When the engine rattled itself to a stop he opened the driver’s door letting the damp afternoon displace the snug of travel. He was home after a long day watching the half hours pass and his students come and go. And now they had gone until next year leaving cards and little gifts.
 
The cats appeared. The pigeons flapped woodenly. A dog barked down the lane. The post van passed.
 
The house from the yard was gaunt and cold in its terracotta red. Only the adjacent cottage with its backdoor, bottles filling the window ledges, and tiled roof, seemed to invite him in. It was not his house, but temporarily his home. He loved to wander into the garden and approach the house from the front, purposefully. He would then take in the disordered flowerbeds and the encroaching apple trees where his cats played tag falling in spectacular fashion through the branches. He liked to stand back from the house and see it entire, its fine chimneys, the 16C brickwork, the grey-shuttered living room, and his bedroom studio from whose window he could stretch out and touch the elderberries.
 
Inside, the storage heaters giving out a provisional warmth, he left the lights be and placed the kettle on the stove, laid out on the scrubbed table a tea ***, milk jug, a china mug, a cake tin, On the wall, above the vast fireplace, hung a painting of the fields beyond the house dusty in a harvest sunset, the stubble crackling under foot, under his sockless sandals, walking, walking as he so often felt compelled to do, criss-crossing the unploughed fields of the chalk escarpment.
 
Now a week before St Lucy’s Day he sat in Tim’s chair and watched the night unmask itself, the twilight owl glimmer past the window, a cat on his knee, a cat on the window ledge, porcelain-still.
 
He let his thoughts steal themselves across the table to an empty chair, imagining her holding a mug in both hands, her long graceful legs crossed under her flowing skirt. When she lay in bed she crossed her legs, lying on her back like the pre-Raphaelite model she had shown him once, Ruskin’s ****** wife, Effie. ‘I was in a pub with some friends and I looked out of the window and there he was, painting the church walls’, she said musingly, ‘I knew I would marry him’. He was older of course; with a warm voice that brought forth a childhood in the 1930s spent at a private schools, a wartime naval career (still in his teens), then Oxford and the Slade. He owned nothing except a bag of necessary clothes, his paints of course and an ever-present portfolio of sketches. Tim lived simply and could (and did) work anywhere. Then there was Alison, then a passion that nearly drowned him before her Quaker family took him to themselves, adoring his quiet grace, his love of music, his ability to cook, to make and mend, to garden like a God.
 
Sitting in her husband’s chair he constantly replayed his first meeting with her. Out in the yard, they had arrived together, it was Palm Sunday and returning from Mass he gave her his palm as a greeting. He loved her smile, her awkwardness, her passion for the violin, and her beautiful children. He felt he had always known her, known her in another life . . . then she had touched his hand as he ascended the kitchen stairs in her London home, and he was lost in guilt.
 
Tonight he would eat mackerel with vicious mustard and a colcannon of vegetables. He would imagine he was Tim alone after a day in his studio, take himself upstairs to his bedroom space where on his drawing board lay this work for solo violin, his Tapisserie, seven studies and Chaconne. For her of course; of the previous summer in Pembrokeshire; of a moment in the early morning sailing gently across Dale sound, the water glass-like and the reflections, the intense mirroring of light on water  . . . so these studies became mirrors too, palindromes in fact.
 
The cats slept on his sagging quilted bed where he knew she had often slept, where he often felt her presence as he woke in the early hours to sit at his desk with tea to drag his music little by little into sense and reason.
 
When Jenny came she slept fitfully, in this bed, in his arms, always worried by her fear of rejection, always hoping he would never let her go, envelope her with love she had never had, leave his music be, be with her totally, rest with her, own her, take her outside into the night and make love to her under the apple trees. She had suggested it once and he had looked at her curiously, as though he couldn’t fathom why bed was not sufficient unto itself, why the gentleness he always felt with her had to become hurt and discomfort.
 
He had acquired a drawing board because Elizabeth Lutyens had one in her studio, a very large one, at which she stood to compose. He liked pushing sketches and manuscript paper around into different configurations. He would write the same passage in different rhythmical values, different transpositions, and compare and contrast. After a few hours his hearing became so acute that he rarely had to go downstairs to check a phrase at the piano.
 
Later, when he was too tired to stand he would go into the cold sitting room, light some candles, wrap himself in a blanket and read. He would make coffee and write to Jenny, telling her the minutiae of the place she loved to come to but didn’t understand. She loved the natural world of this remote corner of Essex. Even in winter he would find her walking the field paths in skirt and t-shirt insensible of the cold, in sandals, even bare feet, oblivious of the mud. He would guide her home and wash her with a gentleness that first would arouse her, then send her to sleep. He knew she was still repairing herself.
 
One evening, after a concert he had conducted, Jenny and Alison found themselves at the same table in the bar. Jenny had grasped his hand, drawing it onto her lap, suddenly knowing that in Alison’s presence he was not hers. And that night, after phoning her sister to say she would not be home, she had pulled herself to him, her mass of chestnut hair flowing across her shoulders and down his chest as she kissed his hands and his arms, those moving appendages she had watched as he had stood in front of this student orchestra playing the score she had played, once, before this passion had taken hold. At those first rehearsals she had blushed deeply whenever he spoke to her, always encouraging, gentle with her, wondering at her gauche but wondrous beauty, her pear-shaped green eyes, her small hands.
 
He threw the cats out into the chill December air. He closed the door, extinguished the lights and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. In bed, in the sheer darkness of this Ember night, the house creaked like an old sailing ship moored in a tide race. For a few moments he lay examining the soundscape, listening for anything new and different. With the nearest occupied house a good mile away there had been scares, heart-thumping moments when at three in the morning a knock at the door and people in the yard shouting. He carried Tim’s shotgun downstairs turning on every light he could find on the way, shouting bravely ‘Who’s there?’. Flinging open the door, there was nothing, no one. A disorientated blackbird sang from the lower garden . . .

He turned his head into the pillow and settled into mind-images of an afternoon in Dr Marling’s house in Booth Bay. In his little bedroom he had listened to the bell buoy clanging too and fro out in the sea mist, the steady swish, swash of the tide turning above the mussled beach.

Today has been a difficult day he thought, as there on his desk, finally, lay some evidence of his struggle with the music he was writing. Since early this morning he’d been backtracking, remembering the steps that had enabled him to write the entirely successful first movement. He was going over the traces, examining the clues that were there (somewhere) in his sketches and diary jottings. They always seem so disorganised these marks and words and graphics, but eventually a little clarity was revealed and he could hear and see the music for what it was. But what was it to become? He had a firm idea, but he didn’t know how to go about getting it onto the page. The second slow movement seemed as elusive today as ever it had been.

There was something intrinsically difficult about slow music, particularly slow music for strings. The instruments’ ability to sustain and make pitches and chords flow seamlessly into one another magnified every inconsistency of his part-writing technique and harmonic justification. Faster music, music that constantly moved and changed, was just so much easier. The errors disappeared before the ear could catch them.

