Herpetologist meets actress (Cameron Diaz).
If he's funny he's me.
South America or Africa (on location).
In a diamond mind.
The protagonists (lovers), the diamonds, the miners and the minders.
By minders we mean watchers, organizers, supervisors.
As all art must: choose a focus.
The personal is political said Cameron on the night bus to Quebec.
I had never met a girl so willing to make love in public.

To what extent is violence necessary? And
is that the essential question or
should violence be accepted as man's state, fate
a more essential question existing beyond or below
peace or war. Perhaps
the religious and (for the irreligious) sacred injunction
against egregious violence exists
to still ourselves
to open ourselves
to the deeper question. That Cameron Diaz is funny and beautiful
is hopeful. And the telescope and microscope have extended
the eye's appreciation. Under the microscope
Cameron becomes a collection of foreign, alien, uncompassionate,
      selfish, self-organizing
organisms. Frightening, inexorable, fascinating
to the scientist in you!

To the telescope
vanishingly small, infinitesimal as the farthest sun
only smaller
smaller by magnitudes of magnitudes of ten
and incinerated in a nanosecond. Gone
from the movie (photographs the contents of which move
for the naked eye).
I cannot help what I do or hope.

Anyway, it's a love story
or science project, socio-political documentary. An essay.
An essay about how it is actually impossible to say what you mean
but it is possible with a lifetime of meditation and study to shut up
and know what you meant.

Now I'm deaf.
I can see Cameron Diaz but not hear her.
The guy, the herpetologist, at first colorless turns out to be
colorful as a bird or snake!
He knows a lot about snakes, and birds! Not only how they mate
but what they eat
(amateur botanist)
where they rest
what they do with their pain. Do they get depressed?
Can they have guests?
How do they judiciously employ violence to organize and defend
the nest.

The international collective remains insufficiently organized
resulting in violence and threats of violence that interrupt
commerce, procreation (love) and the pursuit of happiness (Cameron
      Diaz)
at least for certain populations, sometimes.
Otherwise, most men, most times, live in peace excepting
flood or fire God or man may
choose to impose.
I lay in my bed and listen naked.
Have a good day (Diaz).
The goddess does not exist, except as bone.

Around this time (July)
the queen yellow jacket (redcoat) searches
blind and deaf
for a ledge or cavity to build a city of her descendants
safe, that they can defend.
Most cities
prosper, undisturbed
and sleeping peacefully, overwinter. We, however,
remain active, Cameron Diaz makes winter movies or
love stories in South America, and I
delight to imagine her herpetologist. Or one who
discovers the sun
around which a habitable, understandable, compatible
orb orbs. Or
maybe the movie's about the revolution, soldiers dying defending
this dictator or that dreamer
and the movie completely failing, not even trying, to explain how
the sons and daughters of the dying soldiers (miners) feel
fishing alone, hunting for wisdom, thereafter.
Sure, these men chose violence, not Cameron Diaz, and were not
farmers, botanists or herpetologists
their tools could have been and should have been the telescope or
      microscope
but are there enough microscopes and telescopes to go around
and did we not (taxpayers, moviegoers) encourage them to
defend Cameron Diaz?

Man's world is insufficiently organized to preclude violence
in allocating resources (Cameron Diaz).
When we invade Iraq
to defend our allies and interests
with rockets and rocket throwers, Rockettes and Cameron Diaz
each man (each Diaz) must make his
own individual choice
whether this war
is worth fighting for or the next or the worst.
Go to jail, go directly to waterboard, at the hands of
your local police, chamber of commerce.
Learn how to walk the desert and the universe.
The names of rocks and planets,
that being the only answer to the hyperorganization that is a cancer on
      our insufficient organization.

I was reading Foreign Affairs
The Case Against the West by Kishore Mabubami (Cameron Diaz).
How can I relinquish my privileged position
sit still, lie naked
until what constitutes consent of the governed and non-violent change,
      Cameron Diaz,
to her herpetologist
is known.

