Along the frontal lobe of his brain,stood a place that he called “The Watermark”.Odd expression that,but still it was what he called it,and it had become as such ,an identification of sorts,to all manner of cranial activities.

As a teenager,we fell in raptures when Art Garfunkel named one of his solo albums “Watermark”,and he indulged in the sounds ,those analogue edges across his mind sent him into an emotional tailspin ,totally out of control.”Have you got Garfunkel’s new album in Age”.Yes,it came in yesterday:”Great ,what’s it called?.Watermark”.

It has shapes in my mind,just three syllables,with the two at the beginning ,leaving an almost strong imperative “mark” at the end its affects me now after decades of life,my being 61 and past surely a time when something’s nag as bizarre as the sound of a word should excite me .Words stimulate me,intoxicate me you could say to the point of them being the work of a literary Alchemist in affect.Im not sure if Ben Johnson uses the actual word Watermark,but he knew the value of wordplay and the affects of letters on humans.

Of course,Watermarks in a literal way can have connotations of a domestic kind :That murky mark in the bath that families such as mine took when the bath was a weakly event shared by 4 others.Trust me,rather than a Watermark,it was more like a rust one.Whatever emotion it conjures up,the affect is an indentation ,a mark,a Watermark Of such.

Was Art trying to be clever in his title,or was it the idea of a record mogul at CBS probably isn’t relevant,it’s more that the Album was called that and it still is a strong motivation for me to write something this morning when I haven’t offered much of a muse of late for various reasons,indolence being a factor,the need to order my words in an intelligent way that my nightmares don’t always allow.So,I digress as is my want and i must return to Art because his album has tracks on it that inspire me still to this. Day.These tracks that are in my head today act as a marker for my life and how I digest the stuff in it.”What a wonderful world,with appearances from JT ,Carly,Bishop,and friends ,just a wonderful cover of the King song ,just like Marrionette ,and crying in my sleep.This album has all the Jurassic emotions that become set in me,our stone and forment in their sonic juices.

She moves through the air,Saturday suit and paper chase.Titles that are bigger than their words and phrases.

So,I’ve braved my Watermark today,just a small thing to many,but still a mountain to me ,but as I conquer these emotional and psychological battles somehow I walk that tightrope between the apex of emotional and the Nadir But always I watch the tide,the waves ,the undercurrents.

Watermark has that contemporary folk vibe on the surface,but like a rip tide ,it speaks even now after all these decades,and while I have had ,and will have so many riptide moments with life,I still walk that tightrope ,I still survive and i have my own Watermark as you all do too.

This album was released in 0ctober 1977 and it was his third album but ,imho,his most real ,and where he sang like an angel.

That is all from me.Thank you .




Life sustaining quenching of the thirst,

Bubbling up to cleanse skins pores,

Opening its tidal doors ,

Rushing in when moon tilts ,

Ever onward,finding its level,

Quite a trauma to fight this water,

Drink from a glass,full up a bath,

Dare to ask why it’s H to O!

Oh no,that’s nit the reason,isn’t it.

Come on get up,stand erect,the surfs up,

Last one in is a dipstick .

Reach the tides with your ’tis,study them ,

Watch the waves as they dictate your survival,

Keep watching them for the tide doth change ,

Water is everywhere,but respect it ,nay fear it at times ,

For if you don’t ,it will take you ……..

Observe the sky!

Catch the sun going down,waving goodbye ,

Fly with its spectrum lights,

Dazzle ,crackle and pop!

Oh how wonderful the rays converge in a light show,

Never get bored when the colours of the setting appear,

This winter blaze of glory,telling its familiar story,

Illuminates any journey,any meditation,any walk,anything !!

This mild Winter

This mild Winter,punctuated as it has been with rain ,more rain,and heavy showers,exists in temperate climates in my locality.Why,this holiday time,in between Christmas and new year has seen the lawn dressed with a soft blanket of frost this morning.Its quite a surprise to me and one that in previous years would have been an almost daily norm,

This mild Winter, though hasn’t been marked by freezing temperatures or the prelude to a harsh Winter.It lulls us into a false sense of security to a place that we are not totally able to process as part of our historical reality.Like our country at large,stuff might be happening that we feel is uncharted,enigmatic and worrying.This stillness in the air ,briefing interrupted by the sound of a lone seagull has ,to me,some context,and that is the inland flight of this sea bird implies a roughness at sea.

This mild Winter, attracts a cautious mood among our people here in Britain as we become exasperated with our politicians,not just in a bipartisan way,but en masse.We Just,to coin a well oiled phrase:”Want them to get on with it”.Normally,life in the Palace of Westminster goes on with our knowledge but maybe not through the microscopic lens of the media that is now flooded our televisions.This Autumn has seen an almost fanatical coverage that has been,at times,almost Orwellian.

But we can’t affect as much in life as we might think we can as our destinies are rarely completely within our hands.Our politicians jaw jaw but we want more than just words and empty jesters to fuel our hopes as we strife for some sort of plan.So this mild Autumn is anything but in the word of navigating living standards.

