On Surviving Suicide


If I ever pray, anon, it goes to the lost and lonely of the world, because I am lost and lonely myself.

the amateur being

by Anonymous

Anonymous is currently studying in a University in the US. He loves music, comedy and the silence of a library at 3 am. He has many stories. This is one of them. His identity cannot be revealed for legal reasons because his university has a bad habit of suspending students who they believe may be a health risk, which he most certainly is not. Certain facts are changed.

I am writing this because many of my friends know me as a perception of a person that I am, rather than the person I believe myself to be. Whether I like it or not, death and my experience with it has formed an important part of who I am and how I live my life. As time goes by, and as I meet more people who become closer to me, I feel a growing psychological chasm between us. I feel dishonest for keeping…

View original post 1,322 more words

Informal interview with Merlin in the woods


Me’ Dad interviewed me.

Mostly unedited responses.


On a sunny April afternoon Albion walked and talked with Merlin in the forest, asking him questions about himself. These are the questions and answers.merlin forest 075

1. What do you call your philosophy or approach to life?
I don’t call it. It’s just what comes natural. Why should that need a name? It’s me. If you see me you see this philosophy. If I see you I see your philosophy. Names just confuse things. Like if you go around saying you’re Christian when your name isn’t ‘Christian’ (Chris) then I don’t know whether I’m talking to you or your minister. Or some guy who wrote a bit of the Bible. Or Aquinas, Augustine, Bill of Ockam and so on. Then if you say atheist I don’t know whether I’m talking to a GCSE science textbook or a person. Of course it all helps me to work out who you are. I’m…

View original post 2,784 more words



The sun behind glasses
Its sparkling eyes
Warming, lighting
A soft bed and you’re snug in a duvet, or spreadeagled mid-day in calm
Breathing light beauties in a balmly world
On the white sheets like an angel’s skin
Pillow of pure cloud
And the sun takes off her glasses
To tickle with lashes of feathers
Shines her heart into yours, puts there
A giggle or a smile
Eyebrow flared wondering what will you do
Lying snug in your duvet
Or dancing out to venture in eternal playgrounds
Evening noons
Will you walk with her along windless beaches?
Sighing woodlands around gasping rivers
Go with her to meet the moon?
Bring clouds and rains refreshing or
What? she giggles through the leaves
Have you never met a sun before?

The Beauty That Was Suddenly There


Wandering around Holborn the other day I stumbled across an open door pouring forth sweet summer sounds and eventually I convinced myself to stroll inside. It hit me like a crack in a paving-stone. A bombed-out shop front partially reconstructed and the walls painted a surprisingly glareless white.

It was a free exhibition, along New Oxford Street, right by the umbrella shop. And a musician stood there, by broad windows opening the rooms from head to toe, guitar and vocals singing to draw the crowds.

A pretty nice place to fall into.

The works displayed belong to a Lewis Hazelwood Horner, artist in residence at James Smith and Sons, the umbrelliers.

His stuff gives the feel of a bygone age living in modern times. A warp through history. As if the umbrella-makers, butchers and sitters he depicts walk daily through a portal to their workplaces, ignoring our new-fangled doors.

Casually dressed, like artisans, they calmly go about their work. Men across many backgrounds, drawn-out in overalls and shirts that look like they ought to be paint-stained. The umbrella-makers – the majority faction and the subject of most of the portraits – stand frozen with historic poise.
In a group scene, one opens out a metal frame like he’s launched a satellite, expanding into space. Another tests a wooden cane as though a masterwork spear, checking its precise straightness. The third and last has positioned himself amongst vague tools and wall-based switches, looking for all the world like a mad scientist who’s exchanged his white lab coat for tan coveralls.

Certainly it’s fair to say that the artist’s work left a decent impression on me.

Walking in fresh off the street though, it might not be to everybody’s taste. He has a tendency to portray his workers as workers. Even if they are artisans. So any romance to it is subtle. The pictures are mostly made up of dull colours, grey and khaki and dark, polished with blue and spots of shine, which (when taken as a whole) might numb the casual starer. But within these slightly dingy worlds, the characters still glow with life. Literally. Their faces partially caught in their workshop’s harsh or rough lighting. And, although set still in paint, their actions emit a sense of motion; flowing as though they’re in calm, steady continuance, or paused desperate to make the next move.

Between the black and white photos from JS and Sons past and the smaller paint sketches placed around the finished works, I think I’m right to imagine the artist’s sense of a history there to be lived again.

And maybe, in the half-ressurected surroundings of 49 New Oxford Street, there is a feeling of something new being drawn out of the old. Freed to live again.

Anyway, it’s free and open 12-9 until the 20th July. Go and take a look yourself and tell me I’ve been too nice. Lewis’ll be around to welcome you and chat about whatever arty stuff you may desire.

Check out the website material: