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What is Pornography?

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Wednesday, 20 Oct 2010, 08:10

Pornography:

What exactly is it?

The question is straight forward, but defining it is altogether another matter.


Pornography: Most people when they hear the name mentioned, cringe and think it’s a dirty word; indeed, some people will not even say the word; thinking somehow the word itself carried some kind of contamination, yet without really knowing what it actually means.

Let’s explore this further. Is it showing the naked body in film or video; is it showing a consenting couple having sexual intercourse; is it showing any animal, whereby there is explicit connotations towards the sexual act?

Some would say yes to all, and venture even further, and yet, what is wrong with showing either the naked human form or showing the way we procreate? I would suggest an argument that there is nothing inherently wrong with showing naked human bodies, or in showing naked individuals having sex, or indeed, in showing the sex act in picture or film in consensual sexual poses, for our bodies are but the houses we live in, and, there are only two types, male and female.

Please, if you find a third you must let me know; indeed, our bodies were around long before clothes ever showed on the scene, and even when we did start to cover our nakedness, it was more to do with keeping warm and less to do with modesty. Still later, to mark us out as different, similar I suppose, to painting our bodies or tattooing ourselves to mark our individuality, for adornment, a demonstration of wealth, expression of status, a manifestation of culture; indeed, some cultures used tattoos (adornment) to show their tribal history.

Let’s look at how the Collins dictionary defines:


Pornography: noun, 1. writing, pictures, films designed to stimulate sexual excitement.
2. The production of such material [that causes, can cause offence]shortened to porn or porno. The word is Greek “pornographos” writing of harlot from pornē + graphein, to write.


Not a lot there, writings, pictures, films, for what is excitement to one can be utterly distasteful to another. We are down here to personal preference, some foods we like and crave, other we can’t stand and loath; again, some are downright dangerous: can paralyze limb, distort mind, poison body, even kill, and herein lies the intrinsic danger.

Pornography can be poisonous if used wrongly, if the mind of the individual is not balanced, if he or she goes there purely as a means of self-gratification. So what you read into a photo or film is purely inside our own mind, and even if it stimulates, is it wrong (I talking here of a heathy balanced individual) to have that feeling, after all, it’s what keeps our species moving forward? If males and females were no longer attractive to each other, or even photos of each other, where would the human race be? To procreate (we all do it) is a basic human, animal function, better in a loving relationship, for that is where it truly belongs, so if a photo, or film, or book gives us a little help, so what, on balance, is it not more of a good thing than a bad thing?

I argue, to look upon a naked man or woman cannot be wrong. The human body is beautiful—it shows us in our natural state, it shows us for what are, it shows us as equals--o see a picture of two people making love, where is the harm?

Perhaps we should talk about this at lot more to our children and show them pictures, more so, before they become sexually active and resort to covert under the table activities, openness with children must be a good thing, but before we are able to be open with our children, we must be open with ourselves.

Let’s be clear, I’m not talking, masochistic photos, where sexual pleasure is derived from pain, humiliation, exploitation, or domination by either sexes, or titillation for sadistic, immoral, or perverted purposes. Neither rape, nor child exploitation, these are vile and indefensible disgusting attributes.

That is not my interpretation of pornography.  

Delight in torture, an enjoyment in the suffering of others; paedophilia, exploitation, deprivation, of gaining delight in destroying innocent children, robbing them of their childhood, robbing them of what true love represents in a healthy relationship, and scarring them for life in the doing, is a crime against humanity: rape is equally despicable, for it  has little to do with sex; everything to do with control, about dominance, about degradation, about power.

No one can argue in favour, and who would wish to defend these vile people? Instead, I’m arguing in favour of an equal loving relationship, a sharing of values, of ideas, of bodies, inside an environment of mutual respect, understand and tolerance.

 Any comment?

 

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Tweet SHOULD WE, OR SHOULD WE NOT, HAVE OUR DNA ON A NATIONAL DATABASE?

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Saturday, 16 Oct 2010, 09:15

Should every UK citizen be made to give a DNA sample?

