Anywhere Out Of This World

"Others will be reminded by these poems & visions 

of forgotten aesthetes & lonely magicians, the 

last witnesses of a period which 

tried to be sublime." 

- Philippe Julian, Dreamers of Decadence (1969)

There is much to be said for spending time in a beautiful, quiet art gallery, & being able to fall under the spell of exquisite, wonderful works of art whilst the world outside goes about its daily routine of consumer insanity, murder & mayhem. 

In 1891, the Belgian painter Fernand Khnopff first exhibited a work, I Lock My Door Upon Myself, that is in some respects the essence of the Symbolist vision, & in many ways, that is how I've felt like dealing with life at times over the past few months. In this painting, a sad woman stares out blankly at the viewer with great big saucer eyes, & the different shades of blue that dominate the picture enhance the feel of the piece exquisitely. 

I've read so much about the Symbolist movement over the years & the way that they withdrew from the modern world of commerce & the machine, with all its attendant ugliness, to the inner world of the imagination & dreams, as well as to literature, music & art, in fact "anywhere out of this world," has long since fascinated me. And as we now enter the year that has been specified as being number 2015, it seems to me as if the world that the Symbolist's sought to flee has become even more cruel, unfair & vulgar, & when I consider the response that Russell Brand, who, although he doesn't vote, even his most virulent detractors must surely admit is vitally engaged with politics & political issues & is tirelessly attempting to get other people engaged in politics, too, received on his recent appearance on Question Time, the Symbolist's escape tactic increasingly seems like a pretty good idea. Seeing that show on the i player, with people in the audience who Russell wants to try & represent & make things better for turning on him with such vitriol, whilst the anti-life, immigrant hating UKIP leader Nigel Farage strutted his vile views, filled me with horror & made my heart sink, & I oftentimes think that the human race will probably always create societies with massive inequality, treat non-human sentient life as nothing more than a thing, scapegoat minorities & the vulnerable & in fact treat the entire eco-system that enables life to exist with nothing other than scorn & contempt. It's almost as if a part of me thinks that the game is up, & all that is left is to take some cold comfort in knowing that none of it is being done in my name, with my consent or vote, (the Green Party get my 'X') & that attempting to make the most of beautiful, life enhancing moments whilst there is still time is perhaps the best that can be hoped for.

With these ever so cheery thoughts, it is good to remember that one of the most important parts of life, for me, is to try & experience as many of those beautiful & sublime moments as possible, for that, in a sense, is perhaps all we have, & the opportunity to spend some time at Bristol Art Gallery & Museum last month enabled me to do exactly that, & also taught me once again that there is an uncanny hidden power that can draw its mysterious veil over us at certain moments. Having looked online at the gallery's collection, the two rooms that I was most excited about seeing were the Victorian Room (called Places of Desire) which I thought must house some Pre-Raphaelite paintings & then, to a lesser degree, the French Art Room, as although I enjoy many paintings by the Impressionists, they don't seduce me in anything like the same manner that the Pre-Raphaelites & the Symbolists do.


I began, then, in The Victorian Room, which was an absolute joy, truly a feast for the senses & the soul, & my heart skipped a beat when it first made contact with this beauty through the entrance...

Frederik Leighton - The Fisherman & the Syren (1856-58)

Based on a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (see below), it recounts the story of a mermaid who has come ashore to complain to the fisherman that he is stealing all of her children. She then uses her enchanting beauty to entice the fisherman into the sea, & as well as the obvious sensual power of the picture, it also struck me as being highly relevant today. The singer & political activist Antony Hegarty has been talking recently about his ideas for a Future Feminism, in which he maintains that it is now clear beyond any doubt that patriarchal systems do not work, monotheism has failed, & that the only possible salvation for our planet & all life that resides on it is if human beings move into more feminine systems of governance, ones which which nurture co-operation rather than relentless competition & which attempt to live in harmony with the environment rather than exploit it. As I contemplated this painting, that is what I thought a part of it was trying to express. It was as if the mermaid had become so exasperated at the fisherman that the only option left open to her was to use her sexuality in a bid to stop him. It's as if her seductive graces are the only means remaining, as he is larger than her, stronger than her & apparently completely blind to the suffering he is bringing to the silvery creatures of the water. The picture tells of the moment when the syren has got his complete attention, & because of this, the fishes are falling out of his net & back home into the sea. I left this painting feeling that it could be interpreted as being an allegory for the validity of women using their sexual power over men in an instance such as this, as she is protecting nature & the natural world whilst the only thing he wants to do is consume & destroy it.


The Fisherman

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

The water rushed, the water swelled,

A fisherman sat by,

And gazed upon his dancing float

With tranquil-dreaming eye.

And as he sits, and as he looks,

The gurgling waves arise;

A maid, all bright with water drops,

Stands straight before his eyes. 

She sang to him, she spake to him:

"My fish why dost thou snare,

With human wit and human guile,

Into the killing air?

Couldst see how happy fishes live

Under the stream so clear,

Thyself would plunge into the stream,

And live for ever there.

"Bathe not the lovely sun and moon

Within the cool, deep sea,

And with wave-breathing faces rise

In twofold witchery?

Lure not the misty heaven-deeps,

So beautiful and blue?

Lures not thine image, mirrored in

The Fresh eternal dew?"

The water rushed, the water swelled,

It clasped his feet, I wis'

A thrill went through his yearning heart,

As when two lovers kiss!

She spake to him, she sang to him:

Resistless was her strain;

Half drew him in, half lured him in;

He ne'er was seen again.

John Storer Cobb's English translation of 'The Fisherman' was first published in Goethe: Poetical Works, vol. 1. Boston: Francis A Niccolls & Company, 1902.



On the immediate right of this picture was a huge canvas by Franck Dicksee entitled La belle dame sans merci (1901), a representation of John Keats's wonderful & famous poem about an enchanting but deadly femme fatale... 