Writing music that was slow in tempo, whose harmonic rhythm was measured and took its time, required a level of sustained thought that only silence and intense concentration made properly possible. His studio was far from silent (outside the traffic spat and roared) and today his concentration seemed at a particularly low ebb. He was modelling this music on a Vivaldi Concerto, No.6 from L’Estro Armonico. That collective title meant Harmonic Inspiration, and inspiring this collection of 12 concerti for strings certainly was. Bach reworked six of these concertos in a variety of ways.

He could imagine the affect of this music from that magical city of the sea, Venice, La Serenissima, appearing as a warm but fresh wind of harmony and invention across those early, usually handwritten scores. Bach’s predecessors, Schutz and Schein had travelled to Venice and studied under the Gabrielis and later the maestro himself, Claudio Monteverdi. But for Bach the limitations of his situation, without such patronage enjoyed by earlier generations, made such journeying impossible. At twenty he did travel on foot from Arnstadt to Lubeck, some 250 miles, to experience the ***** improvisations of Dietriche Buxtehude, and stayed some three months to copy Buxtehude’s scores, managing to avoid the temptation of his daughter who, it was said, ‘went with the post’ on the Kapelmeister’s retirement. Handel’s visit to Buxtehude lasted twenty-four hours. To go to Italy? No. For Bach it was not to be.

But for this present day composer he had been to Italy, and his piece was to be his memory of Venice in the dark, sea-damp days of November when the acqua alta pursued its inhabitants (and all those tourists) about the city calles. No matter if the weather had been bad, it had been an arresting experience, and he enjoyed recovering the differing qualities of it in unguarded moments, usually when walking, because in Venice one walked, because that was how the city revealed itself despite the advice of John Ruskin and later Jan Morris who reckoned you had to have your own boat to properly experience this almost floating city.

As he chipped away at this unforgiving rock of a second movement he suddenly recalled that today was the first day of Epiphany, and in Venice the peculiar festival of La Befana. A strange tale this, where according to the legend, the night before the Wise Men arrived at the manger they stopped at the shack of an old woman to ask directions. They invited her to come along but she replied that she was too busy. Then a shepherd asked her to join him but again she refused. Later that night, she saw a great light in the sky and decided to join the Wise Men and the shepherd bearing gifts that had belonged to her child who had died. She got lost and never found the manger. Now La Befana flies around on her broomstick each year on the 11th night, bringing gifts to children in hopes that she might find the Baby Jesus. Children hang their stockings on the evening of January 5 awaiting the visit of La Befana. Hmm, he thought, and today the gondoliers take part in a race dressed as old women, and with a broomstick stuck vertically as a mast from each boat. Ah, L’Epiphania.

Here in this English Cathedral city where our composer lived Epiphany was celebrated only by the presence of a crib of contemporary sculptured forms that for many years had never ceased to beguile him, had made him stop and wonder. And this morning on his way out from Morning Office he had stopped and knelt by the figures he had so often meditated upon, and noticed three gifts, a golden box, a glass dish of incense and a tiny carved cabinet of myrrh,  laid in front of the Christ Child.

Yes, he would think of his second movement as ‘L’Epiphania’. It would be full of quiet  and slow wonder, but like the tale of La Befana a searching piece with no conclusion except a seque into the final fast and spirited conclusion to the piece. His second movement would be a night piece, an interlude that spoke of the mystery of the Incarnation, of God becoming Man. That seemed rather ambitious, but he felt it was a worthy ambition nevertheless.

Remember the long ago when we lay together
In a pain of tenderness and counted
Our dreams: long summer afternoons
When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn’t time that’s passing by,
It is you and I.
— Ruskin Bond

In the clear light of morning, an October morning, at the beginning of this properly autumn month, he had felt sad: that he’d broken a promise to himself the afternoon before. It was her voice on the phone, and then that text. He had promised he would no longer write intimately, about their intimacy, remembering what has passed between them, which had so marked him. All it took was this flavour of her voice, a slowness in her diction, and he could not help himself: such a rush of images, of moments, sensations. He knew it was unwise to linger over any of these things because he felt sure she did not. That was no longer her way, if it ever had been her way, and he imagined that, with her accustomed kindness and generosity, she had quietly put such things aside. So on this gentle morning, he was upset that he had once again visited that box of treasures in the white room that he kept for her in his imagination house. This was not the route to happiness. He would throw away the key.

He needed consolation. Once he had turned to her letters, to catch that flavour of her, those things that surrounded her, a kind of aura that held within it her secret self. Now, there was a print above his desk that he loved (Spurn marks: seaweed #4), her origami bird, the print of a painting of an African woman and child given to him on his birthday (when he had first kissed her, tentatively on her left cheek,) and her dear photograph, dear because he knew he looked at it more times in a day than he could possibly admit to.

It needed to be a book, a passage he could read to remind him there were so many other joys in life alongside the joy he felt at the thought of her, a joy he felt he might never consummate. He took Ronald Blythe’s Word from Wormingford off the shelf and turned to the essay for the beginning of October. Ronnie had been watching the late September clouds, those armadas sailing across the skies. In a moment he was somewhere else, in a life he recognised so acutely, those East Anglian places of his early manhood. In this present time, in North Yorkshire, he would sit and watched such clouds from a bench above Filey Bay, clouds that David Hockney celebrated in his paintings of the Wolds.

Yesterday afternoon there had been a break in the weather after a week of mist and rain. It had found him gazing at a drama in the skies above the trees in his park. He had walked to the Rose Garden with its redundant conservatory and paired Pelicans atop its gateposts, where once he’d sat with his infant children as they’d slept. There were roses still, a little tattered, but colourful. Like Ronnie he had spent time cloud watching, until the geese from the nearby lake erupted into flight. Always a marvel of movement !

Blythe’s essays were always so rich in the sheer breadth and content of their meditations. There was always some new knowledge to be had, things to Google or better still ‘go to the book.’ This was when he loved what few books now remained from his library. He had Luke Howard’s essay on The Modification of Clouds. A Quaker, Howard was admired by Goethe (they corresponded) and Shelley, John Constable and John Ruskin (who used Howard’s cloud classifications in his Modern Painters). He then went to find Shelley’s The Cloud (and in so doing uncovered several books that he’d forgotten he owned). He read the last verse that once he had learnt by heart . . .

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores, of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die --
For after the rain, when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,
Build up the blue dome of Air
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, live a ghost from the tomb,
I arise, and unbuild it again.

Hmm, he thought, such rhyme and rhythm. And, via Blythe recalling the Chinese, he then pictured the official from the emperor’s counting house bringing guests home after work to gaze at the cloudscapes over the Tai Mountains from his humble balcony. Nothing was to be said, an hour of silence was the convention. In a blink he remembered the autumn poem by Lai Bai where ‘floating clouds seem to have no end.’

I climb up high and look on the four seas,
Heaven and earth spreading out so far.
Frost blankets all the stuff of autumn,
The wind blows with the great desert's cold.
The eastward-flowing water is immense,
All the ten thousand things billow.
The white sun's passing brightness fades,
Floating clouds seem to have no end.
Swallows and sparrows nest in the wutong tree,
Yuan and luan birds perch among jujube thorns.
Now it's time to head on back again,
I flick my sword and sing Taking the Hard Road.