The pro DNA lobby argue, that because of the database, crimes are now being solved that went undetected for years, and if you are innocent, why worry, for only the guilty should be concerned? On the face of it, good solid sense, the argument is powerful.

If it means murderers, burglars, society’s dregs, rapists are caught before they are able to commit other crimes; surly, that must be a good thing! What sane civilised person could argue against the premise?

For only a slight erosion of our civil liberties, the greater good should override the liberties of the individual, for if it were your mother, or wife, or daughter, friend or relative who had been robbed, or raped, or killed, and it could have been avoided if DNA had been available to the police, the argument grows even stronger and takes great power into itself. Almost watertight, for it becomes personal to you, and it is then inside your front door, and it becomes almost impossible to argue against the premise that everyone should be forced to give a DNA sample.

Are you convinced yet?

Let’s go further. You are arrested. There are a few DNA samples taken from the crime site, yours included, and compared to the statuary database; unfortunately, there is other damming evidence against you; you are cautioned, charged, incarcerated. The Public Prosecutor believes they have enough evidence against you to secure a conviction. But someone else’s DNA also shows up on the database, showing that this person has committed this type of crime before, and upon further investigation it is proved that this other person is responsible. Without this information in the database, there would have been no further investigation and you could well have been convicted of a crime you hadn’t committed.  

Again, let’s say you had been tried and found innocent by your peers, yet still your DNA stays on file; indeed, everyone’s DNA is on file, for a sample of DNA is taken from every citizen, from every baby born and filed away for reference, It’s the law, a referendum said it could be so, you voted for it to happen, democracy in action. You, on behalf of your baby, everyone’s baby, the right of objection you have given away. A swab taken at birth, and kept until death, and beyond, and the database checked whenever the police are able to take a sample from a crime scene. This makes it easy for them.

That is, the police inform us, how many of the rapes and murders over the last few years have been solved. Cold case files are being opened, and to the police’s credit, quite a number have been solved. Notwithstanding, many injustices have become known due to DNA analysis, and wrong past decisions righted. Where it is proved that the person convicted of the crime could not have possibly committed the offence for which he or she had been incarcerated; indeed, look at the high profile cases of recent origin in the US and in the UK.

Valid compelling arguments that there should be a nationally held DNA database, if it saves just one life or stops one woman from being raped, or proves the innocence of an individual wrongly convicted of a crime; therefore, it must be right! Indeed, the police are part of our community, and if they say, it’s right for it to happen; surely, it must be right.

So should we run with it? If you are a law-abiding citizen, it will not make a bit of difference to you.

OR WILL IT?

I am all for protecting the public, and in a perfect world; I agree, and I would voice no objection, even applaud it as a good thing. But we don’t; civil liberties are important. We cannot risk further erosion of our individual rights, each chip taken of the block, moves us closer towards the totalitarian state.

Further, a recent ruling from the Court of Human Rights has rejected the UK government’s stance against keeping the DNA of innocent people, stating the Scottish Parliament has it about right.

Scotland keeps the DNA for three years from all samples taken, and then destroys them. Remember, we are talking about innocent people, guilty of no crime. You or I, or anyone could be stopped, taken to a Police Station, a DNA sample taken for committing the most basic of offences, speeding for example.

In this county, the last government tried to circumvent the European ruling, stating it proposed keeping DNA on file for up to 12 years on all samples taken, 12 years, for an innocent individual!

A person guilty of a crime needs to be caught and punished by society. There is no doubt about that. The law should apply equally to everyone, but please, let’s get some proportionality here. Good intention falls by the wayside when it comes to power and politics. Individuals are prone to self-interest, so we need law with liberty to protect us again our politicians, indeed, against ourselves.


As John Locke (1632-1704) stated:

 “All men are liable to error; and most men are, in many points by passion or interest, under temptation to it.”


Ah! I hear you say, but he lived a few centuries ago, not relevant today. Totalitarianism is paved with good intentions I argue a reply. A law is brought in to protect, and immediately it is abused.

Prove it you say!

