Comment on Young Love.

It was late afternoon last week when sitting out side writing in my journal at an attempt to describe those people and objects around me.

The afternoon had been very hot and a cool change, a soft wind, soon made the area more comfortable.

It seemed I had been writing a long time, looking at the sky turn crimson, when I noticed two young people half laying on the grass and gazing into each other's eyes.

There is no doubt that I was observing "young love", reminding me of a sentimental scene from some forty's film.

As a writing exercise, I tried to describe both their emotions and body language.

Then, I suspect, the boy must have said something to the beautiful young woman for she suddenly stood up, turned in a huff, and walked in the opposite direction. The young man called out to her but she ignored his pathetic apologies and left through the door.

The poor boy looked devastated, running after her like a puppy with a broken heart.

Oh, the games we play in love!

What I found interesting was how sudden their mood changed from a love scene to a "lover's spat."

Sometime I miss the intensity and almost unendurable passion of young love. Then only a few seconds pass and I remember the pain and loss that young love brings as well. Is it worth the pain? At times I think "no", and other times remember the passion and overwhelming pleasure of it all to then ask myself if it was even worth the trouble.

"It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." as the saying goes.

Looking back, for me at least, it was worth the trouble, because thankfully, the heart is a resilient muscle.

Nostalgic & Brilliantly Written. "Speak Memory" - Vladimir Nabokov - A Review

It is known that the great author worked on this project for many years, collecting photographs, letters, scraps of unfinished poetry, searching his past in order to write a close to accurate account of his early life. In fact this autobiography is atypical, similar to a wandering mind, grasping at images, sights and smells, recollections, reminisces, rather than a chronological,'factual' version of a life lived.

The opening sentence of Speak, Memory, to my mind, is probably one of the most moving and haunting recollections in an autobiography ever read:

"The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness."

The narrator continues on to describe a young chronophobiac who experienced panic when he viewed an old home movie, seeing his mother wave from an upstairs window and below, a brand-new baby carriage standing alone, realizing that the carriage was his own days before his actual birth. This disturbed him as the feeling of peering at a world days before he came into existence, sort of a reverse course of events, was akin to staring directly into eternity.

Nabokov's childhood and adolescence was an enchanting one, part of an aristocratic family, a beautiful mother and a liberal-minded father who had a vast library, where little Vladimir would arrive home to find him practicing his fencing, the clanging of blades, with a colleague. This was a civilized existence in St. Petersburg before the onslaught of the Russian Revolution. Similar to most aristocratic families at the time, the Bolsheviks seized the family fortune, forcing the family to flee their beloved Russia to Germany. But when Nabokov looks back at this tumultuous period, he says,

"My old (since 1917) quarrel with the Soviet Dictatorship is wholly unrelated to any question of property. The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes."

The book is strewn with old black and white photographs of Nabokov's family. There is one particular photograph of his father and mother taken circa 1900 at their estate at Vrya, which really depicts the aristocratic demeanour and pure strength of the author's father. In the background are the birches and firs of the countryside where Nabokov discovered his life-long passion with butterfly collecting.

Even if the reader is not familiar with the great novels of Nabokov: Lolita, Pale Fire, The Eye and many others, will certainly enjoy this unique and brilliantly written autobiography by one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century.

Forgetting One's life.

To live a full life, a life of goodness and kindness, faith in God and driven to spread the Good News, is a CALLING.

As child, I dream of becoming a Monk, giving myself to God and God only.

As I developed into puberty and later, adolescence, my sex-drive clouded any dreams of becoming a priest.

Sex was a sin unless you were married; I committed this sin, too many times.

As an adult, somewhat an old man now, my views have changed.

Young Love is the closest to God one can ever experience.

What makes me happy is the JOY in some one's eyes; two people in-love, holding hands and that indescribable energy that emanates around them.

I think, " Love is Real and very close to God."

The light is pure and also so bright...

I grew up to believe that there are GOOD men on this planet. Women and men who go out of their way to help someone in need.

This belief makes my life worth living.

We live on a very strange planet, however.

Why would a man devoted to his family and a minister of a church, who only preached the value of kindness, develop a devastating disease that makes one lose their memory? This disease aggressively pushes the memory of your life OUT, to the extent of forgetting your family, one's son, one's wife, who YOU are...

For the last week, my mind was constantly on my ex-brother-in law's father, a Minister of a church. He had been diagnosed with this particular disease four years ago; a quiet conversation between his son and I some years ago , he said, "I'll know it will only get worse and everyday I pray for the guts to deal with him."

