Yes, I finally have the solution to hyperpigmentation, sun damage and photo-ageing i.e wrinkles caused by sun exposure. It's low-cost, does not involve the application of any chemicals to your skin and if you spend say 5 bucks on buying 2 of the items that provide these benefits, you can use them for a lifetime. Is this solution totally safe? Well......

The solution is not an invention by yours truly. It is something that has been used by the women of Arabia and other desert regions for millennia. I'm referring to the veil, specifically the "Niqab".

The Niqab (look it up on Wiki) is the kind of veiling arrangement that only allows the eyes of the woman to be revealed. Sometimes, even the eyes are covered with a fine, diaphanous drape. This is indeed perfect skin protection. It also saves you money on make-up, because no one can see your face.

I am being serious. This is not some derisory, sarcastic post.

If ozone depletion and global warning predictions are correct, those of us whop reside in the colder, northern climes should start covering up sooner rather than later. Skin cancer is a real threat to the indigenous, pale-skinned inhabitants of Northern Europe who are just not designed to tolerate heat and light of the intensity that is coming.

Jack Straw be warned. You may hate the wearing of a Niqab today, but it may become an essential, health-saving and daily part of your grand-daughter's wardrobe....maybe your grand-sons too!

On a similar note, a local farmer (in Devon) has planted olive trees instead of oats. I think he's right. The UK is becoming more Mediterranean. I have followed suit and have planted outdoor grapevines and a fig tree. They look fine in the company of my Cedar of Lebanon and Corsican Pine trees!

I bought a 100ml jar of this much-praised oil on ebay, somewhat less than the retail price, which is extortionate. I was persuaded to try this restorative treatment as my friend Carol, who had androgenetic alopecia (AGA), had experienced a very noticeable flush of new hair growth on the front-right area of her crown, after a few months of regular "Ojoning".

Having chronic telogen effluvium (hard to differentially diagnose and may be or develop into AGA) I decided that this was worth a try. With CTE I lose approximately 250 hairs every day, although I am not noticeably thinning i.e no minaturisation, nor am I experiencing visible alopecia. My hair cycle rate is pretty fast and thus I cannot grow my hair longer than 40 inches. I thought that Ojon might do my shot follicles some good, wing and prayer added to the mix.

The stench of this product is unbelieveable. It is "essence of stale cigarette" and no amount of exotic description of incense, raw cigar or patchouli can obscure the very strong smell of Gauloises.

I noticed that the second ingredient, after American Palm Oil, is fragrance. I have written to the Ojon company asking them to explain the constituents and nature of this ingredient and await their reply.

I also wrote to Ojon about the last ingredient, which explained Carol's sudden hair growth. This last ingredient is Saw Palmetto. Ojon have called this ingredient by the more exotic name "Serenoa serrulata". Saw Palmetto has an anti-androgen effect and is commonly used to treat benign prostatic hyperplasia in men. I guess Carol's hair growth confirms AGA! I will certainly now direct her towards the application of Saw Palmetto extract on her scalp. This will be much more cost-effective than Ojon.

Now, I applied Ojon to my scalp and the first 2 inches of my hair i.e 2 inches of new growth from the root. I left it on overnight and noticed that Ojon felt vey good on my scalp and softened my coarse, dray haor vey well. I really liked the effect of this product on my hair and scalp. I could not abide the smell. I had some remnants of sandalwood oil which I finger-combed through my hair and this masked some of the Ojon smell.

I have tried to locate a source of the American Palm Oil used in Ojon RT, but Mr Denis Simioni, the creator of the Ojon company, seems to have cornered the market. I was hoping to get some cold-pressed or minimally refined oil and compare it to the Ojon RT. Not possible, in my experience.

I can get other types of palm oil and indeed have used Red Palm Oil on my hair and scalp. The problem with this oil is, once again, the smell. It is very strong and irritating to the point of distraction. I did love how my hair and scalp felt after leaving RPO on my head for 3 hours on a hot day and then washing it off with Rhassoul. RPO costs very little, however, this is also a problem.

I spoke to a knowledgeable friend who sells ingredients for home cosmetic-making, asking if she could supply RPO. She said she could and does, but pointed out that the demand for RPO has meant an increase in palm plantations which is destroying forest wildlife. This is esecially a problem in Malaysia where Palm plantations are destroying the habitat of Orangutans and thereby reducing the population of that wonderful species.

I do not want to use any product where I participate in the destruction of lives of any species. I could not enjoy the superficial benefits of a substance that caused the death of another. This is too high a price. A price not reflected in the financial price of the product. PRO is cheap and it carries a price of the death of beings ~ a price I am not prepared to pay.

Well, if the use of "natural", fairly innocuous substances can support such death, should I stop using other base oils, essential oils and muds? Should I substitute the products of a laborotary for my naturals? Well, after some internal debate, I concluded that the laborotary concoction will end up down my drain and into the soil or the sea, where it will cause severe damage equivalent or greater than the naturals.

The real problem is the vast numbers of humans that populate this earth. There are too many wanting too much and there are too few resources to support us all and provide for our ever expanding appetites.

In our quest for beauty, women are the prime movers for unprecedented consumerism. The proliferation of products for hair, skin and nails; and the unattainable vision of computer-aided female perfection, combine to make us potent and unstoppable agents of the destruction of the health and life of every species in our world.

In the search for personal beauty I am implicit in the destruction of other beauty. How ugly!

Meanwhile, the Ojon company is launching a new product range called "Rare Harvest". They use words like "wildcrafted" and "sustainable" and talk about a type of cacoa which is harvested from the top of the rainforest canopy so that you and I can pay wads of money to put it on our hair. How exactly this harvest is performed and what effect it has on the ecology around it is not mentioned.

I'll pass, thanks.

As the person who coined the phrase "Fairytale ends" and, indeed, created a website dedicated to this type of hair, I feel the need to correct the misappropriation of this term.

Yes, this is another post in the "Virgin Hair" vein!

There are two simple elements of Fairytale Ends:

1. Fairytale ends fully retain and fully display the growth pattern and length of each strand of hair on your head.

2. Each Fairytale end tapers to a very fine, almost invisible point.

The above elements can only be achieved by leaving the hair un-cut.

I hear people saying they have Fairytale ends after S&D-ing their hair. Nope.

Fairytale ends will reach their terminal lengths, retaining their fine points, be they whole or split into even finer points. This is the beauty of the formation and the way Fairytale ends look. They appear to "disappear" into a fairy mist. They are ethereal and akin to gossamar.

The other, most often seen Fairytale ends are your eyelashes. Everytime I feel the finesse and softness of my eyelashes, I am inspired to have my hair grow to it's longest ~ which can only happen if it is un-cut ~ and to a beautifully fine and perfect tip that resides in quite another world.

I feel the need to write a clear and definitive answer to the question "What is Virgin Hair".

As this is my Journal and hence my domain of free thought and speech, I do not have to make any concessions to my opinion whatsoever. Had I been posting this one of the hair forums out there, I would feel restrained to express myself with characteristic political uncorrectness and would most probably not post this. There are actually many thoughts I have not posted on hair boards which I will post here in due course.

Anyway, having got that off my chest, back to the subject under consideration.

What is Virgin Hair?

Firstly, the standard definitions of the word "virgin" that are applicable to hair are, courtesy of www.dictionary.com, :

~ Being in a pure or natural state
~ Unsullied
~ Unused, uncultivated, or unexplored
~ Existing in native or raw form
~ Not processed or refined

Thus, Virgin Hair is not hair that has been altered from it's natural state. Such alterations would include colouring, perming, relaxing, straightening, extentions and cutting.

Can hair that has received a vegetable dye still be classed as "Virgin"?
I would say not. The bulk of my hair is dyed with henna and indigo. This is not it's natural, virgin state. It has been colour-processed with chemicals, albeit natural ones. It is NOT virgin.

Can hair that has been cut still be classed as "Virgin"
I would say not. Cutting hair is an alteration of the true form and natural structure of the hair shaft. If the hair is damaged, through poor handling, prolonged or extreme exposure to elements or other factors that cause it to split and break, these modifications are not deliberate cuts. They occur through mishap, not design.

I notice that there is a body of people who like the idea of having Virgin hair and want to be included in this category. Having used natural dyes and having cut hairs does not in their mind denote anything "un-natural" and therefore they think they are justified in saying that they have Virgin hair.