Bins, dustbins, remember them! It’s still happening, Councils are using Terrorist Legislation to snoop, to convict people who place wrong recycling waste in waste-bins, and spy on people who have the audacity of putting their waste-bins out too early for collection. You guessed it. By using that piece of legislation designed exclusively, solely, so the government led us to believe, to protect us against terrorists.

A fine shower of lies I must say.

Where is proportionality? There is none, none whatsoever, only puffed up minor bureaucrats, flexing muscles, puffing chests, pointing fingers showing righteous indignation towards the rest of us.

"Look, look at me, I am here; I can; indeed, I will, for I’m in charge."

Showing no sense, in fact, they spoil it for the rest of us as they abuse against our basic liberties by using a bloody big rock to crack a fragile egg. Minor offences should be dealt with using appropriate, proportional legislation.

Again, councils spying on parents using snoops, cameras, microphones to make sure parents live in the right catchment area for the school their children attend. The mind boggles at the cost alone.

Further, detention without charge, without trial, suspended rights, kept for months on end in incarceration. Torture—suspects may have been guilty – some probably are guilt—but one wasn’t (a British citizen, and I suspect there are a lot more) who had been detained in Guantánamo Bay Prison and tortured, so do we want to go there? And not only go there, but also make it legal to be so? Indeed, if there is a crime and the police asks for a DNA sample for elimination purposes, most people will agree knowing that afterwards the sample will be destroyed.

 Again, another example of self-interest and abuse, the MP’s expenses scandal, they did abuse, because they could, because they felt empowered by the power they held, because they thought no one was looking. Their argument, the system said we could do it, blame the system and not us: Pathetic!

Let’s sum up: Locke’s quote is as relevant today as it was then. Catching criminals, terrorists, rapists, murders, a must in a civilized society, and all the tools of technology should be at authority’s disposal, and in a perfect world, enforced giving of our DNA should pose no problem, but we don’t live in a perfect world, far from it.

We need balance. We need to balance the right of the individual against the power of the state, so if it means the police, army, any authority must work that little bit harder to keep us safe, so be it.

I admit, it’s not a perfect answer, far from perfect, but it’s better than the alternative, for it takes only a few psychotic people to tread on the many, and for the majority to do nothing.

Please think! Don’t stay on the fence. Don’t believe you can do nothing. Say enough is enough. Stop the power of state encroachment into our civil liberties. Don’t give your hard-earned power fought for by your ancestors easily away, either by apathy or by default. Think of Iran, women stoned for alleged adultery, and could be put to death because of it; in another country, women flogged for wearing trousers in public, just two examples of the power of the state in action.

Don’t go there! We can change decisions; Joanna Lumley proved that with the Ghurkhas.

Any views



 

 

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Looking From The Outside Into The Life Of Michael Jackson

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Wednesday, 13 Oct 2010, 22:43

FROM THE OUTSIDE LOOKING INTO THE LIFE OF MICHAEL JACKSON

Looking from the outside into the life of Michael Jackson amid the frenzy and differing stories emerging, one can’t help but wonder what is true and what is fictional. He led his life in the spotlight of publicity, had no choice, had fame, had fortune, a boy star, from a family of performers. Controlled, manipulated, if it is to be believed, by an autocratic father, who bullied, abused and groomed his children for stardom at any cost.

But the most important thing in his life eluded him. I hope now in death, he is able to find it!

He had prestige; accolade, untold wealth, houses, cars; anything he wanted he could buy, and buy he did; often unwisely, as if trying to buy his childhood back, yet, he had debts amounting to $500 million at his death. A colossal sum for any company let alone for an individual, but perhaps he was that, an institution, to be used and exploited.

Was it all worth it?

That is not for me to answer, but I suspect his children may not think it so; they are left without a father. There is a saying in the Wild West, live by the bullet and you die by it. Michael Jackson lived in the media, and now in death nothing is hidden.
He lead a bizarre life, his Never-Never-Land Ranch, the fair ground, his monkey Bubbles, his menagerie of animals. His predilection for being with children, and not least of all, his tormented personality; he was not happy inside his body. The operations on his face, his skin treatments, his reliance on tablets, adds up to... I’m going to let you work that conclusion.

