A Revolutionary Act

This island I live on is long overdue a movement and I don’t mean Brexit, I mean the antithesis of Brexit!

With the potential to upset young people, neighbouring nations (and I include Ireland and Scotland in that), Brexit is already making everything feel like a grubby anorak.

Today a group of young people have instigated a march in London. 100,000 are expected to take part, asking for a vote on Brexit with the facts in place, with the solutions laid down from and by the government we have. I’d like to remind everyone that our current government is run by a minority tory party in cahoots with the dup.

Judging by the last large march on Iraq and war, it’s highly unlikely Westminster will take much notice. There’s only one way to beat ye olde colonialist laissez faire beast and that’s to lob a molotov at it!

But I’m not advocating violence, not really. Perhaps some bloody-mindedness instead. I am opposed to all that Farage, Johnson, Gove et all stand for. I am appalled that we have allowed politicians we pay for, like Cameron, to just waltz off and go on their jollies.

Farage & Co belong in the past. Do young people have to wait until they have passed away before justice is served and they enjoy the freedom and rights others before them have had.

I’m not much impressed with this island’s lowly sucking up to the likes of Farage, who is nothing but a self-serving tory wannabe toff.

I call upon a revolt by matriarchs. Every little thing you do to instigate change counts. Every thought, every thing you make, bake, talk and take.

Spread the word. The 21st century is for our young and for those who support young people.

Mother Earth and all her little babies. Children first, always.

K1 P1 K1 P1    This cute mouse can be found on Pinterest. No label though.

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Blow Me Away!

Art reflects life they say. Only today I realised that the poster I have of Egon Schiele’s Four Trees (1917) is very much like the trees outside my front window. All in a different state of losing their foliage. Three are sycamore and I call these the sisters, one is a beech (their cousin).

The dominant sycamore is still green, she refuses to turn. She may be younger, I’m not sure. I also noticed for the first time that Mother is commanding the horizon, looking on at her children.

I used to play under these trees, planted on a patch of green which once belonged to a wealthy person. The large house is now under the NHS as a mental health care unit for day visitors. I can’t remember what size the trees were over forty years ago! I do notice though that children still play there, foxes meet and mate, crows and owls communicate.

But no one from the building sits outside, ever.

Beneath the trees is the Tiger’s Tomb. Maybe the grown ups are feart!

egon schiele four trees 1917

Literary Landscapes

I made a visit to the graveyard courtesy of an old friend. It’s a multicultural place just like Wool City of course. I tidied up, put in flowers – real ones, perused over graves of the golden oldies and tidied a few of them too.

It’s a pleasant day, cooler than the last few weeks. We took a walk amongst the stones. So many were of mighty people, with enough money to pay out for obelisks, huge Celtic crosses as befits  the once wealthiest town in the world. A section for Muslims and a small one for Jews, where there was a little synagogue. All ours are clustered together in one section too. Communities stay together through everything.

I don’t think there’s anything morose about death or discussing it – what you would like to happen, but then I was once a young Goth in the 80’s who thought it romantic to hang out by the Parsonage in Haworth, taking photos and doing rubbings of stones.

The last few days I have watched BFI films of the town I grew up in. It was once quite a slum in the centre. The number of mills present was astounding. How filthy it must have been. Now it is pleasantly green, and although it’s a busy, busy place and road pollution is high, the trees soak it all up and nature has found a way to come back.

What of the future of the old mill towns. Becoming green can only be the way, but til then, roads will be widened, houses built. Another mill burnt down in the early hours of this morning, fourteen fire engines were present. Grey smoke wafts in this direction, the main artery closed, causing chaos west of the city.

We must remember to keep writing, creating the stories, note happenings. Imagination and magic is all that is needed to breathe new life in to this old hell.

A trip to Whitby is on the cards – long time no see. That will appease more of my inner dark romantic! I wonder what it’s like to be a vampire and if there are any around here. So lucky to live in a rich literary landscape. And somewhere forever foreboding…

Whitby

From picturesofengland.com