Death was not unfamilar to me. I'd killed my share of things classified as monsters. I wasn't complaining really, my job kept the humans safe. I just felt guilty, I was practically a monster myself. They call us Warriors of the night, we're not Vampires, we are born with extra strenght and a long life span. I was born a long time ago, I was raised to **** monsters that terrorize the human race. Since I was six, I'd been trained to ****. I was a killing machine, best of my kind. Yet somehow, even though what I do is considered an honor, I don't feel proud. I've been doing my job much to long, and lately I'd began getting sloppy with my work. God knows Rowan would be one ****** of boss if he heard about me letting the group of baby Werewolves. I wasn't a complete heartless ******* to **** a bunch of babies.
    I might've been two years ago, before the whole incident happened. I layed my head in my hands, I couldn't go there, not now. I needed a clear head. My small apartment in Master Singu's house was getting messy. I hadn't had time to clean lately with all of the monster attacks that had been popping up lately. Ghouls, Goblins, Oni, Ogre, you name it and it's been attacking. Wasn't much we could do with the Banshee, they were more of a signifier then a monster. A signifier of death, and usually they gave me a heads up if the person who's house it's been surrounding, is gonna die. Banshee were cruel looking creatures, never gotten to close to one, they make **** sure of that. Not sure I ever want to. They were ruled by the one and only, Death. And i will gladly stay as far from death as possible. Haven't heard too many good things about him. Death is one of the Four horsemen. Scariest ******* in the underworld, and I would gladly never meet any of deaths brothers or sisters, what ever the gender their welcome to stay away. There was a soft knock on my door, io glanced at the clock on the wall, it was already three. Warriors worked night shift basically, since thats the time most monsters like to come out.
    The victorian styled door was a black cherry carved wood, with a ancient symbols carved in so no evil spirit couls cross into my apartment, so I wasnt worried any monster was at my door. But I was suprised to see Cameron when I opened the door. Cameron and I used to work the nights together until he'd gone off and gotten married to Sylvia, who was a vampire. Vampires were only considered monsters when they didnt follow the rules. No feeding off of unwilling people, only donors, and they couldnt go around killing people. Their biggest rule though was not to tell any human what they were, Warriors like me had a lot of people to execute.
   "Cameron, never thought I'd see you around here anymore," just as I was talking to him I realized, Cameron looked scared and desperate. Unlike someone who spent his life killing evil monsters that were twice the size of him. " What's wrong Cameron?" He shook his head and walked past me, through the door and into the living room. "It's Sylvia, Theon please help me," Camerons voice was going all thick and his eye's all watery. This was deffinetly something bad. " Tell me, what has happened with Sylvia?" I needed Cameron in his most focused form to help me out, but as I looked at the shaking man I knew he was beyond that. " You remember the king vampire we took down to save Sylvia?" Cameron said quitely, but I knew instantly what vampire he was talking about. That vampire had killed Abelia. I quickly swept that from my mind and focused back on Cameron. " Yes I remember, "  I had no idea where Cameron was going with this. " You remember his brother than, the one that got away, he said that we would both pay. He, ah, made you pay that day. I never thought that he would carry out with his threat. He kidnapped Sylvia, and Sylvia is pregnant, " Cameron almost lost it right there.
    I never thought that, pip squeak of a vampire had it in him, but he was smart and possesed powers we hadn't known about until we had come across them. Their king that we had slayed, had been capturing girls of all species and abusing them in such barbaric ways.
We had to put an end to his affairs, and we did but his brother wasn't too happy about it. He'd done one of his tricks and manifested behind Abelia and snapped her neck. Everything for me had stopped, all I could hear was the blood in my veins. I didn't breath, I could still remember the deafining roar I had unleashed as my monster had gripped me, took the reins and killed all of the mans servants.
Blood had bathed the walls that night, not even the crickets dared to sing. The sun rose late that morning, and I sat inside this very apartment, on that very couch, and cried. For the very first time, I had cried until my eye's swelled shut, until my throat could bare no more. Until I passed out.
    "We'll get them back Cameron, don't worry. For now get some rest, we'll start investigating later tonight, I have meeting to attend," I was going to **** that ******* when I found him. He had taken my only love from me, and he would pay this time, I would make that absoultely certain. Cameron nodded and headed for the door. It was a long way back to his house, and he crossed quite a few bridges. I didn't want him making any bad decisions, " Cameron you can crash here, I have a guest room your welcome here man," I say casually so he doesn't get all prideful. He stops and looks at me for a moment then nods " Yeah, thanks man, and also thank you for agreeing to help me on this I know it's a bit of a touchy subject for you, just know i appreciate it." He made his way down the hall, I listened for the soft click of the door shuting before i went to leave.
    I grabbed my coat, and the keys to my Ducatti and ducked out the door. The hallway was long and at the end of it was two flights of srairs, I lived on the third floor. My motorcycle was parked right were I left it, it was a beauty. Black and red sleek metal and nice leather seats. I loved the bike so much I had named her Racer. I loved to drive fast, and so did she. I tore off out of the parking lot and listened to the purr of her engine on the way to Rowan's , my boss, office. It wasnt to far, but I wasn't in a rush either so i took the long road just to stall. I knew Rowan planned on giving me a partner. Probably some ****** that didnt know his way around a swiss army blade, let alone a sword. Warriors didnt use guns unless absoultely necessary. I loved the feel of my sword slicing through the air. I didn't, however, enjoy the noisy bang of a gun. A sword was like another limb, you have to trust it to take you were you need to go.
    Rowan's office light was on, and I could make out the form of three bodies. Great, I knew it, Rowan was going to assign me a partner.
I hated partners, the only one I'd ever slightly enjoyed had been Cameron. I got off my bike, patted the seat for good luck, and made my way into Rowans office. When I pulled open the door I was ready to yell at Rowan for even thinking of giving me a partner, instead i dropped my hand off the doorknob. " *******," was all I coluld say. I was stunned to silence.

