Journey home by John CapleIt is often quoted that " A picture paints a thousand words", a truth indeed and one that has spoken to mankind since its arrival into the world, in fact, it is a form of communication embraced and used far before words themselves ever made the pilgrimage from the mouths and into the ears of our ancestors.
Privileged we are, those of us who now dwell in a world where the spoken or written word is able to create images of divine beauty in strange symbols upon paper, screen and parchment,that which within past times (not so far away) we may not of understood, either through ignorance upon that level or because of the tyranny and oppression of our overlords and governors, who, in the grasps of power wished to keep us poor and uneducated , enforced intellectual cruelty in order to maintain their status and imposing position within society, leaving many to never to have the understanding of the letters and the knowledge of how to answer to them. Common language and the written word is a blessing to treasure.
There are so many forms of writing, the simple poem to the six volume novel, each and every word has its value, the arrangements of some are so perfect as to paint the most glorious masterpiece upon the canvas of our minds, brush stokes that will tantalise the soul, images that will burn into our very beings , conceived and understood ,perhaps as memories, formula, love and brotherhood.
Barriers of race, religion and Creed are like dust to be blown away between the reader and the author, forever to hold a place within the hearts of both.
The word becomes a rhyme that would teach, a story to give council, or a record of this place and time, just as the scenes that we find roughly drawn on stone would remind the hunter of his place in this world and the tasks he had to perform, the paths we were hopeful to take, gold and turquoise effigies found deep beneath the sand within covered tombs, the words of the past for all to see and understand.
There is sadness in these facts, for many today the word has no value, newspapers are discarded daily and other media is rushing to fill this void, the written word is undervalued in favour of film, photo and poorly educated morons who would also seek to keep the people simple and peddle terrible advise, the picture is becoming the medium for communication of the masses once more, sadly not artistic splendour bought about by love and inspiration, but more throwaway tat, shall we burn the books or make sure that our children continue the devotion to locked in carbon and the wise beauty that languishes in the countries libraries, will it be that one day we shall become the overlords watching over the uneducated ignorant masses, I know the answer- Do you?
It has been an interesting couple of weeks, as I have mentioned the feeling of detachment continued far beyond my own wishes, yet accept it I had to. Acceptance bought about some strange feelings, to voluntarily climb down into the pit of despair, willingly fall into the dark light, a fools mission it might seem, another leap, yet faith has proven that I now have the means to climb out, never now to return wholly to the worlds of man I have been forced to walk in the space between the worlds, not one foot in either, a path none of us would choose, a test of faith upon the crooked path, and one that shall very soon come to a close.
The rising lunar tide brings home those connections and I am very ready to dive back into the stream that awaits, a trip to the wilder aspects of my home, ash and thorn await as beacons within the mist, a glance a tonight's lunar spectacle would be a boon yet unlikely I think, as the sky is almost slate with cloud, yet virtue demands no eyes to behold.
Thirteen years ago there came a storm into the life of the cunning man, my youngest born at the time of shortest night, tempestuous beauty, passionate and caring, my time with her has been a wondrous adventure, perhaps to learn as much about myself as I have learned about her.
As she embarks upon this next stage in her life she will be given a gift among others, a symbol of her own heritage, often maligned and most certainly abused, the silver pentacle I have for her acts purely as a recognition of her own heritage, from father to daughter, to know who we are and to enable her to remember, a gift from one of the old path to one who has yet to find their own, irrespective of whatever road she is to walk upon, it is a symbol that she will be able to look at and remember the spirit in which it was given, a token of our love and a spark that will always be welcome to join the fire at our hearth, bright blessings J and may you continue to teach this dinosaur a thing or two.
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.
Privileged we are, those of us who now dwell in a world where the spoken or written word is able to create images of divine beauty in strange symbols upon paper, screen and parchment,that which within past times (not so far away) we may not of understood, either through ignorance upon that level or because of the tyranny and oppression of our overlords and governors, who, in the grasps of power wished to keep us poor and uneducated , enforced intellectual cruelty in order to maintain their status and imposing position within society, leaving many to never to have the understanding of the letters and the knowledge of how to answer to them. Common language and the written word is a blessing to treasure.
There are so many forms of writing, the simple poem to the six volume novel, each and every word has its value, the arrangements of some are so perfect as to paint the most glorious masterpiece upon the canvas of our minds, brush stokes that will tantalise the soul, images that will burn into our very beings , conceived and understood ,perhaps as memories, formula, love and brotherhood.
Barriers of race, religion and Creed are like dust to be blown away between the reader and the author, forever to hold a place within the hearts of both.
The word becomes a rhyme that would teach, a story to give council, or a record of this place and time, just as the scenes that we find roughly drawn on stone would remind the hunter of his place in this world and the tasks he had to perform, the paths we were hopeful to take, gold and turquoise effigies found deep beneath the sand within covered tombs, the words of the past for all to see and understand.
There is sadness in these facts, for many today the word has no value, newspapers are discarded daily and other media is rushing to fill this void, the written word is undervalued in favour of film, photo and poorly educated morons who would also seek to keep the people simple and peddle terrible advise, the picture is becoming the medium for communication of the masses once more, sadly not artistic splendour bought about by love and inspiration, but more throwaway tat, shall we burn the books or make sure that our children continue the devotion to locked in carbon and the wise beauty that languishes in the countries libraries, will it be that one day we shall become the overlords watching over the uneducated ignorant masses, I know the answer- Do you?
It has been an interesting couple of weeks, as I have mentioned the feeling of detachment continued far beyond my own wishes, yet accept it I had to. Acceptance bought about some strange feelings, to voluntarily climb down into the pit of despair, willingly fall into the dark light, a fools mission it might seem, another leap, yet faith has proven that I now have the means to climb out, never now to return wholly to the worlds of man I have been forced to walk in the space between the worlds, not one foot in either, a path none of us would choose, a test of faith upon the crooked path, and one that shall very soon come to a close.
The rising lunar tide brings home those connections and I am very ready to dive back into the stream that awaits, a trip to the wilder aspects of my home, ash and thorn await as beacons within the mist, a glance a tonight's lunar spectacle would be a boon yet unlikely I think, as the sky is almost slate with cloud, yet virtue demands no eyes to behold.
Thirteen years ago there came a storm into the life of the cunning man, my youngest born at the time of shortest night, tempestuous beauty, passionate and caring, my time with her has been a wondrous adventure, perhaps to learn as much about myself as I have learned about her.
As she embarks upon this next stage in her life she will be given a gift among others, a symbol of her own heritage, often maligned and most certainly abused, the silver pentacle I have for her acts purely as a recognition of her own heritage, from father to daughter, to know who we are and to enable her to remember, a gift from one of the old path to one who has yet to find their own, irrespective of whatever road she is to walk upon, it is a symbol that she will be able to look at and remember the spirit in which it was given, a token of our love and a spark that will always be welcome to join the fire at our hearth, bright blessings J and may you continue to teach this dinosaur a thing or two.
Flags, Flax and Fodder. Tony.
A really beautiful post. Thanks for sharing
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