"The scene looked like something out of a fairy tale, unnatural granted, but there was also a sense of beauty as it reflected off the sea, and rebounded back at the clouds. A haze shimmered over the water giving it a feeling of tranquillity, and of well-being as a number of rainbows crossed from one end of the shimmer to the other.
...the spectacle plying its beauty over the sea - the harbour front, the seats, the sea, the stage. The rainbows, the brightly coloured costumes, the shimmering movement above the water, the players acting their many parts with pageantry, poise, and grace as they danced to nature's tune." page 267/268, from "The Tour" by Roy Tomkinson
There are three videos to watch with this blog, but before listening to them read the complete article first including the story of "The Happpy Prince"
Oscar Wilde – Victorians labelled him a decedent amoral, a dandy of the worse kind, a homosexual pervert – a corrupter of Victoria values, when it was seen as rather daring for “gentle folk” to leave the legs of a table uncovered. Condemned by the Vatican, to which he turned in his darkest hours, he converted to Catholicism two days before his death in a Paris hotel bed in 1900, aged 46, after serving two years in a prison, which he served in Reading jail for acts of gross indecency. He was a blatant homosexual, had numerous affairs with men, despite being married with two children, but upon his release, he left the shores of Britain and he never returned to what was to him a country filled with degenerate duplicity. Wilde was no angel, flamboyant, full of his own importance, a satirist, smoked, drank, had all the vices of a modern day immoralist, and well capable of corrupting the innocent, (so are most of us) a true bombast of his generation, who says:
I can resist anything but temptation.” He had truly been one of the great personalities of the 19th century, who scrutinized and evaluated what he saw, and catalogued the fractures and optimism of Victorian Society. Its straight laced attitude to sex: there were more brothels around then than there are now, and the endemic exploitation of children, through his numerous witticisms. Warts and all, it came out in his writing, he poked fun at the aristocracy, the philanthropist, who had never known what it was like to go without a meal, and society’s absurdly double standard when it came to class and convention in high society.
In a shell, he attacked poverty and unfairness in society, and satirised the people who perpetuated inequality, and questioned the sincerity of the Seraphical hierarchy, to own and keep society’s resources, a cardinal sin in Victorian Society where industrial Capitalism reigned supreme. An example in point are the three quotes below:
“A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.” “Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” “Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.”
You might think from what I write, I disapprove of his personality, far from it, he is one of my heroes, a writer of genius, far in advance of his time, who removed the distorted glass by which the Victorians interpreted the world, and showed the hypocrisy by which they lived. Of course, they, the establishment, couldn’t allow that to go unchallenged, and for his view of life, he paid the price, and died a broken man, but his writing lives. A complex character: that I will admit, but not in the least shallow, as some have labelled him. He used his writing for a purpose, his journey was one of discovery – his own – his quest for God - the universe - the way life itself should be lived, the injustice of wealth – mass poverty. His personality is there in his writing for everyone to read. Wilde was always → looking → looking → looking → and only found what he sought upon his deathbed, and for that, I am sad for him to have found it so late in his life. He believed:
"The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly - that is what each of us is here for.”
That meant to not hide your sexuality – to be honest, clear and clean with yourself, and towards others, he was for living, (In that Wilde sparkled) - homosexuality, heterosexuality, lesbianism, black, white, skin, straight eyes, slanted eyes, it mattered little to Wilde, and thank goodness society has somewhat caught up with his way of thinking, but it still has a long way to go. So what was he looking for? In the “L’Osservatore Romano,” the mouthpiece of Pope Benedict XVI, Wilde is described as a man who was, “looking for the beautiful and the good... for God.” And believed there was little value in money, other than for use in the relief of poverty. If it wasn’t shared around, to Wilde, it was money wasted. No man, not matter how wealthy, was, “rich enough to buy back his past." He lived in the moment, for the moment, a man in the immediate, but he learned from yesterday, and planned for tomorrow. Through his writing, he showed the way he wished society to go, as I said, a man advanced for his time. The values he held upon his journey throughout life: I will sum up in one of his short stories, the story says it all – far, far better than I could ever describe his personality. The values, beliefs, quest for fairness, greed, hypocrisy, which he saw systemic in Victorian Society, he pushes forward into your face, and he places you up there on the pedestal with the “Happy Prince” and forces you to look down at the world as it actually is, and not through a distorted mirror of unreality. In life, the Happy Prince was a Machiavellian, "When I was alive... I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter... I played... danced... but I never cared to ask what lay behond it, everything to me was so beautiful... So I lived and so I died."