This mild Winter at the sharp end has seen those desperate for sanctuary in this country brave the English Channel in craft that belong near ,or just out of the break water and not in the most busiest shipping lanes in the world.It struck me that these folks are indeed desperate ,victims of unscrupulous as they were carried in these crafts without lifejackets ,their survival completely compromised,their sea captains amoral.

So,this mild Winter,soft on density of snow,soft on ice ,but not so soft on the homeless,the children in hostels,the insecurities of so many regarding the future,why it has been a harsh winter .

So,I reckon that we might have to wrap up in this mild Winter as we grapple with the life we don’t know,the future that isn’t secure,the problems that life throws at us.Good luck with it though.

Driving !

4 wheels,attached to a drive shaft,connected as they are to the internal combustion engine.As the carburettor injects the fuel from its system,it unites with the electrical system ,that tried and tested circuit with coil and distributer spark plug and ignition point becomes the nuts and bolts of the basic car.With rack and pinion steering ,and maybe a sat of Goodyear tyres of radials and cross ply we head for the open road.

That paragraph first written,a mixture of fact and practicality is to me,the essence of the motor car.Nowadays,the performance of the modern engines,the computers systems controlling every aspect of the driving experience could blur the lines between the engineering and the part the driver and the passengers play .With the comforts ,the air con as standard on most models ,coupled with the superior suspensions give the feeling that your driving on a cushion of air.Gone are the days when motoring was a trip into the unknown of wether the vehicle could be relied upon to complete its journey or even start for that matter.Driving has become very crowded with precious little road space ,but the cars on the road eclipse anything that I observed as a child.

Yesterday,as it was Christmas Day,saw a car famine on the motorways leading towards London and to Heathrow airport,and it reminded me of the original concept that came with the early introductions of motorways in Britain in the 1960s ,and on into the seventies and eighties where an explosion of fast road networks crisscrossed the country linking our towns and cities .Driving along the M27 towards the M3 and eventually joining the M25 was a seamless mission that took me by surprise,leading me to arrive at the airport in bags of time.

While the airport wasn’t a ghost town in anyway at all,it had the atmosphere of less intensity,more of a holiday outing before the crowds.It struck me that there was space yesterday ,that space that we were all promised those decades ago when that more efficient road system was conceived.If an accidental bonus of picking up a family member from the airport on Christmas Day meant an observation of almost resistant calmness,it struck me that design and intent are often two separate things,If those designers could have viewed their system from afar on that day,they might have been extremely proud of themselves.

We,the practical and realistic know that the majority of people who use the roads systems around the cities and conorbations were safely tucked I

At home yesterday with the exception of those off on holiday or returning home to their families for the holiday.Yes,it was a fantasy that quietness,that space,that time to breath ,but I suppose we can’t blame the system for being such a success,can we?

So driving home for Christmas is quite an emotive thing,but the systems from the car we drive,to the network we use is a marvel of itself,especially on the day such as Christmas Day.

Shortest day eve!

Precious light refracted through clouds of darkness,

Morning dews in a bowl of muesli and toast to host ,

First cup of tea in darkness ,fumbling for kettle,

Dogs fuss at having to go out-hate the wet!!

Shaver needs a charge,shoes on,wrong foot once,

Shortest day eve ,short light,short of time,short of …….

Tomorrow is another day,another light short day,

Roll on Christmas to turn on our light source,

Tinsel,trees a glow,decorations draped to attract the precious light,

Roll on the light ,the dawn of the solstice ,bring in the light,

Christmas light anybody?

Merry creativeness!

He reached the edge ,the precipice of perception,

His thoughts,garnished with herbs of patience dressed his mind,

That otherness,that provincial feeling of gratitude for a visiting work of art,

He was blinded ,he was blurred by the Dali colour,the juxtaposition ,

Never fully fooled by the art of contrivance,his mind retreated into a silent polemic,

If Turners colour,vibrancy could talk,it might enfuse him to splash his energy,his passion,his lionheart of manliness into a new appreciation of light,

This day in December,shortened by the season,heralding the shortest day,deludes us ,

But each day has its own colour ,it’s own identity by which we feed ,we forge a life shape of moments into a bottle of emotional culture vats,,

The children that drew ,that made hats,amulets to wear,decorations for loved ones to adorn a top the Christmas tree,

What joy they bestow on mature people,riven with cynical life,with price rises,and Brexit fears,

Why the Christmas art and crafts movement is alive and well in the sticky back Peter Pan world of Blue Peter inspired newly qualified teacher with an eye in Political correctness and middle class fairness,

The children,bereft of family,sick in mind and body,all desire to make things better for their loved ones,they are hard wired ,

So,this day,this colour drenched larder of silent dreams,desperate to prove,to live,to rejoice,all express their Christmas,a spirit ,a just being .

What a thing for a mature man to observe ,the poor child within himself still lives in the generations of the dysfunctional,the sick,the fostered,the distant stare ,clutching the hat of spray on gold,the taffeta ,the flowers,the scent of otherness,

Why,the patterns,the shapes of artist long gone,might inspire the sick,the looked after child to express,to find something other than tests,and tables,speedy Or otherwise to just live,

My thoughts in solitude ,in contemplation in motion ,recorded ,released,revisited,

Live life ,love the personal joy of expression,teach it,live it,reflect upon it,

Merry creativeness.


