tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12595134542415068152024-03-05T15:55:45.480-08:00Cait O'ConnorCait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.comBlogger673125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-86171321058805179612014-10-11T09:03:00.002-07:002014-10-11T09:03:14.291-07:00From Cait - An Update<br />
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<img src="http://artrenewal.org/artwork/547/547/41777/Strudwick_John_melhuish_In_the_golden_days_ooc_26x18in-large.jpg" /><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In the Golden Days</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
John Melhuish Strudwick</div>
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Just to update you dear friends,<br />
<br />
(This was written yesterday).<br />
<br />
I feel better now as I have come to a decision not to have the palliative chemotherapy which was an option for me. As I have had chemo before I always swore I wouldn't go through it again - I would if it was curative of course, I am always a fighter - but I want to enjoy the days I have left and not be suffering the terrible side effects. The decision was a hard one though and made me quite anxious as I kept wavering between having the chemo and not, I guess that deep down I was worried about what the family might feel but they completely understand my decision and are very supportive.<br />
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Luckily my dear GP visited me two days ago put into words exactly what I was feeling in my heart - he agreed with my decision and now I feel as if a heavy burden has been lifted from my shoulders. I had also been feeling unwell and it turned out that I had a urinary infection, I am on antibiotics now which have made me feel so much better, I was almost tempted to go out and do some garden tidying this morning!<br />
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A lovely Macmillan nurse visited today, they really are angels. My sister sent me a beautiful moth orchid plant, my GP sent me a touching personal letter and more cards arrived. My daughter visited, I 'spoke' online to my son, I received emails and messages from friends. A good day.<br />
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And thank you Purplecoo members and fellow bloggers who have been sending their healing energies and offering up prayers in various ways.<br />
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I have to say that all this and the 'purple blanket' (and the 'purple cloak',which I often wear) are an amazing comfort, I can feel their power around me. I am blessed to have so many of you as friends even though we may have never met.xx<br />
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Go mbeannai dia duit,<br />
<br />
CaitCait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-63389464579118951072014-09-15T10:08:00.001-07:002014-09-15T10:08:11.885-07:00Reason for my Absence<div>
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I thought I should just post an apology for being absent from this blog for over a month now. I am afraid I have had a cancer diagnosis and further surgery/treatment is on the horizon, I shall report back when I can and I shall try to visit other blogs too. Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-71155844897192269492014-08-03T08:14:00.001-07:002014-08-03T08:19:47.372-07:00Artist Unknown<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_RR1e72iMRi0LrM2TAdZj2LnfGUmTruLsAajav14IYRZhhP4QIn3Dsz_Bhhpf6K7_glrVqsHoxN0Ns29LvXpn_8I7tM6_3bHW1fN7vXDoZD_LJeGSYgMAz7ruegKHi13rHroU8wMSPA/s1600/P1080473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_RR1e72iMRi0LrM2TAdZj2LnfGUmTruLsAajav14IYRZhhP4QIn3Dsz_Bhhpf6K7_glrVqsHoxN0Ns29LvXpn_8I7tM6_3bHW1fN7vXDoZD_LJeGSYgMAz7ruegKHi13rHroU8wMSPA/s1600/P1080473.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Painting on My Bedroom Wall</b></span><br />
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Artist unknown; the painting has everything:<br />
A back view so all might be imagined<br />
but may never be revealed, a tableau<br />
of mystery, misty, somewhat muted.<br />
There is soft light, a plea for gentleness,<br />
scented roses, a bedside book and candle.<br />
Set by an ancient window, muslin-dressed<br />
in lily-white, a simple wooden bed,<br />
patchwork-quilted, soft and silken-pillowed.<br />
I spy perhaps my own child-self dressed in<br />
lace and Irish linen, her hair loose and<br />
long and wayward in its curl, a tortoiseshell<br />
cat close by, her one familiar.<br />
Is she pondering, is she sad or is<br />
she all a-wonder? I do not know for<br />
her thoughts and face are hidden, even the<br />
beauty of her downturned face can barely<br />
be recalled to mind, the dewiness once<br />
contained within is now unrecognised<br />
but surely she has learned that there is comfort<br />
to be found at every fall of day<br />
and hope at every day’s beginning.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
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<br />
Does anyone recognise this picture? Can anyone tell me the painter’s name? I cannot make out the name on the print which I bought very cheaply from an Oxfam shop. I fell in love with it at first sight.<br />
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<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-80460302140990371892014-07-18T01:03:00.003-07:002014-07-18T01:03:29.169-07:00Ants<br />
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<img height="320" src="http://imagesci.com/img/2013/12/planet-earth-from-space-2491-hd-wallpapers.jpg" width="320" /><br />
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<b>We are but ants</b><br />