Wilde takes us behond the Palace walls, into the street and down into the drains of humanity to let the water from above flow over us. Death turned The Happy Prince into a saint: please, read and listen to the words - more than once if need be, they really do have music in them:
“Swallow, Swallow, little swallow... will you not stay with me for one night... ? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."
As “L’Osservatore Romano” further stated: “Oscar Wilde was a man constantly looking for a God that he never challenged, a God he respected, and whom he fully embraced after his dramatic experience of jail.” I believe he found his NIRVANA – alone, when on his death bed – a poignant reminder of what awaits us all, wealthy and poor alike, but he did find it – and that is the important crux of this article. And now, it seems the Catholic Church has finally forgiven him, and praises his contribution to society, and for me, it’s not before time. Please, take the time to read this short story, and to watch the three videos below the words, the reward will far out way the time taken, and the meaning, pull it into your heart for it is wonderful. It is less than 3,500 words. Every word shines a sunbeam into the personality of the person, who was Oscar Wilde.
The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not. "Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything." "I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. "He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. "How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one." "Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming. One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her. "Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. "It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away. After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady- love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also." "Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. "You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away. All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations." Then he saw the statue on the tall column. "I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince. "I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness." Then another drop fell. "What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away. But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see? The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity. "Who are you?" he said. "I am the Happy Prince." "Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me." "When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans- Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep." "What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud. "Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of- honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move." "I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus- flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad." "I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect." But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger." "Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince. So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town. He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!" "I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy." He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber. Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold." "That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy. When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand. "To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much. When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint." "I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?" "Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play." "Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets. "I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy. The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried. "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?" "It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea." "In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her." "I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then." "Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you." So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing. Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always." "No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt." "I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet. All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies. "Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there." So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain. Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen. "I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy." Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried. Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice. The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings. But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?" "I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you." "It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?" And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet. At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said. "How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it. "The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is litttle beter than a beggar!" "Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors. "And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion. So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University. Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself." "Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still. "What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying. "Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. "You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."
WHAT A WONDERFUL, MOVING STORY: NOW, LISTEN TO THE VIDEOS, AND PLEASE, GO PAST THE ANIMATION AND DRILL DOWN PAST THE IMAGERY AND HOOK INTO THE HEART OF THE MESSAGE - IT REALLY IS WONDERFUL JOY!
I trust that you enjoyed the story of "The Happy Prince" and the three videos, but it is the moral I wish you to hold inside your mind, so please, let me have your comments. Oscar Wilde, indeed, was a remarkable man, and thank you for visiting my blog.
My motto: If you can't have a good day, please, stay away from a bad one.
Sudan: Regime flogs women if they wear THE trousers
Whimpish men who enjoy beating women
The police in Sudan, in the Capital, Khartoum, arrested 13 women when they raided a Cafe because they were wearing trousers - I say it again –trousers. Ten of which, after a quick trial, were fined 250 Sudanese pounds (£74), and then publicly (why waste time on evidence) flogged. The crime, you have it, for wearing trousers in violation of the country’s strict Islamic Law. What a load of rubbish. Sharia Law, I believe in religious freedom, but what a shower of s*** these people are, to take innocent women, who were minding their own business having a quiet coffee, and inflict pain and criminalise them for having the audacity to wear trousers. Are they afraid the women will grow balls and challenge them! Trials happen fast in Sudan: summary punishments are handed out like confetti. Flogging is common, more common in fact that the corruption in that country, and that is systemic. Most women suffer the humiliation and torture in silence – and think it’s just part of being a women, their standing is considerably below that of a beast of burden. Cor! It pi**** me off, and makes my blood boil. I speak here as a red blooded heterosexual male, who like to get his own way, but this...
