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John Tavener for Westminster Cathedral

My subject is the sacred in art - art that is "athanatos", without death, without change, without beginning and without end.

This is well-nigh impossible to discuss in a time when Man has lost his belief not only in God but also in himself. Do we live in a culture in ruins, as Father Symeon from Mount Athos has recently suggested?

Without doubt, the modern concept of the artist as creative genius would probably have excluded him from Plato's Greece, because any artist who produced a work of sacred art could never think of himself as a creative genius in the modern sense of the word. The artist of the sacred con-creates, reproduces, must submit to the discipline of practising, through endless repetition of a given form, until he has mastered all of it, so that its original transcendence begins to flow through him; no longer a matter of external copying or repetition, but a matter of directing the forces of primordial inspiration, of which he is now the vehicle, into formal patterns that long practice and meditation have allowed him to master both inwardly and outwardly. I would say that the dictum for all sacred Christain art must be as St Paul expresses it in another context: "It is not I that live, but Christ in me": or as the great Islamic poet Rumi put it "I am a dead man walking".

As a composer, living and working in these secular times, I work in an area that seems to concern more and more people. My increasing concern for the sacred needs some explanation. For an artist to work in a sacred tradition, he must first believe in the Divine Realities that inform that particular tradition. This is a "sine qua non" - not of course a guarantee for great art - but it is a "sine qua non". Secondly, he must know the traditions of the art that he works in. He must know the tools, so that he can work with material that is primordial, and therefore not "his"; not his or her expression, but the tradition working through him.

The artist concerned with the sacred must make an act of faith. One must leap into what seems impenetrable darkness. In my own case, it was not a committment to the more familiar path to Rome but to the Eastern Orthodox Church. First and foremost a committment to Christ-God as expressed through the eyes of the Orthodox Church. This is radical in the purest sense of the word and demands a gradual losing of self through a work of endless repentence, constantly failing, but picking oneself up, pointing evermore God-wards, to provide the vehicle through which the only Creator can work.

There is nothing "pie in the sky" about this; the task is daunting, awesome and exigent, and at the end of the day one can expect nothing but crucifixion and failure, because our strength, unique as Christains, lies in our weakness, our frailty and our vulnerability. And perhaps most of all, the task is daunting, because I am a Western composer writing within the ethos and framework of the Eastern Orthodox Church. I now understand, at a distance of some twenty-five years, why I had to be Orthodox - I had found the right musical and metaphyiscal ethos for my musical and spiritual journey. It has always seemed to me that in the Greek East, man starts with God: God around him, God in everything that he sees, and that in the Latin West, man begins with "man", and then aspires towards God. This is reflected in the vastly different theology, the vastly different approaches, the vastly different emphases, and the vastly different art, architecture and music.

So you can see not only is the task daunting spiritually, but it is daunting in specific musical terms. Because if an English composer wishes to write music within the Orthodox tradition, he must, like an icon painter, renounce any ideas of his own, and adhere to a strict discipline based on a system of tones - tone 1, tone 2, tone 3, tone 4, tone 5, tone 6, tone 7, and tone 8. Each tone is different, somewhat like Indian ragas, somewhat like the Gregorian modes, but unlike these insofar as every Orthodox country has developed its own tone system. For instance, there are eight Greek tones, eight Russian tones, eight Coptic tones and so on and so on. All these tones have probably evolved from the dawn of civilisation (probably well over one hundred of them). Indeed one can see many connections between the Greek tones and the Indian ragas. It would take a lifetime to become fully acquainted with even one of these tone systems. If in Byzantine times a melodist was asked to set anything to music, he would first have to set it in the appropriate tone or melody. The music is as much part of the tapestry and strict discipline of the Church as is the iconography. If for instance a composer was asked to set a text to the Mother of God, he would first have to know on which feast day this was propsed, because all eight tones may be needed for one single text, depending on whether the text is to be sung in Lent, easter, Pentecost or any other day in the Church's year. let us first listen to something that unites all Christian traditions, to the Lord's Prayer.

FIRST MUSICAL EXAMPLE: LORD'S PRAYER

I often wonder why the sacred music of any age should sound very different. The answer is that it shouldn't. If composers in the West concerned with sacred tradition were trained in the disciplines of Byzantium, Gregorian Chant, the music of sacred India, music of the Sufis, Judaic chant or any of the Orthodoxies, instead of learning about Schoenberg's "Innovations" they should become aware that innovation has nothing to do with tradition. That is why no innovatory art can possess the magisterial, primordial beauty emanating from the divine, making us creatures through which a theophany could pass.

People talk about composers finding their own voice; this is another totally misleading concept. Not misleading if the composert does not believe in Divine Realities; then of course he can be totally promiscuous in his artistic pursuits, and there is nothing wrong with this. It only becomes wrong if he believes in Divine Realities, and, at the same time, digs from the endless so-called innovations from the last 400 years. I speak of the art and religion the dominant world-view of modern times, indeed a progressive degeneration that characterises every sphere of our contemporary life.

You can perhaps begin to see why the Orthodox find the concept of an anthem or a hymn totally incomprehensible. To us it holds up proceedings, and instead of encouraging prayer and contemplation, it seems to introduce the idea of an entertainment or a concert into the middle of a sacred ceremony. No wonder Stravinsky referred to Mozart's Masses as "operatic sweets of sin".

The icon is a supreme example of Christian art and of transcendence and transfiguration. It posses simplicity, transfigured beauty and austerity. Austerity because the manner of painting has remained unchanged since the first mandelion (or "icon not painted by human hands") bearing the face of Christ miraculously imprinted on a piece of material and sent to the King of Edessa. Icon painting is a strict discipline, requiring fasting and constant communion. An icon does not express emotion (it is geometric and its colour palette is severely limited) and yet to the believer it inspires awe, wonder and the reverence of kissing. The icon is in one sense beyond art because it plunges us straight into liturgical time and sacred history. But what makes a great icon? I believe that it is the Holy Spirit working through the painter, and that is a total mystery.

How far can the art of icon painting relate to music? I will suggest some ways on which the composer may meditate. If the composer knows something of the sacred tones of the Orthodox Church he will have the material. If he understands the significance of the "ison" or drone, then he will have some clues. The composer may dance out of or back into the tone, but it must always be somewhere present. He must also limit the tonal and colour palette, but always knowing where he must insert the Divine archetype by a fully assimilated knowledge of the tones. In other words, the one is the other, the archetype is the icon, the icon is the archetype, there is an indissoluble interpenetration of the one by the other. Though there is a distinction, there is no dualism between the natural and the supernatural world. Hence, the same must apply to all art and to all music. Why this set of intervals? What is its divine archetype? Why this particular rhythm? What is its divine archetype? So that music can be analysed in a specifically metaphysical way, and also listened to in a specifically metaphysical manner. Unfortunately the spiritually impoverished state of music criticism finds itself unable to do this, because in order to understand these concepts, it is necessary to understand a kind of knowledge, that has nothing to do with reason. Blessed Augustine defined it as "Wisdom uncreate". And in order to understand "Wisdom uncreate" contemporary life must cease to be stifled by a cult of experimentation, art for art's sake, and a kind of specialisation that characterises every form of mental activity, requiring only a tiny fraction of our intelligence. This is the condemnation of our times, and until the concept of "Wisdom uncreate" is reunderstood, our civilisation will continue to committ mass suicide with all the relentlessness of a Greek tragedy.

The Church is no longer the wise patron that she was in the Byzantine period, the Medieval Western period, or in Bach's Protestant Germany. As artists, we literally write or paint into a vacuum and into an apparent spiritual void. The point of any sacred art, however, is that it should be functional. Think of Egyptian wall paintings, Muslim architecture, Bach passions, Byzantine icons, the Cathedral of Saint Sophia in Constantinople, the Taj Mahal - all once functional and now in danger of becoming museums: out of the Church, into the concert hall, out of the Church, into the art gallery, out of the Temple, into the greedy anonymous hands of dealers, along with the terrifying devastation of God's world. This is all part of the desecration of the sacred. Surely all creation, in all its fullness, is the necessary expression of Divine Life, with all the freedom and spontaneity of God's being. Otherwise we face the appalling idea of the conception of a creation created outside God, deprived of His immanent presence, and wth no living roots in Him, and thus of a purely materialistic character only. It is not accident, because of what I have said about the Western scientific revolution, that a purely materialistic view of the physical world arose first of all in the Western Christian world, not in the Orthodox East, not in the Celtic tradition, not in the Hindu, Buddhist traditions and neither in the Islamic world.

This is a good point, I think, to listen to my setting of a hymn to the Mother of God from the divine liturgy of St Basil the Great. It speaks of her cosmic power and cosmic beauty over a shattered world - "all creation rejoices". The idea of the cosmological role of the Mother of God does of course depend on things which I regard as fundamental to the whole spirit of Orthodoxy. This is what might be called its symbolic or iconic realism. But without her "Yes" at the Annunciation there would have been no Christ, no salvation and no Life.

SECOND MUSICAL EXAMPLE: HYMN TO THE MOTHER OF GOD

I see the act of recreating in the end as a miracle. After the ascetic pain of labouring to find the best way that I can to depict the subject, then this miracle happens. But also each new piece is an act of repentence, stripping away unessentials, ever more naked, ever more simple ... one might even say ever more foolish. One tries in one's work to follow the life of the Saint, even if it appears completely unobtainable. Through ascetic struggle the Saint reintegrates himself into the paradisial life. Again and again his or her life is associated with a variety of forms of reconciliation to nature, to trees, to plants, to climate: the enduring of heat and cold, the eating with no ill effects of noxious weeds, friendship with wild animals. This is the traditional view of the Saint, common to all great Orthodoxies.

