The life of a Super hero. Artist Andreas Englund says;
“I wanted to let people get to know the man behind the mask and tell his story uncensored. My superhero is far from perfect but that doesn’t mean he is isn’t good. He’s just human. Perfect people is just boring and predictable and who wants that?”
The Gossip Story . . . (or watch the video)
A woman was gossiping with a friend about a man she hardly knew. (I know none of you have done this). That night she had a dream….a great hand appeared over her and pointed down at her. She was immediately seized by an overshelming sense of guilt. The next day she went to confession with the old parish priest, Father O’Rourke. She told him the whole thing. “Is gossiping a sin?” She asked the old man. “Was that the hand of God all mighty pointing the finger at me? Should I be asking for your absolution Father? Tell me, have I done something wrong?” “Yes you ignorant, badly brought up female. You’ve borne false witness against your neighbour. You played fast and loose with his reputation and you should be ashamed.” The woman said she was sorry and asked for forgiveness. “Not so fast”, said O’Rourke. “I want you to go home. Take a pillow up on your roof. Cut it open with a knife. And return here to me.
So the woman went home. Took a pillow off her bed. A knife from the drawer. Went up the fire escape to the roof and stabbed the pillow. Then she went back to the old parish priest as instructed. “Did you cut the pillow with a knife?” He said. “Yes Father.” “And what was the result?” “Feathers.” “Feathers.” He repeated. “Feathers everywhere Father.” Now I want you to go back and gather up every last feather that flew out on the wind.” “Well,” she said. “It can’t be done. I don’t know where they went. The wind took them all over.” “And that …..”, said Father O’Rourke, “….is gossip.”
Good Feathers …
(Reposted from 2012)
Everything is Waiting for You . (By David Whyte)
Your great mistake is to act the drama as is you were alone. As if life were a progressive and cunning crime with no witness to the tiny hidden transgressions. To feel abandoned is to deny the intimacy of your surroundings. Surely, even you, at times, have felt the grand array; the swelling presence, and the chorus, crowding out your solo voice. You must note the way the soap dish enables you, or the window latch grants you freedom. Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity. The stairs are your mentor of things to come, the doors have always been there to frighten you and invite you, and the tiny speaker in the phone is your dream-ladder to divinity.
Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation. The kettle is singing even as it pours you a drink, the cooking pots have left their arrogant aloofness and seen the good in you at last. All the birds and creatures of the world are unutterably themselves. Everything is waiting for you.
Picture from Dumbo Feather, David featured before, ‘A Different Way To Tread’.
The Red Tick .
Red ink drips from slaying words of mine. So I play with pictures. Pour things into heads half full. Make nurseries not rhyme. Flip all that makes me go flop.
She’d been told off so many times for making mistakes that she no longer believed she could ever do anything right. Over and over again people pointed out how messy her writing was, how ‘bad’ her spelling was, how unsatisfactory her story was. And so the ink, like her desire to learn – dried up. And it didn’t end there. She’d also been told there was something wrong with her, so she gave up wanting to know what was right anymore. And when she was curious, she was told to put her hand down or not to ask questions like that. After a while she stopped questioning her world and lost confidence in ever asking anything of herself. But experience has taught her that if she keeps her hand up, it will save her from the lies. And she’s also come to understand that it’s not the writing that’s important anyway – it’s the story. A story she feels no need to defend, she simply needs to tell it for her own good … and to write the wrong.
Footnote: She flunked English at school – but it didn’t stop her writing. Didn’t get the commas or the full stops in the correct spot – but it didn’t stop her telling her story. She was made to write the same thing over and over again – but it didn’t mean what she had to say didn’t matter. She was told she was wrong – but she kept asking: “What’s right?”
(Reposted from 2009. Originally in ‘Rock The Boat’ handmade book. Now in Clunk & Jam, 2019)
How Does Your Garden Grow .
This little soldier discovered that even though the world seemed way too BIG for her – she could create a little room for herself. And because it was just the right size, she could carry it with her so she could go all the way home wherever she went. And because it fitted her so snugly, she had to choose very carefully who she opened up to. And if they didn’t look after her things, they’d been shown nothing more than the door .
Footnote: A snail and turtle have the ability to tuck back into their shell to protect themselves – escape. There are times when we wish we could just disappear – escape too. Without a shell there are many other ways we can to this and so it’s good to make up your own ‘escape’ list. And what if when we ‘escape’ we escape into things that help us feel good about ourselves. Maybe call that list a, ‘How Does Your Garden Grow?’ list perhaps? What do you need to do to look after myself – which is not the same as selfishness by the way.
(Reposted from 2009. Original in ‘Rock The Boat’ handmade book. Now in ‘Clunk & Jam, 2019 book)
“My self destructive side, had grown a mile wide.”
Documentary on Amy Winehouse. The heart sinks watching this brilliant, sure footed, upright, gutsy young women disintegrate. One question seem clear—where were all the good men? Where were all the ‘good men’ within her management who said ‘No’ to her exploitation. ‘No’ to the fans who wanted more when she had all but a thread of Amy left. Said ‘No’ to the touring she was physically and mentally unfit to do. Where were the good men in her band and in the audience who said ‘No, this is not right’ and saved her from the humiliation of being lobbed on stage only to crumble, unable to perform before adoring fans who perhaps also should have said ‘No’. Where were the good men among the paparazzi who said, ‘No. We can’t continue to hunt her down like a pack of wild animals.’ Where were the good men (and women) who refused to buy the magazines that kept the paparazzi feeding on her. May we learn from this to question and challenge popular culture and our part in it. If only she could have been given the space, time and encouragement by those around her to find peace in life – and mend from all that fuelled her self destructive side.
