her reign in power that the only constant within her government was Thatcher herself, every other member of the cabinet changed jobs at least once and as leader she chose her own cabinet, so it could be considered her policies that she and her party implemented during this period.

As a country we knew where we stood, now the blurring of the left and the right has left very little choice. Tony Blair is often considered to Margret Thatchers truest air and of course he was meant to be Labour.
I for one will never be vote Tory and unless Labour finds a back bone again, I would struggle to vote for Labour, for many years I did vote Lib Dem, but I think Nick Glegg has done is best to kill that party with the unholy alliance with the Torys, never again will anyone trust them.

The last election I placed a large black mark through my ballot paper and wrote the words, none of the above, but at least I took the time vote. With the up coming local elections please take the time to vote, then at least you have a right to comment on those issues that affect you on a local level.
The national first past the post system in unfair, but it is in the interests of the main parties not to change this, but again please  take the time to vote, for some vote is better than no vote however unfair the system is.

And if someone makes a comment that you are just an arm chair critic, smile and walk away, for between us we know that really every choice we make is a reflection of our own individual political ideology.

Back to the creative stuff for the next blog,

Alex

Model

Model

I may stand naked before you

Exposed, all my imperfections to see

Line and form important

Not shape and tone

To be judged

Against what values may I question?

Those of magazines,

Taught, tanned,

Not a hair out of place  

Or of the everyday

Imperfect

But more complete

Greater depth within wrinkled eye

Than in a face stretched to perfection

Tied tight by the surgeons needle and knife

I may stand naked before you

With all my saggy bits on show

But at least I'm  real

Right down to my wrinkled thighs 

Hopefully I might get a chance to read later and this poem is reflective of the difference of the ideal  body image that is expected against the reality of the real beauty inherent in a body that has led a full life.  

A poem for a friend.

Calling Tokyo

I lie alone

Fingers twisting, turning

So far away

Out of reach in time and space

Memories washing over

Fading bands

Seeking that last moment of connected bliss

When calling Tokyo was within my reach 

Creative Hand in for Biggles

Model  

Wow, it really is frosty today bloody cold and knowing this lot they haven’t got the sodding heaters on yet. 20 minutes to warm an old class room is just not long enough. It might be bad for the artists trying to work but they should try standing naked for long periods of time the cold seeps into the depths of your soul.   All the fan heaters seem to do is blow the cold about in the process highlighting just how bloody cold it is.

The back wall is lined with work sculptures, drawings, paintings and sketches. Whilst some clearly are female and others male one or two which could be either. Speaking of which one of the more androgynous ones could even be me. Leaning in to take a closer look I wonder if my eyes are betraying me. Slowly the image seems to move, turning almost staring now at me. Its half formed eyes seem to accuse as if seeing through me. Shuddering I try to turn away but now I’m locked in direct eye contact with nothing more than a few simple lines.

In a single moment the world seems odd I become aware of being so much less almost as if my contestant sense of body has gone.  Funny we are never aware of the connection until it is lost in many ways like a mobile phone signal. Something that is always there until the point we really do need to contact someone. But this is different to even that; it feels as if the very nature of my reality has changed. I try to make sense of the new nature of my environment.  The light seems different through my closed lids, harsher but more gentle at the same time. Slowly I force my eye lids open, but even this seems to take more than I have got.

It takes all my inner strength to open one bloody eye.  What I see seems familiar but different as I see the world through an unexpected perspective. My senses adjust to this change I seem to be staring back at another eye, hazel with darker flecks.  This eye seems familiar but why? Only after it pulls back do I recognise it. No wonder I have seen it before that bloody eye is mine.

What the Fuck! I heard that a tribe would not let their image be taken with a camera for they felt that it took away a little of the soul. But I never thought it was true. Legends abound of doppelgangers, from Donne to Lincoln. It has been said that they have all met doppelgangers of themselves or loved ones. But a bloody sketch taking over someone’s soul and holding it hostage now that is something new?   

Now I can see the studio clearly, and yes I really must be on the wall, looking out across the room as the people begin to file in. It is just standing there, not greeting anyone or relating to my friends in the group, just standing like a spare part. I can feel the anger begin to raise in the pit of my stomach, or at least I would if I still had a stomach.

The metaphors of expression seem based on our relation to our bodies. We see and interpret the nature of our own existence though the accidents of our own morphology. For instance a sight for sore eyes or reaching out, my heart beats faster. I could go on but you get the idea. So how do I now express what I feel when I have no body to feel. Language is now a collection of metaphors that seem out of place. As much as our use of language is a construct of our own morphology, that very morphology is a construct of language. Often the language leads to the identity that we create for ourselves including what we would consider to those things that would appear fixed like gender.  What language would now make sense in my new form? I feel my fibres swell or perhaps the ink fading but if these metaphors make sense to me who else could relate to them?  