This was again, a picture that invaded the senses with its rich, dazzling colours & whilst I sat there I could almost smell the grass & hear the buzzing of the honey bees whilst the breeze rustled the leaves, such was its pervasive & intoxicating atmosphere. I was & still am intrigued by the knight's crucifixion pose & to what Dicksee may have meant by portraying him in such a way, & the dame of the title is a stunning reproduction of a Pre-Raphaelite heroine, her long red hair streaming down in torrents as she bends over to kiss, bewitch, & bewilder the hapless knight. And of course, it also reminded me of Keats's amazing poem; what could be finer?


La belle dame sans merci (1819)

by John Keats

Ballad

I.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.


II.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.


III.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.


IV.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.


V.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.


VI.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.


VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”


VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.


IX.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.


X.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”


XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.


XII.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.


The third painting which stole my heart in this room was Unconscious Rivals (1893) by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, & really has to be seen in the original in order for the viewer to grasp the incredibly rich colours & detail that it contains...

The red hues of the domed background & the rich purples of the flowers made this an incredibly sensuous picture, & at times it made me feel like I was swimming in a sea of colour & lush scents that wafted over from the flowers. Closer inspection revealed the extraordinary detail which was reminiscent of a photograph. And the title of the picture with the two women, probably rivals for a love match, as suggested by the cupid statue who sits on top of the marble whilst absent-mindedly playing with some material or scarf, is a fascinating one. It certainly made me think of Freud, as the painting seems to echo his theory that a great deal of what human beings actually desire comes from the realm of the unconscious, & the women, who hold hands without affection, are probably friends who don't want to acknowledge to themselves that they are in direct competition for the same love object. Cupid's equally unconscious attention to the two women suggests that love & desire itself can sometimes spring from a place that is beyond whatever Cupid is actually concentrating on, the scarf, which perhaps in this case represents the conscious mind. Once again, this was a gloriously sensual work, & I took great delight in contemplating the riches & mysteries contained within it.


Next was the French Art Room, & although there were a couple of pictures in there that I enjoyed, nothing had grabbed my attention as had happened in the previous room. And then, one of those very strange occurrences that never cease to amaze me, took place. A couple of months ago, Lydia took me to a wonderful second hand book shop that I hadn't been to before, even though it's only a few minutes' drive away, & just as we were getting ready to leave the shop, I felt a strange sensation that felt like I was being drawn to a corner of the room that we hadn't explored. There were only a few books in that particular bit of the shop & I wasn't going to wander over there as they looked as if they had just been left in a pile & perhaps were going to be thrown away as nobody would be interested in them. I felt compelled to follow this strange feeling, however, & to my utter amazement & delight, my eyes were drawn, as if by magic, straight to the particular Modern Penguin Classics edition of F. Scott Fitzgerald's Flappers & Philosophers that has a photograph of Louise Brooks on the cover & which I have been searching for without success for years. 

I probably made an involuntary sound of delight at this moment & I could feel my heart beating in my temples. Tis a strange world, indeed, & that particular piece of good fortune felt like a gift from an unknown realm & it truly felt like a mysterious force had willed me over to that corner where I would thereby find the book that I have sought for such a long time. And lo & behold, this happened to me once again, in the French Art Room. In the corner were two very small works, which I was in two minds as to whether to take the time to go over & explore as there were lots of other interesting things to see at the gallery & I knew I had to choose carefully as I only had a limited amount of time. And then, that unseen force took hold of me once again & I was summoned to that corner without really having consciously decided that that was what I wanted to do. Imagine if you can my surprise & sheer exhilaration when I realised that those two pictures were by two of the greatest Symbolist artists, Gustave Moreau & Odilon Redon! I literally could hardly believe my eyes. To find works by Moreau & Redon in this strange manner when I had no idea the gallery even had paintings by them I imagine felt a little bit like finding a winning lottery ticket that you didn't realise you had in your velvet jacket. The strangeness of this occurrence was not lost on me as I gazed enraptured at these small, but exquisite pictures. I sat down & turned my attention firstly to Redon's Rider on the Beach with Two Ships (1905-1908) which was mesmerising & haunting in a way that is difficult to describe. 

The horse with its strange head, the two ghost-like ships & the flash of green in the centre all conjured fantastic imaginings, & it was an absolute privilege & delight to bathe in the glow of one of Redon's pictures, an artist who once said of his work that, " My drawings inspire, & are not to be defined. They place us, as does music, in the ambiguous realm of the undetermined." Those words are probably the closest I could get to describing how I felt looking at Redon's picture, & the most accurate analogy I can find would be how whilst contemplating this picture, time seemed to stand perfectly still in a very similar way to how it had done when I first heard Claude Debussy's Prelude a l'apres-midi d'un faune performed by a full orchestra for the first time at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall. And if I was to sum up, I would say that observing Redon's dream-like painting echoed listening to Debussy in this enchanting, time shifting manner.

Cue, Tim Booth:

"Dust motes, in a beam of light,
They slow down time...
Snowflakes, on a black wool glove,
Melting in the sunlight..."


