For £5 You Can Watch Me Dream (The Public Therapy Sessions) ©

Everyday at 6 in the evening they begin to stir. At a time when most others leave their desks to go home and rest, they prepare to entertain. They may have already put in a full day of work. Don’t mind that. They were in deep slumber the whole way through.

Earn by day and dream by night.

You will find them in clubs playing music, doing stand up, performing plays, reading poetry, exhibiting photographs or screening short films.They gather their creativity and display it to any audience who will pay for the right to be silent or applaud. All the privileges a five-pound entry fee affords.

Later, on the way home, if all goes well the artist will post a status update on Facebook to describe the moment she shared with the audience. What she’s expressing is an instant of connection. A moment in which others recognise that which she values in herself.

A fragment of time through which she escaped from her daytime persona and saw people finally acknowledge who she is or at least who she thinks she is. I say think because I’m not sure if we can ever really know the extent of our full potential. Maybe some of us can see it clearly but most of us are probably walking through time selling ourselves short.

Why is she doing it? What does she want? 

She wishes the moment will expand and take up her whole life. She’s hoping that one day the recognition will carry through into the morning and that her life will no longer be divided into that which she can tolerate and that which she loves.

She tells me all this of an evening and I hug her and say:
"At least you know what you love, keep dreaming.
And if you really want it to work, add structure.”

Born Perfect Vs the Great Hall of “THEY” (The Public Therapy Sessions)©

We sat in a café in Oxford reminiscing whilst baby Emma, my friend’s daughter, rolled serenely around the floor. Emma didn’t seem the least bit interested in what anyone thought of her behaviour; she didn’t cast her eye around the café even once to check for people’s reactions. Contentment and calmness seemed to be the only two things on the menu for her.

I remember being like that. I used to know what all the objects in our house looked like from the floor’s point of view. I’d stare at the imperfect patches under the dining room table and the little bits of dust that grab hold of the legs of chairs.The world underneath the furniture was my domain. There was tranquillity to be found in those little places.

“She’s Perfect”, I said to my friend about her daughter.
“I know”, replied the two year old’s proud mother.
“Please keep telling her that, will you?”, I said trying to imagine the possibilities.

What if we could safely deliver one human that is totally accepting of herself, realises her innate perfection and is able to remind others of theirs. It’s the state we all come from. Why do we forget?

Over the course of a lifetime most of us accumulate a multitude of whispers and looks that have scrutinised our actions and recorded our “imperfections” (As society perceives them. It’s an illusion there is no such thing) only to play them back to us.

We store them in the Great Hall of “They”. A place we start decorating from a very early age with portraits of the disapproving moments we meet on our journey.

Who are “They” and  why do we care so much about “Them”?

According to the film Black Swan, “They” are in our head. We put them there because we think “They” are pushing us to achieve our goals but in reality “They” are just driving us crazy…sometimes literally!

So who would we be if we completely accepted and. …Mmmm…sorry to bring it up but I feel I must…. LOVED ourselves?

There you go, I said it and now it’s out there. Deal with it!

Are any of you still there?

I know that most of us, just like baby Emma, used to roll around the floor, content in our own perfection. I think it’s time we reminded ourselves that we were BORN PERFECT and still are.

Right, that’s it; I’m going into the Hall to smash some portraits. You can come but you need to bring your own bat. I will be smashing things and it will get loud!!!

No, there is no way of doing this quietly.

I don’t want to go to “work” if the Universe is expanding!!!! ©

The New Year is a symbol of rebirth and new beginnings.

People the world over make lists to catalogue what can realistically be achieved until the clock strikes twelve again in 12 months time.

So why are Facebook and Twitter saturated with Back to Work Blues-status updates? Is the pursuit of Achievement at odds with the pursuit of Happiness?

What is Happiness? Most of us look forward to accumulating enough wealth to buy it.Hopefully it will be in a box we open or behind the lock that corresponds to a key we’ll come to hold in our hands.

According to Matthieu Ricard (ex molecular biologist with the Pasteur Institute,** turned Buddhist Monk) French Intellectual circles (and most of us in the Western World) are not concerned with Happiness.

Their reaction to a paper he published on the subject of Happiness was that they don’t need it. Apparently they need to live with passion, they like the ups and downs of life, they like the suffering because it’s so good when it ceases for a while.

Last night I went searching for encouraging stories told by people who don’t dread their first day back to work. I listened to talks by Elizabeth Gilbert, Stephen Hawking, Amy Tan, Matthieu Ricard and Woody Allen.

As Stephen Hawking lectured on the hypothesis that the Universe can spontaneously create itself out of nothing and then slowly expand into infinity again, I wondered if maybe…………….just maybe …………this miracle of creation we call home is here to facilitate something other than the accumulation of Wealth, Power and the general hoarding of “Stuff” we don’t need.

Maybe its time to consider that this cycle we’re on has been tested many times and quite frankly it’s just boosting the sales of alcohol, antidepressants and self help books.

So, what if this year we follow our hearts a bit more? Pursue goals we truly yearn for a bit more? Fill our lives with little particles of happiness a bit more frequently?