The child abuse court case which cost him millions, and yet he couldn't help himself. He was on a roundabout, inside a cage, on his own, and I mean own, merry-go-round; knew he was there, yet didn’t know how to stop it from turning to allow him time to get off.

Did he abuse children?

I think not; inside his heart he was a child; stardom had robbed him of his childhood, and for the rest of his life he tried to regain that feeling of being a child, of playing, laughing, running, smiling. But of course, he failed, for what is lost is gone, and he needed to move on; indeed, should have moved on, but Michael couldn't move forward, he was a train without a track, so he stayed where he was in his mind – a child, a lost child.

He reminded me of the parable of the lost sheep, balanced on a precipice clinging desperately in case it fell. The sheep found help, Michael was still looking; unfortunately, death found him first.

I remember the furore of when he held his baby over the balcony, my heart jumped to see how reckless he could be with another life. I don’t think he thought about it, so cocooned in his own importance, and he failed to see the danger; still, I don’t think he felt he had done anything wrong.

You often find torturous recklessness in people of genius. They have talent, yet often lack common sense, but this article will not be complete unless I separate the man from his music.

There, he was whole. His music pleased. His dance charmed. His personality sparkled. His whole demeanour was of the showman—the great entertainer, the great performer—and because of that, something was lost in the translation back into ordinary everyday reality; frequently, his mask of insecurity showed through, and his veil flapped, look at me, look at me, help me, help me: HIS MESSAGE, MY INTERPRETATION.

He will go down as one of the greats of music. That is assured. (Like Elvis Presley who was another tortured individual who died before his time.)

I said earlier, the most important thing in life eluded him, for all his wealth and fame, or perhaps because of it. I believe he never felt loved or valued for himself, and longed for that feeling of being cherished for what he was, and not for what he could give to others, and give he did of himself over generously.

Would I have changed places with him when he lived? No, if it were offered, I would have run away and carried on running with not even a glance back, but I hope now, Michael Jackson will find the peace he craved in life in death.

Still the drama is centre stage and far from its conclusion. The curtain is up, the show must go forward, and it will, in spectacular fashion; indeed, his place in history assured, rest in peace Michael Jackson; the peace which so badly evaded you in life.

Any comments

 

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Language is Changing - are you keeping up with it?

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Tuesday, 12 Oct 2010, 20:49

A New Language: Wow! If only you knew?

You buy your teenage daughter a mobile phone, and it makes you feel a responsible parent. Now, wherever she is, you are able to call her, and of course, she is always able to contact you. You hear the constant beep – beep – beep of her text messages.

One message follows another without as much as a pause. She tells you her friends are texting and will call round later; good you think, at least I know she will be safe; no danger with all her girl friends being in the house, studying or doing their school-homework and you feel pleased with yourself.

Her friends arrive, and what is the first thing they do? They hardly talk to each other. Phones out – yes, you have it: text, text, text, buzz – buzz – buzz, and it never stops.

What can they possibly be saying? Her friends are all with her, but they are doing the same, texting. You wonder if they are texting each other! Don’t kids talk face to face any longer?

Your daughter, with her friends, leave the lounge to go to her bedroom, but inadvertently she leaves her phone on the arm of the chair, now is your chance to peek glance. You take a quick surreptitious look at all the text messages, then wished you hadn’t bothered. Now you are even more confused.

To you it’s just gobbledygook, no harm there you think, and you place the phone back on the arm of the chair, feeling a little guilty that you have looked at the messages on her phone, but not overly, you are a concerned parent. You want to know your daughter is not meeting with the wrong type of people, and now you feel a little more contented.

Then you start to think about the acronyms, TDTM - RUH - PIR – P911. There were loads more acronyms; in fact, every one of the messages was an acronym and made no sense whatsoever. You peek again at the messages, and write down a few on a scrap of paper.