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<br />
Lay out your false gods in neat rows; start with<br />
greed for money, power and celebrity.<br />
Shatter them to smithereens and then<br />
instead revere the glory found in love, the<br />
nature of the Earth and the wide Universe.<br />
True power lies in Nature and a beauty<br />
of design which we can just aspire to,<br />
try to re-create as art but not invent again.<br />
We are but ants and tiny in the scheme<br />
of things; just a part, a section of a whole<br />
and very far apart from whence we came.<br />
Small, solitary, humble, we gaze up<br />
at skies in wonderment, dreaming of a<br />
purpose to life that we can’t yet comprehend.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
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<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-73395978481207660392014-07-17T00:32:00.003-07:002014-07-17T00:32:15.916-07:00Failure<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="248" 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" 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Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-26797347232826904872014-07-13T11:54:00.002-07:002014-07-13T11:55:54.077-07:00Karma<br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Karma</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She climbed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By a series of degrees, karma-driven, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">her life was destined to be a rough and tough</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">ascent. It was hard, lurid, scuffed and careworn </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">from the start and she had lived it on the edge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not one to push herself or ever let </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">herself be pushed, she knew not how, or had </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the cause to fly. Agéd now and scared to </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">die alone, her longings are like dreams whose</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">intensity is strong but like her fateful</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">journey are too high-coloured, dramatic,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">overstated in their indemnity.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Cait O’Connor</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This is a <i>Magpie Tale</i>, read more<a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/"> here.</a></span><br />
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Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-77592326642673780392014-07-13T08:46:00.001-07:002014-07-13T08:52:58.527-07:00Peace<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>There is no road towards peace; peace is the road </i></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Mahatma Gandhi</span></div>
Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-30887438669063985342014-07-03T16:30:00.001-07:002014-07-03T16:30:04.964-07:00Recommended Blog Post<br />
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Occasionally I like to recommend a particular blog post that has touched me in some way.<br />
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This is one such post.<br />
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There are swear words, you have been warned. I think if I had written it there would be swear words too.<br />
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The blog is<i> Frugal Queen</i>, here is the <a href="http://www.frugalqueen.co.uk/2014/07/froogs-has-rant.html#comment-form">link</a><br />
<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-787506300989820892014-06-29T14:43:00.001-07:002014-06-29T14:43:42.097-07:00A Game of Patience<br />
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<i>A Game of Patience</i>, 1937, Meredith Frampton<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Dressed in blue-stocking grey, to match the sharpness </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">of her intellect, Margaret Austin-Jones </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">sits alone in solitary pursuit. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Her eyes deep hazel, her hair sweet chestnut, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">crimped in waves so neat and precise they match her</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">manner and the cut of her dress, (modern, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Vogue-patterned, made for her with care).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Although she's up-to-date, she is but</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">young and wise in every way but love.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Like Eve she yearns too much for life, desires</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">to taste the apple, touch the texture of </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the ears of corn, impatient for the blood- </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">red buds to bloom. She hears a footfall on </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the stair, her heartbeat pounds, she glances at</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the door. Like a scene from a novel, in</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">a room with a view, the dramatic part </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">has come; she has played a patient game of </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">waiting for a suitor to appear, has </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">craved and dreamed herself a handsome, kindly</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">knave but little knows she may have drawn instead</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">a darkly evil, scheming, King of Spades.