Everything is going to be OK

Or is it? Walter is a hopelessly depressed man.

It might not have hit the cinema like other big films but it makes you think and feel, and you will empathise with one of the topics, characters or all of them. As is the case for me.

"This is a picture of Walter Black, who had to become a beaver, who had to become a father, so that one day this might just be a picture of Walter Black." (The Beaver, 2011)

Smile for me, you are not in the picture.

"NO PHOTOGRAPHY HERE, THANK YOU"

The General Public, Happy, sad, mad, right wing, left wing, extremist. Untidy, OCD, in a mess, depressed and much much more.

Tell me what is it that makes us keep going, once we've seen it, why do we want to go back. We talk of enjoyment, yet no one is happy enough. To be happy you must after all be sad.

I've spent a month door knocking, my job is 'a public nuisance' I get to invade you privacy for what is a fraction of your life for some details to help your future. Yet you shut the door in my face. Where some blunty refuse to acknowledge I'm helping, narrow minded or jarred by the politics of data loss and security.

Whatever happened to helping people, why do some people not care about helping others, whilst some find me, "an inquisitor" the most bogus and horrible person around. I am not a salesman trying to find sell you you lecky, or a Jehovah withness, nor do I attempt to make you hand over money for a charitable fund. All I want is five minutes to ask "how do you live your life?" Is it so hard a question you won't give a stranger a chance.

Tell me how do you make new friends when you don't let strangers into your life, is your security so justifiable that I cannot impregnate the fortress you daren't yeald. Could I offer you a cup of coffee or do you think I've poisoned that and your garden plant a looked at on the way up too?

As for the rest of you, why do you not care at all and casually assume that I am who I say I am. Be thankful I've got clearance and I am who I say I am. I'm not here as my alter ego or my pseudonym. Never the twine meet, be lucky you haven't met any of them, I come as your friend and you turn me away, I am not god, but I expect you to respect me not hurt me.

If you had met anyone else, they might have been less kind, and I don't talk of any alter ego's. I am me all the time, but upset me and you will receive my wrath. Who I am in one place is not the same person in another. Oh, where are we going, have you left me to rot, why have you decided I should be here at all? Quite, when did I sign up to this life, this miserable little place. Everyday I wonder, is the last? Have I finally taken my last step?

Yet whose to thank, thankless parents, friends, unconducive, uncohesive communities, why don't you just shut the door in my face and I'll rot on your doorstep from the inside out. Get through my armour and I'm all yours like cats go for treats. But where were you, and why can't I find my companion, has she gone, is she here, was it you who shut the door in my face?

In one column, people are good, maybe a little OTT, but generally nice to chat too whoever they are and you can get along.
Yet so many people let the side down. You are the thick ones who just won't let me help, you are so closed to the world, that your personal, arrogant thoughts are egotistical and outrageous to the rest of us. Yet you claim to be intelligent, I wonder, what does it mean- intelligent - you and I are from the same stock, so how comes you find my skills distasteful. Why do you walk around prancing a line that is untrue, bending the information to suit your needs, you distrust me and won't help me. Yet you'll happily argue with me. If your so positive in your views, why don't you just get rid of me.

You see it's not me whose weak, it's you, you're the one questioning my job status, I am after all entering your life for just five minutes, taking all the essential details to how you live. You are scared, running, in fear of what I might see or remember. I don't make judgements on anything, I accept you for you...and you...you write me off with just a glance, you don't care to help me help you.

And then you complain that the world is unjust and doesn't help you or your community. Yet the help is staring you right in your face. I enable the details to make it better, all you have to do is give them to me. Are you so bigoted, you want things fixed by me but you won't give me the information I require to do the job?

I should just lie down in the dark and shoot myself because I'm never going to win. Just get off your high horse and get involved, instead of yelling at your TV about all the problems, come fix them, don't be a social nitwit. Get in with it.

Smile for me, you are not in the picture. You are just one of many people, a snap shot of life, helping the future, past is past its unreliable and the future is too without your help, let me in, for you may never get the chance again. Life's too short, is five minutes so hard.

Are we all just the same?

Where's Wally The Guardian Newspaper 1/06/2010

Hiding in Plain Sight

This is not just a story, it's interactive.