The next picture, which I have deliberately kept till last, was Perseus & Andromeda (1870) by Gustave Moreau:

Moreau is an artist whom I have revered & been fascinated about ever since I first read Joris-Karl Huysmans' novel, A rebours (Against Nature) (1884) many, many moons ago. Moreau's exotic pictures have become an aesthete's & decadent's Bible, & through writers ranging from Huysmans to Camille Paglia with many more in-between, his femme fatales have gained legendary standing & status in my imagination. I've spent hours pouring over books containing some of his most famous works, such as Salome & The Apparition, & this chance encounter with one of his paintings still makes me tingle a little when I think on how it happened. The picture itself was everything I had dreamed a Moreau would be, in the flesh, so to speak. It would be so very easy for a casual viewer to glance at a painting such as this for thirty seconds or so & not notice anything special about it & move on, but fortunately, I am more than aware of how to approach a Symbolist work, & this unspeakable catastrophe was avoided! The gallery was very quiet whilst I was there & for this I am eternally grateful, as you have to take your time & meditate on works of art of this nature. Their gifts are layered, & a furtive glance will not allow the rewards & treasures that they contain to rise into the mind's eye. Time & patience is required, but if you are willing & able to do this, the rewards can be captivating. My first impression was, of course, Andromeda herself, who dominates the composition & Moreau has enriched her with stunning sensuousness. She is chained to a rock & Perseus is just about to shoot the dragon that is coming for her, yet he is most definitely given second billing, as he is only lightly delineated in the sky. The rich, deep shades of red that make up the rocks that are behind Andromeda are magnificent, making it appear that she is leaning on a wall of crushed velvet in a boudoir rather than granite, & her complete lack of fear or interest in the battle that is about to commence behind her are surely indicative of where Moreau's sympathy lies. For me, Moreau has captured, in Andromeda, the complete essence of blooming female beauty & sexuality. The picture inexorably draws your attention to each slightest enchanted detail, from every curve of Andromeda's body to the silver chain that enshrouds her ankle & to me she is essentially a modern heroine in the sense that she has no religious guilt or shame at her wondrous beauty, & is completely self determined, with her arms nonchalantly folded about her whilst she remains seemingly oblivious to either her near nakedness or the fight for her life that is just about to take place. I actually wondered if the dragon & Perseus could be interpreted as two different males fighting over Andromeda (more below), as it doesn't take a great deal of imagination to notice the phallic spear & pointed tail that the two combatants point aggressively at each other. If this is indeed the case, then I think it's fair to say that I admire this picture even more than I did on first impression, because although Andromeda is on the surface merely a sensual being, her disregard of the fighters in the background suggests that she is quite content to be sensual & alluring for her own joy & not for her would-be-suitors or in fact any other male gaze. The way that Moreau has painted her makes it very clear that this is a painting that celebrates female beauty & Andromeda's pose is very similar to how he painted some of his other heroines (i.e., Galatea, Cleopatra), & no doubt he was attempting to convey his ideal vision of the female form as he so obviously cherished & admired it. It is also worth keeping in mind Andromeda's story as told in Ovid's Metamorphoses (8 AD). In this tale, Andromeda has been offered as a sacrifice to the gods because her mother had been boasting that her daughter was more beautiful than any of the nereids, or sea nymphs, which has infuriated the gods, although Andromeda herself has done nothing wrong. Perseus has no knowledge of this when he arrives on the scene & when he sees this young woman tied to the rock with the dragon heading towards her, he is completely captivated by her astonishing beauty & tells her parents that if he saves her life it is on condition that he will then receive her hand in marriage as reward. After receiving affirmation of this request (demand) he proceeds to successfully kill the dragon, but it then transpires that Andromeda had already been promised to her uncle (!), Phineus, who is furious at losing his bride to be & in turn tries to kill Perseus. Perseus finally kills Phineus by using the severed head of the Gorgon Medusa (a woman who is so ugly that she turns anyone who looks directly at her immediately to stone - now there's another blog!) & marries Andromeda, who has been little more than a pawn throughout the entire story. I feel that Moreau attempts to bring an autonomy, however subtle & slight that may be, to Andromeda that she completely lacks in Ovid's tale, & whilst there will no doubt be interpretations that differ greatly from my own, the extraordinary & strangely personal way that I actually came across this picture & the sublime, dream-like effect it had on me can only end with my conclusion being the one that I have just described. Mine may be a biased view, but as Oscar Wilde so enigmatically reported, an unbiased opinion is completely valueless. Perhaps I could do an in depth feminist reading of Perseus & Andromeda at some point & see what I come up with? We shall see...


And so ended my trip to Bristol Art Gallery. It contained many enchanting moments, & I'm still a little bit overcome when I recall the mysterious call & gravitational pull that gently drew me to the two diminutive pictures that were the highlight of my visit in that secluded corner of the French Art Room. And I hope it isn't in bad taste to say so, but if anything, the wonderful art that I saw & particularly Moreau's picture has made my sensitive appreciation of beauty even more subtle, & every night I thank whichever stars it were that brought Lydia & myself together with immense gratitude in my heart, as not only is she the most wonderful human being that I have ever met, but her beguiling beauty surpasses even that of Andromeda in Moreau's picture, & if I had been given a painter's talent, I would paint her sacredly & with adoration, as Dante Gabriel Rossetti painted the women that he was so deeply enchanted with & as did Moreau with Alexandrine Dureux, with whom he had a twenty-five year relationship. And should anyone call me obsessive, which admittedly wouldn't be for the first time, I would remind them that in many of Rossetti's pictures the woman that he loved was often the model for every woman in one single painting. We have a print of Rossetti's Dante's Dream (see below) on our wall & all four of the women in the picture look almost exactly the same. Now that's something that I call worthy of Romance!

 My skill, however, & not in any way that I am complaining, is with words & they are the tools by which I attempt to conjure spells, & I just hope that when I write about the glorious wild-eyed, wild-flower that is my extraordinary wife, that if I am able to capture even just a hint of the magnetic magic & wonder that she radiates in such abundance, then I too, in my humble way, will have touched the stars. So...


Until next time, just very softly & with glittering eyes,


I remain,


Your Nocturnal Butterfly.



Stay Beautiful.

Temptation (Part 1)

"There are several good protections against temptation, but the surest is cowardice." - Mark Twain

Temptation (Part 2)

                     
                        "The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield                                                to it." - Oscar Wilde

The Bride of the Wind (A Symphony in Red & Green)

"Whether fair wind or foul, this is the Bride of the Wind.