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Cait O’Connor</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This is Sunday's <i>Magpie Tale</i>, read others <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-87475904324936151122014-06-27T04:37:00.001-07:002014-06-27T04:37:14.799-07:00Collapse of Capitalism<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Owners of capital will stimulate the working class to buy more and more of expensive goods, houses and technology, pushing them to take more and more expensive credits, until their debt becomes unbearable. The unpaid debt will lead to bankruptcy of banks, which will have to be nationalized, and the State will have to take the road which will eventually lead to communism.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Karl Marx, 1867, Das Kapital</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Collapse of Capitalism</b><br />
<br />
<br />
As Marx foretold to us, the cake is shrinking,<br />
the ship is sinking, the rodents have come<br />
to the fore, the fat cats feast upon our<br />
shores, feuding and fighting amongst themselves.<br />
The vulnerable seem to be subdued,<br />
repressed, dismissed, their lifelines cast aloft<br />
into some briny deep along with truth<br />
and trust, care and humankind’s compassion.<br />
Only the slightest shreds of verity<br />
remain, almost entirely covered now<br />
by lies and spin as the cake reduces.<br />
The poorest, the meek, the sick and the weak,<br />
the greens and the peacemakers, once were blessed<br />
but are now portrayed as fools or traitors,<br />
burdens or charlatans, benefit scroungers.<br />
The rodent-rich, much richer than before,<br />
step upon the enslaved and the ignorant,<br />
laughing at them as they do, with barely<br />
hidden arrogance, while gnawing at their bones.<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-514020969105363782014-06-22T23:58:00.001-07:002014-06-23T02:58:26.144-07:00Avatar<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT2w7spPzN9S-O3rH5bvn2HnXp-gioOaKi_i_W77NJtbgSWmtb1Bf5SxN-u2iXthNftvsBqVGTk8nz0xLC9IxLjIb6bCpow0csYG4uLeId08QpAM4cHn_pQ1waanJWedZfDcz9CviIP0Cd/s400/waterhouse+john+william+sweet-summer-1912.jpg" height="178" width="400" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sweet Summer 1912 John William Waterhouse</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />
Avatar. Hinduism. A manifestation of a deity or released soul in bodily form on earth; an incarnate divine teacher.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Avatar</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
No more the crone, she lies alone, basking<br />
in a perpetual summer; soaking<br />
in the sweetness of the scent of roses<br />
and the sleekness of her grey silk clinging.<br />
A sash of russet tied around her waist,<br />
breast-bared and cooling in the sultry heat,<br />
just the sounds of birds and water singing.<br />
This is her one true dream, her avatar.<br />
At peace, restored, her beauty everlasting,<br />
no more the victim, no more the doom, no<br />
more the dread, a victim of life’s vagaries.<br />
She lies, she sleeps, completely lost in love<br />
and dreams of just its pleasing fripperies,<br />
no need for knights in gleaming armouries<br />
to save her from herself. Her self is free,<br />
and flying now, somewhere high above, it<br />
floats at whim and far away from all the<br />
suffering of life and its mendacities<br />
.<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is my latest Magpie Tale, more can be read <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-91868932628552018712014-06-15T08:22:00.002-07:002014-06-16T03:24:50.015-07:00Not To Be Reproduced<br />
<br />
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCO2KJ7AwqnLfhH6q296mD0l78Vu9lIp0Ef-tf06aj7f-r_xFJIOf2v7ptfSUHpPHa7CBN8O1I7UCI7frwgm4Fhm80oLMyCY9gNZbEdpWmOTOhP9rD2wzxxBU5qQzaT2vWuI3o1MZzq9V/s400/magritte,+rene,+not+to+be+reproduced+1937.jpg" height="400" width="318" /><br />
<br />
Rene Magritte 1937<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not To Be Reproduced</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><br /></b>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Like Plath, I too often mused on mirrors,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Like Alice, I wandered from Wonderland</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">into a looking-glass world of magic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I came upon an image, surreal,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">an enigma framed in gilt, dressed in brown.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Here was a man too neat, too still, but with</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">silken hair inclined to curl . Upon the</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">mantel I spied a book and felt it was</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">like him, adventurous of mind, well worn,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">a much loved mystery and better written</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">in the finest French. Gazing, tuning in,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I sensed another poet-soul, a dreamer,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">self effacing, illuminated always</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">from behind but hiding his reflections</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">except in unleashed poems on the page.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Cait O’Connor</span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