Khartoum traditional dress for a woman is a shawl over the head and shoulders, body covered. How dare this regime treat women that way! It wouldn't suprise me if half the men had steel chastity belts hanging from the walls as a warning to their wives in case they decided to flirt. Young people are disciplined for mingling in public, alcohol is banned: from what I can see, everything is banned. I’m thinking of sending over a few stone tools to the leaders at least to bring them into the stone age, iron and bronze? Well, a step too far. As for the Dark Ages, they positively glow with intellectuality when it comes to this regime. The ruling party in Sudan came to power in 1989 in a military coup, and implemented a strict Sharia Law Code, the ruling party’s interpretation of course, which helps to suppress the population, and to strengthen the regime's tenuous hold on power – clever that, don’t you think! Three of the women insisted on a trial, one, Ms Hussein, even printed invitations to the Western Press and to Public Figures to attend her trial – good on you is what I say, if it wasn't serious it would be laughable. She said: “Let the people see for themselves, It is not only my issue. This is retribution to thousands of girls who are facing flogging for the last 20 years because of wearing trousers. They prefer to remain silent.”
Well, the civilised Western World will not remain silent, and we are with you Ms Hussain and wish you well against these despots. Or should I say whimpish men in trousers who enjoy beating women.
I like to share with you a funny story, and believe me, it’ll stretch your imagination, but it's true, and I promise to not exaggerate. I’m a little wiser now mind you than I was then – so no judging if you please. A few years ago ten of us, all male, from an organisation I was a member of at that time (Round Table), were invited to Douglas, Isle of Man; it sounded great, and it coincided with the motorbike racing. So we were all well excited. We were to be hosted by a member from the same organisation, who lived and worked on the Island. A few of us took our cars and we crossed the short journey to the Island by ferry. The accommodation was first class. The food outstanding. We were well looked after, and entertained to the highest of standards. One of our hosts worked, (general manager) in the main Casino, and he invited us along for the evening intending to give us the the Casino's VIP treatment. When we entered the Casino we were handed gold badges to wear. We had the freedom of the place. This was getting better and better. Next to the Casino, a part of the same complex, was a nightclub, so it was there we all ventured. Threw some money into a kitty and the evening started. One ten pound, another ten pound, yet a third ten pounds, and yet, drinks were only around £2 each. I turned to the person next to me and said. “We’ve been here just over an hour, I’ve had three drinks," the last was still almost full in front of me.
"I've placed £30 in the kitty within the last hour. Doesn’t seem right to me.” I grouched to the person sitting opposite me, the one who had charge of the kitty. “No problem, I’m kitty host, stop the moaning, you can afford it.” He replied. “We’re on holiday, I’m sharing a little happiness.” I did feel a little silly, but still... my inert nature couldn’t let the matter rest unchallenged. I didn’t mind a little happiness being shared, but not with my money.
“Where is the rest of the money?” Placing a forcefulness into my voice.
Then I heard three voices almost simultaneously. “Hi David! Hi David! Hi David! Instantly I knew. David had always been a bit of a girl charmer, and when he was at the bar bought drinks for his potential conquests, acts as lubrication to the good parts, he used to say. I insisted that he handed what we left of the kitty over to me. I received pence.