a blackout caused by evil daniel pederson



you see brian allan was sitting there doing his art and suddenly daniel pederson’s spirit forced the power

to go out just in brian’s apartment so he can tie brian up to his bed, and brian was trying for a way to

get free, but daniel had a hold on brian allan, and said, you are still a yeah mate yeah kid brian, and i will make sure

you are tied to the bed, and then i will leave and have them turn on your power again

brian was wriggling and turning saying, help me, let me out of this cage, untie me, please let me go

my power has been turned off, so daniel pederson can get the better of me, then daniel tried his best to keep

brian’s dad and family from saving me, please let me go, brian said, but the gag was tightly on brian’s mouth

and daniel told cameron goon, your not a cool kid, anymore sure mate, and then he said, don’t be a cool kid, cameron

brian is suffering through mental illness, and i am the cause, cameron said, heh heh heh, please keep his power off

and daniel said, i am dead, you know that is not how it works, i turn off brian’s power, i tie him up, and suddenly his power

comes back on, and he feels kidnapped and you cameron do what you used to try to do, because brian allan is looking at

his daddy’s next life, brian was screaming, HELP HELP, let me be like pat and chris, and daniel said, neh, you are trapped by

me, cause you are too woosey to write this out of you, and brian screamed, TURN MY POWER BACK ON YA ****, TURN MY POWER

BACK ON, AND UNTIE ME, you evil little ****, and brian remains struggling on the bed and daniel forces cameron to lift his feet

up off the floor, like bobby bullpitt did to ted bullpitt on kings wood country, saying, brian allan isn’t like us anymore, he doesn’t work

and brian allan tries to say through his gag, i work, and if daniel turns the power back on, i can work on that, and daniel said, you have

to work on this, because you aren’t like us, brian, you ain’t a man, brian your too shy to be a fucken man, and as daniel said that brian

was struggling on his bed, saying, i have been kidnapped by daniel pederson, turn on the fucken lights, so i can have power, i have no torch

so daniel has me right where he wants me, as brian said that, daniel said yeah, i do, and i will make sure you suffer for every crime you do

or any crime you have done, every time you enter a shop, and you haven’t enough money, daniel will put in the corner of your mind, to steal it,

because, brian allan isn’t a cool kid, and i want you to know, every kid you see on youtuibe being kidnapped is my spirit, even if it has adult spirit

you see daniel pederson said, he ain’t stupid, he isn’t going to let my dad win the battle, but brian allan was screaming HELP HELP UNTIE ME FROM

THIS EVIL SPIRIT NAMED DANIEL PEDERSON, and daniel said, you are with me now, brian allan, i turned off your power, to make it look like i have

you with me forever and ever amen, and once i have what i want, i will turn your power back on, and untie you, but as long as you never get employed or

always suffer with a lousy canberra bus service and as long as kids in canberra do as i say, brian allan will be a kid forever, never to be an adult, your only mates

will be the scruffy old scott and ******* old paul, and i want patrick and cameron to try and go, get ****** brainy get ****** man get ****** brainy get ****** man

in your head till you die, brian allan, you will suffer forever and ever, and my voice will say, keep teasing brian pat, sure mate, brian was worried that he was losing his

cool kid credits, and daniel said, yeah, you have lost your pat and chris credits, and forget about being like your parents brian, i made your dad die, so we can place

the words your father isn’t around anymore in your head, brian allan, if you didn’t want this, why were you laughing at cameron, no you will suffer, and daniel is having fun

putting in patrick’s voice, him saying ‘i am not ya daddy brian’, no, none of them can save you from me, brian allan kid, but you are not a kid, ya see, you laughed at

cameron being *******, i will make cameron laugh at you, you will suffer brian allan, brian was wriggling about on his bed saying let me go, i am like os, and daniel said

you are losing your os credits, you are not like your family anymore, you are still like your old fri———ends, budddeeeeee, brian yelled out, HELP, SAVE ME FROM THIS

EVIL DANIEL PEDERSON KID HELP ME HELP ME HELP HE SAID, BRIAN WILL CRUSHED TO BE BUTTER ON BREAD, i have brian allan with me, forever, where he’ll

hear the words, your daddy, ain’t around anymore, brian yelled out, let me go, free me, but daniel pederson said ok, you can go, but, i have the power to turn off your power

brian cronus greame thorne patrick dunbar allan, you will never be the man from albert waldron, you see you were hearing these voices from the days of albert waldron, all the

men saying, yay, here is big bad brian, but i turned off your family man, so you can commit a crime, because you, brian allan is a victim of kidnappers, from a kidnapper like the evil spirit

daniel pederson, heh heh heh, you will never defeat my spirit, heh heh heh heh

"Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
   Hear me but this once," quoth he.
"Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
  But I'm no mate for you," quoth she.
Day was verging toward the night
  There beside the moaning sea,
Dimness overtook the light
  There where the breakers be.
"O Jessie, Jessie Cameron,
  I have loved you long and true."--
"Good luck go with you, neighbor's son,
  But I'm no mate for you."

She was a careless, fearless girl,
  And made her answer plain;
Outspoken she to earl or churl,
  Kind-hearted in the main,
But somewhat heedless with her tongue,
  And apt at causing pain;
A mirthful maiden she and young,
  Most fair for bliss or bane.
"O, long ago I told you so,
  I tell you so to-day:
Go you your way, and let me go
  Just my own free way."