I believe this is one example of the erosion of language. The word "Virgin" is etymologically unwavering from it's balck and white meaning. You are either Virgin or not. There are not degrees and categories of virgin-ness, except in the realm of Olive Oil marketing where you have a product called "Extra Virgin".

So, in my person quest for Virgin hair, let me be unequivocal or perhaps "Extra Unequivocal".......

......If hair has been de-natured in any form, if you have changed the structure of the hair through addition or removal of any permanant part of it's composition, it is not Virgin hair.

It was my Annuncia yesterday.

Upon waking, my Darling gave me a set of beautiful Indonesian, baroque pearls.

We spent the day at Brean beach. The weather was just perfect and there was a wonderful silence - utter peace.

Later, we bought extravagant amounts of our favorite foods for a wonderful dinner that evening.

Pearls make any woman look beautiful ~ and I felt so very beautiful yesterday. These gifts will always be very special to me.

I am in Veszprem today.

I doubt we will be journeying into Ultra Silvam during this trip, but my heart tells me it won't be long. I won't go there any later in the year. It will be next spring.

When we were driving through the countryside today, I noticed a fair number of people entering and exiting the thickets. Some were lone - men and girls or young women. Some were couples. I asked Csaba, one of our business associates about this and he was too embarrased to reply. Another, older Hungarian explained that the young women were Romanians. Hungary has many illegal immigrants from neighbouring Romania and they find it hard to find work - harder than the Roma (gypsies) who have established their various networks and "specialisms", shall we say. Hence, the Romanians prostitue their young women to survive. There is no social security and the income the women bring in is vital for the Romanian families survival. "Who are the men who use these women's services?" I asked. The men in the car were uncomfortably silent for a minute. Then the chap who had explained the situation to me revealed that these girls serviced all echelons of Hungarian society. I then said "So, if we set up a factory in Hungary, say in the countryside where these women are having to prostitute themselves, we will be able to give them jobs and a better future. In fact, I see this as a better prospect then setting up a factory near the city centre and paying higher wages". More silence. No, they said, that was not a good idea. They would not explain themselves further and I did not ask any more.

Attila later explained that the Hungarian municipal govenments would not permit me to employ these women. I gathered from this and the remainder of our conversation on the subject that the government does not want to give Romanians legal status and the right to work in Hungary. Nor do they want to tackle the prostitution issue. Everyone, it seemed, was content to just let things be.

Late this afternoon we returned to our hotel and I showered and had a nap. In the early evening we took a walk into the city centre where there are a smattering of designer shops in a few roads. The city is a curious mixture of grand architecture (and I mean serious grandeur, not just pretentions of being so) and ugly, dull, depressing communist buildings that dilute the beauty of the city.

We took a road that led a little way away from the shops and turned a corner to be greeted by another unconfortable scene. We were on a road lined with lap-dancing clubs and sex shops. "Do these places also employ Romanian women?" I asked. No, well, sometimes, but only if they are very beautiful - was the response - they are mostly Hungarian women in there. Oh, that's OK then...huh?

A few hours later, after our meal, I noticed that some "ladies of the night" - in their teens and early twenties hung around the hotels. Whilst going into a hotel foyer to meet a colleague, I had the chance to observe some of these women closely, and found that I was likewise being closely observed - by men.
I looked at the eyes of these girl-women. They were either spaced out, frightened or hard and cold. They were young but looked frail and vulnerable, totally unlike the Western Eurpoean women I am used to being around.

Two men watched me from the hotel reception desk - customers. One man watched me from behind the desk - staff. They must have watched me for 15 minutes (my colleague was late). The two men talked in Hungarian, checked me out, and talked amongst themselves again. I gave them no eye contact, but I just had a feeling something was going to happen.

Finally, the two came over and said something to me pointedly in Hungarian. Their manner was not coy or underhand, but straightforward. I had no idea what they said and I responded to them in English, French and then Italian, trying to communicate that I did not speak their language. The utterance of foreign languages seemed to halt them in their tracks as did the sudden arrival of the chap who had watched from behind the desk. He said a few words to them and they looked shocked and hurried away.

Just then, Csont arrived. He brought his neice to translate for us, and after the meeting, she (a lovely woman in her early 21s who has just opened a florists)and I had time to disappear into the tearoom for a chat. I told her what had happened with the two men earlier, and for some reason she felt it necessary to apologise profusely for her countrymen. I told her not to apologise, but rather explain to me what they saw when they looked at me.

She said they, like her, would not be able to "place" me. I had the colouring and looks of a gypsy (but couldn't be one because gypsy women don't show their legs, wouldn't be groomed and wouldn't be confidently alone) and the bearing and clothes of an aristocrat (I sent blessings to Ralph Lauren when she said this, lol). She said she could only assume that they thought I was either a high-class prostitute or an Uzbek princess! I think she only said the latter to placate me.

In this one day in Hungary, I have seen more open prostitution than I have seen in all my life. To top it all, I may have been mistaken for one myself!

I am so incensed at the men in this whole chain of abuse that I want to scream and rip into them, claws and fangs.

I go to bed tonight deeply angry and deeply uncomfortable. I think about all these lives wasted and corrupted. I wonder what hope there is for these women and what I can do to provide an alternative for these, my poor, used sisters.

"Ultra Silvam" translates from medieval latin as beyond the forest.

I am in Hungary on business. We have based ourselves in Budapest, but have the opportunity to travel around Lake Balaton and go into the outlying districts.

The arrival at the airport was interesting. We were met with our two main business contacts in this region. These are two men of Roma origins, Roma being translated for me as "Romany" or "gypsy".

The first and most physically striking of these men is a 40 year old - Attila. He is well built, yet lean; unusual for a man of 6 foot 6 inches in height. His skin is dark - much darker than mine. Attila is well-read, highly intelligent, deeply philosophical...and troubled. There is some mystery about him that I hope to fathom during our trip.

Funny thing was the reception I got from the two men when they first set eyes on me. Attila was surprised and briefly confused, and the other chap, Tomas, said "Ah! Very beautiful!" and handed me a small bunch of flowers. They knew I was coming, obviously, hence the flowers. I guess they did not know my race.

I look like one of their people. The Roma women I saw on the drive this evening could be my sisters. They all have dusky complexions and long, black hair. In some cases the hair looks like it has never been cut. They all wear long skirts. We are not kindred, however, we are of the same racial stock, and that unites us on some level.

The Roma are supposed to have originated in either Pamir, Punjab or Rajasthan and travelled to Europe via Iran. The reason they left their homelands is unknown to historians. They did not come as conquerors, merely passers through. Most of them stopped being nomadic many years ago and have settled in parts of Eastern Europe and elsewhere.

Here, in Hungary, the Roma have strong mafia connections and a reputation as being corrupt. I will bear this in mind, however, I like to give people the benefit of the doubt whilst protecting my own interests at all times. So, I shall observe these men and their quality.

Attila waited till we arrived at the Hotel reception and the porters were taking our luggage to our room. He then asked me quietly where I was from. I told him my origins and he was pleased. We chatted for 10 minutes about common aspects of our language and culture and have initially bonded.

Attila's wife is Romanian - not Roma. Her family disapprove of Attila because of his race. I am familiar with such discrimination of course. I am also wickedly familiar with the shock people get when I open my mouth and converse with them on topics they barely understand and in the elaborate code of academic language. It's incredibly nourishing to my ego (and highly amusing) to have them fail to understand what I have just said, not because they don't understand the words, but because they thought a person who looks like me would speak in broken English, mispronounce words or have some intonation that gave me away as being a foreigner, an alien, an immigrant. It is good to challenge stereotypes.

Over the course of the next few days I shall be meeting all sorts of people. Ex-Communists, bureaucrats, savvy businessmen, mafiosi, bullies and cheats - the usual parade. I shall as usual look and listen very carefully, and not rely at all upon the evidence of my senses. I shall test each person with offers and see who is worthy and who is merely greedy.

Let the games commence.

The base of each hair is attached to the follicle from which it is produced. Hair sprouts from a bulb-shaped organ called the Dermal Papilla. The Dermal Papilla contains capillaries that supply it with blood. It contains nerves.

The root of hair is buzzing with cellular activity during it’s growth phase. There continues to be life at the root of the hair until it is shed.

The length of hair that protrudes past the surface of the skin (epidermis) does not bear the typical indicators of life, but it is part of a living system at its root.

Melanocytes are cells that create melanin (why does hair have a colour? Camoflage? Race marker?). Genetic material determines colour, thickness, texture, etc.