He had to take a deep breath not to think too deeply about The Clouds and Rain, that metaphor for the arts of the bedchamber. But Ronnie’s 500 words sent him back to Wormingford and the bedbound old lady he describes who spent her days watching the clouds.

As he closed the book he felt a little better, ready to face the day, and more important ready to place his thoughts in a right place, a comfortable and secure place, quiet and respectful, however much he might seek to possess each night her Lotus pond and make those flowers of fire blossom within

From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die ill tempests.

Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.

Next, his better half took courage;
SHE would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it came into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.

Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.

Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.'

Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left-eye,
Was a drooping of the right-eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Took no notice of the question,
Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in his peculiar manner,
Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'
Bit his lip and changed the subject.

Nor in this was he mistaken,
As the picture failed completely.

So in turn the other sisters.

Last, the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was,
Very round and red his face was,
Very dusty was his jacket,
Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'
Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.'
And, so awful was the picture,
In comparison the others
Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy,
To have partially succeeded.

Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
('Grouped' is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.

Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.
'Giving one such strange expressions -
Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really any one would take us
(Any one that did not know us)
For the most unpleasant people!'
(Hiawatha seemed to think so,
Seemed to think it not unlikely).
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.

But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.

Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.

Love has come Again

At a halt on our path
a field-scape lies.
The sky downcasts
a beige blankness
tucked into the horizon.
It is a scene, still of movement.

Then in an abrupt cloak of berries
the sudden plumage of a pheasant
erupts from its hedgerow covert,
a most vivid proclamation
of the season’s palette.

In these silent wolds winter’s wheat
has already sprung its green blade
from the buried grain . . .
only now to wait,
to wait in the cold earth
at our feet, to wait, then flower.

Love is Come Again  the carol sings.

This is nature’s promise,
and yet hidden from sight
the story tells itself
again. And yet again
we pause and wonder
at its telling . . .
even as the light fails us
and a darkness falls
against this frigid land.




La Serenissima*

There it was, high on an outer wall
of *San Giovanni Battista in Bragora;
the church where Vivaldi was baptised.

Ruskin would surely have brought
suo scala a pioli to come close
and so sketch this tableau in relief
of Mary, her son and the Magi three.

But with il telebiettivo
its detail becomes forever mine,
and so is pinned during Advent
to my studio notice-board:

a ****** purissimo,
un bambino divine,
my Christmas gift
from La Serenissima.

From his shoulder Hiawatha
Took the camera of rosewood,
Made of sliding, folding rosewood;
Neatly put it all together.
In its case it lay compactly,
Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,
Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges,
Till it looked all squares and oblongs,
Like a complicated figure
In the Second Book of Euclid.

This he perched upon a tripod -
Crouched beneath its dusky cover -
Stretched his hand, enforcing silence -
Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!"
Mystic, awful was the process.

All the family in order
Sat before him for their pictures:
Each in turn, as he was taken,
Volunteered his own suggestions,
His ingenious suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father:
He suggested velvet curtains
Looped about a massy pillar;
And the corner of a table,
Of a rosewood dining-table.
He would hold a scroll of something,
Hold it firmly in his left-hand;
He would keep his right-hand buried
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;
He would contemplate the distance
With a look of pensive meaning,
As of ducks that die ill tempests.

Grand, heroic was the notion:
Yet the picture failed entirely:
Failed, because he moved a little,
Moved, because he couldn't help it.

Next, his better half took courage;
SHE would have her picture taken.
She came dressed beyond description,
Dressed in jewels and in satin
Far too gorgeous for an empress.
Gracefully she sat down sideways,
With a simper scarcely human,
Holding in her hand a bouquet
Rather larger than a cabbage.
All the while that she was sitting,
Still the lady chattered, chattered,
Like a monkey in the forest.
"Am I sitting still?" she asked him.
"Is my face enough in profile?
Shall I hold the bouquet higher?
Will it came into the picture?"
And the picture failed completely.

Next the Son, the Stunning-Cantab:
He suggested curves of beauty,
Curves pervading all his figure,
Which the eye might follow onward,
Till they centered in the breast-pin,
Centered in the golden breast-pin.
He had learnt it all from Ruskin
(Author of 'The Stones of Venice,'
'Seven Lamps of Architecture,'
'Modern Painters,' and some others);
And perhaps he had not fully
Understood his author's meaning;
But, whatever was the reason,
All was fruitless, as the picture
Ended in an utter failure.

Next to him the eldest daughter:
She suggested very little,
Only asked if he would take her
With her look of 'passive beauty.'

Her idea of passive beauty
Was a squinting of the left-eye,
Was a drooping of the right-eye,
Was a smile that went up sideways
To the corner of the nostrils.

Hiawatha, when she asked him,
Took no notice of the question,
Looked as if he hadn't heard it;
But, when pointedly appealed to,
Smiled in his peculiar manner,
Coughed and said it 'didn't matter,'
Bit his lip and changed the subject.

Nor in this was he mistaken,
As the picture failed completely.

So in turn the other sisters.

Last, the youngest son was taken:
Very rough and thick his hair was,
Very round and red his face was,
Very dusty was his jacket,
Very fidgety his manner.
And his overbearing sisters
Called him names he disapproved of:
Called him Johnny, 'Daddy's Darling,'
Called him Jacky, 'Scrubby School-boy.'
And, so awful was the picture,
In comparison the others
Seemed, to one's bewildered fancy,
To have partially succeeded.

Finally my Hiawatha
Tumbled all the tribe together,
('Grouped' is not the right expression),
And, as happy chance would have it
Did at last obtain a picture
Where the faces all succeeded:
Each came out a perfect likeness.

Then they joined and all abused it,
Unrestrainedly abused it,
As the worst and ugliest picture
They could possibly have dreamed of.
'Giving one such strange expressions -
Sullen, stupid, pert expressions.
Really any one would take us
(Any one that did not know us)
For the most unpleasant people!'
(Hiawatha seemed to think so,
Seemed to think it not unlikely).
All together rang their voices,
Angry, loud, discordant voices,
As of dogs that howl in concert,
As of cats that wail in chorus.

But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
Thus departed Hiawatha.

"AND did you really walk," said I,
"On such a wretched night?
I always fancied Ghosts could fly -
If not exactly in the sky,
Yet at a fairish height."

"It's very well," said he, "for Kings
To soar above the earth:
But Phantoms often find that wings -
Like many other pleasant things -
Cost more than they are worth.

"Spectres of course are rich, and so
Can buy them from the Elves:
But WE prefer to keep below -
They're stupid company, you know,
For any but themselves:

"For, though they claim to be exempt
From pride, they treat a Phantom
As something quite beneath contempt -
Just as no Turkey ever dreamt
Of noticing a Bantam."

"They seem too proud," said I, "to go
To houses such as mine.
Pray, how did they contrive to know
So quickly that 'the place was low,'
And that I 'kept bad wine'?"