I tried to contact the Uncle of my son, to no avail.

My mother found the Minster's number and I made the call.

I was, of course, a little angst but made the call any way.

Surprisingly, He answered the call.

The man is Scottish, thus, because of his accent, I knew I was talking to the right man.

"My name is Craig, your old grandchild's' uncle!

"Who?"

"Remember I came to your church one time and listened to your sermon about love and kindness."

Silence.

In his thick Scottish accent, he said, "No, I do not remember you."

"I know it is you. You have a son named, Paul."

Silence- at least 15 seconds...

"No, I do not have a son named, Paul."

The poor man's mind was gone.

"I'm sorry I bothered you, sir."

"That's okay", he said,

"It's nice to hear a friendly voice."

Then he hung-up the phone.

I have to admit it, I'm a wimp, and cried after the phone call.

To have lived a life devoted to helping others' to strive to become good people, to then have one's memory taken away is... cruel.

Life is a beautiful and cruel mystery, yet somehow in the deepest recesses of My memory, we are MEANT to FORGET.

Comment: We have had Enough.

I have been listening, watching and separating the false from the true. One can see a lying politician at a dead run. To be fair, most of these people lie in order to get ahead. All politicians lie. Obama lied. Bush lied. Clinton lied. Bush 1 lied... All really, to move us to War. Why? Good question.

Presidents' of the US are never in control of foreign policy, when it comes to expansion. That is, the CIA has been in control since 1947. These are the powerful warmongers, the one's who make the decisions, no matter how many lives are lost. Try not to blame Trump. The poor man is a patsy. All set up to please his own ego. Why do Trump's base follow him like Lemmings to the slaughter?

The American people, and really, most of the western world, have had enough. During his 2016 campaign, Trump connected to this major population, and fed into their worries and disappointments. A chasm between rich and poor has widened. The way of the US, that is, neo-liberalism, has separated the poor and the rich, that has only been seen as a tragedy, that was last seen in ancient Rome.

The chasm between rich and poor is beyond comprehension. The stats you may have heard, the 1% own 60% of the wealth, is absolutely correct. America's middle class is disappearing, not due to Trump, but an economic and political view that favors the rich. (See GOP tax bill, 2017)

Trump supports these actions. He favors the rich. He promised his friends that he would pass this tax bill....and he did. Trump is not for the working person, but for the rich. You should know this.

Trump, along with his rich and racist cronies, has turned our attention from economic issues to cultural ones. Why is this "caravan of refugees" become such an issue? In normal times, the Border Patrol would take care of the situation, defining the true refugees from the false. Though Trump has made it a National Issue, like we are actually being Invaded. This is so far from the truth.

Trump is an opportunist-liar.

My point: most politicians are bought, sold and later, put in the garbage as they deserve.

I believe Americans' should vote Democrat, to save us from the retards that surround us.

Including Herr Trump.

CM

"MONSTER" (A short story) - Happy Halloween.

It was the 17th century poet, author of “Paradise Lost” and “Paradise Regained”, John Milton, who wrote,

“Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep”.
Is it possible that beings walk the earth that are never seen except for the select few of the chosen?

Do mythical creatures walk the earth without us noticing…until they want to be noticed or have a specific agenda with you?

It is an old American Indian proverb that the natural creature’s of this planet can only be “seen” by us if they choose to be seen.

Quantum theory proposes that we merely exist in one universe while billions of other universes exist in our very own space, (multi-universe theory) thus collisions or lapses, causing strange phenomenon to manifest. Worm-holes appear, strange entrances can exist merging two diverse universes which some have reported to have experienced the extraordinary: other civilizations, more advanced than our own…even “monsters”

Have you ever walked out into the dead of night, doing a mundane task like taking out the garbage, the wind rustling the trees, a full moon casting its light, and you absolutely feel that something or someone is watching you?

The fright or terror is real as you run back to the door and close it and lock it just in case. You did not see anything, but your intuition tells you that there was something or someone watching, waiting, and biding its time for the right moment. You want to believe it is simply your imagination, but know deep in your psyche, that someone or something was there…


A past colleague of mine related an experience to me that was astonishing, that later was corroborated by her brother, whom I met at an Orange County restaurant, a reputable lawyer and rational man; upon questioning him about this specific incident, he became suddenly reticent over a glass of expensive scotch but re-told the story in the exact way, word for word, as his sister. He waved down the waiter and ordered a double and once the drink arrived, began his story.