But now comes a more practical problem. How does one communicate to a world that has forgotten these things and has little time for repentence, simplicity or foolishness? - the foolishness of Christ-God, the foolishness of the Mother of God and the foolishness of all the crowds of martyrs, saints and Holy Fools. I said, however, that the world had forgotten, and this seems to me to be the operative word, otherwise why has there been a resurgence of sacred art towards the close of the milennium. Think of Pappadiamandis, one of the greatest Greek writers, think of Yeats, think of late Stravinsky, Messiaen, T.S. Eliot, St Jean Perse, think of Seferis, the late poetry of Sikelianos, think of David Jones, Eric Gill, cecil collins, think of Arvo Paert, and I suppose myself - but also think of this century's great traditional metaphysicians - guenon, Corbin, Coomarasway, marco Pallis, Philip Sherrard and a whole host of others. This seems an appropriate place for a short piece which sprung from the death of a beloved friend, cecil collins, who spent his life devoted to the sacred, painting fools and angels. He was always outside any religious tradition, but he used the world of archetypes that he considered to be more universal. He would take from the Sufi tradition, the early Christian traditon, the Hindu tradition, and indeed any sacred tradition that he felt to be relevant to his art. "Eonia" is a piece which came to me already fully grown - I think of it as an essence, a fragrance, a Haiku, but above alla tribute to the man I loved and whose frail, iconagraphical art touched me deeply.

THIRD MUSICAL EXAMPLE: EONIA

Now let us listen to anothr piece inspired by the death of a friend. athene was a young talented Greek actress who was tragically killed in a cycling accident. the music came to me at her funeral. as in other memorial pieces, it seemed to be her parting gift to me.

FOURTH MUSICAL EXAMPLE: SONG FOR ATHENE

We are witnessing a profound amnesia of simple, primordial and eternal truths, in favour of an insane, technological, materialistic, psychological, intellectual culture. A culture and spirituality in ruins. Devoid of gnosis, as T.S. Eliot predicted, a civilisation that rejects what it cannot diminish. If, as I say, the operative word is "forgotten" then there must be a ray of hope. To reawaken the primordial consciousness that lies dormant in all of us, somehow we have to provide a "temenos" or sacred space in which to work. The concert hall, the opera house and the art gallery are all glaring reminders of how fragmented and dislocated we have become. Stockhausen has said the churches will become the concert halls of the future, and there is more than a ring of truth about this. To move the "temenos" back into the cathedrals and churches, not to popularise and desanctify even more, but to allow sacred art to breathe gently on the ancient stones. Let the great medieval cathedrals of England be used to breathe back anew the medieval thought or gnosis that formed them, because it is only through the world of imagination, or through the intellective and visionary organ that lies dormant in most of us, that we can live in an Eternal Now - the home and beginning of all life and of all becoming. And if the Christian Church is to offer a positive response to the challenge of the sacred and to the ecological crisis, it must understand the colossal significance and implication of the Incarnation, in all its amplitude and magnificence. As the Orthodox Christmas services of Compline proclaims, "God is with us, understand ye nations, God is with us".

FIFTH MUSICAL EXAMPLE: GOD IS WITH US

Adherence to primordial traditon requires a very deep humility; a humility that at the end of the day says, in the Platonic sense, we know nothing at all; a humility that requires a complete dismantling of the whole present scientific, psychological, popularist, profane and radical dehumanisation of our society, and a comprehension of God that is so deep in its non-literal understanding and humility, that we can only pray with the Fathers of the Church in tiny sentences... "Help me" or..."as You know and as You will, have mercy". Theology in the Orthodox east, has always been regarded as an expression of a given reality, but in the West, largely due to the disasterous teachings of Aristotle, instead of the Platonic elements which had served early eastern theologians as a vehicle for expressing an understanding of man, confirmed through a life of prayer and contemplation, western Aritotelian thought entered a ruinous epoch of abstraction and theory. Art has become abstracted and removed from its eucharistic function, removed also from nature, from its sacramental roots and finally removed from life itself. Is there anywhere in the world today where the right notes or tones have to be found before parliament can be opened? This shows how far we have strayed because it was the norm in Plato's Greece, so integrated was art, metaphysics and life. The closest I get to Plato's Greece, is in being asked to write music for occasions of great significance. For instance, I was asked by Canterbury Cathedral to write an Acclamation for the late Ecumenical Patriarch, His All Holiness Demetrios II on the historic occasion of his entering Canterbury cathedral. I will never forget that occasion.

SIXTH MUSICAL EXAMPLE: ACCLAMATION

Another special occasion was the V. E. Day service at St Paul's Cathedral, earlier this year, and for this I wrote three short antiphons. We will now listen to the first and last of these Antiphons.

SEVENTH MUSICAL EXAMPLE: THREE ANTIPHONS

I believe that we are in an abnormal state, this split between imagination, reason, art and metaphysics. Our art is separated from sacred cosmology and the teachings of the Fathers on the anthropogical aspects of the sacramental nature of creation. Out on a limb from the sacred, English hymns have references to God and the saints, but they have nothing to do with sacred art. A great deal of art expresses intimations of the divine, aspirations of the divine, glimpses of the divine, either in the human soul or in the world of nature. However, the quality that distinguishes a work of sacred art and that sets it apart from other works of art, is one that can only be described by a word such as "knowledge" or the Greek word "gnosis". As Dante writes:

You who have sound intellects, seek out the doctrine that
conceals itself beneath the veil of the strange verses ...

Instead this invites all of us to seek out "the intellect of love" - a disposition of being that induces and permits the God that constantly desires to reveal himself (if only we could see in our soul) and desires our power of vision. But never forget that the great 20th century Greek poet, Seferis, said towards the end of his life, that it was not amongst the academic, artistic, or ecclesiastical world that he found "the intellect of love", but in the illiterate country people of Greece, because they already possessed it, albeit sublimely. So unless we are all able, in our different ways, to rediscover this "intellect of love", or this "Wisdom uncreate" (call it what you will) we will never find our way out of the spiritual, theological, ecological and artistic catastrophe that faces us at the close of the 20th century.

I ma neither philosopher nor theologian, but my work, my work of repentence that may or may not lead me towards a sacred art - can be judged only by how near the music I write comes to its task. This is my work within the vast area from which I must continue to dig and labour and to try to resituate the modern mentality as a whole within the framework of metaphysical values and wisdom from which it has been so disasterously uprooted.

EIGHTH MUSICAL EXAMPLE: THE LAMB

I would like to end, however, on a more apophatic note, perhaps you might even say on a more apocalyptic note, at any rate on a question mark. How childlike, and how deep must be our trust in God in the face of the apocalyptic events that are happening around us day by day. How childlike and how immeasurably deep must have been the faith of the Mother of God when the Archangel appeared to her and she exclaimed, terror-struck, "How shall this be?". No amount of writing, philosophising, poetry, music or painting can in the end give any absolute answer. Faith and doubt go hand in hand, and we try to love both the faith and the doubt equally. The Mother of God trusted, you might say madly, blindly, insanely at the conception of God into her womb. We try hard and continue to follow her example of the joy of believing and yet not knowing, and the piercing agony of watching her Son crucified day after day, hour after hour, and forever asking her question, "How shall this be?".

"Be humble and you will remain whole, be bent and you will remain straight ... Appear plainly and hold to simplicity". Our artistic and Christian attitude must be what, for want of better words, I would call "the poverty of innocence". Today the world places a high value on sophistication, on being worldly wise, on being technicaly clever, or on being professional. Christianity and art of the end point places no value whatsoever on these qualities. Truly Christian art requires a total rejection of all of this. The first priority is that our heart must be soft and warm with the living, wounded and vulnerable spirit. If we do not have this warm heart, this living wounded life, we must ask God to give it, trying ourselves to do those things by which we can acquire it. Most of all, we have to see that we have not got it - that we are indeed cold. The one thing, the only thing that can save us is simplicity. And this simplicity leads to the last revolution left to our dying civilisation - the beatitudes of Christ. In their sublime "foolishness" they speak to a tragic world, that seems to prefer to listen to Caesar in favour of God, who became man because of us. "Let us become God for HIm, who became man for us".

If we are to see things as they truly are, we have to free ourselves completely from any kind of pseudo-knowledge and the methodologies that go with it. We have to free ourselves from all that we think we know, empty our own minds of all that we think we know, of all the conceptions we have formed as a result of going in pursuit of a knowledge we think we have obtained through our own efforts. For true knowledge cannot be acquired by any of these means. true knowledge has its source in the Wisdom or Sofia that is the life blood of all things and where everything is already known. The Mother of God is herself this Wisdom, this Sofia, and she points us, as she does in every icon, towards God. This does not mean that we are excused from the hell of modern life. On the contrary, we must plunge into the abyss, go through this hell, and accept it knowing it is the love of God that causes our suffering. Here is a Christianity that is not only unsafe and uncomfortable, but it has all the untamed feroscity of the desert, and may demand martyrdom, suffering, and a path where we can "get involved", where we can beome on fore to serve God. "As an unconquerable token of victory, an invincible shield and a divine sceptre, we worship thy most holy cross, O Christ, whereby the world has been saved and Adam filled with joy". And then, only then can we begin to say with the Mother of God, however tentaively, "How shalt this be?" Having asked this question our lives, our art and our work will already have begun to stumble onto the road towards the End Point, which ultimately leads to Christ crucified - Christ risen and alive forever.

NINTH MUSICAL EXAMPLE: THE ANNUNCIATION

Naldretts, July 1995

Petty theft and high jinx scrumped apples from a neighbour's tree a bit of a hullaballoo naughtiness in class talking back at elders taking the mickey getting into trouble heaved up before the beak...my version comprises being a Bertie Bassett a sweetie-pie mag-pie filling out these pages with bright oddments from elsewhere collected from a scouring gleefully haphazardly and...

this month I present what I feel to be fascinating slices of life from 2 arctic websites.