Your mind now is in overdrive, and you start to believe your child is somewhat dyslexic, and wonder why you hadn’t noticed before now. Then you sigh, her school grades were always good, not even a hint of learning difficulties.

Relieved, you put the kettle on to make yourself a cup of tea and, as you just sit down to start to drink it, the phone on the armchair goes into overdrive, text message follows text message, and before you have finished placing your empty tea cup back on the saucer, you count thirty buzzes. The old grey sells start to bubble, you think perhaps her whole school is texting her; indeed, she must be a very popular girl and you contentedly smile.

You grow quite relaxed about the whole thing, thinking, the innocence of the youth, my daughter is a well-liked girl, and always-in demand by her friends. Nothing to worry about there and you smile again to yourself, a bit of harmless texting. Still, something niggles at the back of your mind.

What could it be?

You look at your scrap of paper; your daughter comes into the room; She smiles at you as you turn the scrap of paper over not for her to see. She picks up her phone and immediately leaves without saying a word. You turn the scrap of paper over and look at your scribbling POS – NIFOC – MOS – KPC – IWSN – IAYM – GNOC – GYPO – IMESRU – DUM - DUSL – IF/IB - Kitty - SorG – RU/18 - MPFB – ILF/MD – FMLTWIA - ASL – Pron – Banana - 420 – 143 – 182 – 8 – 1174, and so the mystery deepens.

You shrug your shoulder and rip up the paper, throw the bits into the wastepaper bin, and decide to go for a walk; after all, they are only a few letters and numbers.

 

If only!

Let’s see what the first four acronyms mean

TDTM----------Talk Dirty To Me!
RUH------------Are You Horny?
PIR-------------Parent In Room.
P911------------Parent Alert

The others

POS-----------Parent Over Shoulder or/ Piece Of Sh**
NIFOC--------Nude In Front Of The Computer.
MOS----------Mum Over Shoulder
KPC---------- Keeping Parents Clueless
IWSN---------I Want Sex Now
IAYM---------I Am Your Master
GNOC-------- Get Naked ON Cam
GYPO-------- Get Your Pants Off
IMESRU------I Am Easy, Are You?
DUM----------Do You Masturbate?
DUSL---------Do You Scream Loud?
IF/IB---------In The Front Or In The Back?
Kitty----------Vagina
SorG----------Straight Or Gay?
RU/18--------Are You Over Eighteen?
MPFB-------- My Personal Fu** Buddy
ILFM/MD--- I Love Male Dominance
FMLTWIA--- F*** Me Like The Whore I Am
ASL---------- Age, Sex, Location
Pron----------Porn
Banana-------Penis-------------(no need to be a genius to work that one out!)
420---------- Marijuana
143-----------I Love You!
182-----------I Hate You!
8-------------Oral Sex
1174--------- Nude Club
Don't choke, you were young once!

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Reflections of a Hanging, George Orwell

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Thursday, 14 Oct 2010, 15:41

Reflections of a Hanging, an Essay by George Orwell commented on by Roy Tomkinson

I would like to share with you an essay; it’s less than 2000 words long, yet, when I first read it the effect on me was quite startling, and that feeling has stayed with me, despite having read this essay many times over the years.

George Orwell: A man tortured by his upbringing, a rebel in many ways. He fought against Fascism in the Spanish Civil War, and yet, as he sees, listens, understands, he becomes disillusioned with humankind—with war, with society, with the relentless pursuit of self-interest—to the exclusion of others. And often, how poverty is swept under the table by those who should have known better. Similarly, I suppose, to Gwyn Thomas, who also fought in the same war and held similar views.

Orwell’s one constant in all this mayhem is that he was always against the Totalitarian State and for democratic socialism. Still, he recognised the danger inherent in National Socialism and how it leads to secularism, bigotry and subjugation of individual free spirit, which turns every individual into a cog of the state, to be used, abused, discarded; purportedly, in the interests of the wider good.

If you get a chance, read some of his Essays and his writings, particularly when he was Editor and writing for Tribune, a left wing magazine. They are a treasure trove into his mind.