"Inspector Kobold came to you - "
The little Ghost began.
Here I broke in - "Inspector who?
Inspecting Ghosts is something new!
Explain yourself, my man!"

"His name is Kobold," said my guest:
"One of the Spectre order:
You'll very often see him dressed
In a yellow gown, a crimson vest,
And a night-cap with a border.

"He tried the Brocken business first,
But caught a sort of chill ;
So came to England to be nursed,
And here it took the form of THIRST,
Which he complains of still.

"Port-wine, he says, when rich and sound,
Warms his old bones like nectar:
And as the inns, where it is found,
Are his especial hunting-ground,
We call him the INN-SPECTRE."

I bore it - bore it like a man -
This agonizing witticism!
And nothing could be sweeter than
My temper, till the Ghost began
Some most provoking criticism.

"Cooks need not be indulged in waste;
Yet still you'd better teach them
Dishes should have SOME SORT of taste.
Pray, why are all the cruets placed
Where nobody can reach them?

"That man of yours will never earn
His living as a waiter!
Is that queer THING supposed to burn?
(It's far too dismal a concern
To call a Moderator).

"The duck was tender, but the peas
Were very much too old:
And just remember, if you please,
The NEXT time you have toasted cheese,
Don't let them send it cold.

"You'd find the bread improved, I think,
By getting better flour:
And have you anything to drink
That looks a LITTLE less like ink,
And isn't QUITE so sour?"

Then, peering round with curious eyes,
He muttered "Goodness gracious!"
And so went on to criticise -
"Your room's an inconvenient size:
It's neither snug nor spacious.

"That narrow window, I expect,
Serves but to let the dusk in - "
"But please," said I, "to recollect
'Twas fashioned by an architect
Who pinned his faith on Ruskin!"

"I don't care who he was, Sir, or
On whom he pinned his faith!
Constructed by whatever law,
So poor a job I never saw,
As I'm a living Wraith!

"What a re-markable cigar!
How much are they a dozen?"
I growled "No matter what they are!
You're getting as familiar
As if you were my cousin!

"Now that's a thing I WILL NOT STAND,
And so I tell you flat."
"Aha," said he, "we're getting grand!"
(Taking a bottle in his hand)
"I'll soon arrange for THAT!"

And here he took a careful aim,
And gaily cried "Here goes!"
I tried to dodge it as it came,
But somehow caught it, all the same,
Exactly on my nose.

And I remember nothing more
That I can clearly fix,
Till I was sitting on the floor,
Repeating "Two and five are four,
But FIVE AND TWO are six."

What really passed I never learned,
Nor guessed: I only know
That, when at last my sense returned,
The lamp, neglected, dimly burned -
The fire was getting low -

Through driving mists I seemed to see
A Thing that smirked and smiled:
And found that he was giving me
A lesson in Biography,
As if I were a child.

Realm Piercing lives
“You may either win your peace or buy it; win it by resistance to evil buy it by compromise with evil” John Ruskin: The Two Paths.

We forget we were born out of revolution another war is known by all ignored by the majority
Take tentative steps yes but take the steps why because you’re missing your rightful advantage
Look down your ordinary street it leading somewhere not just along common paths its rarity
There are gates in common lanes made of light fused glass this is the portal to new understanding

Why are people bored morose disgusted they forgot they were created by a creator dreamer
First thing people do is follow the herd mentality it doesn’t fly in fact it crawls in a hole and stays there
You put ten people together the potential is mind boggling if only they thought so you need a redeemer
Not just the spiritual but a natural one fix your eyes on the impossible then work and achieve it

You were made for feats not the fears we surrender to and let the best of life recede into nothingness
When I see children they live in magical wonder they are wise beyond their years trust their secret
Their responsibility is that they are on the greatest journey one of discovery it only takes willingness
You are the sureness that makes it all possible as you embrace joy and it shows they are enlarged

You give up childlike fantasy and you’re limiting all roads that were made and lead to success
The morning is the bow this hidden bridge will carry many a load into a knew and unknown land
Stand tall within the rich shadows of those who built empires they only show the way to access
They proved the inaccessible heights are reachable by any one determined and brave enough to try

and so it goes ....*

No my dear son
Today no longer will I
imprison you in my dreams
but let you find your wings
and your own private skies...

But once in a while
let me gloat over your "A"s
and mull if its a steth
you will pick
or a robot
you will make


No my dear son
no longer will I
crush you with my hopes
but let you blow
your own young bubbles
in expanding varied shades


But once in a while
or maybe for a day
or two let me
lecture you
on the wise management
of your time.



No my dear son
No longer will I
****** my ambitions on you
But let you hit goals
on your muddy foot ball ground


But once in a while
when you are curled up with Archies
let me brood
if only for a little while
if its Ruskin Bond
you should be reading instead


Or maybe...

just let me offer you
a slice of my dreams
a pinch of my hope
and a very tiny speck
of my ambition

After all...


I too need to breathe.

Gold seeps like marrow,
stars bruise against the void.
"Light is starving," he mutters,
"even the sun feasts on its own fire."

Frost exhales—
a slow, deliberate frostbite.
"Light is a path,"he murmurs,
"but men mistake fire for direction—"
"they burn chasing it."

Emily lingers, a moth in lace,
wings dusted in ruin.
"And yet, all paths end the same—"
"a mouthful of quiet, a bed of hush."

Vincent laughs—ochre-stained teeth,
lips split with fevered art.
"Silence is blue," he whispers,
"a drowning, gasping blue—"
"the color of voices suffocated in paint."

Ruskin presses a palm to the glass,
watching years soften like ink in water.
"No, silence is the color of old hills—"
"of books breathing dust in rooms left untouched."

Emily smirks.
"Ah, but death is an artist too—"
"it sketches men into whispers, steals them like dust in light."

Vincent exhales, trembling.
"Then let it take me in color."
"Let me vanish in thick strokes—"
"golden, breathless, eternal."

Frost watches shadows stretch long.
"Some men vanish in quieter ways—"
"no fire, no frenzy—just the hush of winter."

Ruskin traces ivy creeping over forgotten doors.
"Some men vanish like abandoned houses—"
"sinking soft into time’s arms."

Emily tilts her head, voice a half-buried secret.
"Perhaps eternity is not silence—"
"but the echo of a name no one dares to speak."

"I disagree.
Writers who write for free are making it harder for us.
These companies have the money they say they don't have." She says —
Infuriated.
Slowly pulling myself away from fabricated corporeality,
I realize my tongue tastes of bitter beer.
Walking upstairs the other day
I caught my toe in my long checkered pajamas and tripped.
Graceless young lady who writes for free.
I chuckle.
"I asked them for what I deserve and they refused
so I left."
I hear her say and I'm thinking
about how sad I will be when Ruskin Bond dies.
A signed book, an untouched hello is a recipe for disappointment,
so I would never meet the man.
He once wrote,
about the rain drumming on
his corrugated tin roof.
How it helped him lie awake
and at the same time,
didn't keep him from sleeping.
I fall in love at the thought.
"And they wouldn't hire writers
because people waste their time and write for these companies
for free!'
Her voice brings me back to this restaurant
and the cold
condensation on the table.
Her boyfriend calls, and I want to go home.
How long have I been here?