"Home Sweet Home"

by

Priscilla Calumet

During the first week of February, 1921, my husband and I and our children packed our camping gear into the dogsled to head out to my husband's trap line at Long Island. My son and husband rode on the dogsled while I tied my daughter on my back with a sheet, and off we went. My husband and son were travelling on the dogsled while I was on snowshoes walking behind them. It took a couple of days to get to Long Island but we managed to get there with very little trouble. We set up camp and my husband and son went out and got some firewood for us.

After everything settled, I cooked some moose meat that I had brought from home. We had a big supper and got ready to go to bed .The next morning after breakfast my husband loaded the sled and headed out to visit his traps. After he had visited his traps, he will go and hunt for a moose or two. A little while after my husband left, I cooked lunch for my children and I. First I fed the baby and put her in her swing for her afternoon nap. Then my son and I ate lunch together. I had finished before he did, so I told him about all the hardships that I went through during my younger days while sipping on a nice hot cup of coffee and relaxing while my food settles. I was also making sure that my son ate enough lunch so that I could send him out and play until his sister gets up. Then we could go out and collect some wood so that we don't run out during the night.

About half an hour later we went on our way to get some wood. It took almost two and a half hours before we got back to camp. I put my children down for the night after a big supper. After my children went to sleep I sat up and waited for my husband to come back from his hunting and trapping journey. Almost three hours later my husband came back with three martens, one otter, and two fox, which were all frozen. So I put them aside to thaw out so that I could flesh and stretch the fur. He also shot a moose and had already cut up all the meat. We brought the meat in and put a couple of thighs out so that I could make some dry meat the next day. I also took some of the guts and boiled it so my husband and I could have something to eat before we went to bed. We had some coffee and talked about what we had achieved that day. When we finished our coffee, we went to bed.

In the morning, after everyone had their breakfast, I made some dry meat and hung it up on a rack over a fire that my husband had made for me outside. After the meat was dried and smoked, I packed it up into a gunny sack and put it into the sled along with the rest of the meat and camping gear. All the fur that my husband had brought back to camp had to be fleshed, stretched ,and dried before being packed away in the sled. We got ready to head back to town with our meat and gear.

After we got back to town, my husband gave some moose meat to all the families in town. My husband went to the Hudson Bay Trading Post and sold his fur for groceries and some supplies to last us until the next time he goes to visit his traps at Long Island. That's the way I lived and enjoyed life with my family during the winter of February, 1921.

***

Practical Information for Students

Safety first

Taking trips in the arctic outdoors is not trivial. In addition to the extreme natural conditions, one always runs the risk of encountering polar bears. All field programs instituted by UNIS will take this into account. All students are obligated to participate in various safety programs. This includes what to do in case of a polar bear encounter (Including the use of rifles and signal pens). The safety programs also includes the use of a survival suit and rubber boats in arctic climates. A safety course in how to prevent and how to deal with frost injuries and frost bites will be held in the winter time. The student's engagement in these safety programs will vary on an individual basis, depending on need, how long, and when the student will stay at UNIS.

UNIS takes no responsibility for what the student undertakes in his or her spare time. Most of the students staying here will take the opportunity to explore the unique outdoors that exists on Svalbard. This requires the students to take the necessary safety precautions and make the preparations essential for such a trip. UNIS will not verify the safety compliance of these trips. The students will be introduced to some of the safety guidelines that apply on Svalbard through the safety courses taken when they arrive. These safety guidelines form the foundation on which the students may continue to build, depending on which activities the students plan to engage in.

The students that have participated in the rifle safety course at UNIS will be allowed to borrow a rifle and ammunition for self defence against polar bears when out in the field. The student government has also purchased various field equipment which the students may use.

Bicycles

A bike is a useful means of transport, even in the winter. The distance from Longyearbyen town and UNIS to Nybyen (where the student digs are located), is in the excess of three kilometres. This may seem like a rather short distance. However, from experience, we know that it is extremely practical to have a bicycle. Three kilometres is a long distance, especially when the temperatures are 20 degrees below zero (Celsius) with gale force winds. You can bring your bicycle along with you on the plane for the price of NOK 100 from Northern Norway and NOK 120 from Southern Norway. Remember to deflate the tyres, and turn the handlebars and pedals inwards.

Dear Hero,

Thanks for your email.

I'll tell you what I can see from my window.

I live 40 kilometres east of Melbourne, Australia in the Dandenong Ranges - a series of hills rising to about 1100 metres. I live in a heavily forested area, with eucalyptus trees about 80 foot high, tree ferns 8 foot high, all quite green, cool and pleasant. We're part way through Spring and the trees and ferns have new shoots. We can just see our neighbours' houses through the trees, so it's all fairly private. We're on the western slope of one part of the Great Dividing Range, a continuous ridge of mountains running parallel to the east coast and extending from Cape York at the top of Australia to Mount Gambier in southern Australia - about 4000 km in total. Land to the east receives most of the rainfall whilst land to the west is very dry. Most of the 18.5 million population live on or near the east coast.

From my window, I can see beach suburbs of Melbourne 40 km away and, on a clear day, can see across Port Phillip Bay to the You Yangs, another series of small hills. In the trees on our land, we have numerous native birds. Crimson Rosellas arrive at first light and feed all day on the seed we put out. They sound like a bunch of typewriters, clicking away. At dusk, kookaburras and currawongs arrive to be hand fed scraps of mince meat - except when day tourists are having barbeques nearby! Our pet Sulphur Crested Cockatoo lives in a cage on the verandah outside my window. He arrived 9 years ago and, apparently, had escaped from someone's cage. He talks and, after a while, we could hand feed him. We didn't want to put him in a cage but, after 6 months, he decided it would be fun to start chewing the timber on the house! So, into the strongest and biggest cage we could find. Now he thinks he's Christmas. Safe at night, he can watch T.V. through the window - he likes Pavarotti and screeches along with him. Cocky goes for a fly every weekend and, unfortunately, he keeps coming home on dusk, calling out "Dad" when he wants to come down out of the trees. He lands on my arm and digs his claws in so I have to wear an old cardigan. At night, after our meal, he comes in for a pat and a cuddle. He also swears at the neighbours when he is in the trees and we are for ever apologising to them for his behaviour. The sky at present is a very pale blue with some clouds. As we move into Summer - December to March or later, it becomes a vivid blue. The sun hits the window from about 2:00 pm and stays there until 8:00 pm, causing us to draw the shades. Summer is very hot - about 35 - 42 degrees Celsius, and we spend every bit of spare time watering the trees and plants. It's a dangerous time with bushfires causing much damage, so time is spent keeping the grass cut and the leaves and raked up. Despite this, It's the best of places to live - peaceful, green and cool most of the year.

Take care.

night

Dear Hero,

Chris kindly sent me some information on a member of the ABBOTT family marrying a member of the ELEY family.

To be so far away from my family roots and to then have someone in Wales tell me about my family was an absolute thrill.

My forebears emigrated to Melbourne in 1852, worked in a flour mill, went searching for gold - didn't find any so I'm still working for a living! - then set up a cordial factory then moved wife and 11 children to northern Victoria in 1868 to start a number of wheat stations - several thousand acres each. One of the children was my grandfather. Members of the family still grow wheat on the same land and we're getting together next month for a family reunion.

We're coming into Spring here and, from my window, the trees are now full of blossom, native birds are taking food back to their young. In about tweo months, baby kookaburras arrive with their parents at our back door for hand feeding.

Hope you enjoy this message from the Land of Oz.

Regards,

<- for four and half years ->

My headless husband went into overdrive.

The cheery faces of two paramedics peered round the bedroom door..."oh hello love" said one I cringed as I looked up at the familiar face I had served many time whilst working as a teenager. I was then placed and carrymarched down two flights of stairs, bundled into the back and whisked to labour ward wrapped in a cellular white blanket.

| A new life is created |

Amazement and awe again an overwhelming love at first sight. My face drains in color my baby is navy blue. flashes, dread hysterics and I lose it for a moment. Tubes and suction, I close my eyes tight.

My baby ripens and pinks. Its a girl!

The pain, anguish is it worth it?

Everytime!!

Genuine Fake

Vienna is surely one of Europe's great cities. It is rich in its art, its music, its theatre, its intellectual life and, underlying each of these, it is rich in its history. History is everywhere, and not simply in the crass heritage industry that is so typical of any modern tourist centre. But, strangely, even the students earning a few extra Schillings by dressing up as Mozart, with their powdered wigs and silken breeches (is that lycra?), don't look as absurd as they might. What is one anachronism in a city of anachronisms?

Contemporary Vienna is comfortable with its past because it lives alongside it. Walk around the city, in any direction, and you will pass statues and plaques for a host of notable Viennese, from Freud, Mozart and the Stausses to city planners, councillors and otherwise forgotten Professors at the University. Often, the accompanying words are brief or enigmatic, presumably because it was felt in 1873 that the reasons for celebrating the life and achievements of Herr Schmitt ('The Leader') or Doktor Braun ('The Teacher') were self-evident.

It is because the past impinges so closely upon the day to day lives of ordinary Viennese (although many would deny that there is such a thing as an 'ordinary Viennese') that it can often go unnoticed. Take language as a case in point. Other German speakers view the Viennese dialect as either quaint or charming, depending upon their predisposition. Nevertheless, languages evolves, even here, so as well as the characteristic greeting of Grüss Gott, and the more occasional Küss die Hand (accompanied by a bow and ceremonious kissing of a gracious lady's hand) from an elderly gentleman, one also hears evidence of the growing multi-culturalism in Ciaow and Hi, from the youth.

The clearest statement, for me at least, of Vienna's remarkable historicism is in its architecture. It is a city well used to making statements with its buildings. Its streets bear witness to a battle of styles taking place over centuries, and in the twentieth century this battle has become more explicitly combative. Presented in 1909 with the opportunity of designing a building for a wealthy tailoring firm opposite the imperial castle, the master of functionalism, Adolf Loos constructed a 'house without eyebrows' that stared out with defiance at the Hofburg with its startling colours and embellishments, built only twenty years before. For an even more extreme juxtaposition, walk along Kärntner Strasse, with its expensive shops and street cafes and rising up ahead is the curving mirrored glass of Haas Haus, and, at a certain angle, appears the reflection of Stephensdom, the 12th Century Gothic Cathedral that lies at the very heart of the city.