This is for Magpie Tales, more can be found <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a><br />
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<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-64016506841126411732014-06-13T00:42:00.001-07:002014-06-13T00:42:46.932-07:00Julia Margaret Cameron<br />
Sadness<br />
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<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="Sadness" height="640" src="http://www.masters-of-photography.com/images/full/cameron/cameron_sadness.jpg" width="520" /></div>
Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-34683790030547527442014-06-09T11:57:00.002-07:002014-06-09T11:57:43.043-07:00Sean Scully<br />
<br />
Just because I love it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<img height="340" src="https://res.cloudinary.com/royal-academy/image/upload/c_fill,w_1200/rrqv4p9rigldjrpmnqio.jpg" width="400" />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-14407224173228880102014-06-07T05:22:00.004-07:002014-06-07T05:25:43.241-07:00Dumbing Down Century<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKUA4SWMYRyNYFdy90sC6_hvY86JyCs8Kye2b-y-dYJ7kiaK3Eg7dKbUmDE7fpVO2mGax0Vd9XO8DGuQoAjPpdloTJPgcF_rEXpZ2ziL6Iu89PnyoyzZ5LArSXrHKiM9EtNTlwgL6GY7E/s400/lips.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Albert Einstein</div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Dumbing Down Century</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
Perfect pout and pristine pearly white veneers,<br />
plumped lips painted with iridescent ruby<br />
juice, her medication’s taken capsulised<br />
in luscious (chemical) lemon flavour.<br />
Kept tranquillised and dumbed down daily, her<br />
development is arrested, she is<br />
lacking a proper education. Licked <br />
into shape, stuffed with useless knowledge which<br />
she must regurgitate on the command<br />
in the exam room (aka factory for failures).<br />
The media and government spoon feeds sweet<br />
snippets of only what she <i>needs to know</i>,<br />
(lies or truth, who cares?). They will preach, harangue,<br />
sermonise; indoctrinate and moralise;<br />
obliterate originality,<br />
anaesthetise her imagination<br />
paralyse her inborn creativity.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Latest Magpie Tale, more <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a><br />
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<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-36382249439647476982014-05-30T07:01:00.003-07:002014-05-30T07:01:54.697-07:00Restoration<br />
<br />
<img height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzo1pD2QvvLIHDc84ABEmFlQfTCFQSdcc-_c6KJWSTo3hjVUjITdThGeFIJlAejJnSsZYslPt4EAltp6Ta17vT-YIG6orZPnL_4x71hoPMcuISqzdtsJz4glWv4Ly8g9YU9woNEaGfOyvL/s400/thrift+shop.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Restoration</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Having had a rootless life, too often<br />
lived at random, he scrabbles where he can,<br />
for curios, bibelos and trinkets.<br />
He roots amongst bric a brac, seeking out<br />
objets d’art, finding beauty amongst junk.<br />
His car, his home, his clothes, his rescued dog,<br />
even his childhood’s memories, all are<br />
second hand. Practical, adaptable,<br />
he has learned to scatter fairy dust and<br />
turn trash into treasure.<br />
<br />
He spied an ancient dulcimer hiding<br />
shyly, amongst the bespoke furniture,<br />
A rare musical instrument, shapely<br />
and sexy, past it now but with youthful<br />
and endearing charm. He will tune it, feed<br />
it on beeswax and restore it with his<br />
gentle touch so it it will become transformed,<br />
until, like all he gathers around him,<br />
it will become serenely harmonised, <br />
mellow and tempered totally with love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<br />
<br />
Latest Magpie Tale, more<a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/"> here.</a><br />
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<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-28616631451732363322014-05-28T07:34:00.002-07:002014-05-28T07:34:06.943-07:00RIP Maya Angelou<br />
<br />
Only love will set us free.<br />
<br />
<img src="http://www.achievement.org/achievers/ang0/large/ang0-003.jpg" /><br />
<br />
<br />
RIP Maya, with the angels now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Touched by an Angel</b><br />
<br />
<br />
We, unaccustomed to courage,<br />
exiles from delight<br />
live coiled in shells of loneliness<br />
until love leaves its high holy temple<br />
and comes into our sight<br />
to liberate us into life.<br />
<br />
Love arrives<br />
and in its train come ecstasies,<br />
old memories of pleasure,<br />
ancient histories of pain.<br />
Yet if we are bold,<br />
love strikes away the chains of fear<br />
from our souls.<br />
<br />
We are weaned from our timidity<br />
In the flush of love's light<br />
we dare be brave.<br />
And suddenly we see<br />
that love costs all we are<br />
and will ever be.<br />
Yet it is only love<br />
which sets us free.<br />
<br />
Maya AngelouCait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-34690366628387306962014-05-26T06:41:00.001-07:002014-05-26T07:00:06.458-07:00Sentenced to Life<img src="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02256/clivejames_2256191b.jpg" /><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known the name for Japanese anemones, so pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees without my seeing them.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I count the bees.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