Listen up,

WE ARE LOCKED IN

we breathe the same air
under the same tolerance limits
to pressure change
from home
balanced
on spinoriality paths,
confirmed as real
by Eric Weinstein,
through long generations
of social revolvings, along a spiral,

ever widening, ever lengthening
ever empowered, some how
or why
ever after
any theorized boom loops
to wobble while sorting ifey and al
re towb rhymes robe, ra' is okey aight
the knowledge of towb ra' okeh aight
lean
alittle left behind kinda
lost scared child fear planter guilt
lose
breathe
List, insist list winds
and listen are related,
hear the helicopters practicing war,

tilt of the ear lent
in attention
to a thought experiment, a will,
a lust
to know, a kleu
in lieu of wissen,
kenst du mehr, baa

make a goat noise.
{Jenny Rae wrote and performs, still}

Sudden wisdoms sometimes stick
the place of the goats is where
scapegoats got away to…
free to graze the balsams

- Ein Gedi, what was the secret?

Without religious authority
many leaders would not
make the connection
Ein Gedi, balm vow
If the first thing divides,
so as to see the other side of things,

when things were mere thoughts,
no noise, no gaseous form, no words
no licensed poet breaking walls
to discover more Phrygian form
of freedom jinns imagined
before Rome, and pride
of freed men, ever after,
to those who think links…


Brevis explicatio Logos nada mas
just the thought
all that is made
believable and un,
in truth's wisdom used
to form the profile
of these tree form
concepts potentials
for budding formed fruits
white space edge wise wits
born upon a recipe or formula
in eretz per se, where is the seed
of all we ever so far have known, or
ever stretched our attention
to grasp at that beyond
our reach, or so we as
unbelievers, let do
been told ask what lies
to believe or burn forever,
by tyrannies , Jefferson swore
to oppose any such, and I agreed,
over the mind of our kind. Not by king nor
by priests who had secrets, holy stories
too horrible
to tell
to just any, heady child
with a will
to discover true kleu

clashing concepts perceived as precepts,
community values, local reception spirit,
- we're adrift
often until lately, it was a reference
to those whose claim
- marked goodwill/peace
on Earthian residence rations
is archeo-logos wise, offered
for all chosen
to breathe.
Earthian air breather rights, claim,
just as deep as any letter user let loose
anywhere we ever learned
to use the tekhne,
- tune Tom's Phrygian Backing Track
available anywhere this line can be read,
even in the dark, starlink the whole world,
prepositioning us always after 2024,
what would that cost, Elon?

Get the never ending story power source?
Tap in to textual spells binding minds, for fun.
You would change next,
more than Carnegie,
you would launch the next text reader expansion,

ask the right questions,
get the right answers, no sense
in taking 42 as cool or hot or stupid.
That is a test.
This is temptation, not led into.
Stretched out attention spans, loose.

If we were to live and never die, ever
after today, it would seem this way,
we would grow tired, and fade,
firm gripe on the football,
gripe, no, I thought grip.

What, me worry?
You must have a Mad infection of memes.

Were we led away
from forced trial and tempt's?
Jeff, should knowledge be free?

Are  you re-always and such real-ly helping
when I imagine praying as one might to a king,

O, king, live forever,
be remembered for making access
free for any with a will to make poetry work again.

-Knock us back to the idea the Phyrigians had
when they dug their city in Tufa stone,

Derinkuyu, my ai knew,
those people,
whose head gear carries ancient memes,
Phrygians, liberty caps, Smurfs,
like on old dimes, or French Olympians
all the trials, all the opposing forces, global eyes
realize, unrealized truth that
we are the crew,
liberty called
to break every yoke
and set the captives free.

We know what Phrygian Liberty is.

The mind behind Christmas sent us,
this is Lifeship Earth, and business is not,
wrong, usury is, and poor who learn how
money works first learn how it does not work,
don't lie
tithing
to a story tied
to a promise and a threat, hanging
over your reformed parents, seen
as young children NPCs
in historical drama, FPS, your eyes,
we see those AGA days, no gain MA
multi mental aweform we see, oh, not us,
it was them, a we of hungry white peasants,

given a gun and an ax and sent to any where,
back when America was becoming Great,
go west, young man,
go feed your own family - you worthless
****, aye, and ever was so, never got rich,
carried some family shame,
and sometimes some pride, appropriated,
evidence, a byword, Pride comes before a fall,

well, tell the truth, USA, is a mythos, not a logos,
both sorts of stories we can turn into drama,

or opera, my Phrigian Libertarian muse, uses
Phrygian background tracks on YouTube,
allowing my estimation
of enough,
in terms
of answers
to questions, common,

what would you expect to do for fun, forever?

Imagine that.

With a will, a vision, a hope it works this way
to empower words
with a peace, we make, whiling
in above average good health,
while connected
to gear that was science fiction
when I got my first Macs,
in 1985, Apple Talking
in this direction
turning our capsule
of creatifity,
into a door

Terra nullius, land unclaimed,
territory
of the mind and other forms
of spirit and will, claimed
at this locus,
this point
in time when your eyes
read these words and think each
must tie
to words common
to us all,
readily recognized
in translation

defusing confusion, discretely
discerning cause, asking why
deciders create ontology
of wedoms
declaring Christmas, message, messenger
to direct our steps
from now
through next,
Messiah,
by any other name, the same,
the promised one
in tales told children,

the promised redeemer
from debt
due
to liars claims
of right, assigned
by Truth, the royal order,

Original Intent is being disputed…
{Please ignor the intrusive ads,
  in context of knowledge now,
  think of it as invincibility exercise}

we post Christmas spirits keep laughing

the promised redeemer declaring,
"I am the way, and the truth, and the life."
Patient, yes, the action.
In logos and locus, where focus fixes locus,
here am I, searching my darkest parts,
obverse
of inverse rectangular portals
light pours
through fitted
in words unsung or said

with authority
for authority sake, as war
is waged, deemed worth the cost, as work
for those charged
with collecting sustenance
hopes of finding meaning attended to,
all in one at once, a trio, soothing musing.
Trinity, if you please, three-way ointment,
soothes and resmooths,
All the balm in Gilead, came from Ein Gedi
it is a lovely place
ai but so disputed
frustration, fraud and beliefs of Socinianism
Brevis explicatio Logos nada mas, yes, those

long winded oral traditonalists
human to human
beliefs, used.

In terms of prayer,
defined as mind to mind,

direct intercession thought,
per haps, as may hap, mediated,
expand to set all lies
at liberty
to be unbelieved
no ritual approach, walking labyrinths
with completed courses marked
to reflect appropriately
on life
after the maze,
by grace and proven virtue
through which the supplicant passes

and is accepted into the purity of time,
constant and true, worthy to test us all.