No more charming for David, or, if he wished to charm, he would have to lubricate from his own wallet and not from our kitty. I was determined. Out of sorts I drank my drink and we headed for the Casino where I ordered £10 worth of chips, thinking perhaps, I’d win at least the drinks' kitty back. I approached the Roulette Tables with trepidation, I was going to spend, to gamble, to win some money. My expectations were high. The minimum bet was £1, I watched the wheel spin a few times and was quite taken back by the money involved: around £500 per spin was bet at each table, and in total there were 18 tables. In I jumped, £1 chip on Red, the wheel spun: Black. Another £1 chip on Odd, the wheel spun: Even. I tried again. A £1 chip on number 20, the wheel spun: O I had had enough, collected the seven chips which I had left from off the table, and went straight to the cashier and asked her to change them back into seven pounds. “Sir,” she replied, her words sprinkled with sarcasm. “Are the aware, there’s only £7 in chips here.” “I know, and I’m aware,” I rejoined with equal sarcasm. “I’ve lost £3, now change them. I’m not losing any more money.” I took the £7 out of her hand, went, and sat in a corner away from the tables, by this time I was completely out of sorts. Two smartly dressed ladies walked past me, I smiled at them, and they came and sat next to me, one each side, and started to talk with me as if they’d known me for years. I think they were from Denmark or Sweden, not sure now, but do know they weren't from the UK. Things are not too bad after all I thought, as I noticed a few men look over to where I was sitting. I mentioned Wales, the rivers, mountains, miners, a lot about Welsh Culture. They had never been to Wales, which I thought a bit strange, being that the Isle of Man is only just off the North Wales Coast. I asked them what they did for a living. “This and that,” they replied. "We do OK, we like the Casino the best." A few of my party saw me talking with the two girls and decided to join the three of us and sat round, and joined into the conversation. I had no problem with that; conversation flowed, and the girls were charming, but it was me they seemed to defer to the most, which does give you a buzz, I must admit. One from my group stood. “Come on,” he said. Let's move on and go into the VIP lounge.” The others nodded agreement and stood, except the two girls.
“Come in with us," I innocently said. “No! We’re not allowed.” “No! No, come with us, I insist, we are guests of the general manager, I assure you, there'll be no problem. The drinks will be free, and there is food waiting for us there, and they have a number of private rooms for groups who wish to be together to play and talk,” I emphasised, trying to show my importance. “Still can’t, but we have a caravan a little way up the road. You can come back there with us if you like, and we can have a little party, bring one of your friends, or just yourself. We don't mind.” The weather was cold, it was dark outside. “A caravan, no way, this is much better.” “Where do you want it them?” “Want it! What do you mean want it? I don’t want anything inside a caravan.” One of the girls looked at me and smiled as if butter would have trouble melting inside her rounded mouth. “There’s a bus stop around the back of here. It’s really quiet, and there’s a seat against the wall,” she smiled provocatively at me. "I'll give you a good price." Price! The penny had finally dropped, or should I say, I jingled my £7 coins in my pocket, no way was I parting with them, even though they would have been only enough for a kiss, and a quick one at that. “What job did you say you do?” "You’re an asshole, and we’ve wasted enough time on you," one snapped at me, and they promptly marched off in a bad temper, their rounded smiles gone into hard faces, to try to find another sucker, this one wasn’t sticking. The boys who were with me roared with laughter, most said, they has realised, but it was easy to say that, and too this day, when a few of us get together, someone is guaranteed to mention the story of the bus stop, as it later became known, as I said: a bit on nonsence and strife in a Bus Stop.