On a recent trip, I was walking around Ringstrasse, the boulevard running around the city centre, with an American friend. He was admiring the stunning architecture of the buildings that line the route, and commented that here was a wonderful characterisation of Vienna, as a whole, where a superb building from one era has ended up alongside one from another era, whilst retaining a clear coherence and order. He was right: Ringstrasse somehow maintains a pattern, despite the variety of styles and shapes. But, he was also wrong: this pattern is not a fortunate accident, nor a remarkable example of Germanic forward thinking; rather, it points to another aspect of the Viennese character.

Ringstrasse did not evolve over centuries, but decades, and represented an attempt to create a past. Between 1848 and 1865, the city's fortifications were taken down, and replaced with residential buildings and public structures, all in the ironically named 'Ringstrasse style'. Robert Musil pointed out that buildings of the Ringstrasse, and its host of imitators, "didn't confrom to the Italian style, or the French or the Gothic, but all at the same time." So, as one walks around the boulevard, one encounters the Rathaus (city hall), built in the Gothic style, but if one travels a little further along, in either direction, around the ring, the Italian Renaissance is more influential, in the forms of the new University to the east and the twin giants of the Museums of Natural History and fine arts to the west, and elsewhere, the French renaissance style guided the designers of the Court Opera House. In each case, architects were given great freedom to draw upon traditions and adapt them for their particular purposes, resulting in a startling eclecticism. Some architects simply drew upon fashions of the day, others attempted to represent the changing times, in the typical Viennese way of looking forwards by looking back; consider, for example, the new Parliament Building, built to symbolise a new unity and power for the Habsburg Empire; where else to turn but Ancient Greece?

Like their over-dressed old gentlemen who bow gallantly as they greet women with a kiss of the hand, Vienna is a genuine fake. The Viennese revel in their Gemütlichkeit, their cosy sociability, whilst, at the same time, providing Freud, Jung and Adler inspiration and ample raw material for their studies of hysteria. Whilst Vienna (probably) has one of the highest densities of coffee-houses and taverns of the major cities, it (certainly) also claims one of the highest suicide rates in the world. The composer van Beurden summarised the situation this way: "The Austrian lives in a two-room apartment. One room is bright, friendly, the 'cosy parlour', well furnished, where he receives his guests. The other room is dark, sombre, barred, totally unfathomable."

Dr Richard Bailey is a teacher. For the last six years, he has been writing a book on the early life of the Austrian philosopher Karl Popper, and is beginning to realise that he may never finish it.

10 DOWNING STREET

LONDON SW1A 2AA

10 November 1997

Dear Ms Nightingale

The Prime Minister has asked me to thank you for your letter of 14 September giving your account of what is clearly an often difficult and frustrating life.

Mr Blair was enormously impressed by the courage and determination you have shown in trying to live a fulfilling life despite your disabilities. However, I am afraid he is not able to become a patron of your net magazine or to write an article for you.

I know this will be a disappointing reply but I'm afraid Mr Blair's many committments make it impossible for him to take on the very large number of requests like yours that he receives. However, he has asked me to send you his good wishes for your project.

Yours sincerely

Press Office

Contribution to From the Window Webzine - A Message to my Parents

Hi Hero , I learnt about your webzine from a friend Chris Young who either knows you or someone else who deals with From the Window. Congratulations on a great first issue and for all the time you must have obviously spent getting it off the ground. Chris suggested I might like to submit a contribution , so poring over my hard drive I came across something I wrote a few months ago about my now sadly departed parents. It may be too long for your needs so if you think you can use it in any way feel free to edit it. It really helped me to come to terms with the grief that has receded into the past but hasn't been resolved deep down. I wrote it for myself and my family but if it has any value in shedding light on the dark tangled corners of grief for others then I would be happy for others to read and share it . The process of writing this was exteremely cathartic and whilst painful at the time of writing brought a real sense of inner peace and calm on its completion and it brought alive in my heart and world mum and dad once more

So here its is ......

"After your death you will be what you were before your birth."
Arthur Schopenaur

My father died suddenly of a heart attack the day after Boxing Day 1991 aged 72 and my mother died just over 3 years later of a massive stroke in May 1994 also aged 72. The slow process of recovery involves working through what become normal feelings of grief, anger, confusion, despair, loneliness - and though a cliche time does heal and slowly, impercetablity you become ready to live and find joy in living once again. However the problem of making sense of tragedy remains - and this in a world where for the most part a spiritual understanding of the meaning and significance of death no longer applies. It has never been enough to just accept they were gone - totally and utterly - seemingly without any trace save the words burnished on a granite headstone. Where are they now we have all asked, and felt at a loss to answer this the most unanswerable of questions. This introspection is not without cost and so for most of the time it was easier to ignore these feelings of loss rather than confront them and face the inevitable pain that followed.

I decided to write letters to my Mum and Dad . The first was to my Dad - his death was the furthest away and his life was beginning to feel remote, as if it had happened in another lifetime, and having written it in a blur of tears and heightened emotion, I quickly followed it by the next letter to my Mum. Having completed them I was reminded of the memory of a previous letter I had written to my parents many years ago when barely out of University but had never sent. After some frantic searching I found it, and have included it as the last of these letters.

Finally on the phone I mentioned I was writing to grandma to my 5-year-old niece Lauren and asked her to write a letter to her about what she was doing. With the innocence and certainty of a child she replied, "Don't be stupid, Grandma's in heaven you can't send a letter to her?" I replied that might be the case but if she and Adam were to write one I would try my best to make sure they would get to her . So here are the letters and the resulting challenge ...

"Death cannot kill what never dies ...."
Thomas Traherne

Dear Dad ...Wish You Were Here..

As you lay dying bewildered and confused in a strange hospital bed, I could not bring myself to say those words I longed to speak, for fear of letting you or me know how desperate was your situation So rising from your deep sleep, old smile returned, we smiled and laughed, holding back the tears, holding down our fears for a future that wasn't to be You were back amongst us, everything to hope for, one more day to sit and pray, We held your hand, stroked your brow and kissed your hard stubbled cheek, Our eyes met and locked as we left to say goodbye, "See you in the morning, Take care, you couldn't be better looked after", we said Back to Mum, David, Carol and myself ,a cabal of hope against hope. Did you know that now was your time to say goodbye to all?

Did you know as you slipped this world, we would be pulled in your wake into a tear filled ocean of sadness? No I don't think you did - and I hope there was no pain, no loneliness, no feeling of loss. I hope against hope you did not suffer these - for they are the wounds of those to be left behind. And those you did not see. As we walked away turning towards our tears, we stopped to wave and your eyes smiled back. That night how I prayed, for just one miracle ever, for me, for you, just this one, I walked into the chapel and begged, I made a deal, just this once, I'd never trouble you again. Brother, sister, mum and booze were my companions that night, surrounded by the tinsel and glitter of Christmas we prayed and hoped - finally falling into the oblivion of an alcoholic stupor to release us from our waking grief.

And then the knock at dawn, the sad pitying eyes of the nurse beckoning us to come quickly, How rapidly we dressed, unshaven, hair a kilter, bleary bloodshot eyes, dreading the moment to come, Seeing you lying there peacefully - life ebbing away - measured by the electronic bleats of the machine, Growing ever weaker as your failing heart failed to recover, Your whitened lips and closed eyes not recognizing us and we crowded round, floods of tears rolling down my cheeks, heaving and sobbing - mind screaming 'I LOVE YOU DAD - I LOVE YOU DAD - DON'T LEAVE ME ' -but my lips silent. Then the machine told us you had finally gone, and we howled with pain, rage, anger and love in what order, there was no order to our thoughts. We stood around not knowing what to do - holding you - refusing to let go, Eventually, gently coaxed by quitened staff - we rose to shuffle uneasily away, the other faces in the ward radiating pity and concern.

Could this be you dad who only days before had spent a happy hour in a country pub, chewing the cud, putting the world to rights. Could this really be happening to a Dad I'd always loved, a true friend whose gentle manner and honest kindly mind I would only truly know when you'd gone. You never let the child within die; not once in a life full of love felt but rarely spoke. We weren't that sort of family - a pity I know I would have quite liked it to be a little different - but not much - you were more than enough - I'll always love you and miss your irrepressible good humor and wisdom of one who lived modestly in the shadow of anonymous greatness.

it when you had gone, and bound us all together. Of David who if you could see him now you cry with pride, of Katherine his wife and wedding you were not to see. Of Carol, Colin, Adam and Lauren who you would have loved with all your heart until it burst. And finally of me, it's been a long time coming and a lot of cul-de-sacs along the way, but I am growing stronger and straighter with every passing day. Strong enough to pause and take some time to say hello, to revisit the infinite pain of when you left us and to finally by doing so help to rest in peace.

I am I and you are you. Whatever we were to each other we are still.

XXXXXX

Richard Bach

Dear Mum .........

Dearest Mum,

I've just finished writing a letter to Dad, so it's your turn to get one - I know I didn't send many letters to you when you were alive, but when I did I know you loved and cherished them. We found all the ones I'd ever sent going back to University amongst your papers.

I hope you've read Dad's letter, that's how it felt for me - I know from the pain of your condition as it was then it must have been much worse for you. We only rarely glimpsed the pain of your loss in the three years we were to have after Dad left us. But what a three years, if I'm ever called to account in the hereafter and asked what I would change then those 37 months would remain exactly the same.