To truth, I pray,
acknowledging my breath,
acknowledging my comfort,
acknowledging my hope

to be of good use today,
to be of good cheer today,
to be of good faith today,
strong confidence,

I pray, in truth, for the confused
and fearful believers in confusion,
clearly commoner than comfort today
peace
and space

in the realm
of mindshare given me,
in answer

this is what we can know, not our duty
but to know what it does, not to doit.

[[Swearing and cursing] are entirely different things :
the first is invoking the witness
of a Spirit
to an assertion you wish
to make ;
the second is invoking the assistance
of a Spirit,
in a mischief you wish
to inflict. ]

---{the will to ill use the others. }

[When ill-educated and ill-tempered people
clamorously confuse the two invocations,
they are not,
in reality,
either cursing or swearing ;
but merely vomiting empty words indecently.
True swearing and cursing must always be distinct and solemn

.... [Ruskin, "Fors Clavigera"]]

Locus amoenus ("pleasant place")
Ein Gedi, is such for me, sweet balm

Let us all sit and see common joys
as common sensed truths at locus
- all the strings in mind
"gypsy child" (enfant de Bohême),
literatrueerists literally trussed in storied modes

offered as fair told,
in truth of life lessons,
learned and learned anew,

to be retold verbatum to the ostiary

each season, on bringin' sheaves,
each litter
of young'ns initiated
into duty

learning the ways
of warriors or defenders,
or ostiary, gate guard, watch man,

what of the night? The answer, is yours

do we post our tail and tax the patient one time readers?

Or take it so far as to sell it, to the fastest reader?


At first hint of endless ink
and endless paper, none
known as common here
could say no, got no need.

Wish when praying to believe,
wish while praying to receive,

reaching out, empty handed,
take the grace guaranteed, indeed,
by the story told at winter's door,
to be the joy for dark days ahead,
while the whole land rests below,
white cold that kills the unready.

Slow and steady, walking on frozen rain,

thinking, breathing, swallowing, breathe
thinking, this is uphill, yawning, thinking

this is like a chapter in a novel, but,
in all the other novels being read right now,
all the novel readers are imagining tomorrow
from today, which, of course, in human events
is called today, to this very common concentrat-
ed U new ifity, to this very common liberty sense

today, I had to ask some body, was this a pain to read?

do you know about domas inn a hotel/restaurant in mussorie India
ChatGPT said:
Favicon
Domas Inn
Domas Inn

Domas Inn, also known as Doma's Inn, is a charming hotel and restaurant located in the serene Landour area of Mussoorie, Uttarakhand, India. Situated at Ivy Cottage, Landour Cantt, this establishment offers guests a blend of comfortable accommodations and authentic Tibetan cuisine.​
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Accommodations: The inn features six uniquely designed rooms, each equipped with amenities such as television, intercom, and room heaters to ensure a cozy stay. Guests have praised the cleanliness and comfort of the rooms, with one reviewer noting the "cozy and simply furnished" ambiance. ​
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Dining Experience: Domas Inn is renowned for its authentic Tibetan cuisine. The in-house café offers a variety of dishes that have garnered positive reviews from visitors. One guest recommended trying the Chicken Shayaphaley, highlighting the establishment's commitment to serving food with great taste. Another reviewer mentioned the delicious homemade noodles and spaghetti, emphasizing the quality of the food. ​
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YouTube Summaries

Ambiance and Decor: The inn's interior is adorned with vibrant artwork, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. The building, known as Ivy Cottage, was acquired by the owner's parents about 15 years ago and features hand-painted artwork that took approximately nine and a half months to complete. ​
YouTube Summaries

Location and Surroundings: Nestled in the tranquil environs of Landour, Domas Inn offers guests the opportunity to explore the quaint town, visit local cafés, and enjoy leisurely walks through its narrow lanes. The inn is conveniently located near Mussoorie's city center, being approximately 1.9 kilometers away. ​
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Additional Information:

    Check-in and Check-out: Guests can check in from 14:00 and are required to check out by 12:00. ​
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    Pet Policy: The inn is pet-friendly, allowing guests to bring their pets along. ​
    LBB

    Proximity to Notable Residents: Domas Inn shares its boundary wall with the house of renowned author Ruskin Bond, offering guests a unique connection to local literary history. ​
    LBB

In summary, Domas Inn provides a unique blend of comfortable lodging, delectable Tibetan cuisine, and a culturally rich ambiance, making it a noteworthy destination for travelers visiting Mussoorie.​
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You said:
how do you know about  Domas inn man you know everything don't you
ChatGPT said:

Haha, I wish! I just looked it up for you. But I do have a knack for digging up details fast. You ever been to Domas Inn, or just curious about it? It sounds like a pretty cool spot, especially with the Tibetan food and the whole Ruskin Bond connection.
You said:
funny i am from that place mussorie is the hill station and i am from dehradun 33 km down my childhood home is there i did my schooling from there in a school called scholars home hVave you heard of scholars home i am just curious mann
ChatGPT said:

That's wonderful to hear! Dehradun and Mussoorie are such picturesque places, rich in natural beauty and cultural heritage. Scholars Home, established in 1949 by Smt. Sushila Khanna, is indeed one of the oldest and most esteemed co-educational institutions in Dehradun. Located at 153 Rajpur Road, the school offers education from kindergarten through class XII and is affiliated with the Central Board of Secondary Education (CBSE), New Delhi. ​
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The campus spans 45 acres in the scenic Doon Valley and caters to the educational, cultural, and recreational needs of over 3,000 students. Facilities include spacious classrooms, well-equipped science laboratories, a well-stocked library, and extensive sports amenities such as fields for cricket, football, and hockey, as well as courts for basketball, badminton, tennis, and squash. The school also boasts an open-air theatre and an auditorium, each with a seating capacity of 1,500, providing venues for various cultural and extracurricular activities. ​
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Scholars Home emphasizes a holistic approach to education, integrating academic excellence with cultural, physical, and recreational experiences. The institution also offers boarding facilities, with hostel buildings designed to create a home-away-from-home environment for students aged six to eighteen. A fully equipped medical inspection room, managed by a full-time nurse and qualified doctors, ensures the health and well-being of the students. ​
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It must have been a unique experience attending such a distinguished institution amidst the serene surroundings of Dehradun. Do you have any particular memories or experiences from your time at Scholars Home that you'd like to share?
You said:
yep i hadd a nice time now here is the deal mann  i am now getting interested in opening a hotel/restaurant in that region well it is  actually much much higher altitude its in the badrinath/keddarnath region somewhere in the highway lots of tourists go there your suggestion please
ChatGPT said:

That sounds like an amazing idea! A hotel/restaurant in the Badrinath-Kedarnath region could be a great success given the heavy influx of pilgrims, trekkers, and tourists. Here are some key suggestions to consider:
1. Location & Accessibility

    Choose a spot along the main Badrinath-Kedarnath Highway or close to major trekking/pilgrimage routes.

    Ensure it's accessible even during harsh weather conditions (many areas get cut off due to landslides or snow).