The sea swept in with moan and foam
  Quickening the stretch of sand;
They stood almost in sight of home;
  He strove to take her hand.
"O, can't you take your answer then,
  And won't you understand?
For me you're not the man of men,
  I've other plans are planned.
You're good for Madge, or good for Cis,
  Or good for Kate, may be:
But what's to me the good of this
  While you're not good for me?"

They stood together on the beach,
  They two alone,
And louder waxed his urgent speech,
  His patience almost gone:
"O, say but one kind word to me,
  Jessie, Jessie Cameron."--
"I'd be too proud to beg," quoth she,
  And pride was in her tone.
And pride was in her lifted head,
  And in her angry eye,
And in her foot, which might have fled,
  But would not fly.

Some say that he had gypsy blood,
  That in his heart was guile:
Yet he had gone through fire and flood
  Only to win her smile.
Some say his grandam was a witch,
  A black witch from beyond the Nile,
Who kept an image in a niche
  And talked with it the while.
And by her hut far down the lane
  Some say they would not pass at night,
Lest they should hear an unked strain
  Or see an unked sight.

Alas, for Jessie Cameron!--
  The sea crept moaning, moaning nigher:
She should have hastened to be gone,--
  The sea swept higher, breaking by her:
She should have hastened to her home
  While yet the west was flushed with fire,
But now her feet are in the foam,
  The sea-foam, sweeping higher.
O mother, linger at your door,
  And light your lamp to make it plain;
But Jessie she comes home no more,
  No more again.

They stood together on the strand,
  They only, each by each;
Home, her home, was close at hand,
  Utterly out of reach.
Her mother in the chimney nook
  Heard a startled sea-gull screech,
But never turned her head to look
  Towards the darkening beach:
Neighbors here and neighbors there
  Heard one scream, as if a bird
Shrilly screaming cleft the air:--
  That was all they heard.

Jessie she comes home no more,
  Comes home never;
Her lover's step sounds at his door
  No more forever.
And boats may search upon the sea
  And search along the river,
But none know where the bodies be:
  Sea-winds that shiver,
Sea-birds that breast the blast,
  Sea-waves swelling,
Keep the secret first and last
  Of their dwelling.

Whether the tide so hemmed them round
  With its pitiless flow,
That when they would have gone they found
  No way to go;
Whether she scorned him to the last
  With words flung to and fro,
Or clung to him when hope was past,
  None will ever know:
Whether he helped or hindered her,
  Threw up his life or lost it well,
The troubled sea, for all its stir,
  Finds no voice to tell.

Only watchers by the dying
  Have thought they heard one pray,
Wordless, urgent; and replying,
  One seem to say him nay:
And watchers by the dead have heard
  A windy swell from miles away,
With sobs and screams, but not a word
  Distinct for them to say:
And watchers out at sea have caught
  Glimpse of a pale gleam here or there,
Come and gone as quick as thought,
  Which might be hand or hair.

Adam kicked the soccer ball to the front of the house.  Sam watched him chase after it, while she sipped her sweet tea.  The sound of his feet stopped and was replaced with car tires driving through the gravel road.  She stood up and walked down the steps to see who had come.  Adam cut her off before she made it around the corner of the house.
Panting and out of breath, he gasped, “Mommy…Daddy’s home.”
Sam stared at Adam, letting those two words sink in.  Adam turned around and started running back.  She stood there for a moment and then took after her son.  Thoughts were flooding her mind.  When she hugged him one last time before he left, him walking towards the plane, the letters coming home every week, his arms wrapped around her, and the sounds of him and Adam playing football in the afternoon.
Her pace slowed when she arrived to the front of the house.  Cameron’s grey truck turned off followed by another black car tuning its engine off.  Cameron hopped out of the truck and looked over at her with sorrowed filled eyes.  Adam ran up and gave him hug, but Cameron’s eyes never left hers.
A Marines officer walked up to Sam with letters in his hands.  Her heart started beating faster and could feel a hole beginning to form in her stomach.  Please…Please, don’t tell me he’s gone.  Please be a mistake, she closed her eyes and thought.
Ma’am, are you Sam Chesterfield?” the officer asked.
She opened her eyes and forced a whisper, “Yes.”
“Mrs. Chesterfield, I am sorry to inform you that your husband has died in combat.  He gave me this letter to give to you.  Here is another letter from the Department of
Defense about the funeral if you have any questions.  You have my deepest condolences, Daniel was an honorable man,” he placed his hand on her shoulder and walked away.
As he climbed into his car, Sam broke down.  She feel to her knees, letting her vision get blurry.  Cameron ran over and wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm her down.  Adam walked over and took his mother’s hand.
“Mommy…is Daddy coming home?”
Sam looked up at him.  She saw so much of Daniel in him.  Before she could answer, Cameron responded, “Your dad…well he went somewhere where he can get better.”
Adam just nodded.  “Sweetie, why don’t you and Cameron go inside.  I need to take care of some things,” she sputtered out.
As they went inside, she stared at the white envelope with her name scribbled on the front of it.  She slowly opened it and began to read,
My Dearest Samantha,
If you are reading this, you already know that I am not coming home.  I could not know or describe the pain that you are going through right.  When Adam has asked what has become of me, tell him the truth.  Let him know that his father died a hero and that I loved him very much.  I already asked Cameron to look after you and Adam, and he has promised.
Sam, please do not grieve my death for the rest of your life.  Smile and remember the good times.  Our wedding day, the first day we met, how we fell in love.  Remember all of that; watch the tapes to see my face again.  I will always love you and be with you, no matter what.  I know that it may be hard at first on your own, but you are a strong woman and can do it.  You and Adam are my life’s love and happiness.  I will always be with you two in heart.
There is another letter in here for Adam to read.  I want you to give it to him when you think he is ready to read it.
I love you with all of my heart.
Love,
Daniel