I couldn't forget after Dad died how ill you were, of going to his funeral in a wheelchair, of your skin purulent with eruption and the excruciating pain of spasms that would rack your body without warning and of feeling so helpless as you writhed in agony. My only thoughts were you must, you will get better, and whilst you live however short or long that may be, we will be there for you and with you.

I remember the slow recovery and vast scale of your loss, and then with joy the healing power of music, and what a part it was to play in what were three of the happiest years of my life. For many years I had sublimated real emotion experienced with real people for a love of the arts especially classical music and in particular Opera - that overblown drama passionate, grandiose celebration of the sublime and absurd and of tragedy and love. Of these last two there were neither in my life, and so in the darkened womb of the theatre, caressed by ravishing music and hypnotic spectacle my mind would take flight and learn to fly. I was hooked, and of this drug I simply could not get enough. Much the time I would go alone rather than not go at all - and thus live vicariously through the dreams of others.

Do you remember the first time we went to Covent Garden together - your disability had become a temporary asset - for modest sums we could sit together in the stalls and experience some of the best music theatre this world has to offer. I will never forget, and nor will you. The 'Tales of Hoffman' had become almost second nature as you watched and re- watched your video of the production in eager anticipation of the joys to come. How we dressed up, and getting to the theatre sat in our plush seats amongst the great and the good (but mostly rich) of our society, eagerly anticipating the dimming of lights and the striking up of the orchestra. How we would compare notes during the interval, at the end, and during the next day. We would pack your short visits with many such outings - eagerly planned and ever more eagerly executed. Many hours spent on the phone, the excitement of the brochure, the new season - the rare night of simply perfect transcendence - the tears of Boheme, a stunning Tristan. All this culminating in our two weeks we spent in Vienna - a passion and obsession for music gloriously out of hand. Every night a performance - every day a whirlwind tour of history, music and friendship. I remember on our last trip you writing me that letter of thanks to me and you said some of the kindest most loving words you'd ever written, but were too embarrassed to speak directly.

Yes we were like that, weren't we? I still can't find it, but I know I will, and I know the joy it will bring me when found. I didn't want this new found joy to end - I had purpose, I had a dear and willing friend with which to share and broaden my obsessive passion for Opera, and it just kept getting better and better. Whilst you lived and took pleasure from this world, Dad was not dead, but lived on in you and through us. Though grief was your ever-present bedfellow - I lived not in the shadow of Dad's death but a celebration of your life.

Three happy years we spent and then the phone call from Carol, just when everything seemed perfect and set to last. This more than anything has made me live for the moment and to drink the joy and beauty of the day, for I never know when it will end. I think it was on my birthday -If not close.

respites - something akin to a bad cold or maybe a little worse. But nothing too much to worry about so even though Carol seemed increasingly agitated on the phone - then that was probably just like you, her natural ability to over worry about trivial concerns.

How you were to prove me wrong. I remember coming up at the weekend and being met by Carol who said to prepare myself for a shock as to how bad was your situation. I was not prepared, nothing could have prepared me for the sight of you dear Mum, your kind face crowned with thinning silver hair, unable to move anything from the neck down. Your body an unyielding, unwielding lump of meat. The tears I had to choke back, the false smile I had to wear. My mum lying helpless in a ward of the sick and dying less than half a mile from the house where I was born. At that moment all the love I 'd ever felt for you rose up to fill the void of despair - so much so that your beauty shone out radiant and lovely and I felt so, so close. If by cutting my hand off at this point would have made you better I would have gladly done so. There followed the most intense, loving and ultimately painful four weeks of my life of all our lives. The drunken hope of small progress as you infinitesmably regained some movement first in one hand and then the other. Your strength of character, your spirit seemingly undimmed. How we would massage and caress your hands and feet and rub in cream and love and hope this would get the nerves working again - if love could had cured anything then we had an abundance to give.

If only .........................

I never gave up hope until there was no more hope to be had. I prayed again long and hard to an unyielding God - I implored him, he hadn't done me any favours over Dad - so how about an even break this time. Any contract, any deal, any time just let you live. I will never forget the night before, it was Carol's birthday - you had rallied after slipping away for so long - whilst we cursed nature and the nurses, and I put on some headphones and played you some music. It was the Blue Danube by Johann Strauss - I remember it being played in the coach on our holiday to Vienna in happier times as we crossed the river itself - I remember remarking how tacky it felt but was moved all the same. I thought this would help. In my naivete I thought music could heal all, so imagine my despair as I saw you reduced to tears and rage as you beckoned me to remove the headset. It was then I knew finally that the music had died and that you were dying. There was to be no more music for us together. That was our last.

I didn't want to leave that night but I was babysitting for Carol and Colin for her birthday treat. So we left and you rallied all the strength remaining in you to wish us all well and for Carol to enjoy her evening. I know now you knew, but you hid it so well, how much that must have cost you, how lonely must you have felt as you slipped away from this life - so much more to do see. There was David's wedding for a start. You got your outfit, and Adam and Lauren - we had our tickets for Aida - your holiday in Naples with David.

Mum if I could only have been there for your last few hours - but you didn't want to put us through it - that was your final gift to us. That night was a replay of Dad's last night, wild, careering drunken hope and a belief in miracles. then Colin's knock on the door at 2 am and Carols mad almost reckless driving as we rushed to get to you, only too arrive minutes too late. You lay there still warm your features were as if you still slept. Carol and I stood together in floods of tears and hugged. You had gone mum and with you Dad as well - we were parentless at last. The door had finally closed, slammed shut forever. The nurse said some kind words and the other woman in the bed across the way cried with us - she had only known you a few days but had grown to care for you. You were that sort of woman - quick to make friends and pretty much unable to lose them.

We busied ourselves for your funeral - got to keep doing something. I'll never forget the WI honour guard that stood in silent remembrance as your coffin left the hall or the parish hall that we spent so much time in as children literally packed out. It felt strange with all your friends here - but neither mum nor dad to greet them. I cried a lot in the months to come, body wrenching, howls of pain and anger, more tears than is decent for a man to cry in a lifetime - I shed in a night, night after night. Then as with everything you learn to live to adapt but not forget. The wound heals over, the scar tissue, ugly and distorted covering the gaping wound. I was to lose myself a little in the wilderness over the next few years. But that's another story, the only thing you need to know now is how right I feel and much I've grown and how much I owe to you and Dad who helped me to grow to this point, and how as I grow further away from when you left us paradoxically the closer I feel I am becoming.

The music was the first thing to die in me - for a year I would not listen to any Opera -it was too painful - too many happy memories. But slowly, imperceptibility it came back - and I found pleasure once more - but this time without the obsession. And the garden of course - always a passion of yours how I wish you could see mine. And my dear friends who travel the path with me - but that's yet another story. Finally your children me David and Carol, the greatest thing to come out of your death was the final and indissoluble bonding of us three. I see the photo on Carol's wall of Dad with Auntie Gladys and Uncle Alan - and I see ourselves and we are now probably closer than they ever were .You built us on rock Mum and Dad - it just took me so long to drill down and find this out.

We go and visit you and Dad when we can and we stand at your grave in Scorton just like you and Dad did before us. Alan's on there now I'm afraid - but there's space for Glady's whose still smoking away, but seemingly solid as ever. She misses you both very much and I think she wants to join you. I hope she's unlucky on that one for some time to come. And I'm writing this book with my friend Rupinder who suggested I should get down and write to you both. So here I am.

I spoke to Lauren on the phone tonight and she's going to write a letter but she confidently tells me it won't get to you cos you're in heaven .So I'll add it to this when I get it and work out a way to tell her how I got it to you .Got to go now, mum - have got the 'Softly Awakes my Heart' from Saint-Saens Samson and Delilah playing on the CD - that was one of your favorites and mine too. We never got to see it but we would have.

I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Your ever loving son,

Ian

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

P.s. Somewhere in my boxes of possessions is a letter that I wrote to you and Dad whilst you were alive but was too hung up to send then so I'll search it out and send it now .

There is no right or wrong. There is only love ....
Carol Chapman

The following letter is one I found hidden deep in my personal archives - it was written in 1983 when I was a much younger man of 22. I wrote it after spending an idyllic weekend at the home of my friend Rupinder's when I was able to observe at close hand the apparent magic of a close family. The carefree smiles the hugs, kisses revealed a warmth and an ease of living which was sadly lacking in my own family, I returned to desire the same for myself and in so doing chose to reflect on the relationships within my own. I was analyzing where we'd come from, where we were and this was my attempt to put it into words. After writing it in a flurry of emotion I showed it to my brother and we mutually concurred that to send it now unannounced could disturb my parents. They may think I've gone mad - so erring on the side of caution it remained unsent, that is until now and I add it as a final message to my parents.....

The Unsent Letter

I sometimes find the occasion to totally express my deepest love for you both. In times of quiet reflection, I dwell on the pain, guilt and misery we your children must have caused you. The older I grow, though temporarily and physically further apart the closer spiritually I find the bond that binds us. My life skirts the valleys and mountains of doubt and certainty but throughout all these mists of confusion, lies one great shining truth, my sincerest and totally absolute gratitude to you both for the simple fact of my creation. For as long as there is breath in my body my soul will cherish you with dear memories.

Dad, you are a solid rock of the deepest integrity which flows effortlessly out of your character, and makes you a rare creature in a world full of dishonesty and mistrust. To be as selfless as you are is moral fibre of the highest order, and in you Dad I sense a deep abiding natural love, the like of which I have seen in no other person. A gentleness, a deep and total respect for all humanity.

Mum, I feel for your suffering, and have often thought we are much alike, and I send out my deepest feelings of love to you for the huge price you have had to pay, as you brought us up for there must have been many years of darkness in your journey in which you dwelt emotionally alone, frightened and afraid .

I have often wondered what makes a marriage work, and thought about the bond between you and Dad, and it is by knowing you both that I understand that which does not need to be said.