Today, I wish to share only one of his essays with you: A Hanging, by George Orwell
It opens: Orwell, a Police Officer in Burma:

“...sodden morning of the rains. A sickly light, like yellow tinfoil… We were waiting outside the condemned cells…”

You are taken straight into the picture; the scene is set for a hanging. Already, in this first paragraph you can feel death’s icy grip on the condemned.

“Six tall Indian wardens were guarding him…” Two held guns with bayonets fixed. Again, you feel his plight is hopeless, as they “close about him.”

The impatient, podgy Superintendent wishes to get it over with so he can have his breakfast. To him, it is just another day at the office, hang a few, flog a few, and then breakfast, an ordinary, nothing-exceptional day. Quicker the better, no compassion, no remorse, the condemned has ceased to be human in his eyes; indeed, a task that must be complete before breakfast, like going to the toilet and then to wash your hands. Hurry up, hurry up, his total thoughts, or breakfast will be delayed.

A dog, bright and breathy appears in the yards, happy and bouncy, wags his tail – a silly dumb animal - makes no distinction. Jumps and tried to lick the prisoner’s face. And the Superintendent, well, he’s annoyed - this dog – how dare it delay his breakfast, and after a kafuffle is caught and held.

Suddenly, realisation of what they are doing sets in for Orwell.
“It is curious, but till that moment I had never realized what it means to destroy a healthy, conscious man. When I saw the prisoner step aside to avoid the puddle I saw the mystery, the unspeakable wrongness, of cutting a life short when it is in full tide.”

The picture of the gallows floods into your mind, erected in a small yard overgrown with weeds. Orwell paints the picture with words and the image is transported directly into your mind.

The prisoner was “half pushed… clumsily up the ladder.” A rope placed around his neck. The prisoner cries out, “Ram! Ram! Ram! Ram! Not urgent and fearful like a prayer or cry for help… rhythmical, almost like the tolling of a bell.”

The dog replies.

Barks.

Minutes pass.

Blank faces.

A clanging noise.

“Chalo!” Shouts the Superintendent.

Silence.

Prisoner gone.

Rope twisting.

The dog is let loose: “it galloped…to the back of the gallows… stopped… barked, and then retreated into a corner… looking timorously out at us.” The dog is timorous, in deference to the dead man; accordingly, the silly dumb animal understands the wrongness of what had just been done.

The Superintendent pokes the body with a stick.

“He’s all right… Eight minutes past eight. Well, that’s all for this morning…”

An enormous relief sweeps over everyone, death is over for today. “One felt an impulse to sing, to break into a run, to snigger. All at once everyone began chattering gaily.”

Now, at last, it was time to eat!

A comment, one of the guards: “Do you know, sir, [talking to Orwell] our friend (he meant the dead man) when he heard his appeal had been dismissed, he pissed on the floor of his cell. From fright. Kindly take one of my cigarettes, sir. Do you not admire my new silver case, sir?”

Fright, cigarettes, a silver case: What is happening here? How the extraordinary is made to appear ordinary.

"Several people laughed… I found that I was laughing quite loudly. Everyone was laughing.”

How forced death can be so trivialised; see it enough in its raw state, and yes, I suppose it does become ordinary. I think the German concentration camps prove that. You become anaesthetised, and it even ceases to seem wrong. Indeed, it even seems to grow into a kind of holistic rightness. Somehow, as if what has happened was inevitable, no one’s fault – work - a wriggle out of reality. And then what did they do? “We all had a drink together, native and European alike, quite amicably. The dead man was a hundred yards away.

Read the Essay.

Powerful stuff!

 

 

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What Constitues Art.

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Tuesday, 12 Oct 2010, 14:39
 

What constitutes art? A question indeed, and difficult to answer, for what is porridge for one is often poison for the other. Let’s try: A picture – sculpture – photo – building – novel; a landscape, a forest, a tree; stars, planets, galaxies. Anything, everything, nothing; a black hole, a flat surface, all can be looked upon as art.