Saint-Sean Danse Macabre, used in the timeless soft mystery drama, or that's what he saw. Reflections from an inner world, an illusion of what could be possible but not at all unless some form of magic was truly ongoing. As when found by Jonathon Creek the magical trick unveils the truth, or that's what Angelo thought anyway. Using the knowledge of the Magicians Circus to inform and re-enact what had happened in real life. For, what was being unveiled in reality was a crime, an unsolvable mystery, that the crime had to have been an accident in the first place or better still covered up without anyone else knowing. The key to the 'crime' per se was the location, space and time of an accomplished illusion.

Angelo, looked on in amazement, contented that Mr Creek would solve the riddle, what Angelo didn't know at the time was that he had begun a long path. A path to where he was now, sat in a room with his few personal belongings wrapped up in boxes. He was stone cold, ten years earlier he'd been happy at home, now he thought he was home. Instead he was allocated a room in a large castle styled building, set in the depths of the north European Countries, bordering the Belgium-Netherlands landscape. Alone in his room, a window in the door showed frequent other residents walking past. After all it was a professionally designed place to look after the residents. Residents who had long since lost their faculties, or so that's what the staff said.

"Time stood still with his fingers in his ears, didn't want to hear it from another bunch of hollow men."
...excommunicated, excommunicated.
(Tears for Fears, Cold)

"We think he needs a little push...don't you? After all, if he doesn't recognise his problems he'll never be able to leave, and for such a young person that would be a shame. He's developed a nostalgia of sorts, seems to think he's living in about 1960 or something, to him the Cold War's still going on."

"Yes I noticed that, I believe we may have found the reason to that, many of his attributes are copies from his surroundings, he's lost his self. His self is an amalgamation of fictional characters, induced to be more realistic by real life events. He's been corrupted and overwhelmed by it all."

"Hmm, well I wouldn't normally recommend this, but pour a cup of coffee for him, make sure it's hot, I want to see how he reacts, he's always talking coffee I want to know why. He's so entangled in the cob web he's made for himself, he's either ended up lost in his own imagination far from where we can reach him or he's cut off and dumbed down. I wouldn't be surprised after all the things he's seen if his minds turned to mush, he will recover I'm sure, a few years perhaps.
He was doing so well CV's glowing, work, home, lifestyle perfect, yet somewhere something appears to have caught up with him, like his past has decided to come back to life, everybody he's ever known he's written off and left no evidence of them, he thinks they're out to get him."

"Do you think he trust's any one, we can't let him go he could do all kinds of damage to the public, this softly softly person seems to hold terrors in his mind, he could snap. Whatever his conspiracy it's finally caught up with him, he has produced his own prophecy" Scala and Kolacny Brothers, Self Full filling Prophecy, 2008.

"Yes, speaking of which I'm off to see that choral choir tonight he mentioned they actually sound pretty good."

*

Angelo sat in his empty desk, well to him it was cluttered full of his life's work, folders stacked high on racks, certainly not in there boxes in the other corner. Still unprepared to unpack, believing this new home would want to get rid of him fairly soon. He stared out the window, high above the small town, "the house on the hillside" where only the foolish broke in and those who went out were Over The Top - OTT literally for climbing the walls inside the house where no medication or therapy could help and for those out over the brick wall surrounding the grounds.

Two pigeons sat facing the window on the electric wire watching him. Merrily cleaning themselves on the wet, grey day. The fine drizzle, yet another function of what was held within the folders, he picked one off his table top and started reading. Yet he knew it was invisible, what he was reading was what he could remember in his head, his old room re-invisaged as if he'd gone back. The pigeons stared on, plucking and cleaning themselves. Angelo excepted they knew what he knew. His calculations were a new advancement in cloud seeding. Weather modification was never particularly proven to work, but under this, his numbers had suddenly become a necessary fact, it worked and he could modify every cloud from a fluffy white to a force ten gale.

Instead of handing over the information to the Met Office, he'd hidden it and tested it himself. with a bunch of local enthusiasts. "The pigeons know it worked", he said to a local offical collecting field data. But no one wanted to listen, after all the side effects were disastrous. It wasn't just modifying the weather, it was modifying the birds, they were now "living Angels". All birds have wings, but these had extra wings...nobody in his project would believe him, everytime he'd run a test he'd seen a readjustment in bird behaviour, predator to prey level, pigeons acting on mass, Red Kite's and Sparrow Hawks with regional power across the country, Golden Eagles standing tall over all. Angelo had reinvented animal communication and authority. Angel's by name and by flare.