Life is a funny thing – strange words you might think. And you might question. Funny as in - Ha! Ha! - or funny as in strange. Let me clarify, funny in a sad sense, I mean it to mean a contradiction in terminology. Our lives are filled with inconsistency; our emotions towards life are Jack in the Boxes, never static, always on the move, up and down, up and down, our lives are in constant motion, and each of us have numerous facets, many of which we hide even from ourselves, and yet, we are all very similar. We are filled with contrary emotions when it comes to love. For some, love is like a butterfly, flutter, flutter, flutter and it is gone, and we move on, but that is applicable mainly to the love of a man and women. With children it is somewhat different. That love represent more of the chrysalis - cocoon type of love, and parents very rarely leave that spot – love of our children is unconditional, giving of ourselves to our next generation, but could that be classed as hereditary? Are we programmed, and do it for survival of our own genes, and nature disguises it as love for our continued survival? I have questioned myself many times what love actually is, what are the ingredients that makes up the mix? You can’t eat, smell, hold it. Physical it is not, but an abstraction, a firing in the brain of wanting the object of that love to be near to you. A longing for that thing or person, which fills the mind with warmth, and to have the feeling reciprocated, makes it even better, the bonus, payback if you like. Though it is not essential to make love happen, it does make the emotion that much more deeper and more powerful. And yet, often, we just fritter it away by our own actions and feel sad when it flies away from us, and often we don’t know how to get it back, lost in a world of our own making. Is love a physical sexual feeling, a sense of belonging: to own and control that person? We can hold emotion towards a thing - an animal - inanimate objects. Your home, car, money, prestige, fame, recognition, adulation, have all been loved in some degree over the ages. From a surgical viewpoint, love is but a chemical reaction in the brain and little else, but for me that is a journey far to far, a too simplistic and naive view of life and love. A living thing – a person, an animal, is more than chemical. With a person, love can be as deep as a touching of two souls. For those of you who have ridden that horse, you’ll know to what I’m referring - I've been there, the ride can be bumpy but well worth the trip - it is one of the great wonders of life. Feelings and emotions are real, as real as beaches, mountains, trees, and far more beautiful. You wouldn’t give your life for a beach, a mountain or a tree, no matter how beautiful, but you would, and often give it with a glad heart for love, if it meant saving that person whom you love. We all have experienced these feelings, every one of us in some measure – more or less.
Therein, lies the difference – the rub - most people wouldn’t willingly give their life for an object, but would for a person whom they love, but here again, nothing is that straight forward. Millions throughout history have given their life for an ideal, the love of democracy is but one example. Some demonstrate only a love for money, - sad but true - and place it above all else, and yes, they would die in the getting of it. Everything pales into insignificance when it comes to money for these people, and quite a few, who have won and lost it, can’t live without it and commit suicide rather than face a future alone without the crutch of wealth to ease their pain. Can you start to see why I believe life is funny in a sad sense? Now I’ll get to the crux of the matter - the wonder -to share with you what love means to me. To answer that, I will quote from a far wiser person than myself: my father, and what it meant to him. But first, I need to set the scene. When I was young and in the garden with my father, with whom I spent a lot of time, he told me when he was young, that once he found a thrush’s nest with five little chicks inside. The parents had been killed, and my father removed the nest and chicks and placed them in a box. They belonged to him, he had given them life, at the least, he had certainly saved them from death, and so he reared them, and then he let them go, and of course they flew away. “Did you not love the birds daddy?” I asked. “Of course,” came his forceful reply. “Why let them go? They would be dead without you, they belong to you, owe you their life.” He smiled a little, I can see that smile even now, and he said. “You have overlooked one main point: they never belonged to me in the first place. They belong to the land and the countryside. I was only helping them on their way. It was their time to move on, just as your time will come to fly the nest and make your way in the world. To deny any one this right is to deny them their freedom.” “Did you ever see the birds again?” I asked. He was quite shocked at this question. “This is their garden; they were born here. This garden belongs to them; they are a part of the garden as much as that tree,” he said, pointing to one of the trees in the garden. “If they are still in the garden and you see them every day,” I said innocently, “they are not free, otherwise they would be gone.” He lit his pipe, thought for a minute and answered. “Freedom is about the ability to choose where you wish to be, to spend time to suit yourself. To be free, you must be there by your own free will.” I replied, “By letting the birds go free, you gave them different options, and they chose to stay, so the act of giving them freedom resulted in them staying. They were captives in their own garden, since that is where they wished to be.” My father smiled at this comment and looked round the garden in satisfaction. “You've got it,” he said. “If you wish to keep something close to you, give it the ability to fly away, but make the staying a lot better.” So for me love is about giving, unconditional giving, and like the birds in my father’s garden, it will boomerang back to you with ten-fold happiness. Have a good day, and remember, if you can’t have a good day, please, stay away from a bad one.