Who is the Bride of the Wind? 

Can she read faultless French? 

What wood does she burn to keep herself warm? 

She keeps herself warm with her intense life, 

her mystery, her poetry. 

She has read nothing, but she has absorbed everything. 

She cannot read. 

Yet the nightingale has seen her, 

sitting on the stone of spring, reading. 

And although she read in silence, 

the animals & the horses listened in admiration." 

- Max Ernst.

The Pasque Flower (A Philosophical Tale)

The young woman groaned heavily in her sleep. The curtains flapped noisily as the warm, balmy night breeze drifted into the room, in time with her dreaming movements. The bright moon shone magnificently, casting a silver spell through her window, in much the same way as a young admirer would have held a candle so as to be able to feed his hungry gaze on the form of his adored beloved whilst she slept. The diaphanous net curtains around her four-poster bed also moved gently in the wind, & the noise of the native moths & crane flies, mice & owls, & warring stag beetles filled the humid, electric air. 

The young woman stirred restlessly , her bed covers lying crumpled on the floor, having been flung away as her dream had increased in lucidity. But of what was she dreaming?

At that very moment, her heart was beating as it never had before. Before her dreaming eyes, was the very embodiment of all her desires & even if she had wanted to look away, there was to be no avoiding his icy stare. As he glided confidently toward her, her hand gripped the pillow tightly as she followed his slender, snake-like frame, his deep, melancholy eyes & silken, jet black hair. He leaned towards her, & after whispering some silent words that only her soul could hear, put a beautiful, purple flower into her hand. With her pulse racing dangerously, her over-excited mind began to activate the safety-valve action that often awakens dreamers from those strange, subterranean depths when the dream become too sublime, as happens when a person awakes suddenly with fearful symptoms of vertigo if death brushes too close for the dreamer's sanity. As she awoke, the image in her mind's eye became nebulous & although her hair was stuck to her brow & her lace nightdress damp with perspiration, she sighed deeply, & smiling at the memory of her dream, fell almost immediately back to sleep. 

                                                             ~

There are some people who maintain that dreams are a mere recycling of the previous day's events, & that no particular attention should be paid to them.

There are others that say that dreams are warnings from another realm, & if heeded, can be prophetic in diverting unpleasant situations or preventing personal catastrophe.

Some people suggest that they are buried memories, which surface occasionally & can even take us way back in time, beyond that of the individual's life to a collective unconscious, & the very dawning of our species' history.

There are some that believe that dreams are representations of our deepest, darkest desires, & would be so disturbing to us if presented literally, that they instead appear as symbols, thus protecting the conscious 'I' or 'ego' of the dreaming person/subject.

And there are some that believe that daemonic forces are the cause, & that these forces prey on their victims whilst they lie sleeping, injecting their prey with surreal images of wish-fulfillment whilst they take advantage of their delirium to drain the life-force of the dreamer. A male demon will often father a child in this hideous way, whilst female demons will use the male's reproductive energy to impregnate themselves. For decency's sake, your imaginations will have to picture the fearful situation that arises during this type of demonic possession, & there may be little or complete truth in any of these theories regarding the source & function of the human dream.

                                                                ~

Whatever may lie behind the causes of the human dream, Viola, the beautiful heroine of our tale, awoke early that morning just as the first hazy beams of sunlight were beginning to filter into her room, when, in her misty drowsiness, she was struck by a sudden stabbing pain in her hand. Imagine if you can, dear reader, her surprise when she glanced down & discovered that she was still clutching the strange, purple flower that her perfect, ideal lover had entrusted her with just a few hours earlier in her dream, & which now lay clutched in her lily white hand.

With glazed eyes, she rose from her bed, & as though sleepwalking, left her room & unannounced, entered her brother's room. Her brother, who was just about to leave the house as he was a keen huntsman, was surprised to see his beloved sister up & about at this early hour, even more so as she had appeared to have left her inhibitions in her sleep, for her nightgown had fallen open & she seemed blissfully unconcerned at this occurrence. Before he could gather his thoughts together, those sweet eyes that he had loved for so long, held him spellbound. Suddenly, she slipped her arms around his neck & as his whole world swam he was completely unaware that she was quietly pulling his razor sharp hunting knife out of his belt. Less than a minute later, he was lying cold stone dead, killed as silently as if it had been done by the hand of a trained, professional assassin. 

                                                                     ~

There are those that believe that incest is a terrible crime against nature & that the laws that forbid its practice should be upheld without mercy, & they will often call on ancient texts & scripture to support this view.

There are others, however, that believe that the taboo against brother & sister relationships are nothing more than societal prejudice, &, like witchcraft, born of superstition, & that in fact all true lovers become after a while as brother & sister, their souls entwining ever deeper as their lives grow together, until they become so entwined it is scarcely possible to tell one from the other, & this shows itself by small tell-tale signals, such as couples finishing each others' sentences or looking increasingly like one another in visual appearance.

Whatever you choose to believe, dear reader, there is no denying that the people who found Viola's brother said that they had never seen him looking as radiant as he did when they had found his body, & the talk of the small town soon echoed far & wide with stories that Viola's brother had died having tasted a supernatural form of bliss.

                                                                ~

Immediately after the violent scene with her brother, Viola left the house , & although some of the townsfolk that she passed at that early hour called out to her, she resolutely ignored them & headed towards the olde church. Concerned for her safety, a few of the peasants decided to follow her, keeping at a safe distance, however, for all knew of the terrible dangers of attempting to awaken a sleep-walker.

As she approached the church, Viola's heart skipped a beat as she saw once again the extraordinarily handsome man who she had met in her dream. "Great God!" she gasped, "There he is! And how beautiful he looks... yet how terrified he makes me feel!" Despite her fight or flight reaction, his aura was irresistible, & as he beckoned her towards him with outstretched arms, her heart thundered against her ribs as she edged ever closer towards him.