“Patricia and I were living in Hawaii, our parents off somewhere in Europe (as usual) on vacation. I was attending Law School and my sister was taking care of the family home and our two cats. She was home alone most of the time but this didn’t worry me because criminal activity (minor or major) never happened on the island at the time…we were too far away from the nearest town. It was the late sixties, we thought we were safe.

My last class was cancelled, jumping in my Jeep, decided to check up on my little sister.

Pulling up the driveway, I heard my sister screaming as she ran out of the jungle that essentially surrounds our entire house. She was headed towards the front door when she tripped and fell on her knees. Patricia’s expression was nothing less than pure horror. As she tried to lift herself up, out from the bush appeared this creature. Looking back at the incident, even now, throws me into a slight confused state because beings like the one that had been chasing my sister through the forest, just do not exist”.

What did it look like? I asked.

“Let me tell the story!”

John was now agitated, obviously re-living the moment, going to a place he’d rather not go. He took a huge swig of his expensive scotch and continued.

“To say the least I was petrified and so much so, couldn’t bring myself to jump out of my Jeep to help – not even my only sister.

Patricia managed to get back on her feet and run to the front door, slamming the screen door shut. This “thing” crashed through the screen door and was now inside the house.

From inside our house, Patricia’s almost deafening scream sounded now like a desperate, final call for help.

Of course my natural instincts rose above my petty fear and I ran into the house to see this creature on top of my sister digging its claws into her forehead.

I’ll never forget the look on Patricia’s face. It wasn’t the expression of pain but kind of an hypnotic empty gaze of pleasure.

Grabbing one of the dining room chairs, I slammed it hard against the creatures back and it winced from the pain, removing its claws from my sister head.

But now it turned its gaze on me.

How do you describe something that has no comparison to anything you’ve seen before? The only “human” quality about this being was its eyes: red, pulsating with intent: I could not look at those eyes, (a voice in my head resounded) thus turning away from its gaze, and I picked up another chair and started swinging. One of the chair’s legs slammed into its left eye. It let out a tone of voice that I, to this day, cannot really accurately describe…a whelp?

But this is the strange part of the experience. I could hear its voice inside my head!

“Tell your sibling not to cross over again, because there will be consequences.”

The “thing” bounced through the broken screen door like a mutant grasshopper and disappeared into the jungle.

Turning to my sister, she continued to have that gaze of blankness and pleasure like the insane.

After a week Patricia seemed to have recovered from the incident, but we never really talked about it until many years later”.

The table had that uncomfortable silence as it seemed all of us were reflecting on what had just been said. Then John asked:

“You appear to be an open minded individual, what do you think of the “story”?”

In my own mind and experience, I tried to come up with some totally rational explanation: a crazy ape, perhaps a homeless person with red eyes from too much cheap wine, however, sometimes “explanations” for the irrational are more far fetched than the unexplainable.

Interestingly, those vague dots on Patty’s forehead that most of the time she tried to cover with make-up, now were blatantly obvious.

So I ordered another scotch and said it was a peculiar experience, and thanked him for telling me.

Our conversations throughout the rest of the evening touched only the commonplace and superficial – politics, sports and the L.A. Freeway system.

Pulling up in my driveway to my little Hollywood bungalow, getting out of the car, the Santa Ana winds had begun, heralding the summer months. There was a full moon, but I distinctly felt someone’s eyes upon me. Turning quickly to my right as I slotted my key into the lock, two, bright red eyes glared through the bushes next door.

A foreign voice resounded in my head as I closed the front door and threw my keys on the table:

“Stop now or there will be consequences.”

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep that night.

Rembrandt: too much too soon?

It is always a pleasure to visit the Victorian National Art Museum. We stayed there for three hours with the intent of only viewing the 16th century Flemish masters. What is the cliche, all good intentions are paved to Hell? We continued from the 16th century to the 20th century and by that time, my body and mind was about to fall into a heap due to exhaustion.

'I can't see anymore or I'll shut down!"

'My goodness, C, you look so pale, come on, let's go outside.'

Sitting outside with a much needed cup of coffee, next to the man-made water feature, the city air, water and crowd of visiting tourists, after a few minutes, all felt to be back to normal.

'We were in there too long, too much in too short of time.' I said.

