...we all matter, we are all / indelible, miraculous, here...

I just lost all of this earlier post, and I think I'm about to cry - Short of trying to resurrect it, I feel embittered and worn out by the bar-steward that is Blogger.   Excuse my French cousin!

It was a really nice post, inspired by a recent walk in a cemetery, embellished by having encountered the grave of an author and poet, Julia Darling, who died in 2005 at my very own age...

I was enchanted by the words she chose for her flat, table-like gravestone, some of which form all I have left of the post now - Its title, as above.

I then wrote the post, for over an hour this morning - Went back into it to finish it off, having selected some lovely photos, and then Blogger deleted all my words and pictures when I pressed something, which wasn't the Delete button, and then auto-saved, like the bar-steward that it usually never is!!!

I might re-write it, but I do remember I used to only type in Wordpad, or something similar, and then I got to trusting Blogger again.

More fule moi...

I know I won't remember all of it, and I'm sad about that.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Julia's friends used her words, and spelled out "She electrified the ordinary", around the stone as well...

I wish, one day, somebody could find themselves wanting to say something similar about me, I guess.

Meanwhile, Blogger needs to be taken in hand by an electric chair!

What's on Wednesday??!

Well you've been so wonderful to me, thank you so, and Monday brought me the delights of a day to myself in the city...

Feeling stronger, but colder in the still winter-tinged air, and open to new experiences, I met my friend, Pamlette for brunch, and she regaled me with the detail of her wonderful life without the constraints of work, and she listened to my woeful history of late, which you've all been very accommodating of recently, mes braves...

Then, I wandered comfortably amid the delights of our Victorian art gallery, the Laing, and found copies of sixteenth century French maps of the city now languishing in the British Museum; Georgian watercolours of what was, and what now could never be, and Victorian watercolours painted by the architects of the majesty of our northern city, once built by coal and industry - The imposing station with its columns and freezing air, a former impressive town hall glistening, now sadly demolished; Galleries to swish your crinolines in; Light-filled shopping arcades that once echoed with laughter and gaiety, and the ghosts of what our city might have been had not our Twentieth Century modernistic forefathers in the Sixties demolished all that was good in their wake, in favour of glass and concrete and progress and multi-storey, poverty-filled despair...

And then I encountered the one in a million that is Sara... Fab, feisty and fifty she may be, but she'd pass for just over half of that, bless her cotton socks... She can't see this herself, bien sur...

What is there to say? Beauty and wonder and the frisson of feeling like you've known this bloggy friend all of your life, while only knowing them but a year in Blogland...

What can you say about one's strength and power, energy and radiance, experiencing the magical Rufus Wainwright, songsmith of our lives, and the short life of the honourable architect of our soot-dappled city, John Dobson...

On this, whole lives have been built...

Be thankful, friends, for beauty and wonder in your lives, in spite of the broiling maelstrom of la vie quotidienne...