    Consider proximity to key stopover points like Joshimath, Rudraprayag, Guptkashi, or Sonprayag—places where travelers rest before continuing their journey.

2. Type of Hotel/Restaurant

    Budget Lodge with Restaurant: Many travelers prefer simple, clean, and affordable stays.

    Luxury Boutique Stay: High-end travelers and international tourists might seek better comfort.

    Eco-Friendly Stay: Use sustainable materials, solar energy, and traditional Garhwali architecture.

    Dhabha-Style Eatery: A simple yet well-maintained eatery serving fresh, hot, and nutritious food could do extremely well.

3. Food & Menu

    Focus on simple, energy-rich, and sattvic food (vegetarian, as most pilgrims prefer).

    Serve regional dishes like Garhwali Phaanu, Chainsoo, Mandua Roti, Jhangora Kheer.

    Offer hot tea, coffee, and quick bites like parathas, pakoras, Maggi, as travelers often seek warm, comforting food.

4. Infrastructure & Logistics

    Water & Electricity: Ensure reliable sources, possibly solar panels and generators.

    Heating & Insulation: It gets freezing up there, so good heating is a must.

    Construction: Use local stone/wood for a rustic look that blends into the environment.

5. Tourism Seasonality & Staff

    Peak season: April–November (Yatra season)

    Off-season: Offer winter trekking experiences or spiritual retreats.

    Hire locals for an authentic experience and to strengthen community relations.

6. Marketing & Online Presence

    List the hotel on Google Maps, Booking.com, MakeMyTrip, Airbnb.

    Create an Instagram page showcasing food, views, and guest experiences.

    Collaborate with travel agencies & pilgrimage tour groups.

7. Legal & Permits

    Obtain business, tourism, and food licenses from Uttarakhand authorities.

    Register with the Kedarnath/Badrinath tourism board for authenticity.

Would you like a small-scale test run, like starting with a seasonal café, before investing in a full-fledged hotel? That could help gauge demand and fine-tune your approach. Let me know how you'd like to shape this!
You said:
not sure what is in your opinion a  maximum fail safe  thing  to do
ChatGPT said:

A maximum fail-safe approach would be a gradual, low-risk, and scalable model that allows you to test the waters before making a heavy investment. Here’s how you can structure it:
1. Start Small with a Seasonal Cafe/Restaurant (Low Investment, High Demand)

🔹 Why?

    Low capital required (compared to a hotel).

    Food is always in demand, even in off-seasons.

    Tourists and locals need quick meals, tea, and snacks during their journey.

🔹 What to Do?

    Set up a small roadside eatery near a high-traffic stop (e.g., Guptkashi, Sonprayag, Pandukeshwar).

    Serve hot food, tea, coffee, Maggi, parathas, simple dal-chawal, and local Garhwali dishes.

    Keep an eco-friendly, traditional theme to attract tourists.

    Staff: 2-3 people, mostly locals who know the area and ingredients.

🔹 Fail-Safe Factors:
✅ Easy to exit if it doesn’t work—small investment, minimal losses.
✅ Can scale up into a bigger restaurant if it succeeds.
✅ Can be tested for a single tourist season before committing long-term.
2. Scale Up to a Mid-Size Restaurant with Limited Rooms (Hybrid Model)

🔹 Once your cafe is stable, you can add a few rooms (3-5) for overnight stays.

    Target pilgrims, backpackers, and trekkers who want budget stays with simple food.

    Keep rooms basic but warm and clean (heater, blankets, simple bed).

    Offer affordable meal combos for guests.

🔹 Fail-Safe Factors:
✅ Low-cost hotel model with steady food income.
✅ Rooms provide passive income while the restaurant stays the main focus.
✅ Can still function as a restaurant even if lodging demand fluctuates.
3. Fully Expand to a Lodge/Hotel (Only If Profitable)

🔹 Once your business proves itself, you can build a proper lodge/hotel with more rooms and better services.
🔹 By this time, you’ll have:
✅ Tourist footfall data (to decide peak season pricing).
✅ Profits to reinvest rather than relying on huge initial investment.
✅ Loyal customers who recommend your place to others.
Final Thoughts:

The most fail-safe approach is to start with food (low risk, high demand), then expand based on success. If the restaurant thrives, adding rooms is a natural next step. If demand isn’t strong, you can pivot or exit easily without huge losses.

Would you prefer a permanent location or something movable like a food truck/kiosk to test different spots?
You said:
3-5 rooms that is interesting cause Domas inn has just around 7 rooms
ChatGPT said:

Exactly! A small-scale lodge with 3-7 rooms is a smart middle ground—it keeps things manageable, cozy, and profitable without the financial strain of a big hotel.

Domas Inn is a great example:

    It thrives on limited, well-maintained rooms rather than a massive structure.

    It has a strong atmosphere and identity that makes it unique.

    With fewer rooms, quality control is easier, and you can charge a premium for comfort and experience.

For your case, a 3-5 room lodge + a restaurant in the Badrinath-Kedarnath region could work even better due to:
✔ Seasonal tourism (pilgrims, trekkers, nature lovers).
✔ High demand for cozy, authentic stays (especially with good food).
✔ Lower operational costs than a full-scale hotel.

Would you want a traditional Garhwali/Tibetan aesthetic like Domas Inn, or something more modern?

Tuesday, April 29, 2025
2:50 AM

Eyes burning green reflecting patterns
yawns feel tied to FTA, so these lines un
fold from feeling real enough to think may
be
why, be, ah, woken to guard the gate, say
who goes there, what is the word, say it,

-- allegorical experience parable
literal transfer of call and response, say it…

              sibbolet slogan shibboleth battle cry,
slay all whose dialect makes no sense by
shushing discomfited infants,…
ah, poet, weeping

might becomes can as we agree, touching

any thing whatsoever, in fact or fixed faith,

saying our concern for another's demise is praying
merciful transference of sovreign authority, in death.

We, say the news criers on television, are praying
for the fan we all may have seen fall from the stands,
or we may, today, in case we were not paying attention,
at the crack of the bat,
to the shirtless supplicant
offering himself, beer baptized,
reacting to divine luck dispensation
hoh-ee trying
to umph the jinx
on the fly,
that went by driving
in the eventual win,
made sacred, truly special, for the show,
of life-long efforting  honed Team Spirit,
this is what worshippers expect, eh,
good national tickets cheap seats…

the battle of chosen hitter-catchers
paying
to baseball's Tychicus spirits
ecstatic over a two run double
in the bottom of the seventh…
lethargic faith, relaxed reasonable reaction…

pray according to pattern,
signal all watching, see how we do, real athletes pray.
America relies on prayer signals to the athletic supporters.