*

All that was wanted was a way to run away. But working on our inhibitions their was no way out. What ever it was, the escape route from this nightmare was blocked, one car chase after another had to follow, running and running in an attempt to escape against the hunters driving, he could remember all the stories his friends told him, everything and nothing was real, the laws of physics, the positions of the stars and yet he didn't want to believe it. What he had was his own self belief and that wasn't enough, his friends yeah his friends ousted him, made to feel unwanted and now in downfall, most certainly cut off, they called it excommunication, as if the church would never let him in.

Reality had been separated, he no longer knew what was real or fake and the crossing of the line had formed, where once he spoke of truth and knowledge, he now crossed into a deep digression, not knowing how to escape, with no feedback from his surroundings to work on, with an even greater level of mistrust, he went on to describe works of fiction as fact and robbed his world of a reality check. Angelo had become too self contained, without an escape plan and without cause. His downfall from a proficient work force, with German Efficiency, Scottish hardiness and the mind like one of the greats of history, but for all that, dashed, something like Inception had beaten him to it or was that just a paradox or just a conspiracy of his fictional reality he believed (Inception, 2010)? His own core beliefs destroyed by his surroundings, that were themselves untrue and implanted by his own mind, yet to him somebody else was pulling the strings, a form of mis-information. "Find the common enemy to stop the rise of the animals", he remembered saying it so many times, public and private, the animals were coming to take control, alas the information brushed aside as mad. Yet he could see it happening everywhere.

*

"This is not a game to be playing with, I might be chewing on the best strawberries and raspberries in the area, but the juices flow from them, bright red like chopped tomatoes. It's not something I wish to understand, but I know now that my perception on reality is much different to everybody elses", Angelo said.

"Yes, you could say that. We think you've had a bit of a traumatic experience, something to push your mind over the threshold, everyone has a limit, I suggest some rest bite, try and reduce the panic attacks and take some of these pills, they will stabalise the imagination from running extra wild. I'd be careful what you do, but self discipline to control the mind is important, what do you think?"
"You think I'm delusional?"
"No not at all, but if you let your imagination run too wild, who's to say where you might end up. We wouldn't want any more damage to come to you."
"Really?"
"You don't believe us."
"No, you tell me I'm mad and I tell you that I've found a good answer, your're just trying to hold me at my will!"
"Ah, Angelo, there is no one holding you back. There is no conspiracy, we've been watching, you talk to the animals like they are humans, as if they are giving you a full conversation. You know that's not possible."
"You know that's not possible, have you heard yourself, I've found a way."
"Someone's, oh, someone's been trying to make you believe you can, and now you think you can, you've been programmed, were here to help. Also, I'd recommend you didn't carry on eating those Strawberries, god knows why they're extra red this year...can't be good for you."

*

(Muse, Uprising) Paperless walls covered in newspaper articles, photographs of people and messages, notes from old folders strewn across the floor. Back in the old house, the pigeons sat chattering away. Where once an impossible fact lay, now the animals began to sense order. Plotting their paths, Angelo could see no way out, they had started reading his notes, weather modification had made a gentetic change, a new beginning, the pigeons looked on at Angelo, lauging beguilly at him, altering the common rule, the human race would soon peril to the Eagle's command, the Hawks would quite literally rule the roost. Angelo sat in dismay as day by day his reality became more and more real until finally the resident staff could no longer help. Angelo sided with the Eagle's command structure, from the inside they grew up to be bigger and bolder until nothing was left but to reconcile with his destruction of the human species, sucked in to his own parallel universe he lost all that could have been. Eventually he would find his way out, or so everyone hoped (Take That, Reach Out- Stranger than Fiction version).

(Adele, Rolling in the Deep)

We should always look after each other, it's a form of politeness.

Ah! ... Los!

... What are we doing? Abandonment


Into my eyes I see not, will not.
Tell me if you are out there.
Running in the fields, up the paths...across the lines?
Fallen back through time to when sand was red and rotten,
playing in the park and running over puddles of water...and into streams.

Down the tracks and into the misty past,
goalless, sourceless, timeless.

Homing Beacon / Ancestrial Journeys

If I could find the full clip on YouTube I would show it to you because it means so much more with the pictures and gaelic music, but the words say enough in their own right. With the continuing theme I have shown in pictures and writing from October onwards, Sting has summed up a glowing of many attributes in his recent DVD: Sting A Winters Night, Live at Durham Cathedral (2009).