My father's words, and they come from my first published novel, "Of Boys, Men and Mountains," please, get a copy and read the story. It is a truely inspirational book, and I get copious comments almost everyday about the story from different people, from many walk of life, in this country and from America.
Looking from the outside into the life of Michael Jackson amid the frenzy and differing stories emerging, one can’t help but wonder what is true and what is fictional. He lead his life in the spotlight of publicity, had no choice, a boy star, from a family of performers. Controlled, if it is to be believe, by an autocratic father, who bullied, abused and groomed his children for stardom. But the most important thing in his life alluded him. I hope now in death, he is able to find it. He had prestige, accolade, untold wealth, houses, cars; anything he wanted be could buy, and buy he did, often unwisely, as if trying to buy his childhood back. And yet, again from hearsay, he had debts amounting to $500 million. A colossal sum for any company let alone for an individual, but perhaps he was that, an institution to be used and exploited. Was it all worth it? That is not for me to answer, but I suspect his children may not think it so; they are left without a father, now in the custody of their grandmother, but even here there is controversy. There is a saying in the Wild West, live by the bullet and you die by it. Michael Jackson lived in the media, and now in death nothing is hidden. He lead a bizarre life, his Never-Never-Land Ranch, the fair ground, his monkey Bubbles, his menagerie of animals. His predilection for being with children, and not least of all, his tormented personality; he was not happy inside his body. The operations on his face, his skin treatments, his reliance on tablets, adds up to... I’ll let you work that conclusion. The child abuse court case which cost him millions, and yet he couldn't help himself. He was on a roundabout, a cage on his merry go round, knew he was there, but didn’t know how to stop it turning to allow him time to get off. Did he abuse children? I think not; inside his heart he was a child, stardom had robbed him of his childhood, and for the rest of his life he tried to regain that feeling of being a child, playing, laughing, running, smiling. But of course, he failed, what is lost is gone, and you must move on, but Michael couldn't move forward, so he stayed where he was in his mind – a child, a lost child.
He reminded me of the parable of the lost sheep, balanced on a precipice clinging desperately in case it fell. The sheep found help, Michael was still looking but death found him first. I remember the furore of when he held his baby over the balcony, my heart jumped to see how reckless he could be with another life. It wasn’t intentional, I don’t think that for a moment, but he couldn’t see the danger, and still, I don’t think he felt he had done anything wrong. You often find that in people of genius, they have talent, and yet lack common sense, but this article will not be complete unless I separate the man from his music.
There, he was whole, the sounds pleased, his dance enchanted, his whole demeanour was of the showman, the entertainer, and because of that, something was lost in the translation back into ordinary everyday life, the mask dropped, the sad clown's face came through. He will go down as one of the greats of music. That is assured, like Elvis Presley, another tortured individual who died before his time. I said earlier that the most important thing in life alluded him, for all his wealth and fame, or perhaps because of it. I believe he never felt loved or valued for himself, and longed for that feeling of being cherished for what he was, and not for what he could give to others, and give he did of himself over generously. Would I have changed places with him when he lived? No, if it were offered, I would have run away and carried on running, but I hope now, Michael Jackson will find the peace he craved in life, and I wish his children and his family well. As yet, the drama is still centre stage, and far from its final conclusion. The curtain is up, the show must goes forward, and it will, in spectacular fashion, his place in history assured, rest in peace Michael Jackson, the peace which alluded you in life.
I am sitting in my study from where I do my writing and blogging, to my left is a large window looking out upon a mountainous forest, the view is delightful, inspirational even.
At the bottom of the mountain is the River Taff, which flows down to Cardiff, and empties into Cardiff Bay.
+25.02.2009.jpg)
RAINBOW OVER MULL, SCOTLAND
"The scene looked like something out of a fairy tale, unnatural granted, but there was also a sense of beauty as it reflected off the sea, and rebounded back at the clouds. A haze shimmered over the water giving it a feeling of tranquillity, and of well-being as a number of rainbows crossed from one end of the shimmer to the other.