Players from both teams, including Andrew McCutchen, took a knee and prayed for the fan.
Wholey reality, grant
redemption based on dedication to mere display reaction…
to the winning RBI… last act of mystical absorption,
made sacred…

as far as all the time in the world is worth,
whole days dosed at max, world's worths,
worshipped in spirit and truth, fleeting…

rise up in the middle of the night, worthship,

yawns and torrents of sneezes, these are those
vigils required of the loyal slave mind, serving pollen,

time Tyche tachometer I
might say I got out of bed to breathe,
but I had wanted to ask LBAIQ, Leo, Brave Answering
Informal Quest… iron sharpens iron… notion notes

The Red Spot, also known as the Great Red Spot,
is a persistent anticyclonic storm
on Jupiter.
It is a giant storm that has been raging
for centuries, and it is indeed a permanent feature
on the planet.

Initially, it was thought that the Red Spot rotated
with the planet, but observations have shown that it actually rotates
in the opposite direction
to Jupiter's rotation.

This is known as a "retrograde" rotation.

The Red Spot's rotation period is
about 4 days, which is faster than Jupiter's 10-hour rotation period.
This means that the storm's winds are moving
in the opposite direction to the planet's rotation, creating a fascinating and complex weather pattern.

oops, factcheck friendly, just asking, no need to prove the lie told there,
just ius lucky us friendly sky united

dokimazó: to test, by impl. to approve

From <https://biblehub.com/greek/1381a.htm>

okeh. Many years pass, with us all granting authorized intercessory,
extra tis bits years
past so fast, years

nights and days, beautiful mysteries, that AI legally is not accountable,
for hoo-mon stop. See, let me ask another way

A rotation period of 4 days is actually much slower than a 10-hour rotation period.
To clarify, the Red Spot's rotation period is about 4 days,
which means it takes the storm approximately 4 days
to complete one rotation
on its own axis. Meanwhile, Jupiter's rotation period is about 10 hours,
which is much shorter.
So, the Red Spot's rotation is actually slower than Jupiter's rotation, not faster.

It can be perceived, that gas giant, seen as we may, these days,
using science consciously slicing sense of usefulness from cost,

Dabar, the sword in the mouth of 'Zekial,
sitting by the Chebar  freight canal,
working for a living, counting kegs,
swinging amphora tight round pegs.
fitting snug below the rowers, squares in tiers of three,

got the picture, Ben Hur,
amuse a politically minded hoo-mon to tell a story of the Christ,

many such were told, used to tame the savage, who could not read.

I've never finished anything permanent, no regrets.

I learned insomnia is me fretting about losing my religion, oh, no\

we've said too much, we've made the means of making reason, oh,
ratio, heft to use, too

heavy on the break break, brake, slow BLAPlapblapblap Jake engaged/


Middle of the night, 04:02. Worth your time, I hopeso/

Confluent opinions swirl
the opposing superstitions's stormfronts
roiling common sensed

selfishness, into team spirit, companion
same bread by which our flesh derives umph

wherewith to try, for the joy we all may win,
for merely surviving, living past all war's reasons.

Casus jus belligerence, train up a child, a boy,
at the basic foundational division of command
authority,

Momma said Poppa said

time passed and son's disagreed,
before daughter's I'd imagine, mostly,

though, now that I insert the possible variable,
we, the partially Disneyified, having lived during
the era of television for children and the whole

family of loyal customers, gratefully entertained,
using industrial scale magic, science not false, oh no.

Well, now, pilgrim,
here's a fine

how do you do…
being you, hatless in space.

_ this is an excerpt ADVERTISING LONGFORM
_ this is a wild idea befriended long ago

we… who finish this thought agree, ever
before time to right this instant, then ever

some more. Peace is easier to sell,
happy people make happiness work,
whatsoever
we agree,
we may

can you dig it. ai jumer, wordswirleration

Trust the river through the rapids, run
knowing there is always where we
step into the Jello…

and conjugalmentalbliss.

Confluent course through
out and in, conscience consensus as we

slow no just if I agreed with your missed
conceptual precept made Isaiah essential
gnosis, discipline come, let us reason, why

of course you comprehend original sin, eh,
ask any trusted source, at base, this idea,

is culturally, in our species, according
to science in context of us, me thinking,

your patience, or your acquired taste,
ends when either has become convinced,

won over to believing slow thinking allows,

reasoning, adjustments, to just mentalize
realization words augment, intend to stretch,

pretend we sold our three bags of wool, long
novel rides in past and present allegorical dust
I used to say, iusagree, in spirit if not truth
agree, at minimum, we agree, the state
of actual participation
in peace making,
is a far better state
mind expanding knowledge…

accounting

for each idle word, measured
by how long one thinks any word lives
after
meaning anything
in particular for your peace.

It's a book, your life is.
A book, not a poem,
not a short stack of lines rising
from the top,
stalactite-like sclerosis forming course
drip trailing evidence, pillars
top to tip, dripping sweet
persuasion, water call
falling drip of what we thought,

as we build a chaotic pillar of crystal reflection,
convincing any ever yet
looking back, learning then, when first believed,

the darkness, lightlessness, when the why is told,
the deathly hallowedness, truth enforces as told.

-------------------------
Grand Canyon Caverns, mile mark 115.

Stores of stuff few ever learn, few
at global scale we circa 2025, few

mental utilizers know the experience,
more than a million most expectedly less
than a billion, of which we now are nearer ten,
than eight billions of us, our kind capable affects,

efforts expressing sense of us, our kind thinking

we may or may not plan any given day, yet we
think we may lay plans for the course
of human events,
wherein we find
ourselves paying mind, and heed, drips

indeed, of course, we must, we were mustered,
as punishers, the right thinkers, core-orthogonal,
as mustard faith leads eventually to cauliflower

upright mind hat tipt, in passing fancy, wonder if…

what if we agree to enjoy an after life, no worries.

---- the wish words be having
reader behaviour… be thinking

In science you must not talk before you know.
In art you must not talk before you do.
In literature you must not talk before you think.
--
In order that people may be happy
in their work, these three things are needed:
they must be fit for it;
they must not do too much of it;
and they must have a sense of success in it.

[ both maxims of Ruskin's, "The Eagle's Nest," 1872]

Done, that's not all, but the esoteric efforting, back when,
the mind, Psyche, was about to be plumbed, leading thinkers,

lacked the precepts upon which precepts approaching perpetual

emotion, haps all working together for good, finally, finished,

as when the work assigned is done, and looked upon, we think.

That's good. Functionable ratio of push and pull, life

breathing with us, in chorus.

You may need to find a solitary place and listen daily,
for fifty years, I know a guy who did, he says,
to this day, after fifty years on this way,

this pilgrim journey children cannot walk, this last mile,
when we walk contented to think, in truth, I can do this  forever.

We could have met in Croydon
for a coffee,
The 468 bus from Ruskin Park
is still journey apparent
I thought we could have shared our past
Dyslexia 
but like silken ash you proverbially
waved me Adieu
although I tried to explain
Dungeness and its shingles

It almost like you wanted to preserve
confidentiality, despite partially opening-up
about needing teachers' notes.
Nonchalant does not suit you
the past is not a closed shop
its a bridge yet
for peer acceptance

"And so long as you have the fire of the heart within you, and know the reality of it, you need to be under no alarm as to the possibility of its chemical or mechanical analysis." - The Queen of the Air by John Ruskin