Art is subjective, and of value purely in accordance to the taste of the individual, and of course, where that person is as he or she travels along that individual journey of life we all must tread.

We all, every one of us, play a part, a very small part, in the art of nature, yet often, we just walk past without stopping to look, to listen, to stare, too busy to see the wonder of the things (the art) which surrounds us every single minute of every single day.

For me, I like walking, especially so in a natural forest where I feel close to nature; that is the best kind of art, nature’s dynamic art; moving, changing, creating; a myriad of shapes in numerous colours: twisted branches, rough, smooth, round: square shaped stones poking out of the ground.

The sound of the wind as it rushes and gushes and rustles and tussles through the trees: animal sounds. The sunlight as it hits the trees as it dances with the leaves to create beams of light filled with minute airborne particles, most of which are seeds: alive, looking for that special bit of earth into which to land and find life, to change the picture yet again.

Water, a river as it flows towards the sea, the bubbling, babbling, burping, gibbering sounds: every molecule alive and bursting and busting with energy trying to reunite once again with its mother the sea, and so it goes forth, ever onward, filling nook and cranny, crick and crack as it goes its merry way. Sometimes, it pauses, sometimes it stops, there is silence where the water runs deep, and yet, there is still sound—the sound of no sound—a rustle of leaves, a fish jumps – splash – a ring moves towards the shore and it is gone as if by magic back from whence it came.

I see art, as living, as vibrant, ever changing, ever moving, always perfect, often silent, sometimes deadly, never boring.

Nature’s art seemingly appears slow to change; sometimes, so subtly the eye misses the change and the movement is missed. Other times the change is so violent we can’t help but notice. Always there is beauty; frosty winter, tingling spring, vibrant summer, blustery autumn, and so the cycle turns as if on a wheel of fortune as the picture changes form as nature dances to its own orchestrated sounds and colours. Growing more pronounced as the seasons change, for the now second is not the same as the preceding second, or the second that follows.

We should stop, take stock, see, smell, feel the message for nature speaks to us, with us, for us, and if we take the time to listen—I mean really listen—your life will be enriched, your mind will be at rest, you heart will be at peace. That for me is where the real beauty of art lies.

Remember the poem Desiderata.

Please, if you have the time, I would like to hear what art means to you – let me know.

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My first blog: what I think of Oscar Wilde - any comments?

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Edited by Roy Tomkinson, Thursday, 14 Oct 2010, 07:52

A Man Born Before His Time Oscar Wilde

 Oscar Wilde: Victorians labelled him a decedent amoral, a dandy of the worse kind, a homosexual pervert - a corrupter of Victoria values - when it was seen as rather daring for gentle folk to leave the legs of a table uncovered.
Condemned by the Vatican, to which he turned in his darkest hours, he converted to Catholicism two days before his death in a Paris hotel bed in 1900, aged 46, after serving two years in a prison, which he served in Reading jail for acts of gross indecency. He was a blatant homosexual, had numerous affairs with men, despite being married with two children, but upon his release, he left the shores of Britain and he never returned to what was to him a country filled with degenerate duplicity.
Wilde was no angel, flamboyant, full of his own importance, a satirist, smoked, drank, had all the vices of a modern day immoralist, and well capable of corrupting the innocent, (so are most of us) a true bombast of his generation, who says:

I can resist anything but temptation.”
He had truly been one of the great personalities of the 19th century, who scrutinized and evaluated what he saw, and catalogued the fractures and optimism of Victorian Society. Its straight laced attitude to sex: there were more brothels around then than there are now, and the endemic exploitation of children; through his numerous witticisms and quip sayings, Wilde rammed his message home.
Warts and all, it came out in his writing, he poked fun at the aristocracy, the philanthropist, who had never known what it was like to go without a meal, and society’s absurdly double standard when it came to class and convention in high society.