These are feelings understood but rarely articulated by all three of us. For David I speak personally that struggled though he did, spitting and cursing as he painfully grew into a man, he was fighting the bitterest battle with himself, a process once understood has most definitely begun it's resolution. I am sure Carol feels the same even though we have regrettably grown apart. It is a source of continual regret that we cannot be closer for deep within I care deeply for her. We are all too similar to be too far apart.

With me, and I think for David also, it was necessary for some process by which we had to break possessive bonds, breathe our own fresh, free air to totally realize what you meant to us. The moment I stopped running away, and you ceased to cling, then I became truly aware of what love meant. You have been a continual lifeline at all levels.

happened. But in so reflecting I am reminded most painfully, and sense the stinging realization how this must have hurt you both.

I have found the hardest experience of life, is the hardening of the soul, that protection against emotional vulnerability - that hurts far more than cruel words for when they can no longer penetrate the wall of self-protection then the soul feels imprisoned. In you Mum I feel this must have often been the case. If there is one thought I want to leave with you is that there are NO REGRETS for anything, that you may have done in the past. No guilt, no doubt, no recriminations, love wipes away all the tear-stained bill of incidence.

As we all grow older, and reach the conclusion of our existence the one thought I wish you both to carry deep within always, was that it was ALL worth it. For there is not one ounce of hatred or bitterness in our feelings towards you. Though through the day to day trivialities of our existence this may seem at times distant it is always present. Of the many people that I have met, there are regrettably few that feel towards our parents as we do.

Redemption through love. I suppose my destiny is to be sensitive, but whether in joy or sorrow I feel truly, madly deeply that I am living on a precious planet travelling through an infinite solar system, a thought so marvelous it makes me want to weep.

Though we must both appear very cynical at times for ones so young, these are but masks to hide behind, being afraid to express that which we feel. For fear of stating the obvious or repeating myself, and though at times it must seem somewhat secretive to you and may make you feel left out, David and I are closest in the truest sense of the word not just brothers but true dear friends. Come what may you can always rely that we will always be there to help. My friendship grew with David from uncertain beginnings and has flowered into one of the deepest bonds imaginable, for we have wept and laughed together. Often I lie awake and think of him and hope he knows I'm there and I care, the changes in that boy from what he was to who he has become are the greatest reward.

Just a year ago when staying with me, he broke down and wept so profusely whilst standing on Hungerford Bridge over the Thames. For so long had his soul been longing for expression but had remained trapped within an exterior of cynical bitterness. It is only when I realized the loneliness of those long years when he caused so much pain, that I become aware, strange, as it seems that he suffered the most. Most recently after older brother teaching younger brother I felt a hand extended towards me an arm to reach out and comfort me when I needed it. Thus the wheel turns full circle.

The words I have tried to use to express what I am feeling seem so trite and ill equipped for what I am trying to say. But the totality and purity of that feeling can only manifest itself as a flood of tears or a cry of joy. . And even then, though I hate to think about it, the time when we shall have to ultimately depart then no sadness can ever tinge the joy I am feeling now.

Worry no more. If you could truly know me you would know my inner self stands firm albeit sometimes hazy. Dad is my inner rock and you Mum are my guiding ship through life.

To speak of your deaths is one taboo even I hesitate to cross. Though I feel I must speak about emotions unknown to me, I always feel a joy that you will never die, and though the transient pain of departure always hurts, the feeling that you are real, arms steadying behind, a reassuring spiritual presence ever present will remain. When depart you must, carry one thought from me, you were always loved, and never more so than now. We humans often leave unsaid that which must be said, for after all we are only humans .I must come to a close as I am increasingly finding words futile to express what I am feeling.

A peace

That small corner of the earth we inhabit will exist forever, and so we may be apart we will never be separated .

In the peace of your sleep,
May you glimpse heaven,
In that hushed twilight world,
We are alone, but ultimately together.
Thankyou for everything.
I love you.

Ian

XXXXXXX

Looking back as I re-read it after all the years that have passed I am left with just one regret - why didn't I send it ?

Love brings to life whatever is dead around us.....
Franz Rosenzweig

So where are they now?
Remembering the Dream

Dreams are true while they last , and do we not live in dreams?
Alfred Lord Tennyson

So remembering my promise to my niece Lauren - how will I get these messages to Mum and Dad? In our ends are our beginnings and I would not for one moment dream of saying anything other than death will be the hardest, harshest lesson you will learn during the journey of life. Grief is no more stinging for having a world view in which to make sense of it. Grief and mourning have to do with being abandoned and with loss. They are the natural consequence of the loss of boundaries . I vividly remember after Mum died ringing her telephone number once more and recognizing the familiar ringing tone, weeping as it rang out - unanswered. I only did it the once - I would have not tortured myself more - but I was willing myself to hear her voice once more on the end of line. Of course this didn't happen. That's not to say I've not spoken to them both since. I am fortunate in having had many dreams when I meet one or both of them again. I particularly remember one in which I saw Dad again - he was lying in bed looking exhausted but well. I kissed him gently , feeling his hard stubble rub against my chin, and asked him where he'd been - he replied that he'd been ill but was getting better now and he was sorry if he'd upset anybody. He then said where's your mum ? What was remarkable about the experience was the sentient excitement of it all - the smell (cheap aftershave!) unmistakably Dad, the uncanny sound of his voice, the smiling joy of his eyes as we greeted. Just too real to be imagined. Whenever I have these dreams I awake refreshed and overjoyed that we have met once more and far from being dispirited by awakening. I feel ever more certain I have made contact with my parents once again. Dreams are real while they last . Can we say more of life ?

I will leave you with a short poem that was given to mum after dad died by a friend . She kept it with her always and we reproduced it in the service sheet for her funeral.

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there.
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain
I am the gentle autumn's rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled light.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.
I did not die ..........

On the day when death knocks at your door, what will you offer him? I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life. I will never let him go with empty hands ...

Ian Bunker

28th September 1997

My name is Ian Bunker , I'm 36 and work as a software engineer , I love travel , nature and creative writing and too much more to detail here !.

14th October 1997

Dear Hero,

Thank you very much for writing and telling me about your life and of your brave response to your disablement.

I was glad to learn of your affinity with Scotland; it is a beautiful country. During World War II when I served in the Royal Navy with fishermen from the Hebrides, we sometimes saw the islands in the distance when we were on convoy duty, but I was never fortunate enough to visit them. The whole of north-west Scotland has a particular grandeur, although I must say that I do not care for the mosquitos in the summer.

You ask me about the effects of age. Perhaps you noticed that The Queen was commenting recently that she found it difficult to keep up, and she is much younger than I am. I am afraid it is true that as we get older, it is more difficult to adapt; fashions tend to pass us by and we have to take particular care to avoid narrowing our horizons.

On the other hand, older people today are in much better health, generally speaking, than their own grandparents were, thanks to modern medicine and drugs, so we are in a better position than they were to enjoy the many wonderful things of life. As we watch the world go by, we can also note the changes that take place among young people in culture and in fashion, with sympathy and tolerance. What we know, and they probably do not realise, is that their cultures and fashions are as unlikely to be permanent as ours were.

Elderly people today though have a very good chance of remaining alert, interested and knowledgeable, provided we try to keep an open mind and continue to feel that we should play a part in society.

I was glad to hear about your hopes and aspirations, although I must add that it is probably too much for any of us to expect that every one of our wishes will be borne out. Nevertheless, we must have the determination, as you have, to achieve them if we can. I very much hope that your present disabilities will not stop you from following the goals you have set yourself, and thank you very much for writing.

With best wishes for your future

Yours sincerely

James Callaghan

***

26th November 1997

Dear Hero

Lord Callaghan has asked me to write and thank you for your long letter of 17th November, which he read with great interest, and sends his congratulations on your success in attracting articles for your website from such auspicious contributors. He is sorry to say that he is not personally able to become one, as I am sure you will appreciate the volume and variety of correspondence that he already deals with prevents him from taking on any further committments.

Please accept Lord Callaghan's best wishes for your continued success in pursuing your activities to the full, and thank you for taking the trouble to write to him.

With best wishes,

Yours sincerely

Gina Page

Private Secretary to Lord Callaghan

James Callaghan has been UK Prime Minister, Chancellor of the Exchequer, Foreign Secretary and Home Secretary (unlike anyone else). He managed all this without a university education. HJN.

Being Irish?

When I was asked by the Editor to write about being Irish, I was startled to realise that I don't consider myself Irish any more, and maybe I never have.

I have lived in England for over 20 years, but I certainly do not consider myself English. My mother is Scottish, and I lived in Scotland for 3 years, but I do not consider that I am Scottish, though I do have a cousinly feeling for my Scottish roots.

I'm certainly not anything like a citizen of the world either.

When I first came to England I was asked the usual questions about pigs in the kitchen and do they have TV in Ireland?

Everyone considered I was Irish, and I did not deny it. Neither did I fully accept the label.

I grew used to being considered Irish. From time to time I was asked if my accent was Scottish, or Welsh. Several times I was asked if i was Canadian. What did I reply?

Well I replied that I was from Northern Ireland. When I said this I felt as if it still did not properly define my origins. Northern Ireland really seems not much more than a geographical term. The title has no history, no sense of place attached to it.

In recent years when asked to define my origins I have found a new term which feels better. It feels right.

I say I am from Ulster. I was brought up on tales of Ulster - The Red Hand of Ulster; and Finn McCool the Giant of Ulster and the Giant's Causeway.

Ulster has history and a definite sense of place.

Acknowledging being Irish now feels alien. I realise I have been groping gradually to this definition of myself; and the request to write about being Irish, crystallised these thoughts and feelings.

I can no longer accept the label of being Irish. The Irish people don't seem to respect my people in Ulster. At best they ignore them; at worst they hate them.

What does it mean to say I am from Ulster?

Well I need to think about it more, and as I am getting near the deadline I will have to return to that subject another day!

Dykes with Disabilities:

"We're mad as hell and we won't take it anymore!"