'I think I understand what you're saying...' she replied.

'S, we should have remained in the 16th century, but we got greedy and wanted more, and there is a price for greed!"

'I knew I should have stopped with Rembrandt, all his wonderful sketches and those haunting self portraits. Really, when we come back again, we'll stay with the Flemish 16th century and Rembrandt."

She nodded her head, taking a sip of coffee, 'You're right, we didn't rush, but tried to take it all in moving at a pace impossible to do so."

My point is that one does not experience the same 'feelings' when moving through a print shop or surfing on the net, looking at representations of works of Art.

There's an energy that flows from the work that requires a response.

Rembrandt was a prolific collector of all 'things' unusual, from strange rocks to silly drawings from far away places. He would sketch these curiosities and incorporate them into his major projects. The NGV has a collection of these sketches and they're incredible.

When my friend literally carried me out of the gallery from too much engagement, I noticed a group of Asian tourists gathered around a small Picasso - a truly ugly painting - the flashes from their cameras blinking at the speed of light. Is it the beauty of the painting they were so enthusiastic about or the fact that it was an original Picasso? I truly believe it is the artist not the work that inspired so many photographs.

Depicted above is one of my favourite paintings by Rembrandt, "The Head of Christ." (?)

The expression in the eyes tells it all...

As written before in this BLOG, art is about technique, and its undefinable energy that cannot be experienced, except by the original viewer. Art is a visceral experience and one's response to the work.

When at that precise moment in time, one can actually feel the artist's intent and Beauty...that, to my mind, is truly the purpose of Art.

Musings on Sleeplessness, Climate & Evolution.

It is late and sleep is impossible as the heat and humidity hangs and permeates everything…there seems to be no escape, so I sit in front of the computer and write.

Weather affects one’s mood and our general view of the world.

When civilization began, depending on one’s certain geographical location, does indeed truly determine a particular cultures development, because heat and cold play a big part on how we deal with and view the world.

The Aboriginal of Australia, for example, lived in dry desert conditions. To merely survive was at the top of the priority list, thus their knowledge of the terrain, how to attain food and their views of existence. All their time was taken up with the search for food and shade from the heat. Because of the heat and barrenness of the landscape, there was no need to change…just survival, and the “Dream Time”.

Civilization truly reached its peak in the ancient world around the fertile land surrounding the Mediterranean Sea, and along the Nile River. However it can get very hot during the summer months around Cairo. In the spring and autumn, the Nile flows over ensuring crops survive and thrive.

I guess what I’m getting at is that I miss the four distinctive seasons living in Melbourne Australia. Please don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved Melbourne’s erratic weather – four seasons in one day is not just the words to a popular song but actually true.

It was the Explorer and adventurer Sir Francis Richard Burton who, in an article he had written, attempted to persuade his reader’s that climate determines a particular races development. At the time of the writing, Darwin had crept into “scientific” circles, thus the hierarchy of man – White Anglo-Saxon at the top, (women because of their smaller brains) somewhere around third and down it goes from there, depicting other cultures as “savages”, “Non-Human”, (see Darwin’s book, The Descent of Man) thus justifying the genocide of the Australian Aboriginals, the American Indian and other inferior races like Jews, using Darwin’s theory as fact and justification for mass murder.

Appalling.


Sir Richard was truly onto something but did not have the opportunity to delve deeper into his hypothesis, flesh out his ideas. (Too busy translating (The Perfumed Garden).


In the Northern Hemisphere there is a plethora of natural resources thus the particular “races” development, adapting to the climate, (four seasons) and therefore having the time to pursue better technology, better infrastructure, etc.

When the human has no worry of where their next meal is coming from, there is time for innovation, art and the development of civilization.

I am extremely surprised that so many “educated” people consider Darwin’s entire theory scientific fact. In a word it is not, and remains a theory because he and other scientists have yet to discover the so-called “missing link”: that is to say, the link between, Neanderthal man (Ape) and Cro-Magnon.

Personally, hot, humid weather does nothing for my creative sensibilities because it’s too damn uncomfortable.

As far as other cultures and races are concerned, the “survival of the fittest” theory does not add up because the human is a highly adaptable being and will use resources that are available in their specific geographical area for survival, (the climate of the area is a significant factor).

Darwin was an intellectual but a 19th century misogynist, which, by the way was, is and has been a common view of men for thousands of years.

On that note, I’ll return to bed contemplating where my next meal is coming from….