In a shell, he attacked poverty and unfairness in society, and satirised the people who perpetuated inequality, and questioned the sincerity of the Seraphical hierarchy, to own and keep society’s resources, a cardinal sin in Victorian Society where Industrial Capitalism reigned supreme and Church meant everything.
An example in point are the three quotes below:
“A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”
“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”
“Selfishness is not living as one wishes to live, it is asking others to live as one wishes to live.”
You might think from what I write, I disapprove of his personality, far from it, he is one of my heroes, a writer of genius, far in advance of his time, who removed the distorted glass by which the Victorians interpreted the world, and showed the hypocrisy by which they lived.
Of course, they, the establishment, couldn’t allow that to go unchallenged, and for his view of life he paid the price and died a broken man, but still his writing lives. A complex character: that I will admit, but not in the least shallow, as some have labelled him.
He used his writing for a purpose, his journey was one of discovery – his own – his quest for God - the universe - the way life itself should be lived. The injustice of wealth; the wrongness of mass poverty. His personality is there in his writing for everyone to read. Wilde was always → looking → looking → looking → and only found what he sought upon his deathbed, and for that, I am sad for him to have found it so late in his life.
He believed:
"The aim of life is self-development. To realize one's nature perfectly - that is what each of us is here for.”
That meant to not hide your sexuality – to be honest, clear and clean with yourself, clear and clean towards others, ever a little satirical (that's how his message got through); He was for exploring, for living, (In that Wilde sparkled) - homosexuality, heterosexuality, lesbianism, black, white, brown skin, straight eyes, slanted eyes, it mattered little to Wilde, and thank goodness society has somewhat caught up with his way of thinking, but it still has a long way to go.
So, what was he looking for? In the “L’Osservatore Romano,” the mouthpiece of Pope Benedict XVI, Wilde is described as a man who was “looking for the beautiful and the good... for God.” And believed there was little value in money, other than for use in the relief of poverty. If it wasn’t shared around, to Wilde, it was money wasted. No man, not matter how wealthy, was “rich enough to buy back his past."
He lived in the moment, for the moment, a man in the immediate, but he learned from yesterday, yet, contrary to what many believed, he planned for tomorrow. Through his writing, he showed the way he wished society to go, as I said, a man advanced for his time.
The values he held upon his journey throughout life: I will sum up in one of his short stories - the story says it all – far, far better than I could ever describe his personality. The values, beliefs, quest for fairness, greed, hypocrisy, which he saw systemic in Victorian Society; indeed, he pushes it forward directly into your face, and he places you up there on the pedestal with the “Happy Prince” and forces you to look down at the world as it actually is, and not through a distorted mirror of unreality, how the wealthy think it is, or pretend it to be!
In life, the Happy Prince was a Machiavellian, "When I was alive... I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter... I played... danced... but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything to me was so beautiful... So I lived and so I died."
Wilde takes us beyond the Palace walls, into the street and down, down into the drains and sewers of humanity to let  society's dirty water from high above flow over us. Death turned The Happy Prince into a saint; please, read, listen to the words - more than once if need be - they really do have music in them:
“Swallow, Swallow, little swallow... will you not stay with me for one night... ? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."
As “L’Osservatore Romano” further stated: “Oscar Wilde was a man constantly looking for a God that he never challenged, a God he respected, and whom he fully embraced after his dramatic experience of jail.”
I believe he found his NIRVANA – alone, when on his death bed – a poignant reminder of what awaits us all, wealthy and poor alike, but he did find it, and that is the important crux of this article. And now, it seems the Catholic Church has finally forgiven him, and praises his contribution to society, and for me, it’s not before time.
Please, take the time to read this short story, the reward will far out way the time taken, and the meaning, pull it into your heart for it is wonderful. It is less than 3,500 words. Every word shines a sunbeam into the personality of the person, who was Oscar Wilde.

The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde (1854 - 1900)

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."
"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one."
"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady- love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."
"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."
Then another drop fell.
"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw - Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I am the Happy Prince."
"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."
"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans- Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep."
"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of- honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."
"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus- flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."
"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger."
"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold."
"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."
"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"
"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."
"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea."
"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her."
"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."
"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."
"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there."
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy."
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.
"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is litttle beter than a beggar!"
"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.
"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself."
"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."

 

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