Non ci sono dubbi .questo matrimonio rocce.E non solo perché si è tenuto nel piccolo locale impressionante conosciuta come Sedona.No .succede anche per caratterizzare un duo seriamente adorabile ( innamorati liceo .non meno ) .lussureggianti.fiori colorati da Jazz Bouquet e un ambiente sorprendente ( Creekside Inn ) che sarà una sorta di toglierà il fiato .Vedi tutto catturato splendidamente da Cameron \u0026Kelly Studio proprio qui .

ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsAl FrescoInnStylesCasual EleganceRustic Elegance

Dal Cameron \u0026Kelly Studio .Samantha ha sempre voluto un matrimonio cortile e Creekside Inn è salito per l'occasione con i suoi prati ombreggiati .impetuoso torrente e opportunità per la famiglia di stare in una casa .Fratello Brenan ' più giovane abiti da sposa on line .Kyren ( QB corrente alla Northern Arizona University ) .citato durante il suo brindisi alla abiti da sposa corti coppia che sua Madre è sempreè eetting a luièperè ail suo o quello.èUn abiti da sposa corti giorno fece notare a lei cheèeRenan non è mai stato in difficoltà come questo quando aveva la mia età .èsua madre ha scherzato di nuovoè uUST gemmeèe in base a Samantha e quel soprannome è bloccato .Sam ha sorpreso anche il suo sposo con un segno per le ragazze di fiori per portare Detto quest

Sam aveva torte Bundt invece di torta nuziale regolare e Corn " Poe " per il dopo cena tratta .La cerimonia è stata accanto al torrente impetuoso e cocktail hour appena sopra il prato superiore.Gli ospiti assorbito un cocktail chiamato " Sedona Greyhound ".Mi è piaciuto molto il menu lavagna grande come ospiti camminavano attraverso un arco per entrare nella parte cena tenda della serata .Per i giudizi favori Sam aveva personalizzato coozies a ciascuna regolazione del posto .Tutti i



nomi delle tabelle sono da ristoranti dove la coppia aveva fatto la storia !
Da Sposa .Brenan e io siamo innamorati delle scuole superiori .Abbiamo cominciato ad uscire il nostro ultimo anno e siamo cresciuti insieme nel corso degli ultimi otto anni .Sono andato al UA e andò a ASU .in modo da poter dire che abbiamo una casa divisa e ancora discutiamo le nostre scuole .ma amiamo quando le nostre squadre giocano a vicenda .Abbastanza strano.ma noi chiamiamo a vicenda amici e nostri amici e parenti sanno questo soprannome .Quando mia madre mi chiedeva se eravamo fidanzati durante l'ultimo anno direi "No .siamo solo Budds . "Abbiamo fatto riferimento anche l'altro come Budd e si è bloccato con noi .Ci piace cavalcare le nostre biciclette insieme attorno a Tempe e andare in uno dei nostri posti preferiti Four Peaks per afferrare una birra .

Fotografo: Cameron \u0026 Kelly Studio | Dress : Monique Lhuillier | Catering : Dan Bistro | Coordinamento : Van Damme Matrimoni | Fiori : Jazz Bouquet | Tenda : Partito Classic Vacanze | Luogo : Creekside InnMonique Lhuillier è un membro del nostro Look Book .Per ulteriori informazioni su come vengono scelti i membri .fare clic qui

david cameron stars in lets go outside 26.09.18

it was exposure
not in LA or a bog
BB will bring closure
mr cameron will look back and snog.
at present its all hush
lets not send in a copper
putting dress on gave a little rush
going to be a breakthru not a cropper.
he did sign up to george
and it will congratulate
cameron has been true and no forge
seeing as living in surveillance state.
has the line been crossed
we have to think about implications
into the blue oyster bar tossed
unlike proctor who has many frustrations.
its going to come good
watch it back on replay
you will thank you hood
we like you for being cameron relax about gay.

19:14pm,  23/08/2010

I

What names of high renown lie here within,
What wonders of a cinematic age?
What players of chameleonic skin,
What vast dimensions leap beyond the stage?