This morning I heard James Naughtie read the poem <i>Sentenced to Life</i> on the Radio 4 Today programme and it moved me to tears, it was read so well and the words....... well the words speak for themselves. The poet is the great Clive James. <br />
<br />
I don't always enjoy poems being read aloud, I know a lot of folk prefer it but I nearly always like to read them aloud myself in my own head but in this case there was some kind of magic afoot as I listened while washing the breakfast dishes at the kitchen sink.<br />
<br />
Here it is:<br />
<br />
<b>Sentenced to Life</b><br />
<br />
Sentenced to life, I sleep face-up as though<br />
Ice-bound, lest I should cough the night away,<br />
And when I walk the mile to town, I show<br />
The right technique for wading through deep clay.<br />
A sad man, sorrier than he can say.<br />
<br />
But surely not so guilty he should die<br />
Each day from knowing that his race is run:<br />
My sin was to be faithless. I would lie<br />
As if I could be true to everyone<br />
At once, and all the damage that was done<br />
<br />
Was in the name of love, or so I thought.<br />
I might have met my death believing this,<br />
But no, there was a lesson to be taught.<br />
Now, not just old, but ill, with much amiss,<br />
I see things with a whole new emphasis.<br />
<br />
My daughter’s garden has a goldfish pool<br />
With six fish, each a little finger long.<br />
I stand and watch them following their rule<br />
Of never touching, never going wrong:<br />
Trajectories as perfect as plain song.<br />
<br />
Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known<br />
The name for Japanese anemones,<br />
So pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone<br />
Of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees<br />
Without my seeing them. I count the bees.<br />
<br />
Even my memories are clearly seen:<br />
Whence comes the answer if I’m told I must<br />
Be aching for my homeland. Had I been<br />
Dulled in the brain to match my lungs of dust<br />
There’d be no recollection I could trust.<br />
<br />
Yet I, despite my guilt, despite my grief,<br />
Watch the Pacific sunset, heaven sent,<br />
In glowing colours and in sharp relief,<br />
Painting the white clouds when the day is spent,<br />
As if it were my will and testament –<br />
<br />
As if my first impressions were my last,<br />
And time had only made them more defined,<br />
Now I am weak. The sky is overcast<br />
Here in the English autumn, but my mind<br />
Basks in the light I never left behind.<br />
<br />
<br />
Clive James<br />
<br />
<br />
There will be an interview with Clive James on the programme tomorrow, I look forward to that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-26446073468724586712014-05-25T03:35:00.002-07:002014-05-25T03:35:15.699-07:00Coffee Talk<br />
<br />
This is another take on the picture below, not my work but I liked it and wanted to share with you.<br />
<br />
<img height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TtiOcahyphenhypheng1bOmR4PMEsdEZ3lUI7ydhlGbmwtWhpBOK9ueF3kdFNI6D7Yx29YSD2e1BRb7KXXHrpPeiKkUq1UClvOFMV8VMsw51e8ixjOszAPwTr3NbmVUr8lKXOen_68dEnkibzvPRlt/s400/new-york-restaurant+1922+edward+hopper.jpg" width="400" /><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Coffee Talk</b> (a poem)<br />
<br />
<br />
Plain people<br />
In their tailored suits<br />
And perfectly polished dress shoes,<br />
They tap manicured fingers<br />
While waiting for stiff drinks<br />
And wonder what poets across the room<br />
talk about over the messy edges of café tables,<br />
Toppling bottles of half-drank wine,<br />
And the coffee-stained pages<br />
We exchange as if sharing secrets:<br />
That an unleashed mind is a happy life,<br />
How the whole world spins,<br />
A shedding wilderness of words<br />
From a vortex in the frontal lobes<br />
Of our dishevelled brains, so full<br />
Of good films and literary autobiographies<br />
That there’s no time left to lend to reality TV,<br />
How fluid the body is when words<br />
Become art and the pen fills the skin,<br />
How sustainable love lives when veiled<br />
In the expression of shameless creation.,<br />
How strong the pull of death<br />
Into so many notebooks,<br />
Brash handwriting of well-lived moments,<br />
The grand metamorphosis immortalized.<br />
How meaningful the lonely moments<br />
Of this night can stretch themselves<br />
Into the star shine of a haiku or soliloquy,<br />
Ink-covered hands and blood-shot eyes<br />
Crossing themselves like prayers across<br />
First drafts and pages full of paragraphs,<br />
my crusted coffee cups spent of words,<br />
Those blue, curvy mamas who open<br />
morning windows and warm my wintered hands.<br />
<br />
<br />
Stacy Lyn Mar<br />
<br />
<br />
Written for a prompt at <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">Magpie Tales.</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-5946015586384728702014-05-18T10:27:00.002-07:002014-05-18T10:30:09.596-07:00New York, 1922<br />
<br />
