I was made for Afternoons

me n the mrs went off to da moovies on saturday saw the new adaption of waugh's brideshead rejigged i made the mistake of reading saturdays oz n seeing da review not worth your time it said but snooty nosed la di da reviewers can get it wrong too sometimes nearly always so we braved the satirical onslaught n sat with a handful of zealots through his beautiful film visually - wow rich colours beautiful soundtrack of solo piano settings from university to country house to italy to morocco n back again the cast ok i suppose well known enough to bring the britishness to life emma thompson a cold hearted roman catholic hate filled disciple the corner stone in some ways but outside of these externals the themes got me the counterpoint of a middle class existence versus the lavish wastefulness n foppery of between wars upper-class wine also featured fairly heavily n you know i am not opposed to that! the intellectual painter n atheist immersed into a fully tridentine Catholicism n all tha

six: travel whilst i love to roam there is no place like home . . .  i love the idea of travel of british countryside and italian summers of paris in autumn  and new zealand januarys with those i love but fiscal concerns count as does stability n not exhausting my family nor dragging em round the globe this one always surfaces so hold on future we're coming seven: new norica don't get there enough. nough said eight: exercise oh dear oh dear need to walk run swim stretch and do i hmmmmmmmmmm sometimes i am good sometimes i am not so good laziness is an in built part of me n i am getting to the age where I need to move more intake less so freends a little support  if you please and there we stop freends reckon if I was doing this ok the rest would take care of itself ciao for now

one: songs little bits of ideas a chord progression a couplet of lyric a riff maybe only a concept somedays the bits can get put together sometimes what was crap yesterday sounds gold today its a blessing its a curse its part of me two: reading always the next book to get to finally got to newmans apologia pro vita sua tough read but infinitely helpful gotta finish the brothers karamazov  too but russian authors . . .  then there's cooking n sport n philosophy n art n history n fiction n poetry  and maybe even a holy text or three if only I didn't need to sleep . . .  three: praying never really off the list even on a bad day not quite sure what i mean by praying these days but a bit of divine contact silence solitude write the blog some slow psalms seems to make a difference four: the desk doesn't matter whether home nor work the time of the day the liturgical or chronological season the desk is still messy bits here bits there bills deliberately lost letters left unfinish

i have battled much to be here . . . i have crossed wild rivers whose currents unsteadied all but the most hardy of our caravan i have travelled cross mountains whose beauty made it nigh impossible to leave i have crawled through endless deserts where water was only a dream and mirages were better than death itself i have gazed into the heart of the sun felt its rays strip me bear my eyes melt into its intensity i have watched the rain fall and the evening star appear i have seen schools of uneducated fish and parliaments of anarchist owls i have written the word and burnt the book i have sat in silence and sung the hymns i never dance i have sat with the lonely mourned with the lost eaten with the starving i have walked with the weary spoken with the mute lost with the found... to be with you has cost me no more no less than everything real the stripping away of sanity of soul of desire the transformation of all i thought i could hold onto the loss of self only to be found again mor

drove home yesterday from the abbey me n the boys the best n bravest spent the weekend said the prayers entered silence drunk the wine (n the whisky) listened to the word n hopefully the spirit were fed in da stomach n da spirit sang our hearts out raided the library talked with our monastic friends grieved their loss discussed our pain tired to heal some hurts slept talked read walked waited hoped loved looked back looked forward just were there

me mate mark wrote a great question on his book face why (do)so many churches appear to be uninterested in reaching the community around them n this little author  never short of an ecclesial opinion muttered  something about it being the wrong question  n why weren't churches offering what people actually need" ? (if ya have fake book ya can check this out for ya self) n so the comments continued n wif my usual dry wit i made a plea for stability honesty openness dialogue n maybe as a good little monastic i should have added conversatio morum (go n look it up) but (n i am on shaky ground here 'cos i am thinking out loud) i wonder if  most of the time we could walk the talk do  what we say we believe treat  people in our groups the way we know they should be treated n  learn to  shut up  when we dont know i reckon our churches might just be a little more  well full! all this not to mention actually trying to help people with living our  modern lives of stress limitless opt

here we are again your iconoclastic correspondent has been laid low by the bug of death a gnawing gastro  which saps the spirit n strength write out of you luckily for all todays pleasant yum-cha lunch appears to be staying where it belongs . . .  the earth changed permanently for me yesterday a phone call from my second home the abbey of new norcia just to discuss some mundane matters then  silence a few words the abbot is dead wordless disbelief pulsates heart drops shoulders fall deep breathes  sometimes i encounter this stuff occasionally  but when it someone you know well who liturgically bought you in who took the time to chat when i was up a creek who shared the table with you with such glee its an empty hole and not just for me but for so many like me so pray friends as we all think as we all pray as we all hope n pray for the brothers who face decisions n change n all the emotions of losing  a loved one peace to all

what keeps me going? wine, woman n song time, space n prayer father son n holy spirit john paul george n ringo olive oil parmesan n garlic friday saturday sunday past present future eliza noah coralie holidays holy-days birthdays me us them books newspapers n magazines coffee milk sugar coffee coffee coffee cd's tapes lp's crosby stills nash (n young!) poems novels articles fish chips n squid lemon lime orange mind heart soul mass eucharist lords supper smells bells n stained glass cricket rugby n  walking strolling rambling daily shambolic reinvention early morning cuddles late night discussions breakfast with friends dinner by moonlight endless possible outcomes not giving in not giving up not being afraid not running away embracing change embracing now forgiveness love you

lack of inspiration perhaps just holiday re-alignment perhaps mystcal wanderings led me here for a hint a clue a thought Why do you write? i write cos i want to except when i dont i write cos i expect something to happen but i dont get blue when it dont i write to explore ideas but i always seem to come back to the same ones i write cos i like the way some words flow together n how other bash and writhe when placed together i write to you freends but its all about me not you i write to kick myself out of all sorts of malaise spiritual financial artistic emotional musical i write just to get it out but there is usually so much more left inside i write cos i like writers c s lewis ursula le guin tolkein my sort-of-aunt nz poet rachel Bush like my friend sonia helbig-timms i write to feel like just sometimes i am doing something that i can be creative that i can give some reflection to what is going on inside me and that just maybe my experience might be someone elses i write to cajole

rain wind cold all through the night n into the day the prince joins me at about 3am the howling like a banshees cry of revenge angry trees around the house swaying n moving dark clouds menace the sky heavy downpours their only weapon perhaps first night in a new bed or the first time he has been aware of this sort of weather for whatever reason ck n I spend an hour with him traversing the triangle of our beds our words designed to coax him back to his own bed his only thought staying out of it! i loved nights like this as a boy especially with thunder n lightning the bitter darkness echoing some hidden part of me so we awake this morning and the storm is mildly abated enough for a walk a play for the poet a fish for the prince wolf ever thought of yourself as one? i remember seen a friend a therapist who had a sort of mosaic of wolves as the picture up above his desk… last book I finished The main character becomes one with a wolf to the extent he can leave his body to death n become