The end of a life of creativity and passion is always sad. This man mesmerised me on so many occasions and for so many years that his passing is sun setting on a genius. there were times when his music transported me to other states of consciousness. It was a transfiguration listening to him :watching him move across light and colour: until all elements fused as into a seamless whole.When we got to that place beyond ourselves beyond the here and now and into a dimension of light flashing and floating across dreams. He was the only human that could create rainbows, they illuminated every stage and every living performance with laser lights that danced and wove their tentacles across time and touched that which we call eternity. It is this that I thank him for and that is what i shall dearly miss. My rainbow man.
Albert Einstein felt nature would not permit such things to exist, despite his theory of general relativity allowed such a possibility. It was unthinkable for him to have an enormous star; hundred…
Source: Black Holes AND Ancient Indians
She thought about it, and as she did so memories of the holidays she had had with her mother flooded her mind.The walks they’d taken along the coastline when she was seven years old. Her mother was obsessed with achieving goals. She remembered well seeing other children playing in the sand, making castles- but not her. She had to climb rocks searching for crustaceans, Judith would sing about them : she would give them little funerals. These funerals took on an importance for her mother that Judith never understood..It had all seemed mysterious, mystical even. it was something to do with the mouth. As she looked at the painting in front of her , her lips began to ache, her back to arch.
‘ You are mine, more than ever now.’ She heard her mother’s voice inside her head. Nausea, waves of fear and anxiety threatened to overwhelm her, yet she sat as close to her painting as she could.
The centre of every novel is that aspect of the novel that throws a profound insight about life. It is that of the novel which is universal. When we write we move instinctively from one perspective to another from one insight to another, but we hold the centre. What ever the centre maybe we hold to it and return to it every time we write.This we attempt to convey to the reader.In my novel ‘Paradise Lost’ the centre is a murder and the consequences ie. guilt and once again we ask to whom does this guilt rightfully belong, the father or the daughter.Where is this guilt and who should hold it.Every character in the novel has been placed there as signpost to the centre and some indeed may hold the secret to this centre.The core of the story is that which lends insight and breadth to the central theme. We are examining an insight as surely as botanist examines a plant under the strongest microscope available until he finds some knowledge of the plant or the species that he has not known before.
A novel can also be seen as a microscope.
I am going to this wonderful festival and it will all be in one of the most beautiful sites in the UK. I’m so looking forward to it.I looking at the sunshine out of the window and the rising of the sun and the setting moon are central themes in all of our lives we can measure out the moments and the days of our lives.
I will meet huge number of fascinating people, as one always does at this place.These gatherings fire imagination and creativity. I always attend them if possible.