Talking on long winters, fire places and stories, of belief and taking us back to our origins in living in older times, centuries gone. Sting has provided a good conclusion as we angle closer to the longest night and the beginning of Winter. So, transcribing, quoting directly from his DVD (I wish the clip was out their) see what you can make of this:

I'm delighted to be here in Durham Cathedral...and I'm equally delighted to be back here in my home land, back to the north, I come here far too seldom, this is very much a home coming for me. And it's fitting that I would come home in the season of the winter, because winter seems to have this almost gravitational pull back towards one's roots, like a homing instinct where if we can, we tend to gravitate towards somewhere warm, cosy, somewhere safe: the fire side, the hearth, a candle, a family home and a church.
And were here in this most beautiful of English Cathedrals to Celebrate the Season of Winter, the season of cold frosts, long dark nights, but also of stories and spirits and ghosts in the chimney.
All the songs you'll here tonight are concerned with the theme of winter. Their from a variety of sources and historical periods, some as old as the Cathedral itself. Their are folk songs, sacred songs, secular songs, classical songs and a few of my own.
Winter for me, is the season of imagination, is the season of reflection where you're asked to face the ghosts of the past, and in facing them, you must treat them calmly and civilly...before the snows melt...and the cycles of the seasons...can begin once more.

Harvest Moon

BBC Pictures 2010

Harvest Moon's are always spectacularly beautiful. Larger than life due to the optical illusion between the height of the moon in the sky and its actual size. So bright in the sky, the Harvest Moon's are named as farmers use the extra 'day light' to get on there land. Only in occurrence on the equinox, the moon rises only far enough to shine so brightly upon its subject.

Back in time under pagan ritual, where people worshipped the sunrise and set at henge's, did such factors of universe seem so powerful. But even today, the powers which stand in the sky can still control our thoughts and destines. So we may know the Earth travels round the sun and not the other way, and that it is not flat. But even through the Dark Ages and Medieval times, some of the the greatest magical powers have survived, reincarnating themselves and preparing to unleash the power of their imagination. The sure signs of folklore that you and I may always say never existed in reality, the fairy tales that are just stories all come to life.

In time you and I may wonder, what happened to all those people who said they could use powerful spells? But the myths still go on. Take Macbeth for instance, even today the play is said to be cursed, the spells stolen from the witches, cursed the play. Anyone who mentions the name has to perform one of a numerous set of antidotes for disaster has struck many of the cast and theater houses to perform Macbeth or to those who say his name under the roof.

But enough of all those, what have the creatures which now live among us, tantalising and hiding from us. No Halloween goes without a joke about Vampires these days, but then whose to say they don't exist. In our times of such logic and scientific knowledge why do we still have the chills about black magic and white magic, Ghosts, Goblins and Elves, creatures of the night. Science has eaten vast chunks away at the powers god performs, and yet science has not stopped people from believing in the magical. Is it something to do with our pasts, is it because it's only recent history we still relate to the punishment, "if you were a witch or warlock no mercy was given?" The way it's become part of reading culture it feels much more real and believable...?

Whilst never knowingly had such issues, one personal touch I should really remember is that of my ginger hair. In Lancashire, on New Years Day if a person with red hair enters a house first, they bring ill luck.

I say I'm not superstitious but it only takes a little unnerving and I start questioning my own thoughts, are we really here alone or is there something more powerful at work, pulling the strings from behind the scenes. I have known many a place where ghosts have said to be, and known people who have said they've seen them. Dear Lady Castlemaine, my school house was named after the lady who was said to have died in The Castle after her father did not agree to her marriage, she roams the halls on Christmas Eve. Her supposed escape to dash through a tunnel with the aid of her mother through the Guards Quarters out to the safety of Bourne Hall where her beloved waited in vain. She had lived just up the road in the grounds of Nonsuch Palace as it was back then, being horse drawn through what are now the school grounds.

In history we imagine a time which appears only to have existed only for a few years. Ladies living in mansions and palaces, huge gardens and green space within the grounds. Meanwhile, out on the edges, the plebeians of society remain at large, undiscovered. The men in control of large carriages, horse grounds and farmed land. Draw bridges allowing passage across small streams, where the Monarch's Swan's live. Visions of the country portrayed by the likes of John Constable highlight the glory and best of the rural idyll and norm, the Forests setup by King Henry VIII for shooting, and Woodlands diminishing gradually as has been the case since the Domesday Book (1086).