As the woods just up from my house welcomed me this afternoon,I reflected on days spent with my son ,firstly as a child,then when he was a teenager,and latterly,as a young man.To linger in thought ,to dwell in his memories,his life made acute by the Autumn leaves ,soaked as they were by fresh rain ,marinaded by the atmosphere.These memories,a sustaining friend in times of missing,why they sustain us,fortify us to remain 8n touch with our existence.

Walking,all be it for just an hour,rejuvenated me from my own Moro’s it’s,by own maudlin pre winter rectitude ,forming an outer coating of brightness as my gait increased along the woodland pathways.These lanes,known by my son,run by him,cycled by him,enabled me to commune with him .As I did,some music that we have shared with one another glued me to the forest in a more profound way almost.That stage in the walk allowed me to navigate my mood away from the forlorn,to the pleasant memory and the tide turned away from the black dog to a peace like state.It soothes me,drew me upwards to a mood Zenith where I might have stared a nadir like abyss had I not made myself venture outside,Those rains,my companion as a child in Cornwall,were forgotten with my waterproof coat,my legs doing their job ,getting me to my peaceful place ,by pleasant memories.

They say that as you grow older,the only thing you have left is your memories.But really,memories are such powerful vehicles to mood management and even mood changes .So,it’s not a bad life this walking with the dogs in the forest,

More memories to follow.

Thank you.


Harmony !

Different notes voting at the same time,

Opposing gaps at time,sometimes a chasm,

Voices of genders,ages,backgrounds and creeds,

Hell,we are not the same in our views,that much is true,

But ,we don’t have to go to war over opposing views,

We have a voice,be it,soprano,alto,tenor or bass,

Not using our voice would be a crying shame,

But not listening to the other voices is grating,a permanent dissonance,

In these times,we can be harmonious even in debate,even in disagreement,

So,as the weekend approaches,I look for harmony,I listen to my feminine Sopranos,and altos,and I listen to my counterpart bass singers,and fellow tenors,

Maybe,the basis of all harmony is the weaving of ideas,that fusion of the parts,

When it is,why that harmony is a wonderful thing,truly wonderful .

Thank you.


Fly on the wall !

Susan had dreamt of walking these corridors at the BBC for so long that she had to pinch herself to realise that she was actually there.Non of her peers had landed this plumb a job,and she knew it.Yes,it was literally starting at the bottom of an elite pile,but she didn’t mind that,she just mucked in ,wanting to d whatever she was asked to do,but with the goal in mind of producing and writing her own drama series one day .As the traditional route for would be writers was always going to be radio,she knew that her research work would be that of an information Do key as it were.

These were the days before the Web,before information could be gleaned from a computer ,and she had to rummage in the archive of the BBC and in the national Library for the information that the producer would invariably demand.Some were kindly to her,others not,but the requests were veiled in threats that if she didn’t perform,there would always be another eager young graduate desperate to take her place and Susan knew what was expected of her.It wasn’t a surprise and she didn’t feel that they were exploiting her in any way ,in fact,quite the opposite.Her degree in English literature suited the requirements of the job so much so,but the very place those corridors ,the old staircases,festooned with pictures of the Beebs heavyweights lifted her and she would walk the floors in delight and pride.She knew that went she went home,there would be the usual conversations with her mother of mine,the scent of nostalgia wafting in the air of her flat.She hadn’t met anyone whom her mum would rate as a star as yet,but she had seen Tony Blackburn and Kid Jensen from a distance.Granted,These protagonists wouldn’t be classed as top dollar stars,but she was going t tell her mum the evening when she got back tin her flat.It just the right thing to do and there would always be other occasions when the chances f meeting the real stars might vie her way.

Wether her caring mentality ,Born out through years of looking after mum ,but she just seemed to make the cast of each Radio play that was performed feel special and like stars,as she made sure they had everything they needed.To Susan,the green room was like a heavenly temple,a place to adorn your most precious guests and they were spoilt beyond limit.

As the new intake of actors for the flagship TV drama series,Play forToday onThursday evening,Susan was asked to act as a runner for the producers ,a gofer u could say.She was so excited to be asked,not really understanding that the seasoned members of staff were reticent to work these punishment no hours because they had husbands and families.To Susan,her work would be her passion,as she really only had Sally and Ben and they lived hundreds of miles away in the North.

That evening,Susan grabbed a sandwich from the BBC canteen,as she raced back to the green room for tonight’s Play for today,a voice as smooth as silk,like a knife through butter cautioned :”Careful young lady”,it was the unmissable tempre of John Dunn,her mums second favourite.She dutifully slowed up dramatically,star struck,emotionally and physically paralysed for a few moments before her embarrassed person led her back to the green room.

That night she spoke to her mum and told her all about it,little knowing that her mum had been the fly in the wall all along.