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4TtiOcahyphenhypheng1bOmR4PMEsdEZ3lUI7ydhlGbmwtWhpBOK9ueF3kdFNI6D7Yx29YSD2e1BRb7KXXHrpPeiKkUq1UClvOFMV8VMsw51e8ixjOszAPwTr3NbmVUr8lKXOen_68dEnkibzvPRlt/s400/new-york-restaurant+1922+edward+hopper.jpg" height="310" width="400" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">New York 1922</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It was the noon hour, the time for protection.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was wearing my favourite apricot </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">cloche hat, everything seemed just perfect; </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">it was all about the light. The light and </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the moment the light shone upon were both</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">golden, so all about me was glamour,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">jewel-like, atmospheric, their colours </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">matching my Parisien hat and my mood. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I did not know that my image was being </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">captured; I would have protested but to </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">be painted thus did thrill and move me in </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">an equal measure. On that day in New</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">York in 1922, when he and</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I took tea together, we became as</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">one, isolated in our togetherness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The crowd receded and time paused for me,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">so that in its stillness I could no longer</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">fear my past or worry for my future.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I knew somehow, from that golden day on,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">there was only ever going to be the now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Cait O’Connor</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This week's Magpie Tale. See more<a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/"> here.</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The fine painting is by Edward Hopper.</span></div>
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Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-46437862681152208452014-05-11T09:08:00.000-07:002014-05-11T09:11:47.261-07:00My Dream<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKNiMcYchQkxZZg9tsxefBhoJYrYr2kRBHKjrJ-V4lWfLQnh-UCSUx7s3L5j1O_jdmzu9tbsKuk6KFnvcdcJzk9F6mXf3rnTfeYiXUMtNBGaTJNoHbEPS6mwQdZL-ud2HzFoWPhfje-86/s400/image+1.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>My Dream</b><br />
<br />
<br />
This is my dream now.<br />
I can now escape night terrors and the Dali dream which was delirium.<br />
I am single-handed, yet feeling closely-held and not forsaken.<br />
Out, out into the thistledown, featherlight and floating,<br />
I am carried on Etesian winds;<br />
caressed by raindrops, watched over by angels.<br />
I can see a rainbow but now in fade-out<br />
I am seen in sweet sepia, softly sleeping.<br />
I am unique and special, solitary but safe.<br />
I am high-flown now, carried away like a poem.<br />
I fly below doves, follow in the wake of clouds<br />
and nothing can stop me.<br />
I am to be cherished forever.<br />
This my dream now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is written as a response to another Magpie Tale. Read more <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/">here</a><br />
(The photographer is Martin Stranka.<br />
<div>
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Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-1255424860926632522014-05-09T08:52:00.002-07:002014-05-09T09:03:15.476-07:00Friday Musings<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<img src="http://parlez-vousphotography.quietplacetolive.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/00000.-ontheEdgeWyeth.jpg" height="640" width="628" /><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Oscar Wilde<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: start;">
I am starting a collection of my favourite 'back view' paintings or photographs. This is my first. It is by Andrew Wyeth who painted quite a lot of back views. I agree it is not strictly a 'full body' back view but the head is turned. Do send me your favourites if you have any.</div>
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<br />
Dear Diary,<br />
<br />
Just a poem, a picture, a quote and a piece of music from me today.<br />
<br />
The poem I should perhaps be writing for <i>Magpie Tales</i> just won't come. Apart from being under the weather at the moment I have never been a fan of Salvador Dali and feel only bad vibes when I look at his work, so instead I am going to post a poem which landed in my Inbox recently. It is by a Vietnamese poet and has inspired me to write on a different subject which can't be a bad thing. It is a sad piece but I hope you like it as much as I do.<br />
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<br />
<b>Burial</b><br />
<br />
<br />
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There is the rain, the odour of fresh earth, </div>
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and you, grandmother, in a box.</div>
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I bury the distance, twenty-two years </div>
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of not meeting you</div>
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and your ruined hands.</div>
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I bury your hair, parted to the side and pinned back,</div>
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your áo dài of crushed velvet,</div>
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the implements you used to farm,</div>
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the stroke which claimed your right side,</div>