Theory of melanin:- In skin, melanin acts as a protection from the destruction of the skin from the ravages of light e.g weakening of collagen and carcinomas.

Theory of colour:- Dark colours absorb the heat and keep it near the body, making one hotter. Light colours deflect heat and make the body cooler.

Black, brown and red hair contain more melanin pigment then skin. Black hair for people from hot counties and fair hair on people from cold countries makes no sense according to either theory.
What is the biological purpose of red hair? Why does hair lose melanin with age and sometimes in youth?
What is the biological purpose of white hair? Is it energy saving in a weakened organism? Does the benefit outweigh the cost?

The sebaceous gland that is located on the side of each follicle provides a cleansing, lubricating and preserving oil. That means that Nature had provided us with built-in, perfect, detergent-free...in fact cost-free...shampoo and conditioner, in the form of sebum.

Alongside the follicle is a tiny erector muscle. This muscle is usually relaxed, but contracts in response to cold and fear, thereby causing the hair to be vertically raised. This causes an enhancement of the hair’s insulating properties and traps warm air around the scalp.

The hair follicle, that diligent spinner, gathers the raw materials it needs for its craft from the blood. It takes protein, chemicals minerals and water. The spinning starts and a fine, almost invisible tip of hair is produced. It peeps out of the scalp and is sealed and protected from environmental and elemental damage by the coating of sebum.

The follicle continues producing one continuous length of hair fibre for a certain period of time, after which it stops spinning and enters a dormant state. During this resting period, the hair is still attached to the follicle. The spinning then recommences and a tiny hair starts to grow adjacent to the pre-existing hair. As the new hair emerges, the old hair is shed. This is the process that takes place in a healthy organism. As I have mentioned, other factors such as illness and imbalances can disrupt the cycle, causing an increase in the number of hair that is shed etc.

The naturally tapered end of hair (hair that is not cut that is) protects against loss of moisture, and oxidation. It does not have a resealing mechanism, i.e it can’t repair the damage like a cut plant stem. Cuticle scales open to take in oxygen and moisture. Coating with conditioners, oils and waxes - anything other than sebum - may prevents the correct functioning of the hair cuticle. On the other hand, these substances are sebum substitutes, and may protect the cuticle very well if sebum is in short supply or removed by shampooing.

The roots of hair can be traced to its physical inception in the womb of the female of our species.

The individual’s personal quota of hair follicles is decided in utero. There will be no natural addition or subtraction to this number of follicles for the duration of the individual’s life.

Pre-natal hair appears in the 13th week following conception and consists of very fine, colourless hair, called Lanugo. These Lanugo hairs test the correct function of the follices and are shed from the fetus in the 8th month of life.

After Lanugo hair is shed, Vellus hair emerges from the follicles. Vellus hair is also fine and grows to a maximum of aproximately one and a half inches in length. These hairs will remain to form body hair in the adult.

The baby emerges from the womb, sometimes with a little soft, un-pigmented Vellus hair on it’s head, sometimes with a shock of highly pigmented Vellus hair that is quite abundant (for a newborn).

As infants, the presence of silky down upon our heads is beyond our conscious acknowledgement. We cannot see it and it is rarely long enough for us to fiddle with. Our parents may gently stroke our heads, use a soft brush to rearrange the strands into a soft frame around our faces, even tie a ribbon on some gathered wisps giving rise to coos of delight from other adults. Of all this we are barely cognisant.

In respect of the biological requirement for scalp hair at this time, it appears to be minimal in terms of either a protective or insulating purpose.

The short Vellus hair finally depart from the head sometime in the second or third year of the child’s life outside the womb. In their place, a semi-adult or pseudo-adult hair emerges. This Virgin (my term) hair tends to be finer than true adult head hair. This Virgin hair and the scalp from which it grows, also tend to be in a state of blessed equilibrium. They are neither dry nor oily. Virgin hair is resistant to damage and flexible. It is able to grow to long lengths.

With the hormonal changes of puberty, comes the enhanced production of sebum (natural oil) in the hair follicles as well as the appearance of true Adult hair, which displaces the Virgin hair from the scalp.

Adult hair is stronger than Virgin hair and this is usually expressed as increased thickness in the strand. Adult hair is usually able to grow to terminal (final) lengths of between 2 and 6 feet.

As adults, stress, poor diet, poor circulation, infective or viral illness, reaction to drugs, injuries, pregnancy, menopause, endocrinal and hormonal imbalances, high fevers, shock, dermatalogical problems and a host of other factors can cause a change in the hair. This can be in the quantity, texture, colour, strand thickness and condition of hair.

With greater age comes either thinning of the volume of hair or total/partial hair loss. This takes place in varying degrees in both genders with women tending to the former and men to the latter experience, though by no means exclusively so. The degree of sensitivity of the hair follicle to androgens (male hormones) appears to be a key factor in the most common types of hair loss in both men and women.

Thus, in the human life cycle, the form of hair changes many times. But hair has a cycle of it’s own, which is quite intruiging.

The hair follicles harbour the mechanisms required to create hair. They are like spinners with their spindles. Using the spindles they spin a lengthy rope and then they put their spindles down. After a period of time, they pick up their spindles and resume their spinning. This is essentially, the hair cycle.

The hair cycle is mysterious. What is the necessity of hair that falls and re-grows?

Superficially this would seem to be a waste of energy and protein resources. Why not just supply a human being with one growth of hair that lasts a lifetime? Or hair that only replaces itself if damaged?

It would seem that the hair regenerates because it is important to the organism. So that, even if one is divested of it through mishap, it is not lost forever. Yet, if it is so essential, why is there such a thing as natural, progressive baldness? We are genetically programmed to grow long hair and yet the hormones, specifically androgens, are enemies to that very goal. Or is it that I am being presumptious and incorrect in calling progressive baldness "natural"?

The ability of hair follicles to regenerate a new hair is a curiosity and a wonder. One wonders if the DNA programmed to perform this re-growth could some day be replicated and applied to other cells of the human body, regenerating amputated limbs perhaps? But that is just my science fiction mind at work!

The hair follicle contains the bio-technical ability to create hair. Kudos to those hard-working follicles. O great minute Follicle, let me plumb your mysteries!

The standard biological indicators of our species are often listed as consisting of the large brain, bipedalism, non-natal presentation of mammary glands, decreased body hair.

One species-marker usually excluded from this listing, is the growth of extraordinarily long hair on the head. The density, profusion and length of hair that potentially grows from our scalps is remarkable and mysterious. Many scientific theories are suggested to account for it and most (if not all) fall short of a satisfactory explanation. Mostly, the matter is considered so trivial as to be ignored by the scientific community.

Perhaps this oversight is understandable considering the era in which we find ourselves.Socio-cultural factors may influence scientific attention and impede a clear evaluation of the biological necessity of long hair.

Presently, in the Western Hemisphere – and increasingly in the Eastern – a person displaying a head full of un-cut, virgin hair is rare. Such individuals, when one does come across them, appear anomalous in the modern ocean of short, extended, permed, straightened, coloured, bleached, styled or otherwise altered hair.

The economic machine is fuelled by expenditure, expenditure by desire for products, desire for products by fashion, fashion by a temporal vision of beauty, that vision by a lack of intrinsic values. The end result for the individual is primarily an unwholesome focus on their outward image, often followed by dissatisfaction with that image. Such dissatisfaction can only be resolved through a “corrective” that consists of the purchase of a product or service that will alter the unacceptable natural formation into a currently acceptable “ideal”.

That which is really ordinary – natural long hair – is now something many urbanites would struggle to imagine, due to its absence in everyday life. Indeed, a number of people in of my acquaintance find long hair wierd or even repulsive. Their own hair is a symbol of many things but always something to be tampered with. Any indication of the natural colours, the natural variation in length, the emergenge of fine tapered ends or any other disobedience is quickly rectified. You would think by now that hair would have learned to keep itself in line!

Yet there it is, continuing to grow upon the seat of thoughts, providing a service of sorts – not fully functioning in its incapacitated state – but struggling to achieve its end upon a host that innundates it with demands to be something other than it’s original design.

What is that end? What is the true purpose of hair? If we knew, would we do what we do to it? Are we missing out on something? Are we losing something while conforming to cultural dictats that have nothing to do with Nature’s objectives?

I will now abandon reductionist science as it has abandoned hair. I will abandon considerations of modern culture, as they have acted against hair. Let us move away from those who would re-paint a sunset, who frown at the dis-orderly mess of ocean waves and find fault with the patterns of snowflakes.