The frightened peasants who had gathered watched from a distance as she made her way further up the path. Viola, still clutching the purple flower that he had given her, handed it back to her perfect lover & fell into a swoon as he put his arms around her shoulders. In the hushed silence that followed, she let out a simple cry as his teeth pierced her swan-like neck, & she felt a trickle of blood leave a trail as it ran down her vase like body. She then gazed up longingly at her captor, & taking her brother's hunting knife from under her nightdress, plunged it deep into his heart.

The frightened villagers screamed & ran towards her, but by the time they had got to her, it was too late.

When everything was pieced together, nobody could understand what had happened to Viola, the much-loved girl from the town on that strange, summer morning.

All the reports given to the investigating commissioner of police told the same story. Viola had been seen by at least ten witnesses walking, in her nightdress, as if in a trance up to the church, & had ignored everybody's concerned calls. When she had got there, she had stopped half way up the path & been observed acting even more strangely, gesticulating & talking as if somebody had been in front of her. She had then closed her eyes & looked up towards the sky as if in some kind of blissful ecstasy, & then for no apparent reason, produced a large dagger from under her nightgown, & plunged it deep into her own heart.

The investigator, who was much puzzled by the case, also had to report the strange fact that there had not been a drop of blood anywhere at the scene, either on the ground or, indeed, in her person, which he believed was a bad omen for all who lived in the town & the local area. Equally puzzlingly, an extremely rare, purple-hued flower had been found at Viola's side, which had finally been identified by a big city specialist collector as being of an extremely rare species, the Pustilla Vulgaris, or Pasque Flower, which only grew in the most remote & inhospitable regions of eastern Europe. This strange occurrence had been, in the commissioner's view unsatisfactorily, explained away by the theory that it must have been brought across on the unsuspecting foot of a migratory bird, several species of which used the church & its buildings to make their nests during the summer, before they returned home to the lands of Hungary & Moravia in the autumn.

                                                                  ~

The whole incident cast a huge shadow over the town & a few months later, just when it appeared that everything was returning to normal, the church gardener began noticing a number of beautiful flowers, of a strange purple hue & of a breed that he had certainly never seen before, appearing in increasing numbers in various places all around the grave stones & the church gardens. However, at this point in time, all the migratory birds had long since departed back to their winter homes in the far reaches of Europe, & this time, no one was able to explain how they had come to be there.

Firenze

"You'll amount to nothing!" screamed the father. His son had driven him into a fury once again. "You lazy good for nothing, what are you going to do with your life...spend it all lying around, stargazing and other such useless nonsense? You ridiculous, insolent dreamer! And everyone knows that mermaids, even though they don't exist, can only live in salt water so stop spouting such rubbish! Imbecile!"

And with these words he stormed out of the room, slamming the door of the old house behind him. But George simply smiled sadly to himself. He'd experienced enough of these kind of scenes to know that the best thing to do was to try and ignore them. He glanced at his mother who was sitting silently in her chair, the plate of honey cakes that she'd freshly made untouched in front of her. "It will be okay," he reassured her, and took one of the delicious cakes before venturing outside. His anxiously pounding heart began to ease as he made his way to the stream. As usual, the bees and dragonflies flew towards him as he approached, busily buzzing around him, using whatever devices that they knew to try and ease his wounded heart.

"Will I ever see her again?" he asked them.

"Of course you will, of course you will!" they hurriedly replied. "And don't be so sad, don't be so sad...your father's a fool and your beloved will most surely return!"

George felt his soul relaxing once more as he sat down in the long, luxurious grass. He lay on his back and watched the clouds drift by. "I should like to be a cloud one day," he thought, "hovering over the great earth, giving and receiving at the same time, with the only worry being whether to look down at the world or up at the stars." He looked around him, and, as always, his heart skipped a beat. And although he loved every single thing that his eyes could see, his heart longed for an even deeper connection. He wanted to be the bright yellow daisy that was reaching up to its brother, the sun. He wanted to know how it felt to wear the beautiful cloak of purple that was the mournful iris, which tolerated the day whilst waiting for its sister, the moon. He wanted to be the cheeky chaffinch, know the air that skipped through its tiny wings and experience the grand majesty of the crow. And although he felt deeply related with all that was around him, and had done for as long as he could remember, still he yearned for more. His ridiculous, philistine father knew nothing of this. He'd heard about it all many times, of course, but his coarse barren soul was incapable of understanding. And then...there was Firenze. His eyes glazed as he remembered her. She had touched him to an ecstatic fever of life. Never had he known anything like the feelings that he had experienced when he had been with her. But would he ever see her again?

His train of thought was suddenly broken, however, for his friends suddenly started up in dismay. The honeybees flew frantically away and the birds that had gathered around him scattered in all directions, and, to George's immense horror, and before he was even completely aware of what was happening, he was seized by three tall men in terrible white coats who wore grimaces known only to the devil. Despite his screams and wailing protests he was dragged forcibly away and locked in the back of a dirty white van, which roared angrily, and then sped away at ferocious speed.

From that moment on, a great change came over the land. It was a gradual process but all could be traced back to that moment. The first to depart were the birds, who were so filled with sorrow that they left for a distant forest where the nightingales lived, as listening to them sing was the only way that they could live with their grief. The dragonflies became larva once again and crept back into the water which soon flowed heavy with tears. The trees grew sad and shed their leaves, and all the flowers hid their beautiful, colourful faces, and before long, a terrible silence came over the landscape which it seemed had fallen into a deep sleep. And then, finally, even the nearby towering waterfall, with its ever cascading spray, froze to a complete standstill, and with this, a great silence reigned.

This state of things lasted for a thousand years and the household, now smaller due to the absence of George, was even unhappier than it had been before. George's mother, who never spoke anyway, became even more silent, but still made honey-cakes each day, even though her son whom she loved so dearly wasn't there to enjoy them. The father busied himself around the place, mumbling away constantly whilst trying to reassure George's mother that things were now for the best. "We had to do something, Demeter," he would tell her. "You know how often we saw him sitting in the fields talking to himself. That's a sure sign of insanity and he's in the best place for that kind of thing now. He could have become a danger...to us, to himself, who knows? And he'll never amount to anything!" But with that George's mother would breathe a great sigh, and so his father would go back to hammering nails or something extremely important like that.

But then, one day, something that nobody could have foreseen happened. A great bee, which had somehow hidden herself in that day's honey-cakes, flew out without being noticed. Waiting patiently for the right moment, she followed George's father outside, and, although her frail wings were nearly frozen in the bitter, biting cold, she managed to follow him until he came to the old fence, which it was said had a sheer drop of over ten thousand feet on the other side. And then, all at once, she seized her chance. She buzzed manically around the ungrateful father and husband, who in absolute terror, waved his arms about frantically, attempting to hit the bee with his great hammer, when, suddenly, he became so dizzy that he lost his footing and fell through the rickety old fence that he had come out to fix, and disappeared into the depths, far, far below.

Utterly exhausted and freezing, the bee's wings now refused to work properly, and she fell shivering to the ground, her life force evaporating rapidly. But just as her little soul was about to leave her body for the great beyond, she knew beyond any doubt that she felt the surge of spring reverberate all around her. And sure enough, the land soon began to change. Without his father's continued consent, the asylum were forced to release George back to his home, and within hours of his return, life rapidly began stirring again.

At his tread, the grass and flowers blossomed suddenly in ecstasy and the trees replied likewise. The moths and butterflies came out of their chrysalises in a giant swarm of colour, and all around the insects danced with laughter and joy. The great old owl, far away in the nightingale's wood, was the first to hear with his extraordinary sensitive hearing the rejoicing coming from his former home, and when he told his many companions of the news, all the birds came hurrying back as fast as their small or giant wings could carry them. Colour and noise returned to the land, and even the moon broke its eternal nightly orbit to join the sun for one day of ecstatic rejoicing. And then, with an enormous crash, the waterfall sprang back to life, plunging down in torrents great masses of water which had lain frozen in sorrow and grief for so many years.

George sang and laughed with his friends who he had missed so dearly, and in what looked like a grand procession, they all bounded up the path to the giant pool that lay at the foot of the waterfall. They were greeted there by a carnival of colour. Dragonflies. mayflies, kingfishers...the entire scene was one of of glowing, flowing life and abundant radiance. And then, amid all the laughter and dancing, a faint splashing was heard coming from downstream. "It's Firenze, it's Firenze!" cried the approaching heron, and soon the name 'Firenze' was being spoken by all in a continuous echo around the valley. "She's come back for you, she's come back for you! they all sang to George, "we told you she would, we told you she would!" And sure enough, accompanied by her adoring damselflies that flew above her, Firenze, her sleek body glistening and her red hair shining brighter than the rarest ruby, was soon at the pool at the foot of the waterfall, where her captivating eyes met those of the utterly enchanted George.

"Firenze... I thought you had left for ever", he said, before embracing her in his trembling arms.

"I told you I would return and I meant it", she replied.

With a gentle wave of her hand, she asked their friends to give them some privacy for a moment, and they all duly obliged, although they immediately surrounded the happy couple once more!

George gazed into her sparkling eyes. They were as mysterious as life itself and he felt himself falling...falling deeper into her essence with each passing moment. Her red hair resembled wondrous flowers that don't exist yet should, and the shape of her body, scarcely hidden by the water-lilies, plunged him even further into an almost impossible paradise.

"Come with me," she said, "it's time for you to leave here."

"I am truly yours", he replied. "I know there is no way for me other than with you. But let me stay, just a little longer."

Firenze smiled her enchanting smile: "Take as long as you need."

Suddenly everywhere became quieter and still, and the only sound was that of the waterfall. The blue tit blinked its little eyes, eyes which saw so much more than human ones which fail to notice so very much. Firenze went to bathe under the waterfall, and the water at the top hurriedly fell in torrents, each drop eager to brush against her magisterial beauty whilst there was a chance. Returning to George, she teased him with a delicious kiss, a kiss laced with the force of everything that nature and dreams contain, and his soul tumbled once more.

"You are existence itself to me", he said. "Yet are you even real?"

"I'm as real as you take me to be", she replied. "With me you shall know wonders you can never imagine. I will take you to a Venice beneath the sea, show you creatures you've never known, give you a love you cannot comprehend. You know better then anyone how the miracle of life is being spoiled. Our realm is one of everlasting beauty and there will be a new beginning."

George glanced up and found that they had been joined by several magnificent unicorns that had come to drink from the pool. They were the personification of beauty and dignity.

"And my father, like so many, doubt all of this", he smiled to himself. "They are such fools."

Gazing once more at the exquisite beauty of Firenze, and marvelling also at the splendid sea-horses that surrounded her, they exchanged another smouldering kiss before he slipped into the water beside her, whispering the words, "I'm ready."

And with that, they both looked deeply into each other's eyes, and disappeared into the depths below.

Meanwhile, George's mother, astounded at the sudden return of Spring, and drawn as if by a magical force, wandered over to the door which opened on to the garden. As she stepped outside, the handsome, cheeky chaffinch landed softly on her shoulder. They looked at each other for a few moments before he said, "Demeter, why don't you come and sit with us all on the grass, and you can meet all of your son's friends and hear their wondrous stories about life?"

"It would be a pleasure," she replied.