Maybe next time I see a Harvest Moon I will see not only an old way of life but one that remains dormant in the back of our minds. The vast expanses of land and courage, waiting for us to explore. Who knows what is out there for us to discover, who knows maybe there are creatures in the night adjusting all our doings in the day. Guiding us in certain directions and sometimes guiding us to our doom. The Black Dog of Devon is said to be the Devil, larger than a normal Dog. Each county has its own. By no means as spooky as 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' by Conon Doyle. Still, the Lancashire Black Hound (Gytrash/Padfoot) sometimes helps people rejoin the correct path, although sometimes he more than helps them go astray and disappear forever.

After all there are so many stories in folklore and forbidden magical acts that it becomes hard to see what's really going on. Maybe it's all just a big conspiracy, maybe none of it really exists and they are all just myths passed on generation after generation. But remember, next time your standing outside on a moor looking up at the stars, or wandering down the village high street late at night, you may not be the only creature in the area, for the ghosts have to come out and play, the fairies have to reset the flowers, and the Black Dog may well be right next to you.

Northern Englands Inspiration: Manchunian's

Be aware this does contain graphic innuendo

Yesterday I left Manchester Piccadilly train station for London. It's the bank holiday weekend, Sunday 29th August 2010 every engineering feature was being worked on. When I left London Euston in the evening and had to take the slow train back I was tired, but my journey which began as the Virgin Trains London Euston to Crewe at 1843 with my change over in Stoke for Manchester Piccadilly's arrival at 2331 left me in no doubt, a story had to be created...

The journey that left Euston at 1843 was quiet. Little really was happening all the way up as we passed through the Chilterns to Oxford and crossed back again for Coventry, slow chugging our way through the countryside. The sun setting gradually as we slowly meandered north. At Coventry all was fine, arriving at 2130 some people got off: teenagers playing music on their iphone or ipod. The child with his mother carried on running up and down the carriage whilst I read my book attempting to ignore this energised human. He was only six, I just hoped he ran out of energy sooner rather than later.

We carried on north up through Tamworth and on to Stoke, the child had gradually quieten-d down, but I got off at 2230 hours and waited the nine minutes for the 2239 local train to Manchester Piccadilly. The train hadn't yet arrived and was to pull into platform three. For all I knew the way the place looked it could have been a scene out of Harry Potter. Something smelled wrong, something looked wrong. I had stopped at Stoke to change on my way down, but the darkness of night was playing tricks on my mind. Was I sure I was seeing and hearing what my brain was telling me? I was not anaesthetised by any substances, but I clearly could feel something different. I wandered between platform 2 and 3, a cyclist came up and waited, I tried to stand still and watch the world go by, but the cold chill in the air was starting to bite, I wrapped my self up completely. "Dam no gloves", put your hands in your pockets.

At Stoke-On-Trent there was no more than a half dozen people waiting for a train. Two young girls waited around on the platform opposite, the station manager looked bleakly across the tracks at them trying to huddle up and keep warm. The cyclist stood macho with his bike propped against him studying the non existent car park that existed through the blackened night across platform 3. The air was getting heavy, the few lights leaving shadows across the platforms and rails. The Pendalino hook up showed evaporation rising gradually from the lamp heat. It must have rained, but didn't smell of rain just bad hot chocolate.

That's because I could still taste the hot chocolate I had bought from my previous train. On boarding the 2239 to Manchester Piccadilly the whole train smelt bad, it also looked bad, no where to sit the party's had left enough rubbish, the stale coffee's and teas and the opened window attempting to vent the stench of an unclean train loo turned the air against my lungs. I sat and began to read and hope no one else would get on board.

I was wrong, we didn't have three stops, the usual, Macclesfield, Stockport and Manchester Piccadilly. We had seven or eight. All was fine, the cyclist leisurely bored and asleep, me reading in the same carriage. And then at Macclesfield a party got on board. For half an hour, the teenagers sang chants on 'Manchester is the best' in football rhythms, 'Manchester has got it all'. The boys and girls drunk and attempting to get up to the night clubs in the city centre. Suddenly the atmosphere changed, they wanted more than just singing, through the length of the cabin they started chanting/poorly singing sexual connotations for all to bare all. Everyone joined in as the ring leader dared himself:

'Show us your n**' came the chant in football hoots from the group.

Unaware of whether this went through or not, a soon response was replied by the boys 'show us your g***'. The alcohol had certainly taken its toll on them and thank god I couldn't see any of it.