Let us seek traces in those realms where a full growth of natural hair is valued, for these distant provinces may reveal hair for what it truly is ~ whatever that is.

Oh Beauty’s Glance
Oh Glance of the Beloved
Oh Glance of the Friend

I salute Your Presence!
With that One Look I am humbled, yet magnetised.

Oh Beauty’s Glance
You indicate the Presence of the Friend.

Come, all who are friends of the Beloved
Come, None Other than the Beloved Friend.

Come, all who are messengers of the Beloved
Come, None Other than the Beloved Friend.

I beg you my Beloved for some charity
Toss me some vestige of Your great wealth
I beg you my Beloved for some blessing
Toss me some fragment of Your mercy

Oh Beauty’s Glance
Here is Mustafa, Your charity for me
Wealth beyond my imagining
Oh Beauty’s Glance
Here is Mustafa, looking kindly at me
Wealth beyond my deserving

If it were not for Your Glance
The dust would not dance
If not for Your Glance
I would not beat the earth with tears

Such tears show me my extreme poverty before your Gift
Such tears show me the Loving Kindness of the Friend
Am I not just hunger?
Am I not just hunger for the Friend?
Am I not just a hunger for Beauty’s Smile?
The Glance tells me the Friend sees me
The Smile I cannot hope for!
My hunger is my poverty
My longing for the Beloved has endless degrees
As such I am all longing
Truly, I am blessed with great poverty and extreme longing

Come, all who are messengers of the Beloved
Come, None Other than the Beloved Friend.

I am homeless and destitute
Oh Friend grant me a shelter
Beauty Glances at me
The Gaze strikes my heart!
If the hunger and longing are comforted they will diminsh
Let me sleep on cold stone and shiver
Let me long for the Beloved in pain and loss
For only then will Beauty Glance at me
Only then do I have hope of the Beloved’s Smile.

People come to visit me
Praying for gold and silver to end my need
People come to stare at me
Praying to the Beloved in thanks that they are sheltered
And unafflicted with the poverty that is my lot.

People bestow gifts I walk away from
People bestow advice I discard
People bestow me with the fear that is in their eyes
I have to laugh as they do not know what true fear is
But it is all they have to give

At night the Beloved comes to me
Beauty Glances and there is no shelter from it
The Beloved told Mustafa to tell me
That beauty has been placed in the world to test me
Mustafa told me but his eyes were soft
Mustafa told me with a smile
He knew the difference and did not have to speak
He knew what I suspected
That Beauty’s Glance wipes out all the beauty placed in this world
The beauty placed in this world is the impoverishment
Of Beauty’s Glance

Come, all who are messengers of the Beloved
Come, None Other than the Beloved Friend.
Beauty Glances

All these messengers of the Beloved
And the language of glances, gazes, softness and smiles
Spoken only to those in desperate need
Let me be the most unashamed in my neediness
Let me be the most humble before the Beloved

I adress You my Beloved Friend
To You I prostrate myself and beg
That Beauty’s Glance
Carry me on it’s return journey
To the Beloved
I am weightless
And thus able to be lifted
This forehead will never again be raised
Except by the hope of that blessed Glance
Promising a vision of the Smile
At which I will cease.

A new painting requires a virgin canvas and a clean palette.
The colours must be pure and the brushes cleansed of all traces of previous works.

My lips are brimming with concealment of a certain matter.
I walk around with the weight of its suppression.
If the matter were to unfold, the world would shatter.
The secret - which contains love - is mixed with poison.

Night spreads colossal wings around me.
Will they protect me or do they bring death?
Weapons are thrust against my naked flesh.
A sword pressed to my thigh.
A steel arrow to my neck.
Cold hungry metal.

So who will it be?
Who will be the victim of the sharpness?

Taking a step forward in the blackness, the weapons are questions that burn into my skin.
Whose blood will they draw?

The pin that holds my hair drops to the floor.
Shoulders are warmed in the instance I stumble into a clay pot.
It falls down some steps and shatters.

I can't see a thing.
I know from the breaking pot that there are steps ahead.
Another step forward.

Rough rope catches me under the chin and gathers around my neck.
Dare I move again?

The lips conceal the matter.
My mouth is full of acid blood that is starting to boil.

I decide to step backwards to retrace the direction whence I came in.
Mistake.
Two knives pierce my back under the shoulder-blades.

I step forward to evade them.
Mistake.
Strong, icy needles are shoved into my closed eyelids.

If I cry out, the lips will let it go.
I cannot reveal the matter to anyone.
I cannot be responsible for the destruction of the world.

The needles are twisted and pushed further in.
I have to sacrifice my visionary potential.
Sockets are bleeding badly now.
Scorching redness I can't see.
The needles are still icy - or is it the pain that confuses me?

I am alive with pain and fear.
Who is here?
My eyes are wide open, not catching light, but the slight movements of air.
Who is doing this?
I will take the secret to my death.

The rope tightens against my throat and the contents of my mouth are under a different pressure.
I struggle to breathe.
Inhalation and the needles and knives go deeper.
Exhalation and I swallow the poisoned blood.

A furnace is lit before me.
A strange thing – it’s fire casts no light.
I can see only the flames and an object within them.

A rough iron rod.
I have the image of a tree whose branches hold the nests of many song-birds.
I have the image of an explosion and the tree catching little feathers and splintered hearts on its withered branches.
I will not part my lips, even though the matter threatens to seep out.
The rod is red, blue, gold. It is white hot.
It thickens in the heat.

The rope lifts me by the head.
Eyeballs are fanned by something moving at speed.
Around my legs, above the knees.
Around my wrists.
Devices that catch, trap and open me up.

Now I can’t move.
I feel salty wetness falling from my face into the hair that comforts my shoulders.
The tears nestle in the hair. It absorbs them.
I will not speak.

The iron rod is white hot.
I close my eyes as it is brought to me.
Through closed lids, I see pink light.
The rod is brought close to my face.
I can smell the metal, breathe in the heat.
The blood in my mouth boils.
The rod is hot beyond boiling point.

The rod is lowered.
I can feel the intensity of heat approaching my belly.

I want to dispell the contents of my mouth.
I want to ask “why?”
But I will not fracture the world at the cost of myself.
I will not save myself at the cost of the world.

The needles in my eyes start a brutal maneouvre.
They swirl viciously.
My brain is torn apart.

Slowly, burning the fatty organ, sizzling.
The rods ascends excruciatingly into my being.
I know its path towards my centre.
Can I bear this?

I know my lips conceal a certain matter.
The supression of that matter has the price of this pain.
I don’t know what would happen if I drink the poison in my mouth.
Would the world still shatter?
Would I shatter?
Would both disasters happen?
Would nothing change?

I am being penetrated by the unthinkable.
Tortured beyond comprehension.

If I lose consciousness, my lips will relax and release the secret.
The world will be annihilated.

This is the tradition.

From the skull of His head hang down a thousand thousand myriads; seven thousand and five hundred curling hairs, white and pure, like as wool when it is pure; which have not been mingled confusedly together less inordinate disorder should be shown in His conformation; but all are in order, so that no one lock may go beyond another lock, nor one hair before another.

And in single curls are four hundred and ten locks of hair, according unto the number of the word, QDVSh, Qadosch, Holy.

But these hairs, all and singular, radiate into four hundred and ten worlds.

But these worlds alone are hidden and concealed, and no man knoweth them, save himself.

And he radiateth in seven hundred and twenty directions.

And in all the hairs is a fountain, which issueth from the hidden brain behind the wall of the skull.

And it shineth and goeth forth through that hair unto the hair of Macroprosopus, and from it is His brain formed; and thence that brain goeth forth into thirty and two paths.

And each curl radiateth and hangeth down arranged in beautiful form, and adorned with ornament, and they enshroud the skull.

But the curls of the hair are disposed on each side of the skull.

Also we have said: Each hair is said to be the breaking of the hidden fountains, issuing from the concealed brain.

Also this is the tradition: From the hair of a man it is known what he is, whether rigorous or merciful, when he passeth over forty years; thus also when he is perfect in hair, in beard, and in the eyebrows of his eyes.

The curls of His hair hang down in order, and pure like unto (pure) wool, even unto his shoulders.
Say we unto His shoulders?
Nevertheless, even unto the rise of His shoulders, so that His neck may not be seen, because of that which is written, Jer. ii. 27: "Because they have turned away from Me the neck and not the face."