At least I’m on the back wall and fairly high up for if I was a little lower down my line of sight could become blocked. I now see what an odd group they are, from Issy the tutor who is barking mad in that very peculiar artistic upper class British way.   The way a hundred and fifty years ago or so meant facing the enemy on some far off land was preferable to facing the wife at home. Not so much a person more a force of nature but deep inside she does have a good heart. My thoughts turn outwardly again (Ha ha!) As I start to notice the other artists coming in for instance Pete who always in the same corner every week. He is a good artist but quiet and restrained. Often I have wondered why he comes to this place of madness when other life drawing classes would seem to be better suited as this one can be really noisy sometimes and chaotic. Talking of which (no bloody voice) Jess walks in late like normal and sets up beside Pete.  Now that could cause a few problems. It’s almost better I’m here on the wall as the last time I was here  Jess’s easel just must missed when she knocked it over in a middle of a half hour pose. I held the pose but did jump a little. Jess is a brilliant painter but I have noticed that most of the artists stay clear, as if even by the  accepting standards of the group she seems a little too odd.

Talking of which (ha bloody ha) my doppelganger has returned and that dressing gown really needs changing.  It strips off and starts to take the pose. I see clearly my own body for the first time. My god what a hairy arse and people pay me to do this! Issy must have something bothering her as that pose will not be easy to hold even for five minutes. Part of me is glad that the pain of the cold muscles cramping and legs shaking will not be mine. I can just see the corner of its face, the grimace clear. Ha see it’s not as easy as looks is it!

Have I become Derrida’s cat? The unknowable other looking on except of course I do know what I’m looking at, but I see what I thought I knew in a different way. The person or body that was mine seems now as strange as any I have seen before. Not the reflection in the mirror which at best is a poor representation. When we view a moving image of ourselves, again it is just an image, edited by the camera and operator to show what they want represented and once again seen through our own personal filters. Whatever has taken over my body cannot control it in the same way I would have, for how could it when it’s building a new relationship with it. Like trying use an Apple when all you have ever used is a pc, something’s seem the same but work in different subtle ways.   Yes some sub systems do work by themselves, for instance when was the last time you had to remember to breathe? But others do not. I talk in riddles just to keep what I have become sane.

I see the door open and can image what that blast of cold air feels against the body. Look at it shiver in the icy draft. Steal my body will you? Ha now suffer the experience of what it feels like when someone doesn't consider what you feel. The pain clearly shows on its face, but to its credit it is holding the pose well. I wonder if within its limited range of experience it is unaware of how painful the pose really is.  Or maybe it cannot fully understand what the signals mean. A little like an android user trying to use an i phone.

Now I can see clearly the person who entered the room, the lady is about mid-twenties, blond hair and casual clothes, smart but still not one of the herd.  She looks a little flustered as she asks Issy where to go. I see her looking it, with its exposed naked maleness on display.   The model’s right arm raised towards the head and the left arm twisting round the back down towards the bum. The torso twisted to the left and back a shade, left leg supporting the pose with the right stretched out a little in front. Pure agony to hold, but it means that the penis and balls are really exposed. The last time I held that pose I really did feel very vulnerable.  Funny how some poses seem so much exposed than others and that is one of the most exposed for me. That pose is the one that confronts my inner self and the relationship that I have with my body.  

The lady blushes a little just for a second or so I see the heat rise in her cheeks as its maleness is clearly in her line of sight. I know that this is a life drawing class but I’ve often wondered about other aspects of it. Here for the first time, I can watch those moments unnoticed, those milliseconds before the rational brain takes over and regains control. The lady now settles herself as she gets ready to start with the next pose with only the barest hint of redness in her cheeks giving away her initial response.

Turning to look at it and the pain it is suffering is clear. Issy must really be on one today and I almost feel sorry for the poor bugger, almost but not quite. Finally, Issy lets it relax, for a moment it seems out of place, not sure what to do. It looks my way and as it does a slight smile flickers across its face.

Anger washes through me or if I still had a body it would. At this moment it is just a metaphor as I try to shout against universe with no voice. The rage internalized to a point where I’m sure the paper that I’m trapped within should catch fire. Channeling all my rage I focus on it as it takes a step backward, looking shocked. A sense of glee rushes through me for somehow I reached out and touched re-established control or at least contact with what was once mine.