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the land you gave up when you remarried,</div>
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your grief over my grandfather's passing,</div>
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the war that evaporated your father's leg,</div>
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the war that crushed your bowls,</div>
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your childhood home razed</div>
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by the rutted wheels of an American tank—</div>
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I bury it all.</div>
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You learned that nothing stays in this life,</div>
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not your daughter, not your uncle,</div>
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not even the dignity of leaving this world</div>
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with your pants on. The bed sores on your hips</div>
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were clean and sunken in. What did I know, child</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
who heard you speak only once,</div>
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and when we met for the first time,</div>
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tears watered the side of your face.</div>
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I held your hand and said,</div>
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bà ngoai, bà ngoai</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Ten years later, I returned.</div>
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It rained on your gravesite.</div>
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In the picture above your tomb,</div>
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you looked just like my mother.</div>
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We lit the joss sticks and planted them.</div>
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We kept the encroaching grass at bay.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Cathy Linh Che<br />
<br />
<br />
And the music, <i>Night Sky</i> from Paolo Nutini, with text below on which the song is based.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
The Great Dictator's Speech from the film of the same name. Charlie Chaplin played the Jewish barber in the film,<br />
<br />
<i>I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be an emperor. That’s not my business. I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone - if possible - Jew, Gentile - black man - white. We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness - not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed. We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The aeroplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men - cries out for universal brotherhood - for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world - millions of despairing men, women, and little children - victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>To those who can hear me, I say - do not despair. The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed - the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress. The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish. .....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Soldiers! don’t give yourselves to brutes - men who despise you - enslave you - who regiment your lives - tell you what to do - what to think and what to feel! Who drill you - diet you - treat you like cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don’t give yourselves to these unnatural men - machine men with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines! You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts! You don’t hate! Only the unloved hate - the unloved and the unnatural! Soldiers! Don’t fight for slavery! Fight for liberty!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In the 17th Chapter of St Luke it is written: “the Kingdom of God is within man” - not one man nor a group of men, but in all men! In you! You, the people have the power - the power to create machines. The power to create happiness! You, the people, have the power to make this life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Then - in the name of democracy - let us use that power - let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world - a decent world that will give men a chance to work - that will give youth a future and old age a security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power. But they lie! They do not fulfil that promise. They never will!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people! Now let us fight to fulfil that promise! Let us fight to free the world - to do away with national barriers - to do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men’s happiness. Soldiers! in the name of democracy, let us all unite!</i><br />
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Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-15782782062827366582014-05-01T07:48:00.001-07:002014-05-01T07:50:56.816-07:00A Room of Her Own<br />
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<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggW-mfoU4XfO45Vkqmigff4MQLP1BawUT4KOnLyfBTVql7VYKaHnobBU4fZs8TzpcF-F_b1O0au8A-bo7hxhys5GHmNSncwjZ38h9lhaS4_xjbJa0mHXlJltdv0LLXEiKJcryV1yGbaX9j/s400/dog+sofa.jpg" height="400" width="400" /><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>A Room of Her Own</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Would-be poet, would be writer-woman<br />
whose tales must not be sepia, black and<br />
white or second-rate. Her needs are few: warmth<br />