And the hair is less close to the ears, lest it should cover them; because it is written., Ps. cxxx. 2. "As Thine am are open."

From hence His hair stretcheth out behind His ears.
The whole is in equilibrium; one hair doth not go beyond another hair, (they are) in perfect disposition, and beautiful arrangement, and orderly condition.

It is the delight and joy of the just, who are in Microprosopus, to desire to behold and to conform unto that conformation which is in the Ancient One, the Most Concealed of all.

Thirteen curls of hair exist on the one side and on the other of the skull; (they are) about His face, and through them commenceth the division of the hair.

There is no left in that Ancient Concealed One, but all is right.

He appeareth, and He appeareth not; He is concealed, and He is not concealed; and that is in His conformation much more so than in Himself.

And concerning this the children of Israel wished to inquire in their heart, like as it is written, Exod. xvii. 7: "Is the Tetragrammaton in the midst of us, or the Negatively Existent One?" (Where they distinguished) between Microprosopus, who is called Tetragrammaton, and between Macroprosopus, who is called AIN, Ain, the Negatively Existent?

But why, then, were they punished? Because they did it not in love, but in temptation; like as it is written (ibid.). "Because they tempted the Tetragrammaton, saying, Is it the Tetragrammaton in the midst of us, or is it the Negatively Existent One?"

In the parting of the hair proceedeth a certain path, which shineth into two hundred and seventy worlds, and from that (again) shineth a path wherein the just of the world to come shall shine.

That is what is written, Prov. iv. 18: "And the path of the just shall shine as the light, going forth, and shining more and more unto the perfect day.

And out of that is the path divided into six hundred and thirteen paths, which are distributed in Macroprosopus.

As it is written concerning Him, Pa. xxv. 6: "All the paths of the Tetragrammaton are mercy and truth,".

T called me.We talked for 3 hours.

He recommended a book to me, “Story” by Robert McKee whom he knows personally. He had a copy with him and read me the chapter headings. T said the book was univerally acknowledged as the serious writers Bible. I think it is aimed more towards commercial screenplay/script writers. Not really relevant to the experimental stuff I am producing, but I’ll check it out.

We discussed the theory of colour in film and re-working the aesthic narrative in post-production. I was reminded of Hitchcocks use of colour in Marnie and the intensity and importance of the storyboard process. Still, as a writer, I don't feel the need to define my output so thoroughly. It interferes with the creative process, although it is admittedly necessary on occassion.

Also discussed the “side theory”. That when screen action occurs on the right (as viewed by the audience) it carries more power, weight and finality than that which occurs on the left of the screen. The neuropsychologists have investigated and confirmed that humans respond in predictable ways to colour and spatial elements. These can and are used by film-makers to convey subliminal themes and indicators to the viewers.

T said that he used these covert indicators to convey the back-story of the characters.
People infer and deduce beyond the obvious. So if you can’t stop the imagination, feed it chock full of information in layers and levels of sensual information. At least you contol the input to an extent that way and develop the understanding in a particular direction.

Useful conversation...I'm off to write!

One of the stories in Giovanni Boccaccio’s “il Decamerone”(the 5th tale of the 9th day) concerns a young man who falls in love with an unattainable noblewoman and eventually gains her hand in marriage.
The conquest of the lady is not done through the demonstration of gentlemanly qualities, seduction, artistic accomplishment or by overcoming a series of challenges.
No.
It is done through a device: the power of fear.

The fear comes in the form of a warning, consisting of the re-enacment of another story - in a nutshell - A woman who rejected a mans' love is tormented for her actions in life and in death. It is a horrific and most unusual story that I leave you to find for yourself.

It is this story that is the kernal that Boccaccio seeks to reveal to his audience. He offers it for their delectation and their replusion. Delectation because of the passionate and erotic elements inherent in the composition.Repulsion because of the gratuitous brutality and horror that permeate it.

The superficial story is the barely safe outer shell for the delivery of the deadly inner tale. The two are joined by an unconvincing membrane.

The inner story fascinates me, as does Boccaccios’ reasons for relating it (which I can only speculate from my post-modern perspective – who knows what it meant in medieval times?).

This tale is the basis for one of my key works and I am not the only one to have been inspired by it.

In 1482-3, Alessandro Botticelli, my beloved Sandro, painted four panels (in tempera) depicting the story in full graphical detail. The paintings are delicious. These panels episodically detail the crucial elements of each sequence of the tale. The panels were commissioned by Lorenzo de Medici to present as a wedding gift to his godson. The first three in the series are currently housed in the Museo del Prado, Madrid and the last is in a private collection in the U.S.

I urge anyone interested in Botticelli to view the full version of the paintings online (there are many sites that show them). Search for the title in the subject header of this post.

“Thus the idea that the soul may be deposited for a longer or shorter time in some place of security outside the body, or at all events in the hair, is found in the popular tales of many races.
It remains to show that the idea is not a mere figment devised to adorn a tale, but is a real article of primitive faith, which has given rise to a corresponding set of customs.”

(The Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer – regarding the external soul in inanimate things)

It may be primitive, illogical and unscientific to believe that the hair that crowns the head is either the repository or incarnation of one’s psyche. As a theory, it is without validity in these times.

Two questions requiring exploration…

1 ~ Is the assignment of soul to hair a mere symbol or is it a reality?

2 ~ Is this real insofar as specific individuals i.e those with long hair, or does the reality extend to the whole of society including those who are bald?

~1~
For the first question concerning symbolism vs reality, I start with the substansive argument.
Food is edible – all edible things are not food. In times of crisis, one eats the leather of a shoe and the bark of a tree. These non-food edibles are converted into food for the sake of survival.
The application of that analogy to soul=hair would run something like:
My hair/soul is part of my being yet not living in itself. My self is the pre-condition of itself.
It is part of my life-force yet functions as a co-existant entity possessing a unique form.
But the substansive argument fails in that hair per se cannot function as the soul and vice versa……unless…unless….

Random thoughts pull together……
The hair-roots situated in the human scalp, exclusively in the animal kingdom, grow to remarkable lengths. What necessity for us and not for the others that share this world?

The Abrahamic triad would call the difference between humans and other animals, the possession of a soul. The possession of long head hair is a marker of that difference too (so are permanently swollen breasts in the female logic shouts! I counter that claim with the secondary sexual characteristic argument. Likewise the baboon’s red behind I shout back).

Metaphysically, the Sufis conceive of hair as being the growth of the mind (Inayat Khan). They say the crown of humanity is the head containing the face (emotional expression), brain (intellectual and artistic faculties, motor functions) and the hair (the spiritual force made manifest).

Now for the symbolic element.
Language – words – are symbolic of conceptual ideas. Yet they have the power to cause real effects. Some symbols are culturally distinct, but hold true for a certain body of people. For example, the pig is an unclean animal to the Arabs, and a sacred animal to the Celts. It is not a question of fact, rather perspective and belief that makes things subjectively real. Subjective reality to all extents and purposes mimics objective reality for the individual and the group.

I logically deduce (OK, logic is perhaps stretching it somewhat) that if humanity uses subjective constructs as it’s working reality, then Objective Reality (whatever it is) is elusive.
Being elusive means that the truth of things can never be known and all is dreamy speculation and concretizations of the imagination.

If that is as close as I can get to Truth, then I am in effect, inventing my own truths, that may or may not bear relation to Objective Reality.
Ergo, Hair=Soul if that is what I believe/deduce/construct.

~ 2 ~
The second question has perhaps been answerd by the first. Subjective reality can be created by and for the individual or the group. The question was also answered by Frazer, when he went on to describe the various hair rituals and taboos in ancient societies that rose up as a consequence of the belief that Hair=Soul. As for the individual of societal question, my mind boggles in chicken and egg arguments.

There are two remnants of the ancient beliefs that I have been subject to when growing up.

Firstly, that hair that has been cut (not that which is naturally shed), especially the first hair that is cut from a child, contains a potent spiritual infusion of the person to whom it was attached. This cut hair must be burnt or disposed of in water. The warning is that the hair, if obtained by a sorcerer, could be used in sympathetic magic to seriously harm the individual.
Aside: the disposal of the first hair of a child in water had a peculiar method. It must be mixed into a flour and water dough. The hair-filled dough was then broekn into pieces, dried somewhat (but not baked) and then cast into a large body of water, preferably the sea.