This has taken all my energy, I feel exhausted but elated at the same time. Only now can I take a step backward… Bloody language! The lady who came in is watching the exchange between it and I, she turns her head between my doppelganger and the image that has trapped my essence. Coming closer until all I can see is a pair of light blue eyes with flashes of green, I’m locked in the gaze of those penetrating eyes. If I still was in my body I would shy away from such an intense stare. Taking a deep metaphorical breath and pulling the last of my inner reserves together I try to stair back and make a connection to show that this image she is looking at is something more. She takes a step back and all I can is see the mass of blond curls framing those deep blue penetrating eyes with look of curiosity in them. I collapse back to an even deeper place to recover as she pulls away.  

My musing is shattered as like the scene from 2001 A Space Odyssey, the one in which the essence of the astronaut soul is thrust forward.  Only for it awaken in the strangely familiar setting of a fake hotel room. On a footnote, I was made to watch that film once but trust me it was two wasted hours of intense navel-gazing. How many moments have I lost thinking that there always would be another chance or another moment? Every wasted moment seems such a loss now.  But like the astronaut now I find my situation changed once again, can I see at all? I’m not so sure but I can sense that once again everything is different. I get the impression that I’m in a process of creation.  I think in many ways we all are as we reinvent ourselves to suit different situations. But this different, I sense the movements of another actively involved in this process.

 A mass of blond curls and a look of concentration on the lady's face is all I can see. It is as if I’m being reborn through her, created in the image that she wants. I little like our own creation myth with genesis. To watch another as they draw is such a secret pleasure. To be honest just to be in the presence of such beauty is joyful.  I wonder what she is drawing, what part of me does she see? In a single moment, it’s clear that something is wrong. I seem to tumble as I guess the easel is knocked over. Luckily I have landed face up and see the Issy and the lady rush towards a prone body, my body!  To my horror, the doppelganger has collapsed. Issy now checking for a pulse with two fingers pressed against its jugular. Others are on mobile phones, I guess ringing for an ambulance. But with artists, you can never be quite sure what they are doing. The lady is bent down talking with Issy but she turns with a look of panic at the image on the wall unaware that my refuge is a place of her creation. I look at what once my body now the life is fading fast leaving just an empty husk of what once was.

The artists mill about with some packing up their stuff whilst others stand and talk looking shocked. No one picks up the easel that I’m and in many ways I’m thankful.  I watch as the paramedics try to restart the now still heart of the empty husk.  Saying goodbye for in many ways it had served me well. Now like a sailor in a cast adrift, I cling to this single sheet in the turbulence of a chaotic universe.

The lady returns looking shocked, she starts packing away her stuff. Whilst unclipping the paper from the board she has a look of recognition.  Somehow she seems to sense that I have become part of her sketch. I see her mouth moving which I can only guess in what would quiet words if I could hear at all.

I guess the paper that I have become is placed somewhere safe amongst others to protect it. For long I have no idea as I become lost in a world of thought. Scared as I mourn the passing of my body and contemplate a future where I have no control of my destiny.  

 I’m woken from my inner thoughts as I get picked up and pinned up on a wall.  From which I can see the clouds passing over the grey water, white caps off in the distance with gulls playing in the wind.  A little closer in it is clear that this must be high up in the eaves of a house perched on some exposed cliff. This space must be the lady’s studio judging by the creative mess. I pray that the lady knows that part of me is trap inside her sketch.  Trying to reach out to find some way to her know but at least thankful to be able to see again. Alone but part of me is clinging on, part of which still would be recognizable as the person I once was.

The lady seems to try to include me in her life, she often turns and speaks showing me what she is working on. Most people get a cat but she has soul trapped inside a sketch. Over a period of time, I learn to lip read so I’m able to catch half-spoken words. From this, I learn that she is called Lyn and has inherited this house from an aunt, this room is her place of refuge from the madness of life.  She has a daughter who sometimes comes in and finger paints beside her mother, but I never see anyone else just these two gentle souls. 

Slowly the passing of time affects these two angels that have become my whole life. The daughter grows up and becomes a beautiful young woman in her own right. For me this is a time of pleasure, one in which I find an inner peace not own before.  One day I sense something is wrong, feeling a door slam deep within the bowels of the house. Lyn rushes in with floods of tears and from that moment on all is changed.  Now she doesn’t draw or paint but just sits looking out of the window at the passing clouds and sweeping waves. No longer does she turn and share a little of what is held inside. For the first time in many years, I miss my body. More than anything I wish I could reach out and tell her it will be ok, to comfort one I hold so dear. Soon she comes no more. All I can do now is watch the passing seasons through the dirty and cracked window whilst mourning yet another loss. Changing as the damp takes hold and slowly what little sense of whom or what I once was becomes lost in the gathering dust.