Loving The Alien

"Don't fake it, baby,

Lay the real thing on me...
You know the church of mad love
Is such a holy place to be."
David Bowie, 'Moonage Daydream' (Live Version)

I can remember vividly the day I was chatting to a make up guy on set in the late 80s, mostly about James & post-punk bands such as The Comsat Angels & Magazine, when the conversation turned to David Bowie. I had had a mixed start with Bowie as the first album I bought of his was a second hand LP of "Heroes" which I absolutely adored & was completely mesmerised by, but my next purchase was Let's Dance, which was very different to "Heroes" & left me quite underwhelmed. I had gone from the space of ambient tracks like 'Moss Garden', the haunting & eerie 'Sons of the Silent Age' & the genuinely terrifying 'Sense of Doubt', to crisp clear production & Bowie looking more like a tanned office worker instead of the otherworldly android that had graced the cover of "Heroes." It's difficult to recall just what a different world it was back then in the late 80s in terms of having access to music, & it was difficult to find out much about Bowie from my friends as they were too busy getting stoned & only having time for bands with singers who couldn't sing, singing songs with lyrics about ridiculous things like losing jumpers, eating too much apple pie & trying to find a lost polar bear. There were also so many Bowie albums to choose from that because of my experience with Let's Dance, I became hesitant at just picking out one of the many - as even second hand vinyl was still quite expensive - so I didn't explore much further at that point. However, through talking to the aforementioned make up guy, who was a real Bowie aficionado, I was taken through Bowie's different phases & advised on which ones to try first. His first suggestion, seeing that I already had "Heroes", was Station To Station, & with a look of genuine envy he said to me, "You're just about to go away & discover the world of David Bowie - I'm so jealous of you!" And with that, the majority of those second hand LPs were raided & I discovered the true majesty of David Bowie.

My first hint that he was destined to play a big part in my life & psyche, however, came not from one of his albums but from a Live Beat Club performance that was shown on VH1 in the mid 90s that Bowie had performed in 1978. His voice & look on that show was absolutely magical, & he & his band looked like the most gloriously decadent bunch on earth. It was also the first time I really witnessed what a tremendous performing artist he was, & that 40 minute recording is still stashed away as I have never recorded over it. So, the idea of Bowie had taken a firm root by this time, but it wasn't until a few years later that Bowie rocketed to the dizzying heights of being one of the stellar influences on my life.

Little did I know, when I was first introduced to Lydia, that this extraordinary lady, who looked so remarkably like a Pre-Raphaelite heroine that I thought one of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's paintings had come to life & was sitting on the sofa next to me, also carried a bit of a torch for Bowie & listening & talking together about him was another integral part of that glamorous glue that was destined to bring us so close together. Our first slow dance was to 'Heroes' & that song is now forever etched into my person as being our song, & 14 years later, I had the sacred joy of taking her butterfly hand & wild flower soul in marriage & when we tied the knot it was Bowie's 'Heroes' that provided the soundtrack. And it was through Bowie that I first discovered just how fox-like my beautiful partner could be, & also how, to quote Friedrich Nietzsche, I too had the immense fortune to have had my heart turned by "a woman who could not be denied!"

As I recall, it all began as a close-season Saturday with no Everton match to follow that at first glance seemed not much different from any other, when Lydia called & breathlessly informed me how she'd just won us tickets to see Bowie in Manchester as part of the Move Festival. After my screams of joy had subsided somewhat, she then told me how they'd made a mistake & had sent her tickets for the wrong night & the tickets she had received were for the night after the Bowie one, & were tickets to see Ian Brown & Paul Weller. "All you have to do is call this number & tell them they've made a mistake," she said, before suddenly announcing, "I've got to go now, I'll call you later. Bye!" And with that ended our swift conversation. I then hurriedly called the number that Lydia had given me, only to be met with a quite vexed lady who didn't want to change the tickets. "I very much doubt there's been a mistake," she told me, "why don't you & your partner go to the night you've been given tickets for?" I then poured forth my disdain that we would ever even consider going to see Ian Brown, whose voice is indescribably appalling, or even Paul Weller, who is a tad vulgar for our tastes. "No," I insisted, "there has most definitely been a mistake. My partner had obviously entered the competition in the hope we could see the Man who Fell to Earth, otherwise, she wouldn't have entered it at all, for she knows better than anyone that I would rather cover myself in jam & sit on a wasp's nest than attend an Ian Brown gig."

And then, after what seemed an age, the lady finally relented & decided that there may have been a mistake on their part, extremely unlikely though that was, & that if we went to the box office on the day of the Bowie night, the tickets would be exchanged. Emotionally drained I put the phone down & dwelt on that magical notion: I was going to see David Bowie. I don't think I slept a wink between that moment & the day of the concert a couple of weeks later such was my excitement.

Finally, the big day arrived & almost beyond my comprehension, I was going to see & hear Bowie in the flesh, & the excitement was amplified even more by the fact that the two support bands were The Divine Comedy & Suede. It was a dream line up, & I could write page after page about both of them, too, but this particular blog is about Bowie so that will have to come another time.

Then suddenly, after all the waiting & yearning, the haunting piano riff of 'Life On Mars?' began, & as the creature from another dimension took to the stage, my heart tumbled & swooned, & there he was...

The next hour & forty five minutes are completely beyond my being able to adequately describe, but I genuinely felt as if we were in the presence of an artist that had been born on a planet far, far away that had chosen to grace us with his time for a couple of hours. As dusk fell, the red sky became a dome of starlight & as Bowie sang his songs of darkness & disgrace, his incredible baritone voice, which shook the earth below us on the low notes & had the clouds dancing on his peerless vibrato, created dream upon dream that made you feel the magic, romance & occasional existential loneliness that life can bring. I had an out of body experience during 'Heathen (The Rays)' & I don't think I've ever quite wept with such an outpouring of joy & emotion as I did during 'Heroes' (maybe a part of me already knew what this song was destined to mean to Lydia & I?), trembling like a leaf whilst she tried valiantly to hold me together, wondering what on earth she'd let herself in for by getting involved with such an emotional wreck. And then, during the last song, the one thing I had truly feared would happen, actually did. This was Manchester, remember, & yes, it began to rain...