Picture this: You and your girlfriend go off for the night to a lesbian club. At the front door you're refused entry, your girlfriend told by the woman at the door, "Tell your friend she can't come in here - this is a lesbian club". For some reason the bouncer doesn't get it that anyone with a disability could be a dyke. Eventually you both argue your way into the club, only to be harassed and attacked by a very large and drunk dyke who punches you to the ground, screaming: "Who'd f*** you, you ugly c***" and you and your girlfriend are the ones thrown out for causing a scene.

Incidents like this have led activist Kali Wilde to forming a group with the assistance of Sydney's Lesbian and Gay Anti-Violence Project to look into access and equity issues for Lesbians, Gays and Transgenders (GLT's) with disabilities. As Wilde puts it, "I want to make a place where we can have all our identities - there's pressure on us to leave our disability identity outside the door in queer circles; and there's pressure on us to leave our queer identity outside the door in disability circles".

AN ATTITUDE REVOLUTION

I was invited along to a meeting of the group which has got members from different organisations like People with Disabilities, the Coalition of Activist Lesbians, the Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby, the Intellectual Disability Rights Service and a number of government departments involved as well. The energy and excitement in the room was palpable. As Service Co-ordinator of the Royal North Shore Hospital's Sexual Assault Service Susan Kendall says, "We're talking about huge cultural change - ultimately this must be seen as a human rights issue".

Kendall was instrumental in helping Kali Wilde get the project off the ground. According to Kendall's figures, 25% of their clients at the Assault Service have disabilities and she cites a NSW study showing that 80% of people with intellectual disabilities survive sexual assault. Kendall points out that the biggest problem is the lack of information about sexuality people with disabilities get. "We had a client with intellectual disabilities who was married and had been assaulted. After investigation we found out that she wasn't having sex with her husband because they didn't know how. She didn't know the difference between good and bad touch because no-one had told her, assuming that disabled people don't need to know that sort of thing, but in reality putting her in danger. Now take another example, where another woman says to us that she doesn't like boys but loves hanging with her girlfriend Alison, holding her hand and so on, and you hit real problems. All people with disabilities should have access to information about sexual preferences, but to do so would take incredible change in our attitudes".

Take the story of this woman: "A friend of mine in an institution in Perth ordered a cab to pick her up, then me, to go to a gay club. On hearing the destination the cab driver refused and went inside to 'report her to matron'. Once outed by the driver, this woman was outed by staff to her family. Her rights (the institution called them privileges) were removed and life became intolerable. She had great trouble getting bathed, toileted, helped out of bed, access to appropriate medical treatment and so on, because she was dependent on staff to organise this. Then possessions like her TV 'went missing'. She was forced to move".

THE CHALLENGES AHEAD

GLT's with disabilities in the group generally agreed that the disability discrimination within GLT organisations was especially hard to bear, making them feel it was easier to come out about their sexuality than it was to come out as a person with a disability. To illustrate the point Wilde tells this story: "In 1995 the organisers of two lesbian Mardi Gras floats refused to allow me to participate in their floats in the parade, one saying 'Our float just wouldn't look as good'. Distraught, I raised the issue with a lesbian counsellor. She said this was 'the truth' and 'well, it just wouldn't look as good'. I was shocked...This makes me feel like I didn't belong in the community, and that it had no place for lesbians with obvious disabilities, regardless of our contribution to the community".

Others in the group agreed that it was difficult to get information from Mardi Gras about disabled access, one gay man who uses a wheelchair reported being told to "bring (his) mum or dad along to help (him) go to the toilet" and that Mardi Gras was "not a disability organisation".

The group agreed the challenge is attracting other GLT's with disabilities to join in the party to be able to lobby for change successfully but they concede it's very difficult to estimate just how many people are concerned. A recent survey on lesbians with disabilities auspiced by Women with Disabilities Australia and conducted by Kerrie Watson had 100 requests for the forms, although only 20 have been returned so far. The interim results however indicate that dykes with disabilities just don't feel included in the GLT community, with a rating average of 2 on a scale of 1 to 10 - (1 being poor, 10 being excellent). Several respondents gave negative ratings like minus 5; minus 100 in one form!

COAL researcher Alison Daniel is setting up focus groups to talk about issues facing lesbians with disabilities but reports few takers so far, saying it's been hard to track them down. Kali Wilde says she has a good idea why - "The majority of lesbians I know with disabilities tend to be closeted about their sexuality or their disability. I know a woman with no legs who's a lesbian who says - 'No! No! I don't have a disability!' and likewise I have friends who keep their sexuality very quiet. It's that problem of belonging to more than one minority groups - it's not one plus one equals two, it equals six - it's an exponential degree of discrimination against you sometimes".

Wilde has faced these problems directly, with services like Home Care whom she has fought for a number of years to get help she needed. As she says: "The problem is their desire to regulate my sexuality - if I'd suddenly said - 'I'm not a lesbian anymore' - I'm sure I would have got the service". At present Wilde has Home Care service, having successfully won her right to assistance.

The group is working with the Departments of Women, Housing and Ageing and Disability to see change happen. Kendall is hopeful of their response, but says "Government is barely meeting the challenge in people without disabilities, so we're on a long road to make disability visible to render it invisible, if you get me - we really should be looking at the whole person and their needs - this could take 100 years".

WHERE THE ACTION IS

Whatever happened to the myth of the daggy disabled dyke? I tell you, these women are GORGEOUS and the sense of being at the cutting edge of social change, taking the disability and queer communities by storm, is electrifying.

The group's organising a one-day conference for early next year and they're open to ideas and feedback, so if you'd like to get involved, you can contact A/Client Services Co-ordinator at the Lesbian and Gay Anti-Violence Project, Ian Archer-Wright on 61 2 9360 6687.

Also, if you're keen on finding out more about the Lesbians with Disabilities National Survey, contact Women with Disabilities Australia on 61 - 2 - 62421310. And Alison Daniel is still very keen to hear from lesbians with disabilities who'd like to contribute to her research - leave a message for her at the COAL office on 61 - 2 - 9211 9202.

This piece is excerpted from 'Lesbians on the Loose', a magazine published in Australia. If you're interested in further information you can contact them at email - lotl@ozemail.com.au.

Kath Duncan is a 36 y.o. free-spirited freelance journalist, based in Australia. She was born with limbs missing, but has gained a lot of magic, good friends and great meals along the way - although the leg and arm are still missing. She has worked in radio broadcasting, film and video soundtrack and now print, but is open to all the new experience life can chuck at her.

A Day in the Life - 8th November 1997

This morning the radio alarm sprang into life just in time to enjoy the medley of patriotic tunes from around the British Isles with which BBC radio 4 entertains its half-awake listeners at 5.55am on a Saturday! Andy crept downstairs to make a cup of tea, we had an hour to get ourselves together and get our son George out of bed and dressed. I had packed his bag the previous night and at 6.45am I loaded him and his copious amounts of luggage and accessories into the car to drive him to the Nanny's house, where he was to spend the next three days.

I then returned home to pick up Andy and our luggage. Isn't it strange how two adults can fit all their requirements for three days, incuding concert dress, tails, drumsticks and a violin into rather less space than one small boy needs!

Half an hour later at Gatwick, we found where the Philharmonia Orchestra were checking in and joined our colleagues in the queue.

Our journey was being further complicated by having to transport several large instrument boxes in the hold of the plane rather than in the orchestra's lorry, which would usually have carried the load by road, unfortunately, the French lorry drivers' strike had put the kybosh on this.

Having used the time in the airport lounge doing some Christmas shopping, (A busy musician has to grab the opportunity when it presents itself!) we boarded our flight to Madrid.

2.30pm local time.

The orchestra were safely installed on three coaches having been shepherded through the airport by our tour manager and the local concerts agent.

After a short ride to the hotel, we had 55mins to check in, unpack and freshen up. 100 people (or thereabouts) descending on a hotel lobby with cases and instruments, fighting for room keys and space in the lifts is not a pretty sight or a comfortable experience! Anyway there was certainly no time for lunch.

On arrival at Madrid's fine Auditorio Nacional, Andy rather apprehensively went to look at the set of Timpani that had had to be hired locally (Thankyou French lorry drivers). The double bass and harp players were in the same situation.

The drums were acceptable, but only just. They were a problem to tune and set up and the largest drum was the wrong size, putting Andy in a similar position to a builder trying to knock a fence post in with the aid of a toffee hammer rather than a sledge hammer.

The rehearsal passed without incident, conductor, soloist and orchestra all know the hall and we had performed most of the programme two nights previously at the Royal Festival Hall in London.

6pm local time

We returned to the hotel, we had until 9.30pm when the coach would return to the hall for the 10.30pm concert. This venue provides two concerts a night and we were on the "late shift". The hotel being in the business area of Madrid and this being a saturday, none of the local restaurants opened until 9pm, so we were reduced to taking a Burger King meal back to the hotel room - Glamorous lifestyle isn't it! We then managed an hour or so of sleep.

Both having bathed and dressed, we returned to the hall. The audience from the first concert were still leaving as we arrived backstage to warm up. Andy checked his drums, still playable - just. One of the harpists was attending to her instrument which had been hired out missing some of it's strings. (There seems to be an opening here for a reliable musical instrument hire company!)

The concert; The audience seemed initially slightly bemused by Ligeti's Lontano. The very quiet opening was disturbed by coughing and rustling, but they soon became enthralled by the very exciting and extraordinary orchestral colours that the composer uses. The young Finnish conductor, Esa Pekka Salonen is generally recognised to be one of the finest interpreters of Ligeti's music.

The pianist Paul Crossley gave a fine performance of Ravel's G major concerto.

After the interval, more Ligeti, this time a shorter early piece, Apparitions, another quiet opening becoming more and more punctuated by the apparitions of the title appearing unexpectedly round the orchestra in the guise of screaming violins shrieking woodwind or rasping brass.