The second belief is that the hair of a woman must not be washed during menstruation, but a formal ritual hair washing be carried out once the menses have concluded. I was taught to clean my hair and end with three specific rinsings of water poured from above my head (rather than a dousing) while uttering a thanks to the divinity for having purified me.

Other instances of the continuation of cultural beliefs surrounding hair were more socio-religious.
I am thinking now of the instructions that once girls had reached puberty, they should not walk under trees in the evening wearing their hair loose. Worse still, if they wore loose hair and perfume…and even more dangerous if they were carrying sweetmeats. The Djinn (genies that may be inhabiting the trees above her) would be tempted into abominable acts against the woman.

The vision of a female with unbound hair, fragrant body and dispensing culinary delights as representing her fatal condition as an object of desire…..well, it speaks volumes about the culture..cultural reality that individuals have grown up in for generations. It is also charming and highly amusing, particularly as I am partial to two out of three of those dangerous habits!

The cutting of my hair as a child kept me gender-neutral. Other girls had shoulder-length hair in pigtails or plaits. I was androgynous. That made my family love me more. It reassured them that I was innocent and non-sexual and that there was no object for potential vanity to focus upon.

Another element was the modernity represented by an androgyne and the extension of that to represent someone liberated and independent. The fears and desires of a ….loving totalitarian dictatorship?
I never had any "girly" toys or chance to procure them. I instinctively knew that to pick up a glitterly pink plastic hair brush from the bargain basket in the toy shop would warrant mighty disapproval and would not procure the item anyway.

I digress.

My development into a woman appeared almost overnight and at age nine. All my peers dressed, spoke and behaved like girls. I was the one who looked asexual from the neck up and pornographic from the neck down! Also, being plain-looking as a child accentuated the duality. I could have carried my emerging womanhood better if I were pretty. During this time, I noted that my hair was cut shorter and with greater frequency. A brief attempt to grow hair below my ears met with total disapproval and was shorn back promptly.

Beauty begs the hair to grow, the soul to heal.
The hair grows as is its nature, but hesitantly, spotting dangers at every turn (the scissory sharpness lies in wait). Each tentative inch is a becoming and a flowering of the woman and her soul.

I cannot describe in words why I know my soul is my hair. All I can say is that the knowing of this came through experience, not through superstition or supposition. The analysis came after the event.

It's growing :-)

Memory of the necropolis stirs like a rock in my heart.
Death cushioned in the womb of Sindh.
A seprent tasting it's own tail.

I remember the desert and a sky on fire. Squinting up at it made me smile.
An old man showing me the clay urn full of cool water.
A smile was gifted me without art or intention - water to the thirsty.
The kindness of those who have nothing, offering everything to a stranger.

I remember the lively art of marking lives in Malir, the tombs of Chaukandi.
"Here", I told him, "here is where I want my body buried".
You are the keeper, Sir. Will you keep a space for me in this land?

My homeland, left untainted in this one place where travellers, foreigners, drifters and the lost are drowned in the blessed sand, Lal Shahbaz's song marking our hearts.

Coffins carved in stone, embellished with the symbols of a woman. A pair of earrings, a bracelet, a small mirror.
Into the stone, the indications of a male. A sword, a horse, a caspian hat.
All the sounds of the dead are blissful and triumphant in this place, like no other.
A city of the laughing dead rising out of hot sand, sinking their bodies and exalting their souls.

I want to be there again and never leave. Locked in life-death with my uncommon people.
In Malir of the lush date groves and smiles mirrored red, bedecked with ecstasy.
I want to close my eyes to life and return to the earth that painted me with colours and bid me to magnify them.

You are sheltered - seek no shelter other than the sky.

You are held - seek not other than the earth that supports you.

Many lives flow in your blood-memory and mark themselves in the ebb and fall.

The ancestral beings that were...a warrior, mendicant, murderer, tramp, tyrant ...is this your first time as a woman?

Is that why it fits so poorly?

Chris drove us from San Sebastiano to Pozzuoli. I could sense a softening of the air.
We approached the entrance to Solfatara, which is a “dormant” sulphuric volcano, more correctly, a caldera.
He parked up and the five of us walked up the slight slope into the entrance. Then through an aisle of trees and into the open circle of ochre tinted sulpher-mud. I didn’t mind the earthy, eggy smell amongst the grove. The surroundings were charming and a party of delightfully curious schoolchildren added to the pleasure.

Nearer the centre of the caldera, there were three little Roman sauna cabinets made of crumbling rock.
I tried one out and was immediately soaked in damp heat.
Scalding drops of steaming hot water dripped onto my head. Did the ancient Roman spa-goers wear hats or wrap towels over their heads, I wondered?

I got closer to the centre remembering what my geology and earth science studies taught about hot spots, plate tectonics and the different types of volcano.

Scorching heat rose through my thick soled shoes and everywhere there were misty yellow fumes drifting out of the earth with a slow eerie beauty.

The ground below us was tangibly rising and falling – I thought “dormant” – can something dormant breathe this powerfully? The earth gurgled and spat up sulpher in a cordoned area.

The soul of Napoli lay here.
This was the place Dante Alghieri visualised in his “Divine Comedy” as the entrance to the Inferno.
The Hell’s Mouth.
How lovely to be breathing in it’s exhalations. The fumes generated by demons rushing to their business, stoking tremendous fires below.
Can one be purified and healed by the energy of the Underworld? I thought so.
Perhaps it is a homeopathic effect. A miniscule taste of foulness to drive away major foulness.
I suddenly felt the burden of my sins. It would take more than mud and steam…….

I explored the area for a good while and smeared some sulpher-clay onto the skin of my hand – straight from the source. It felt lovely and did not dry for a long time.
By a little hut in one corner stood two men of indeterminate age. They were the keepers of the caldera (the minions of Charon no doubt), ensuring that visitors did not harm themselves or the environs.
They looked at me smearing the clay onto my hands and smiled. I smiled back thinking “these two will come for me when I die”.

Then something else rumbled deeply…our stomachs. So we left the glory of Solfatara and headed back to the car. Chris said he would phone a friend who used to live in Pozzuoli. Maybe he could direct us to a good restaurant.

Meanwhile, we girls went into the jewellery shop that perched on the slope out of the Solfatara facility.
I was attracted to a necklace of simple obsidian beads which I purchased and wore for the rest of the day. I also bought Mum a pair of coral and gold earrings.

Then we went to the recommended eatery. It is called the Taverna Viola. Oh my God.

A seafood feast fit for the Seraphim is the only possible description of the delightful lunch we enjoyed.
Sweet squid and salty oysters, fresh tuna steaks and clams caught within the hour.
You could see Capri from the balcony.

The beauty of hell and heaven….Solfatara and Neapolitan seafood….created a perfect memory.

I used to have an allotment, a large plot of land for which I paid a peppercorn annual rent, where I grew vegetables.

Beetroots
Sweetcorn
Lettuce
Carrots
Turnips

Their flavour and quality was magnificent.
Of course, I let the birds, worms and slugs eat their fill, and the dandelions and hogweed run to seed (much to the annoyance of my fellow gardeners).

And I confess that I had a hard time pulling up my well-rooted children from their beds and serving them up for supper, but a small prayer would ease my conscience and, hopefully, mother earth.

This was a few years back, and I had to abandon the plot when my working life got too crazy.
Now I am only working 4 days a week, I need to get my hands back in the soil again.
I was remembering how fulfilling it had been, indeed it was one of the best experiences of my life.
The only thing that tainted it was the incidence of theft and vandalism.
But I am wiser now, and know that seasons turn and things will grow again. I also know to cast protective prayers around my babies :-)

So what shall I grow?

I shall grow a wild garden thick with herbs. Planted under LunaDia's guidance and sown with a blessing of love.

I shall grow Wild Thyme and Broad Beans, Rampion and Field Poppy, Rosemary and Fenugreek, Fennel and Frisee, Mustard and flat leaf Parsley, Dog Rose and Borage, Wormwood and Soapwort, French Dandelion and Sorrel.

Amongst the herbs I shall hide the treasures: prickly and tender Raspberries and tiny, intense Wood Strawberries.

Maybe I shall succumb to the temptation of a dwarf CrabApple, Hawthorn and a Rowan bush.

A small sunken bucket filled with rainwater should ensure a resident toad or two...perhaps a family will take up residence...better make that a big bucket!!!

So happy, I could fly on wings of joy.

....~'*'~....

Dia's horns point to the West...the moon waxes. We are approaching the half-moon of the First Quarter of the lunar sub-season.

