I took my love, I took it down Climbed a mountain and I turned around And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills Till the landslide brought me down
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Well, I've been afraid of changing 'Cause I've built my life around you But time makes you bolder Even children get older and I'm getting older too
Ah, take my love, take it down Ah, climb a mountain and turn around And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills Well, the landslide will bring it down
This song is me, I know this song is me... And you cry, well what does she mean, la Fhina?
With her mysterious ways that we try, but cannot understand... And I say, I am in the wind, and the leaves, and the air, and the waves...
I am the whispering in the trees, I am here and I am nowhere... I am in the well, and in the stream, and in the lapping of the pond... I am nothing, and I am no-one.
I am me and I am you - In part, as partners, all but stitches and threads in life's rich, bloggy tapestry, non...
Take my love, and take it down... Climb a mountain and turn around.
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills, well the landslide will bring it down...
I was feeling a little flat when I wrote this posting, earlier in the week... I hope it's not too maudlin, or melancholy for you this sunny weekend of delights...
You might see that I've given the old blog a once-over... A change is as good as a rest as my mother was wont to say... I am very free with my kisses - So you may notice the preponderance of lips ripe for kissing at the edges of my bloglette -- Although I've lost two of me potential suitors at least, since I mentioned I quite fancied having a discreet, starry, nose-piercing... It'll never happen, you know, la Fhina is very risk-averse...
That's probably why she's been a Sibyl Serpent for many a tired and torrid year...and occasionally triumphant, but those are few and far between!
Anyhoo, have a lovely weekend my little dog-eared reads... Mwah! Mwah!
Hang on, I'll just get my lace hankie to wipe off the lipstick kisses... There - Off you go now... all clean and spruce... You do look gorgeous, you know?!
On another, much-loved, blog, we were asked to tell the tale of a pen that we love to try to win the wonderful prize of a book chock-full of astounding stories on the subject of Valuing Diversity and a nice pen - Within the book's leaves there nestles a piece of valued writing by the wonderfully clever Diane, of Diane's Addled Ramblings... To my mind, Diane is never totally addled, or 'caravanned', as I might term it, (please see comedy clip by up and coming comedian, Michael McIntyre), nor does she ramble without intent, (at least nothing like I can do, but we share a lovely Crown for Rambling - As you can see over there on the right!
...So here goes... I am an English civil servant, have been for twenty-three years later this year. Although I've had the pleasure ~ Can you hear the groans from where you are?! - of working in a variety of different departments and locations; Always moving on before I am caught out, rapped on the shoulder, and uncovered as the sham that I am, all these departments of government work in very similar ways...
As for pens, once the tools of our trade, before the advent of computers, cheap, (not even as wonderful as French Bic), tawdry ballpoint pens are the order of the day, and are kept under sturdy lock and key by stealthy, Jobsworth store clerks for the precious commodities that they are...
In fact, it got to a point in some offices I toiled in, where you practically had to prove that the pen was empty of blood before you could be granted the unadulterated pleasure of a new pen!
I kid you not... When it comes to the 'public purse', they abhor waste...
One day, I espied the pen of my dreams... It was clenched firmly, but gently in the left hand of a colleague from a Partnership Against Drugs... The dappled high-noon sun glinted sparks off its silvery titanium torso... It had a chunky top consisting of red and orange rubber, highlighted with silver markings... To me, it was full of desire, akin to the Aston Martin of pens, with red and orange rubber 'Go-Faster!' stripes hugging its powerful midriff... Talk about a six-pack!
I held my breath...startled by its allure. The pen whispered of so much promise. When I had it in my possession, I too would be enchanted, transformed, changed into an other-WORDly being... Bright and Beautiful...
I wandered carelessly into The Pen Shop, eyes darting back and forth in the harsh strip lights. I eschewed cheaper versions of my prize, handing over crisp, cold, hard cash to the 'Dealer in Pens'... And then ink flowed from the smooth rollerball like fragrant water from a cool mountain stream, and I penned succinct meeting notes and neglected To-Do Lists more fluidly, more intelligently, as if I were borne to it... My writing right hand felt more comfortable than it had ever done, cushioned by the rubberized coat... I tend to press down heavily when I write (I do nothing by halves...), so you can often read my writing on another page, as if it were braille... This pen freed my spirit and my aching hand.
I cherished this instrument of beauty for two long years, caressing its mild steel and feeding it black and blue refills as its mood took it. It travelled with me, securely nestled in an assortment of functional seasonal handbags... This pen was my other self, and others in turn coveted its smooth and sexy grace, its promise. It escaped from my too-large handbag on one occasion, on a day when my boss was giving me a lift, and it travelled home with him. His bright teenage daughter almost stole it away from me - It was love at first sight for her, she had gasped with excitement, he told me, and the pen's siren song wove its bitter-sweet web around her too... This is what the company website says about my pen...
"Still based in Hamburg, the company imprints each piece with a red ring, which in German means "Rotring". Rotring has always been the choice of free-thinkers everywhere. Unique people have unique ideas, and want to express them in unique ways. With clean elegance and unsurpassable quality, Rotring's new writing instruments are part of their world. Their subtle contours and clear lines combine functionality, writing comfort and style. Rotring writing instruments are designed for individuals who play an active part in life. Rotring writing instruments are part of the fun! Rotring pens are sought out by those who understand the power of the written word and who have the sheer grit and determination to bring their goals to fruition..." ...That speaks to me, I am entranced by the smart and sleekly seductive marketing elf.
Are you?