The concert ended with Scriabin's Poem of Ecstasy. I made the mistake of glancing at my watch just before we started. It is not a psychological advantage to know that it is past midnight and that one is required to play a substantial symphonic work. The Philharmonia however came up trumps as usual We were warmly applauded by a very appreciative audience.

A day like today is not uncommon in this busy orchestra's life but however tired we are we always seem to manage to "pull a great show out of the bag". It is far from an ideal lifestyle however and the stresses and strains take their toll on the players.

1.20am local time. Lights out.

We returned to the hotel, Andy grabbed a quick drink at the bar, and I began writing this article whilst I awaited his return. We got into bed eighteen hours after getting up, having travelled for a large part of the day, sustained only by an aircraft meal and a burger! In 5 hours time we have to get up and travel to Valencia, this time by train which will be more pleasant than flying. On Monday we fly home, on Tuesday we rehearse and perform in London's Royal Festival Hall, our home and on Wednesday we travel on the Eurostar to Paris for three weeks, this time baby George comes with us. What a life! Busy, tiring but rewarding.

I'm a bit busy this month, so not much time to write an article for From the Window. But here is the answer to a puzzle that has perplexed the children of farmers and other country dwellers for years:

A: A weasel is weasily distinguished because a stoat is stotally different!

Regards, Chris

After a number of years globetrotting, Chris Eley settled to life on a 32-acre smallholding in Wales. Current population 40 sheep, two dogs and a cat.

After my bit of a do in Milton Keynes on Wednesday, I passed a sign post on the way out of MK that made me stop. Seven years ago or so Joy and I spent a day in MK and among other places found The Peace Pagoda, on Willen Lake, built by a buddhist order who were also buiding a residence and temple which, at the time, was little more than a wooden hut. So I went to look at the pagoda again and see if they were still there.

They were. There is now a rather beautiful , though unfinished, wooden temple, with a set of gardens around it. A water garden. A traditional Japanese stone garden of pebble and rock. A vegetable garden. I asked someone working in the garden if I could walk round, and did. I was walking away when I decided I really did want to look inside. The gardening lady, apparently Scandinavian, called, apparently in Japanese, to unseen people in the building and ushered me to the door where it was evident I should leave my shoes.

A tiny Japanese lady came to greet me (maybe 4 foot 9?), with shaven head and a simple wrap-around top, bowed, and led me to the Main Hall. At the "shrine" end were gold statues of the (Shakyamuni) Buddha, a framed photo of a broadly smiling old Japanese gent, flowers, and the most extraordinary collection of gifts, including a box of big plastic bottles of pop (still shrink wrapped), a bag of potatoes, a (smaller) bag of pasta, a tin of tomatoes, and a ghastly kitch pseudo-silver clock in the form of a penny farthing bicycle. Carpeted floor. One cushion on the floor, smack in the middle. Tiny lady says "please sit on cushion". I do. She kneels facing the shrine and begins to chant, a series of repetitions of the same sounds each ending with the voice lowering and the forehead on the floor. Marks of respect, first to Buddha, then to their teacher (the old Japanese gent), then, after turning to face me, to me. I now know the chant was ..."Na-Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo", or "I will follow the lotus sutra". (If you want more on the order, the Lotus Sutra, etc, though I can't think why you should, I can provide a bit). She then went to a covered bowl, removed a single boiled sweet and, with a bow, offered it to me. At my request she then stayed and talked for a few minutes and told me some stuff.

It was all very extraordinary, and odd, and not "me", and yet it did connect to me and gave me a very happy little time. The following emerged.

Na-Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo.

Two electric blue dragonflies
together but separate
sparkle
then still
on a white lily.

The smile and gestures
of the tiny, graceful nun who welcomes me
communicate more love
than a thousand words.

The Japanese poet
knows in his heart how imperfect words are
but cannot completely restrain
the urge to describe the infinite
and so
the haiku is short
but communicates with intensity and gentleness
like the smile and gestures
of the tiny, graceful nun
who welcomes me.

Thank you.

0800 269545.

HJN: Bill Fine contributed a article on tandem parachuting to the 1st edition of FTW.

TSAREVITCH

I resurrect you
Peaked pinched mask who
stares out
Not comfortable from sepia
But clown white from blood-teasel
Congealed at last
Your spiked prison not like
That liquid one you've lived
Since that first nurse-scream.

So now this tower
All round, that crimson fury
Matching thin throb within
Will cool, go grey, cold
Like you when I have stopped
Reading you these words
Your tower having proved
Hedgehog-haven again
Prepares now
To be ante-chamber
To a tomb
While poor cocoon
You live out last futilities
doomed
To mere niche in academic discourse
Or political double-speak.

Little rich Guy
But cold
Grotesque claustrophobe
Your body will break out red
As red breaks in
There have been so many
Lonely towers
Monumented through known time
Yours perhaps most pitiful
Little puppet-boy
Bleeding into 1917
Between two tyranies
Freedom got for none
Least of all you.

We glimpse this
Before blinds down
You're snatched backward
Into oblivion
Teasel turned inward, poor insect
Intended red flows untended
Bundled down
Sepia earth
Roots and damp silence.

God give mercy to
All like prisoners
And captives
And one
Such as
This
Little
Face
In
Time's
Perspex
Boxes.

Dear Hero Joy,

I received your letter concerning From the Window via Ms. van der Top who works at our school. I am an English teacher for students in grades 7 - 10 which is the children aged 12-16. I asked my 13 year old kids to write something for your site concerning the view from their windows, their favorite places, a window on their souls, and the day that changed their lives. I will be collecting their final copies on Oct. 8.

I have a step-son who was born deaf and mute and can understand many of the feelings that you expressed in your writing. He however, was not blessed with your language abilites. I have suggested to his real mother that he try to sign something to her for your website as well.

Good luck with your endeavor and hopefully you will like some of my students work.

Kind regards,

Grace Knox

ARTYOM

As the sun appears, I open my eyes and see it shining so brightly as if God himself was coming down on me. The bright sun brings me happyness in the morning. It is like a drug which makes me excited and full of energy. I don't want to leave my room. I'd rather stay here the whole day and do nothing but look at the blue, blue sky as the pink horizon forms again and again... Until there was a moment that changed my life when I had to go and live in Holland where the view is my garden and the sound of the traffic whole day long. There isn't much sun in the morning either - mostly rain. But in my heart I will always remember that scenery which I didn't see anywhere else in the whole world: the blue, blue sky and the pink horizon, and the bright sun in the morning shining in my eyes and giving me energy for the new day. I can still imagine it so clearly after those three years that I spend in Holland, and I will never forget it.

TOMMY MAGUIRE

Through My Window

Something that I had to come to terms with or something that changes my life is losing someone that is real close to you like in, My case I lost my Grandfather last year and this is something that you just don't want to happen but it does and you try to avoid of forget that it happened is probably something that even today I don't realise that it happened and there's nothing you can do about it but you want to get rid of the memory is one of the hardest things in life and I think this is one of the saddest things that can happen and it really changes your life in so many ways.

CHRIS ERVIN

It really is a fine window. It comfortably rests on the right wall of my room. Divided into six sections by a wooden plank, it resembles a tic-tac-toe board. The window spends most of its time acting window-like, by being transparent and staying in a state of permanent stillness. It's only function being to look through it. And what a view ! From my room, which was, before being converted, and attic, you can see almost all of Naarden (but then again. Naarden isn't that big.), and you certainly can hear all of it. Less than a kilometer from my house, there is a train station. It runs all day, all night, never ceasing the drone of metal upon metal, in the train's effort to stop. It can be maddening to me. What I see from this particular window is a lawn in bad need of mowing. At a slightly oblique angle to the center a tree rests. It is not very large yet, but you can almost here it straining to reach to the sky.Though all of this, the window continues to sit. At one point in its life, parts of it were alive: The tree that the wooden planks came from must have been a strong tree; nothing could bring it down until the chainsaw cut through its midsection. If aliens ever do find us, they will never try to trade information and make peace. No, they'll cut us up and use us as furniture. Windows are everywhere. They pear into and out of our habitations. They exist figuratively, as well. My soul has a window near it, like the large surgical auditoriums that exist in some medical hospitals. From here, you could see many different images of a thousand lives not lived, if I had made different changes here and there. You should see many humorous figures walking about, forever making jests towards the more serious members of my soul. You will see many, many figures with nonplused looks on their faces; the quizzical section of my soul. And you will see the Wired Section, where most of the information fed to my soul is copied, faxed, altered, and otherwise processed with. Windows can also look into real places. Back in Oregon, there was a massive theater only a twenty-minute drive away from my old house. Though there were only seven screens in the Evergreen Parkway 7, they were all very large, and made the average movie go-er feel a wee-bit small. They were well tended to by the hapless teenage projectionists making their minimum wage and smiling. I would go there every other week during the school year to see the latest movie that was playing. I usually go for the sci-fi films, but when I was feeling the need for something more substantial, I would go see something like The English Patient. I would never, ever, go alone; traveling with four of my closet friends we would take the Tri-Met bus system to the theater.Windows can even see important things in your life. One of the pivotal moments of my life was the deception to move to the Netherlands. My parents asked me if I wanted to move during our Thanksgiving dinner. Afterwards, I saw that same dinner in reverse. Without much choice in the matter, I agreed, and four months later, I was leaving my home of eight years, and all the friends I had made in that time, to go to a country I knew little about. Now, I am glad I did so.The window has not changed in any visible way from the moment I started. But, I know, deep in the center of the wood, and in the middle of the payne of glass, the window is changed from the experience it has had with me. And, to finish of this essay, I will quote the great Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski: "At this moment, in this café, we are sitting next to strangers. Everyone will get up, leave, anf go their own way. And then, they'll never meet again. And if they do, they will not realize it is not for the first time."

JUSTIN

Soul's plagues

ALEXA