In torrents.

Straight after Bowie had finished his set to rapturous applause, Lydia & I frantically tried to find the First Aid team to explain about my CF so as to get a hot drink for me & to try & get me warm & dry as soon as possible. Quick as a flash they said, "You get him dry, we'll get the drinks." All I can actually really remember from this bit of the night was Lydia, who as most of you can probably imagine, looked like an intergalactic space goddess, quite brilliantly replying to all of the comments in the gents toilet whilst we hurriedly attempted to get me dry. It was still quite early in our relationship & the way she handled the situation filled me with pride & made me realise beyond any doubt that she was a quite exceptional human being, blessed with razor sharp wit & a rather incredible ability to disarm the most suggestive of comments with a quite withering reply. And, at that moment, nothing mattered to her except my well being, & if that meant her being surrounded by leering blokes in the gents toilet in Manchester on a Saturday night whilst she was trying frantically to get me dry & warm, all of the rest of them could, in your best Mancunian accent please, "Just do one!"

Having dried off & then enjoyed two or three piping hot mugs of tea & a cup of tomato soup, courtesy of the great First Aid team we met, we made our way home. It had been a quite extraordinary experience & one we often talk about to this very day. And although it could have ended badly, for as Lydia said to me a few days later, "you could have died because of that," I always reply with, "Yes, I could have, but at least I'd have died having seen David Bowie." And that's how I feel, because that concert was a life-changing experience. It brought Lydia & I closer together & I felt deep in my heart just how much she loved me as her actions had spoken louder than a million words & nothing had been more important to her in those moments than trying to keep me well. It was also at this time that she came up with a description of me that fitted like a velvet glove:

"I don't care that you're not a big, strong man," she told me. "I love you because of who & what you are: a boy girl space creature!" I don't think anybody, before or since, has described me with such unnerving accuracy. 

Some months later we were reminiscing about that momentous & hair raising night & I recalled the mistake with the tickets & how we may have missed Bowie if I hadn't have stood my ground with the incredulous woman on the other end of the phone. Lydia then suddenly hit me with it: "Actually, the tickets we won were just for any night of the festival but I knew if I told you that you might have given up trying to get the tickets exchanged!" After I had mopped up the tea that I'd just spilt all over my best velvet waist coat I hugged her till I cried, & knew beyond any doubt that she was a Lady made primarily of Stardust that had completely stolen my heart & soul & was quite unlike anyone else I'd ever met. "Hot Tramp, I Love You So!"

As for David Bowie himself, I still have a few more words to say...

Some people say that to truly understand a singer, you have to see & hear them performing live, & in many respects I think this is true, & it is certainly true in my relation to David Bowie. For after coming into contact with his work & persona, & certainly after the concert in Manchester, I began to see the world from an increasingly Bowiean perspective. The idea of being able to change your identity became, to me, not just a revolutionary idea, but a necessary one. The idea of being a chameleon personality that is never fixed but fluid struck me as being one of the most important things a questing human being can be. Bowie helped bring the peacock aspect of my personality to the forefront, & his blurring of gender & even species identities was absolutely thrilling & liberating. And then, of course, is the rich tapestry of people that he has been influenced by & which makes for such an incredibly rewarding & enriching find. Through him I became more acquainted with the work of Bertholt Brecht, Andy Warhol's films & the subversive & fascinating world of German cabaret, to name but a few. And I can't not mention his stunning renditions of Jacques Brel's 'Amsterdam,' & 'My Death'.

But then, about a year after we saw him, it was reported that Bowie had had a heart attack & although, fortunately, he recovered & has recorded again, he has never toured & in all likelihood, will never do so. Despite the fact that I was genuinely shocked when I heard what had happened to him, as a part of me believed that starmen never had to suffer the indignities of things such as heart attacks or bodies that don't function properly, it made that evening in Manchester with Lydia all the more precious, because if we'd have missed that, I would never have had the wonderful pleasure of hearing him singing live or seen him with my own mind's eye.

I was also incredibly fortunate to get to the astonishing 'David Bowie Is...' exhibition at the V&A Museum last year, & it was amazing to see so many of his extraordinary costumes & portraits on display. And, a bit like when I first saw a letter with Lord Byron's handwriting, the handwritten lyrics to so many of the songs that have such an important place in my heart had me swooning once again. Lydia & I soaked in the atmosphere as we watched exclusive clips of Bowie performing live & interviews from each era of his career whilst people of every nuance of gender ghosted by.

So, that's why loving the alien has been such a major part of my life. There have been times during my many hospital inpatient admissions when I have been being pounded with intravenous drugs, & the horrible side effects that quite often go hand in hand with them, & struggling at times to control some of the roller-coaster emotions of insecurity & anxiety that also often come trailing in their wake, that listening to Bowie has felt like one of the few things that have just about kept me on this side of the looking glass (although some people would probably suggest that I never am this side of the looking glass!) His tales of borderline madness & alienation certainly help me feel less alone during those times & songs such as 'Heathen (The Rays),' 'All The Madmen,' 'After All,' 'Some Are,' 'Rock 'n' Roll With Me,' 'Lady Grinning Soul,' 'The Heart's Filthy Lesson,' 'I Would Be Your Slave,' 'Lady Stardust,' 'Pablo Picasso', 'Queen Bitch', 'Cracked Actor', all of the Low album, & so many countless, countless others, have become part of my DNA. And then, last but certainly not least, is 'Heroes,' the song which we played when Lydia & I were married.

These are the things that dreams are made of.

"I, I will be King,
And you, you will be my Queen...

And we can be heroes,

Just for one day,
What do you say?"

Stay Beautiful.