At Poynton Rail, three boys got on board, a separate state of affairs. Except they had even ruder 'jokes' of a sexual nature including: "Weekend Defender". With the dress sense of a ant for a night out and the not so obvious joke said, I burned my memory attempting to work out what it was all about. Suddenly I remembered the advertised material across the city

"The Gay Pride March: August Bank Holiday Weekend". Every creep was out tonight and I had to go via it to get home.

The train journey continued north to Stockport as the three boys opened yet another can of beer and left the empty on the floor to spill over. The group of boys and girls chanting more and more. Was the cyclist and I the only two sober and non confrontational on board? I knew I was being watched, heads turned. How many people travelled that late reading a book, how many travelled looking like death could strike at any moment?

Stoke had been fine, just eerily dark the train journey though showed nothing more than excessive drinkers on the bend (excuse the pun). Getting off the train was no joyous attempt, like fresh meat of cattle to a slaughter house the drunken boys laid themselves up, all three of them attempting to believe they were straight, but all three knew where they were going. The group of boys and girls carried on out chanting 'Manchester, Manchester, Manchester, it has only got one end', 'Manchester is the best', 'Manchester has got it all'. Whilst the boys summed up posh Manchester as a place for 'her and her all nighters'. A comment on one of the girls previous nights out.

Grateful to get off the train and go back to a normal part of town, many people watched as I frog marched my cold body down to Fallowfield. Every queer in sight eyeing up their potential, with passing comments of:

'Would you like to come round the corner mate'
'Like a bit of wiped cream'
'Give's a bit mate'

Stone sharpened I stared them out as I caught them looking on in earnest for "fresh meat"

'you try me I'll make sure your screwed for life, screwed six foot under more like'

they all walked drunkenly to their party, dragging there sorry asses up the hill. I've met the bully's, weirdo's, freak's and many other people, but why is it I always get the dodgy comments. What so wrong with leaving a member of the public alone who isn't even thinking of going out anywhere.

I knew something was up when I got to Stoke, a different way of life. The liberal north, too liberal? Or just binge drinkers looking to get whatever they can. They say its only prisoners who get whatever they can how ever they can, "don't drop the soap", but up north, no rules barred it happens in public too. It happens in tasteless fashion.

"Welcome to Manchester, you have now entered a liberal free market of perverts."

Picture 1 by Woodrew
Picture 2 Picture 3

Photographs: Inspiring concepts and ideals.

Lambourn Stables, Berkshire

The photo above was taken in February 2009. At the time I was unsure of where I would be next I was hoping to come to Manchester for my Masters course. Today, I handed in my 7500 word dissertation on water quality. This means I am now free from university again, I am unfortunately back on the road of job hunting, I have been looking but to no avail.

The reason for this picture was because this was the first large snow fall, the second being last winter in December 2009. In my state of mood swings and job hunting I go out and attempt to formulate plans and get inspiration from the environment. However, I have packed most of my belongings off to family, which means whilst I still have ten days in Manchester and I want to wander around with the camera, I cannot. Maybe I shall buy a disposable one and attempt to see what I can do with it. Photograph some urban areas in Manchester...see what comes out, visit the art gallery on Walls are Talking: Wallpaper, Art and Culture before it closes. It intrigues me because it's a play on words from "Walls Have Ears", the old WW2 spy idiom.

I have a 35mm, Kodak 200 to develop yet, hope it hasn't degraded in the years I've owned the role and now the length of time its sat waiting to be developed. I used to know someone who developed his own film, I wonder how hard it really is, is it worth the while. Meanwhile I guess I'll have to rely on a shop for it. Most of my photos are digital these days, but sometimes, I like to escape fully and handle a manual once in a while, apply some pressure to the moment.

P.s.There's been some excellent photos of the Perseid Meteor shower this year.

Of Inspiration and men plus one bear.

Seeing as you have mentioned the word earlier in the week.
Given, that I have found so many bleeding hearts recently.
I intend to write on inspiration.
There is nothing in the air.
There is a lack of inspiration around here.
I declare the word of the week to be inspiration.

Fools gold is found too rare.
Mild stares in fine lines through knotted crystal and shapeless pears.
No gift too short, a horses foot too long.
There is no inspiration to be found here.
Just another day in the wild filed* brown bear day.

*filled

Picture From Native Americans, First People - a focus on Bears