The softened seed germinates.
Life stirs and the seeding energy struggles to break through its coffin-cradle.
It can feel the pull of the deeper darker earth below.
It can taste the promise of wonderous lights above.
Thrice blinded in it's casings it is drawn forth by the same power that moves the constellations on their trajectories.

This is the time for the hope of freedom to be formed in the mind.
For plans to be made and the first actions to be taken.
A time to abandon logical goals and embrace the magnetism of the spirit as it moves it's energies towards the evolution of the psyche.
The seed is in the chalice and about to burst forth with pure life.
Knowing only the darkness, it will but briefly glimpse it's own white essence before it is clothed in green garb.

Move cautiously little creature....and in the direction to which your spirit draws you.

A frozen girlhood. Deepest winter in the arctic heartland.
A girl frozen in mid-motion, kissing the sun-beams dancing on the tuberose.
A girl frozen.
A book shut firmly with a single hair as marker.
A faerie-tale that stopped at the abandonment in the dark wood.
Pebbles that were placed to trace the trail home, swept asunder by the flooding river and in the sudden approach of winter, frozen.
They said it was summer when the blizzard hit her.
All was carried away…old friends, dear memories and treasured gifts. The storm-winds, like cold steel, pierced her eyes with stinging points. All hope of summer gone.

That is my clearest memory, but not the most powerful. It is not the memory that “paves hell with energy”. Others fall into that category. That unforgettable winter was merely the scene-setter of neglect and abandonment.

Why do I write about this now?
It is the most meaningful thing.
It is because Hansel lost Gretel in the woods and then he found her, a strand of her hair poking through the three-score and one year old snow fall. His numb fingers dug through the cold, to reach her head.
Dead or sleeping, he could not tell. Into frost-bitten lips he poured warm, honeyed milk and eventually she revived.
Then, once more, he lost her in the market of the small village (no village but a demon’s net).
Away she was taken to the desert to wander, helpless and alone save the ghouls that drift through the empty quarters.
Wishing herself dead, the desert brush took pity at hearing her sad song, and cast their branches around her like a thorny spider-web.
No briar-rose, this plain girl. No princess-bride, no fine maiden, no youngest sister, no innocent, no wise girl who would undo riddles and win the admiration of a prince, or his love.

So many years, buried.
And every night the dream of a murder and a burial. Of the devouring and the frustration and the rescue that must be attempted.
Every morning awakening to confusion and dread. And a question.
When?
When will you crawl out of the deep dark grave?
The thorns know winter by night and heat by noon. The passage of each day is a year in scope.
Each year unrecoverable.
Each night plagued by insomnia and each day by a symphony of bitter lights that are a sad simulacrum of the Light that was indivisible from the light of her eyes, before the dark wood, before the desert.

The grave is a well, thick with twisted barbs, petrified by ice.
No hope of rescue from this prison of brambles, from the threat of quick-sand that lies below.

Fearful of the terror of dreams and the reminders they convey.

Last night, nixie came through on the back of a single sneeze. That was a smooth come through – it put us both in a happy mood from the start.

I had put the kettle on before 6pm, so we had a nice cup of tea before the training started.
Nixie wanted a biscuit to dunk in her tea so I gave her a custard cream.
She plonked the biscuit into the teacup and when it floated back up, she sat on it like a raft…pulled out an exceedingly long tongue which she curved into a flute, and shot it into the tea.
Then I heard a great deal of sucking noises and watched as nixie’s head disappeared into the teacup. She finished with some slurping of the biscuit sludge. Appalling lack of manners!

I wasn’t planning on taking the training too seriously as part of me was convinced that this was a game, and Robin was just playing with us all.
Nixie hoisted herself out of the cup. Her mangled white hair dripping with tea and hanging to her knees.
She grabbed a pile of hair to the left of her head and wrung it out into the saucer, and then proceeded to do the same with the bunch of hair on her right.
Nixie then flew up to the tea-pot and sat on it with a very authoritative expression. Clearing her throat, she pointed her nose high into the air.

“Oh”, I thought..”here we go..”

nixie: Lesson One. Find out who you are looking for!
mt: Well, that’s obvious. We are looking for Robin Goodfellow. Come on, nixie, that’s not a lesson.
nixie: Lesson is perfect!!! Student fails lesson!!
mt: Rubbish. If we are not looking for Robin, than what is all this about?
nixie: Lesson One: Find out WHO you are looking for. WHO is Robin Goodfellow, mt? Nixie want full answer and NO STOPPING till the end!!

M described me as his Rusekee (?)
I asked him what he meant and got a smile and the word “Ruskala”.

Just had to look it up on the www and this is what I got……..


Traditional East Slavic lore tells of the Ruskala, a powerful and enticing figure whose hair is permanently loose and uncontrolled.

She is described as a pale, lithe, often beautiful female spirit who lives in the water, forests and fields. She sits with other water spirits on the shore, laughing, or dancing and singing in the moonlight of clear, summer nights.

She is known to swing on tree branches, waiting to entice an unsuspecting male passer-by, whom she often attacks and (perhaps inadvertently) tickles to death (!).

The Rusalka's characteristic physical attributes are her long loose hair, her blazing eyes, and her magnificent breasts.

She is noted for her beautiful voice and melodious laugh.

On the rare occasions when the Rusalka is dressed, she wears white.

In addition, some sources report that if the Rusalka, and especially her hair, ever dries out, she will perish.

~

As for M…how shall I describe him?

Le beau homme sans pitié pour la femme dérouté :-o

I got up at 6am this morning sneezing my head off.
I must have sneezed 8 times in a row...made my head spin.
I could feel another sneeze twisting up, like the Mother of all Sneezies about to blow.

Just as I thought it was going to explode, something WHACKED me hard on my nose. It stopped the sneeze and woke me right up!!
Something hovered onto my face and I had to focus cross-eyed to see what it was.

Perched on my nose was a very strange looking creature.
It was making a waspy buzzing sound, had an angry look in it's black eyes and wore a mean pout (which it poked out from an untidy bushel of straggly white hair).
I have had enough weirdness in my life not to be fazed by such creatures. I was just about to ask it who it was and what it wanted when the thing spoke.

thing: Hate this.
mt: Hate what?
thing: Coming through.
mt: That's odd. Your people are always half here. What's with you beating my nose up?
thing: "My people"? Silly human..think you know everything...shut up...just SHUT UP!!!
mt: (shocked silence)
thing: Good!!

mt: (very long shocked silence)

mt: O-Kay, little... err pixie...what do you want?
thing: PIXIE??!!? Not a pixie! A NIXIE!!
mt: What the hell is a nixie?
thing: I am. A nixie is who I am and what I am. My name, my kind.
mt: What do you want, nixie?
nixie: What do YOU want, mt?
mt: I want you to go away so that I can get ready for work.
nixie: Tooooo Baad.
mt: Huh?
nixie: You "go" to work, once you "get" to work!!
mt: Huh?

nixie: (looks less angry and more sad)

mt: What's wrong?
nixie: Robin Goodfellow.....
mt: How is he? Is he OK?
nixie: Gone.....missing. Left the Realm and left Earth. Gone. Need him back.
mt: Oh. But he's The Robin Goodfellow. Nothing bad could happen to him..could it..?
nixie: FIND HIM!!!
mt: What? How the hell am I supposed to do that? I can't flip between dimensions, can't shift shapes or any of that stuff. If Robin's not on earth (and even if he is) I'm hardly qualified to search him out.
nixie: You and me find him. nixie and mt cover all dimensions together and find Robin.
mt: I told you I can't do what you do. As much as I would like to help, I don't know how.
nixie: Robin told fairies to feed you elixir so you can flip now. Robin knew he would go missing. Robin gave YOU elixir so YOU need to do it!!
mt: Is that what it was for?. Damn. It was supposed to be a love-potion for England's love-forlorn folk. Robin's such a rotten cheat. But you're wrong, nixie. That elixir hasn't given me any special abilities. I'm still Earth-bound. If I wasn't I'd be flipping all over the place and be totally freaked out.
nixie: Nixie will teach you how to flip. Nixie is flip-trainer.
mt: Yeah, whatever (not convinced). Look, I don't know whose idea of a joke this is...probably crazy Robin up to his old tricks again. Stop winding me up and go away nixie. I have to go to work now.

nixie: Training starts tonight at 6pm. Don't be late!!!!

And with that, I sneezed and the nixie vanished.

Great. Just great. As if I didn't have enough going on.