Withnail and I would walk this hallowed road,
Dreaming of turning visions into deeds;
Train-spotting trains of thought that overflowed,
Where levity had trampled karma's seeds.

Tread softly here and utter not a sound,
The scene is set, for all lost here below,
With all forsaken dreamers underground
And all who yearned to go on with the show.

For all the lost, forsaken and foregone,
Dead lips whisper of "Hunt" and "Cameron".


II

Walkways of fame, like dreaming colonnades,
Gold sunrise shoots that everyone admired;
Lost eras when producers all wore shades,
And divas turned up early and inspired.

Hot cappuccino served with bright ideas
In cool cafés and bistros of desire;
Their ghostly image flares - then disappears,
With all who held the torch of inner fire.

All those who now endorse perfumes and creams
And those in pantomimes on seaside piers,
Remember well who crucified their dreams
Replacing honeyed hopes with bitter tears.

Inscribed in blood, their torrid names live on
- Don't speak to us of Hunt and Cameron.


III

A beautiful laundrette, deserted now,
Reduced to an accountant's numeral;
Open the wine and slay the fatted cow,
To find the wedding's now a funeral.

And did we, in good faith, believe their lies,
Electing them to office, fuelled by hope?
Now strung along by feeble alibis,
And all because we gave them enough rope?

Hope is the dreamer's dope. We who despair
Are never fooled by optimism's glitz;
Sometimes we are too fatalist to care,
Sometimes we must accuse, where the cap fits.

The coalition's follies blunder on
Up the Junction, with Hunt and Cameron.


IV

Avert thine eyes, Tim Bevan, CBE,
A tempest comes, on terrible black wings,
A blight hath fallen on the industry
That used to bring such bright imaginings.

Our protestations have a Little Voice
That Whitehall deems too indistinct to hear,
Must we the free be faced without a choice,
Must everything we loved now disappear?

Tread softly here, for it's the final take,
No accidental noise disturbs the boom,
As art is crucified for money's sake
Respectful silence settles in the gloom.

Sometimes progress moves backwards and is gone,
Like bright ideas by Hunt and Cameron.


The End....?

She sent it to me as a text message, that is an image of a quote in situ, a piece of interpretation in a gallery. Saturday morning and I was driving home from a week in a remote cottage on a mountain. I had stopped to take one last look at the sea, where I usually take one last look, and the phone bleeped. A text message, but no text.  Just a photo of some words. It made me smile, the impossibility of it. Epic poems and tapestry weaving. Of course there are connections, in that for centuries the epic subject has so often been the stuff of the tapestry weaver’s art. I say this glibly, but cannot name a particular tapestry where this might be so. Those vast Arthurian pieces by William Morris to pictures by Burne-Jones have an epic quality both in scale and in subject, but, to my shame, I can’t put a name to one.

These days the tapestry can be epic once more - in size and intention - thanks to the successful, moneyed contemporary artist and those communities of weavers at West Dean and at Edinburgh’s Dovecot. Think of Grayson Perry’s The Walthamstowe Tapestry, a vast 3 x 15 metres executed by Ghentian weavers, a veritable apocalyptic vision where ‘Everyman, spat out at birth in a pool of blood, is doomed and predestined to spend his life navigating a chaotic yet banal landscape of brands and consumerism’.  Gosh! Doesn’t that sound epic!

I was at the Dovecot a little while ago, but the public gallery was closed. The weavers were too busy finishing Victoria Crowe’s Large Tree Group to cope with visitors. You see, I do know a little about this world even though my tapestry weaving is the sum total of three weekends tuition, even though I have a very large loom once owned by Marta Rogoyska. It languishes next door in the room that was going to be where I was to weave, where I was going to become someone other than I am. This is what I feel - just sometimes - when I’m at my floor loom, if only for those brief spells when life languishes sufficiently for me be slow and calm enough to pick up the shuttles and find the right coloured yarns. But I digress. In fact putting together tapestry and epic poetry is a digression from the intention of the quote on the image from that text - (it was from a letter to Janey written in Iceland). Her husband, William Morris, reckoned one could (indeed should) be able to compose an epic poem and weave a tapestry.  

This notion, this idea that such a thing as being actively poetic and throwing a pick or two should go hand in hand, and, in Morris’ words, be a required skill (or ‘he’d better shut up’), seemed (and still does a day later) an absurdity. Would such a man (must be a man I suppose) ‘never do any good at all’ because he can’t weave and compose epic poetry simultaneously?  Clearly so.  But then Morris wove his tapestries very early in the morning - often on a loom in his bedroom. Janey, I imagine, as with ladies of her day - she wasn’t one, being a stableman’s daughter, but she became one reading fluently in French and Italian and playing Beethoven on the piano- she had her own bedroom.