quiet and sweet solitude. Candles, a<br />
notebook and pen, a place for her wolfhound<br />
friend, who is squashy, soft and nearly as<br />
long as the sofa she dreams and schemes upon.<br />
She will confide in him, he reads her mind<br />
and loves her in return. From an ancient<br />
attic room, an eyrie under the beams,<br />
only colourful words are created,<br />
poems fly out of the ether, stories<br />
descend upon her through the skylight. <br />
When times are hard she gazes at the booklined<br />
walls which set the would-be woman-writer’s bar.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<br />
<br />
(It's Magpie Tale time again, read more<a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/"> here</a>).<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-75712129727340279822014-04-29T03:44:00.002-07:002014-04-29T03:45:30.777-07:00Red, Blue, Green, Yellow<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Why do two colours, put one next to the other, sing? Can one really explain this? No. Just as one can never learn how to paint.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pablo Picasso</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJpLxrgD-olyH5ORf8OPPz-j1fFmoTTeI2Z1OtsdWTLq4TrMxYmRj_4SSQarNyDuOJo7NeStFXluNcOkK_J8HmYkQrEZS8UukG1aRHRzo626umV_60kwDNb4nvB76dcw0Iw8e6C1l5Q/s1600/Jolomo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJpLxrgD-olyH5ORf8OPPz-j1fFmoTTeI2Z1OtsdWTLq4TrMxYmRj_4SSQarNyDuOJo7NeStFXluNcOkK_J8HmYkQrEZS8UukG1aRHRzo626umV_60kwDNb4nvB76dcw0Iw8e6C1l5Q/s1600/Jolomo.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Red, Blue, Green, Yellow</b><br />
<br />
<br />
Paintings are a dream, more than just colours:<br />
red, blue, green, yellow.<br />
Books are an experience, more than paper and ink.<br />
Some folk can taste the shapes of the letters,<br />
touch the sounds of the storyteller’s voice,<br />
and can even smell the words on the page.<br />
Music is a language, more than the food of love,<br />
more than sound, we feel it somewhere down deep.<br />
Someone said, play the notes and listen hard;<br />
D flat is deep plum, Middle C sapphire blue.<br />
Some folk play inner chords in the key of<br />
silence, dreaming their own private rainbows,<br />
whose palette’s intensity is quiet,<br />
always muted, not florid, lurid or loud.<br />
Some spend their whole lives under the water,<br />
blindfold, deaf and dumb.<br />
Some see coloured auras others cannot see,<br />
hear voices from another place and time,<br />
but keep all their inner secrets silent.<br />
Some babies born from the Light, in colours<br />
soft, quiet and under-stated, soon blossom<br />
into brilliance, in tune with memories<br />
of Spirit’s dazzling primary colours:<br />
red, blue, green and yellow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Cait O’Connor<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br />Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1259513454241506815.post-4087903698817735352014-04-26T12:26:00.002-07:002014-04-27T05:29:01.835-07:00Moments<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A Pose, Caught in a Moment</b></div>
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Taken through the kitchen window while I was eating my breakfast this morning</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Moments</span></b></div>
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What are moments for?</div>
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Moments: over and over they come, they </div>
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haunt us, we wait for them, race through them,</div>
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speak of them and waste far too many </div>
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at our peril. We should treat each one as </div>
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special and seize them, not speed them on their way.</div>
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Some hours we set apart, planning to be </div>
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happy in. But all moments are Earth’s murmurs </div>
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to be merry and be dreamy in </div>
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to be forever joyful, never mournful.</div>
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What can we live within but hours and minutes, </div>
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days and years? We must still extract each moment,</div>
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sense each one and mould it, stretch it out to </div>
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fit us. What form are they, these fragile fragments</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
of our lives, are they diamonds, squares or circles?</div>
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What shape is time? Where does it go? An answer </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
to those questions would bring God and all the</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
angels to claim us, flying over the</div>
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fields to carry us away on the wind</div>
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and in the briefest of moments we would</div>
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be gone.........</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Cait O’Connor</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Apologies to Philip Larkin)</div>
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Cait O'Connorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04569760764766505179noreply@blogger.com6