I remember reading SorenK a decade or so ago.

I can't find the book now, but I am in need of his key theories like a woman who has been thrown off K2 is in need of a soft landing.

The case-subject, the girl in his Diary, is an enigma.
The only way the man can seduce her is to become an enigma for her.
Thus, the seduction is an "enigmatic duel".

As the seduction proceeds to it's conclusion - which reveals nothing - the secret is preserved.
The sexuality is used but not entered.

The seduction occurs in a different time-frame to the outer discourse between the duellers.
The overt and subtle gestures, the conversations, the mindgames, proceed at a steady pace.
The seduction is transcendant.
It is circulating around the duellers to the speed of their combined, amplified and accelerated hearts.

It is mystery that seduces.
It fiercely sought and never attained revelation that sustains the seduction.

The only necessary revelation is of layer upon layer of tantalising mystery.
The inability to guage the exact depth of the enigma, to find the solution to the mystery, fuels the intensity of the seduction.

M and I started this enigmatic duel over military strategy, when I think about it.
How many games of chess did it take? I lost count.
He favours the well-honed strategems of Rome and I the rough instincts of the Gauls.
The civilised man meeting the lycanthropic wench. Ergo ~ la chaleur.....

Wish SorenK had given me some fashion clues.......ah! Romeo Gigli!

epiphanee
be silent
(only then)
explosions
will occur

give all
hold nothing here
un-given

rape
engenders *pearls*
oppression
~silk~

[behind the door]
a tiger
slam shut!!

[sabres over-grown]
bare jaws
slam shut!!

gaping
stare
prepares to tear

time withdraws
instants
come

'this?' 'me?'
a whisper
caught in jaws

'this?' 'now?'
a question
sliced by claws

eyes held
open
through taloned teeth

eyes needled
bloodied
deep

now she’ll
see
a vision
he speaks

a bliss unseen
by un-crushed
bone

explosions
occuring
epiphanee is
dumbed

When a fetus first encounters darkness, it is a pure experience.

The first experience
The un-hatched child is encased in layers of darkness...the eyelids, the opaque amniotic fluid, the thickened womb, the flesh and skin of the one who grows the baby within her.

The newborn therefore should be more settled in the darkness than in sunlight or its mimics.

But with the first influx of light, comes the visual perception of the face. Followed by the recognition of the mother.
The child knows its mothers’ face before any other, including its own. It is the face of its survival.

In the darkness of the womb the mother was inconveiveable by the fetus.
All its needs were met in darkness and given without any demanding crys.
The darnkess knew to feed and protect unconditionally, totally.
.
With the emergence into the lit world, the mother arises as a tangible, separate being.
Thus the source of nourishment, provision and security has become an external phenomena in the presence of light.

The fetus leaves the wealth of darkness to enter the poverty of light.

At some point, for a child, the darkness becomes frightening.
The mother is gone in darkness, unless the child lies enfolded in her touch and surrounded by her scent.
The child is becoming dependent on light.

Later, the child learns the words “dark” and “darkness” joined with the words "scared" and "frightened".
It is taught the mythology of darkness in the form of nightmares that are planted in the depths of the dark and rise with unbridled horror into the Dark Night of the Soul, the plague of many of us grown ones.

Darkness that was the first swaddling of the little fetus becomes tarred with the sinister psychological accusations of absence, abandonment, loneliness, depression, terror, blindness and being utterly lost.
The concretization of the primal fears of humanity are brewed into a poison-potion and fed to the child like it were sustaining milk. Like it were truth: “darkness is death”

The containment of the womb and its soil-like darkness is different to the vast open dark of the desert. And in some ways it isn't.
I can testify that where the first darkness brought invisible nourishment, so does the second, if one apprehends it without the burden of the force-fed intellect or the fear-bound emotions.

Being in the pitch blackness of a moonless night, in the open air, alone.
Facing yourself as your consciousness conforms to the patterns of self-preservation.
“Am I secure?”
“Is there anything out there that could harm me?”

The answers appear before the questions dissolve.
“No – you are not secure.”
“You are never secure”
But this truth is never fully faced except alone in the dark wilderness.
You can taste this truth. None to protect you from it. None here to whom you can direct blame or point an embittered finger towards. It is a primal condition.

Yes – there are things out there that could harm you.
And you do not know where they are, what they are and when they’ll come.

There are also those things in the dark that no weapon you can wield, can harm.
These are the beasts within.
The idea-formations and fear-accretions formed in light and hidden in the darkness.
You can as much reason them out of existence as you can a pack of animals intent on ripping out your throat in a split-second. But they are creatures of the light, contained and magnified in black emptiness.

So.
I asked myself recently ….
“Do I apprehend the darkness without the taints of light?”
"Do I draw nourishment from the second darkness?"

I searched for the answer by staring into the dark.
It started closing in on me. I felt sick.
After about 2 minutes, all the childish emotional fears wearing adult clothing emerged.
I shut my eyes to hide from the "terror" of the Real Dark in the false safety of my well-lit imagination.

Back came memories of dark times and despair – borne in light – hidden in darkness.
I thought, if I could keep pulling the cord of the fears, they would all be expelled.
If I could tear out the roots of the light-bred horrors and destroy them by exposure, then the pure darkness would be mine again.

So out they came. The carcasses packed tightly in boxes.
At one point, I pulled something really big.
Then – it pulled back and I licked the cold fear the darkness holds.

I understood then that the second darkness is my protector.
Where my mother is separate and distant, the darkness is near and has never abandoned me.

I was inside it and now it is inside me.

Indivisible.

I look up into blinding white skies, whites of his eyes.
I have never known the power of whiteness before.
Never been un-done by it.

Then, slowly I approach the edge of blackness. A border. I hesitate.
Dare I cross it?
Clutch your heart girl, and enter that arena.

So I do.

I am caught amidst a battle there, between two blue warriors.
One bears allegiance to the sovereign, Odin.
One is Master of the Storm.

The blues fight it out - winning and losing in turns. Swirling their swords around the soul-centre.

"Come in" it orders, "beware" it whispers....
Unlock your fingers and open yourself up to me.

So I do.

The circle expands.
Vast and dark.

Black moon poised in a violent sky. Violent sky set in a pristine heaven. Faceted with hypnotic lights.

My eyes enter his eyes.
The filament of his gaze holds me steady in the centre of the storm.

Don't drop me!

The air in the garden is thick with life.
Toes entwined in bindweed, lemon balm and chammomile...I basked away most of the afternoon.

Finally, my skin started to prickle with heat and my toes sought out the shade of the creeping wild rose bush that has grown into a bower of sorts.
Fittingly, as this is England, the land of bowers, where secret lovers met and slipped love-letters among the pages of books, in such places.

I dwell upon Purcell's "Fairest Isle", where if one is careful to be silent, one can observe the life of song-birds, crested newts and the faerie-folk.

As I crept through the blooming green garden, I spotted my old friend Robin Goodfellow and asked him about procuring an elixir to make the rose bower grow magic roses.
Roses whose petals would cast a love-spell when placed upon the tongue of a desired beloved one.
Robin shrugged mischievously and pointed to a little group of pixies that were dancing around a fallen passionflower.
"They have what you need...", he whispered as he bundled off into a pile of twigs.

I approached the dancers gently - each as tiny as a crocus pistil - and addressed them in singing tones, as their ears can only hear sentences spun in harmonious lilts.

"..:*~ dear faeries...please would you grant me a blessed elixir..?*:-)"

They whispered in unison *certainly, but the elixir is of our choosing and your drinking of it must be deep*
I hesitated. I was not the one who should drink any elixir...the potion was for the rose bower which I wished to see cover all England and turn it's inhabitants to love-besotted poets. As the roses would bloom, their petals would fill with scent and fly like butterflies into the mouths of sour souls, the saddened and the alone. It was a simple wish.

As I watched, the faeries wove a ladder out of light and climbed high into the sun.
I waited a long time. I think I fell asleep.

I woke up a few minutes ago, to find golden slips of ether being fed into my mouth through tiny crystal straws, by giggling pixies perched on my chin.
A sparkling spectrum of colours flowing through the gold and spreading a gentle luminescence through me.

Their work was soon accomplished and the delicate creatures disappeared in a wink, as is their manner.

I can see that rose bower from my window where I sit writing this.
There is no sudden growth.
Maybe they gave me the wrong elixir....maybe they should have scattered it into the roots of the wild rose?

Oh well.

Faeries..........one never knows what they are about....