Do you know there are nights when I wish for my own room, even when sleeping with the one I love, as so often I wake in the night, and I lie there afraid (because I love her dearly and care for her precious rest) to disturb her sleep with reading or making notes, both of which I do when I’m alone.
Yet how very seductive is the idea of joining my loved one in her own space, amongst her fallen clothes, her books and treasures, her archives and precious things, those many letters folded into her bedside bookcase, and the little black books full of tender poems and attempts at sketches her admirer has bequeathed her when distant and apart. Equally seductive is the possibility of the knock on the bedroom / workroom door, and there she’ll be there like the woman in Michael Donaghy’s poem, a poem I find every time I search for it in his Collected Works one of the most arousing and ravishing pieces of verse I know: it makes me smile and imagine.  . .  Her personal vanishing point, she said, came when she leant against his study door all warm and wet and whispered 'Paolo’. Only she’ll say something in a barely audible voice like ‘Can I disturb you?’ and with her sparkling smile come in, and bring with her two cats and the hint of a naked breast nestling in the gap of the fold of her yellow Chinese gown she holds close to herself - so when she kneels on my single bed this gown opens and her beauty falls before her, and I am wholly, utterly lost that such loveliness is and can be so . . .

When I see a beautiful house, as I did last Thursday, far in the distance by an estuary-side, sheltering beneath wooded hills, and moor and rock-coloured mountains, with its long veranda, painted white, I imagine. I imagine our imaginary home where, when our many children are not staying in the summer months and work is impossible, we will live our ‘together yet apart’ lives. And there will be the joy of work. I will be like Ben Nicholson in that Italian villa his father-in-law bought, and have my workroom / bedroom facing a stark hillside with nothing but a carpenter’s table to lay out my scores. Whilst she, like Winifred, will work at a tidy table in her bedroom, a vase of spring flowers against the window with the estuary and the mountains beyond. Yes, her bedroom, not his, though their bed, their wonderful wooden 19C Swiss bed of oak, occupies this room and yes, in his room there is just a single affair, but robust, that he would sleep on when lunch had been late and friends had called, or they had been out calling and he wanted to give her the premise of having to go back to work – to be alone - when in fact he was going to sleep and dream, but she? She would work into the warm afternoons with the barest breeze tickling her bare feet, her body moving with the remembrance of his caresses as she woke him that morning from his deep, dark slumber. ‘Your brown eyes’, he would whisper, ‘your dear brown eyes the colour of an autumn leaf damp with dew’. And she would surround him with kisses and touch of her firm, long body and (before she cut her plaits) let her course long hair flow back and forward across his chest. And she did this because she knew he would later need the loneliness of his own space, need to put her aside, whereas she loved the scent of him in the room in which she worked, with his discarded clothes, the neck-tie on the door hanger he only reluctantly wore.

Back to epic poetry and its possibility. Even on its own, as a single, focused activity it seems to me, unadventurous poet that I am, an impossibility. But then, had I lived in the 1860s, it would probably not have seemed so difficult. There was no Radio 4 blathering on, no bleeb of arriving texts on the mobile. There were servants to see to supper, a nanny to keep the children at bay. At Kelmscott there was glorious Gloucestershire silence - only the roll and squeak of the wagon in the road and the rooks roosting. So, in the early mornings Morris could kneel at his vertical loom and, with a Burne-Jones cartoon to follow set behind the warp. With his yarns ready to hand, it would be like a modern child’s painting by numbers, his mind would be free to explore the fairy domain, the Icelandic sagas, the Welsh Mabinogion, the Kalevara from Finland, and write (in his head) an epic poem. These were often elaborations and retellings in his epic verse style of Norse and Icelandic sagas with titles like Sigurd the Volsung. Paul Thompson once said of Morris  ‘his method was to think out a poem in his head while he was busy at some other work.  He would sit at an easel, charcoal or brush in hand, working away at a design while he muttered to himself, 'bumble-beeing' as his family called it; then, when he thought he had got the lines, he would get up from the easel, prowl round the room still muttering, returning occasionally to add a touch to the design; then suddenly he would dash to the table and write out twenty or so lines.  As his pen slowed down, he would be looking around, and in a moment would be at work on another design.  Later, Morris would look at what he had written, and if he did not like it he would put it aside and try again.  But this way of working meant that he never submitted a draft to the painful evaluation which poetry requires’.

Let’s try a little of Sigurd

There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old;
Dukes were the door-wards there, and the roofs were thatched with gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed its doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving-women, queens' daughters strewed its floors,

And the masters of its song-craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle down the bickering blast.
There dwelt men merry-hearted, and in hope exceeding great
Met the good days and the evil as they went the way of fate:
There the Gods were unforgotten, yea whiles they walked with men,

Though e'en in that world's beginning rose a murmur now and again
Of the midward time and the fading and the last of the latter days,
And the entering in of the terror, and the death of the People's Praise.

Oh dear. And to think he sustained such poetry for another 340 lines, and that’s just book 1 of 4. So what dear reader, dear sender of that text image encouraging me to weave and write, just what would epic poetry be now? Where must one go for inspiration? Somewhere in the realms of sci-fi, something after Star-Wars or Ninja Warriors. It could be post-apocalyptic, a tale of mutants and a world damaged by chemicals or economic melt-down. Maybe a rich adventure of travel on a distant planet (with Sigourney Weaver of course), featuring brave deeds and the selfless heroism of saving companions from deadly encounters with amazing animals, monsters even. Or is ‘epic’ something else, something altogether beyond the Pixar Studios or James Cameron’s imagination? Is the  ‘epic’ now the province of AI boldly generating the computer game in 4D?  

