Going Away

December 15, 2016

all-my-bags-are-packed

Well, boys and girls, Peedeel is off and away, from now until after Christmas! His bag is packed with basic essentials. And he will be enjoying a festive holiday in elegant seclusion somewhere around the Cotswolds.

Do not despair ! He will return !

In the meantime, he wishes you one and all –

A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Even Crows can Sing

November 23, 2016

breakfast-gin

Diary 23rd November

Pass me the breakfast gin…

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Ah, but to spot genuine relevance in this wide Sargasso Sea of possibilities. Can it be done, I ask? Surely the ravings of a blog-troll have no pertinence?

But then again…

Decisions made on a whim, an impulse grown from a passion for spontaneity, are not necessarily flawed or the “wrong” decisions to have been made. It is not as if I’ve suggested marriage to a moonbeam, or taking up residence with the Rooks in the churchyard trees, or playing a banjo in the garden past midnight. No, none of these. And yet while all the possibilities hold some attraction for me, I continue to write silences on the fragile skin of the night.

For myself, yes, but also for you.

Nothing more.

I am I. The truth of my own self. I dedicate myself to my art and my unique madness. I am my own Phoenix, and on slow burn…

So sing your rapturous love-song unto me!
Burn to me perfumes!
Wear to me jewels!
Drink to me, for I love you! I love you! I love you!

(with an apology to Aleister Crawley and his verse from Liber AL vel Legis; and to Nino who always says ‘I luvs you, I luvs you, I luvs you’ whenever he sees Dee)

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This rain! So much feckin’ rain! Even the owls have fallen silent during the night…Waterlogged most likely.

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A solitary sound while you were sleeping neatly dived the night into these two pure silences.

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Well the year pulls on – rain and more rain, and mornings of white thick mist. Soon be Christmas, of course. This year we’ll be away, and I’m looking forward to that.

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Because my blood is louder than light, I misheard your voice. But it doesn’t matter. Not really. My dreamy-head turned your words from words into pure music – a distortion not accomplished without effort, believe me. But that music floats in a circle above us now, as if crafted from the moonlight.