felix

Born in Africa, grew up in the North west frontier of Pakistan/India/Turkey ...middle child of eight; an eccentric creative family; always the doodler, never really the musician..tho i do indeed love music. Work in animation(films) should paint more than i do.....:-)..street parties in Camberwell Green... flip flops in the himilayas, the inimitable depths of the sea..the sun on my skin, freshly cut grass..a vermillion sky....green valleys at sunset. Have a strong connection with the tibetan people and spent a while doing voluntary work in northern india with children, nuns and monks....what followed was an extraordinary series of 'coincidences' culminating in a seminal meeting with his holiness the Dalai Lama ...a recognition and sense of coming home. I am drawn to crystals...especially skulls, have studied esoteric thinking, physics (Fritof Kapra), Women who run with the wolves I(Clarissa Pinkola Estes) and am currently involved in the process of attempting to write ( channel ?)a childrens book of epic and rather frightening depth!! .......... These spiritual window-shoppers, who idly ask, 'How much is that?' Oh, I'm just looking. They handle a hundred items and put them down, shadows with no capital. What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping. But these walk into a shop, and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment, in that shop. Where did you go? "Nowhere." What did you have to eat? "Nothing much." Even if you don't know what you want, buy _something,_ to be part of the exchanging flow. Start a huge, foolish project, like Noah. It makes absolutely no difference what people think of you(RUMI)...... .................. The Moon and the Yew Tree This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -- Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection At the end, they soberly bong out their names. The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness - The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.....SYLVIA PLATH