And so... Recently, while I was still working, the last refill gulped to an end, and I dragged myself up the moving staircase to the original Dealer to re-ignite the pen's bright flame, to restore its energy and vitality... In hushed tones, echoing from the clear crystal counter, the assistant leaned towards me and told me a tale that would halt my wild heart...
"I'm sorry, but Rotring have been subsumed into a bigger - Inferior, but really well known, American Global Corporation... They have stopped making the pens... I know, they were really popular; They are lovely pens, they write beautifully, don't they? But they only want us to buy and stock their already established merchandise... These are their refills. Let me see if one will fit... They tell us that they do."
She could not have toyed with less mercy with my sword, my implement, my love... The refill implanted in it, like a rogue seed, I left the shop almost in tears...
I have not been the same since that moment... I found that the ink did not flow nicely, and the rolling nib now scratched across paper as if it were a too-old feather quill that needed sharpening. The ink was thinner, cheaper meaner, less vibrant...
...Now, I am considering ink therapy... What th-Ink you, mes dahlinks?! Can you satisfy my cravings, my addiction to ink?
And thank you, in the meantime, to the wonderfully prescient Saz, from never Fat, Frumpy and Fifty, who kindly parcelled to me a pen of golden crystal mirrors accompanied by am amber sequinned notebook which helped to brighten my day, and loosened my frantic grip on the pen that can now never be... Thank you so, Saz - Sara - 'You're the poet in my heart, never change, never stop...', as La Nicks tells it... and lo it was so.
I think I might have said something about singer-songwriter Nick Drake in the past, probably in relation to his early friendship with the now sadly-departed John Martyn.
Nick had a troubled soul, rarely performing live as his nerves got the better of him, so there remains no intriguing live footage, other than that of him as a baby and small boy, enjoying family holidays, carelessly paddling at the seaside with his elder sister, the actress, Gabrielle Drake.
What remains of Nick for us is his beautiful, haunting, enchanting, wondrous music and through his lyrics, his poetry... He is more famous now, than he ever was in his lifetime. Rumours abound, of books and film offers, as fans attempt to dissect his very soul, to understand what made him tick, and what stopped him, finally, tocking.
I was inspired to this, by hearing this beloved song of mine on my husband's favourite digital radio station this morning. Time has told me, you're a rare, rare find... continue the lyrics. This sums up, for me, what we feel about those we feel akin to, those we care about, those we treasure...
GJ is this morning dismantling disgustingly heavy night storage heaters, and vacuuming furiously through the house, trying to sweep away some of the debris remaining from our epic window voyage in the latter half of this week...
Why bother...? Part of me wants to say - I'm only going to be bringing back the silver-haired Plasterer at the end of the week, and then the hard-living, genius-painted-pine-kitchen-creating Craftsman, and I still need to find an electrician, and then I'm expecting the estimate for works from the bright-and-breezy Central Heating and Plumbing man who arrived amid the confusion on Friday, when I had forgotten I had ever called him...
Then there'll be more dust and devastation, hubble, bubble, toil and trouble, (and ultimately, even 'though I can't envision it yet, beauty will reign...and all will be becalmed...)
...And another part of me wants to applaud him for trying to put to rights the damage caused from countless weeks of me just sitting here looking at the chaos, tippy-tappying away, and enjoying myself through your words, your music, your songs, your stories, your poetry, your wit and your wonderfulness, bloggeros and bloggeristas, one and all...
So, to be as brief as I can ever be today, while I must rally and attempt to support GJ's valiant efforts, I shall leave you with Nick's words, and this rare recording of Time has told me, from Youtube.
(There are more polished versions out there, should you wish to seek them out - A great introduction to his music is through Way To Blue - A later album, compiled by his much-loved producer, Joe Boyd. Which is where I first found Nick through his music - I was in a tiny shop in York in November 1993 - It was full of windchimes and crystals, incense and dream-catchers, and there he was, singing Northern Sky as the backdrop to my thoughts on Christmas shopping! ...Nineteen years after he had left this world).
The message for me here is to cherish those who mean something to you, including yourself
- And someday we'll all find a place to be, where we fit like an iron fist in a velvet glove, where we belong... At the moment, for a lot of us, that's here in Bloggyland, talking to, and more importantly, listening to (and reading) friends! Thank you...
Time Has Told Me
Time has told me You’re a rare, rare find A troubled cure For a troubled mind
And time has told me Not to ask for more For someday our Ocean Will find it’s shore
So I’ll leave the ways of making me be What I really don’t want to be Leave the ways that are making me love What I really don’t want to love
Time has told me You came with the dawn A soul with no footprint A rose with no thorn Your tears they tell me There’s really no way Of ending your troubles With things you can say
And time will tell you To stay by my side To keep on trying ‘til there's no more to hide So leave the ways that are making you be What you really don’t want to be Leave the ways that are making you love What you really don’t want to love
Time has told me You’re a rare, rare find A troubled cure For a troubled mind
And time has told me Not to ask for more For someday our ocean Will find its shore
"Nick was in some strange way out of time. When you were with him, you always had a sad feeling of him being born in the wrong century. If he would have lived in the 17th Century, at the Elizabethan Court, together with composers like Dowland or William Byrd, he would have been alright. Nick was elegant, honest, a lost romantic - and at the same time so cool. In brief: the perfect Elizabethan."
Robert Kirby, a Cambridge friend of Nick's who orchestrated his first 2 albums
![black and white. :] Pictures, Images and Photos](http://i331.photobucket.com/albums/l456/cassiiexox93/Photography/floweeeeer.jpg)