And the epic poem? People once bought and read such published romances as they now buy and engage with on-line games. This is where the epic now belongs. On the tablet, PlayStation3, the X-Box. But, but . . . Poetry is so alive and well as a performance phenomenon, and with that oh so vigorous and relentless beat. Hell, look who won the T.S.Eliot prize this year! Story-telling lives and there are tales to be told, even if they are set in housing estates and not the ice caves of the frozen planet Golp. Just think of children’s literature, so rich and often so wild. This is word invention that revisits unashamedly those myths and sagas Morris loved, but in a different guise, with different names, in worlds that still bring together the incredible geographies of mountains and deserts and wilderness places, with fortresses and walled cities, and the startling, still unknown, yet to be discovered ocean depths.

                                    And so let my tale begin . . . My epic poem.

                                                 THE SEAGASP OF ENNLI.
       A TALE IN VERSE OF EARTHQUAKE, ISLAND FASTNESS, MALEVOLENT SPIRITS,
                                                AND REDEMPTIVE LOVE.

“Cameron!”
I stopped mid-step, my body rocking back and forth, as Ally continued walking a few steps ahead.  She turned back and looked at me.  I cocked my head to the side and she gave me a wave to go.  I turned around and saw him leaning up against the railing, his arms supporting him.  I made my way towards him.
I felt as if I was seeing him for the first time.  His tan skin stood out against his white shirt; which was my favorite, his brown hair messy underneath his snap-back as usual, but still cute, and his blue eyes watching my every step.  I bit my lip, not wanting the way he looked to destroy the anger that was built up inside.  I came to a stop in front of him.  We were both quiet.
“What?” trying to sound impatient.
“Why are you mad at me?  You asked for the whole truth. I gave it to you,” he replied calmly.
“It’s what you lied about Mike.”
“I never --”
“Yes you did.  You lied during the entire relationship.  Everyone warned me, ‘Don’t go out with him,’ and, ‘He does it every day,’ and so on and so forth.  Then when I asked you about it, you said you did it once and didn't like it, so you haven’t had any since.  Then you tell me earlier, ‘I've been doing it before, during, and after you,’” I gave little air quotes, “So tell me where you never lied?”
“It was one little thing,” he was no longer leaning against the rail, only a foot away from me.
“No, it was a big thing Mike.  You lied about it.”
“I lied.  Big whoop!  Everyone does,” he threw his hands in the air.
“You lied to me during the entire relationship.  I don’t even know if half of what you said to me was true,” my tone rose.
“Like what?” he was becoming agitated.
“Like not going out, been staying out of trouble,” he rolled his eyes to those responses, “Saying that you loved me.”
His head snapped when those words fell from my mouth.  The single foot that separated us was gone.  He was just inches from my face; my nose filled with the familiar scent of his cologne.
“You’re right.  I did lie about all of those things.  But the one thing that I never lied to you about, for a single moment, was when I said I loved you,” his voice was low and filled with anger.  He searched my eyes for a moment.  “I meant that Cameron.  I meant it every time I said it and I always will mean it.  But hey, you don’t believe a single word I say, so why should you believe this,” he walked past me, giving my shoulder a push with his.
I stood there for a moment, rapidly blinking away the tears.  Ally came rushing towards me.  “Cameron are you okay?  It looked like things got really heated between you two,” she put her hand on my arm.
I took a deep, staggered breath in.  “Yeah, I just want to go home,” my voice was cracking.
“Cameron, it’s the middle of the--”
“Can we please just leave?!” my head snapped to her.  Her voice was caught in her throat.  I quickly wiped the tears on my face away.
“Uhhh, yeah lets go,” she guided me towards the front doors to leave.  “Cameron, what happened?  What did he say?”
“Everything Ally, he said everything.”

I’m Cameron, call me Dave,
Power I do crave.
I’ll tell any story
To con you into voting Tory.

Sara L Russell 17/3/15 at 13:25

What will they say of you in future times?
Were they duped by your duplicity
or did you fall on your double-edged sword?
Was the devil we knew any better than the unknown?

The future has a way of arriving early.
Are you ready now, for what it yet may bring?
Will you be knighted, or, benighted and beleaguered,
Fall fallow by the wayside of your ways?

Will the name of Cameron carry on,
Whatever else is lost or left behind?
Will David slay the apocolyptic giant of global warming,
yet terminate the service of National Health?

Was it wealth, or a poverty of emotional maturity
that led to such flotations and privatisations?
what sensations did you feel, did you reach referendum,
did you feel the earth move?

We never saw your manifesto made manifest.
We, the voters who voted not for you,
yet saw you rise, anticipate your fall.
Do promises count as any kind of plan?

And the future is arriving post-haste,
like a present waiting to be unwrapped.
Elections have a way of arriving early.
We are ready, with a big sharp X.