I don’t want to do something called “work” every day if the Universe is expanding.*


*http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Pa34orcwwA

** http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pasteur_Institute

Where is George Bailey ? ©

Last night I observed one of my personal Christmas rituals and watched Jimmy Stewart save Bedford Falls from becoming Portersville in the character of angelic George Bailey for the hundredth time.
For those of you who haven’t seen the film “It’s a Wonderful Life” here is a short synopsis:

Every Christmas, George Bailey gives up on life, under the strain of financial pressure. He gets drunk, rowdy, crashes his car and tries to commit suicide thinking that his life in the little town of Bedford Falls has made no difference to anyone.
He is saved by Clarence Odbody (Angel 2nd Class – assigned to the issue in order to get his wings) who shows him how life would have been in Bedford Falls if he (George Bailey) hadn’t existed.

George Bailey runs an affordable housing project for the working poor of Bedford Falls. As it turns out, he has saved the town several times from the clutches of Henry F. Potter, a heartless capitalist slumlord whose intent is to stop providing home loans for the working poor thus creating a two-tier society and amassing the wealth of the town.

This year I felt uneasy whilst watching the film. As if somehow it echoed reality a little too much.
When it was over I fell asleep on the couch and dreamt in old Hollywood studio black and white.
Suddenly I was in London; in the House of Commons watching the vote to remove the cap from tuition fees (allowing them to reach heights of £6 to £9k per year) take place.

I ran on to the street alarmed. It was snowing heavily and I had to walk for miles before I found a cab. I asked the driver to take me to Number 10.
A newspaper on the seat next to me confirmed the vote had been passed. When I tried to talk about it to the driver he cut me short and told me:
“Life is not fair. There have always been rich and poor. People should stop looking for charity and work for the things they have.”

I told him that I wasn’t talking about charity but affordability. A society where no matter what your earning power is you can achieve the basics (Housing – Education – Employment) with relative ease. These are not privileges, they are rights.
A society where those of modest means can still make plans for a better life.
I asked the cab driver if he had children and if he, being a working class man, could afford £27k per child to go to University? He didn’t answer. We had arrived at our destination.

The door of Number 10 was ajar. I slipped in and walked towards a room where loud voices where coming from.
I opened the door to see Henry F. Potter, Nick Clegg and David Cameron sitting on enormous leather armchairs. A large crow walked up and down the table between them and tea had just been served. They didn’t seem surprised to see me.

Where is George Bailey? I asked

They laughed at me, which in my dream infuriated me and made me start shouting and asking them over and over: "Where is George Bailey?"
Henry F. Potter looked at me with that awful familiar smirk on his face and said:
“In a reality without angels no one is there to help the George Baileys of this world. Things can get done”.

Just at that moment a rock broke through the window and hit the crow that was walking up and down the table. The four of us rushed to see where it had come from. There they were, thousands of young George Baileys marching up the street in demonstration.
“Sorry Mr. Potter, I think I just found what I’m looking for”; I said as I opened the window and jumped out.
As always, George Bailey was there to catch me and save the day.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

How I came to know about Kettling.©

The experience of using London transport has significantly changed over the last few weeks. Apart from the long delays because of the workers being in semi-strike mode all the time, the stories you overhear from your fellow passengers are far more colourful and action packed.

Heading to a comedy gig in one of the student-frequented boroughs last week, I looked up from my free copy of the Evening Standard to see a boy who more closely resembled Harry Potter than a Revolutionary regale his fellow students with tales from the front line of the Tuition fee protests:
“We were kettled”, “They planted the van there on purpose”, “It was peaceful and the police got violent first”, “I’m going to the march on Tuesday”.

Fully aware that he was getting looks from the older folk he raised his voice to deliver the story. A lady who was following the “report” asked for the definition of kettling, which was delivered in very precise terms by a one of the girls in the group.
Kettling is: “A police tactic for the management of large crowds during demonstrations or protests. It involves the formation of large cordons of police officers who contain a crowd within a limited area. Protestors are left only with one choice of exit or are completely prevented from leaving.”

So it’s nothing to do with tea then? The lady said in response and the whole train carriage burst out in spontaneous laughter.

“If a police officer has two kids can he afford the £9.000 a year tuition fee proposed by the government? Why are they even standing against the students?” said a man with hands that looked like they were used to manual labour.
“It’s their job I suppose”, he said answering himself. “A man’s earning ability can motivate him but it can also be used to tame him”.

We all looked at each other and then back at the students. What were we doing about this re-structuring of society? Where was our voice?

"Well, I think you’re doing great", said the man with the rough hands getting up from his seat.
“Don’t worry about the police van. I’ve paid for it with my taxes. If my grandkids go to University, call it my gift to you”. He put his hands in his pockets to shield them from the cold and got off at the Kentish Town stop.

The Birth of Web Venus©

Walking through Venice I felt an irrational desire to touch the city. Feel the walls that surrounded me, as if my eye had spied a softness in them that I had never before experienced.

Once you come off the tourist track Venice becomes a sensualists dream and the idea that water passes through everything takes you with it.

Monica and I lay in our gondola, silent, taking in the surroundings. Suddenly I saw a familiar face staring at me from an overhead bridge, we glided beneath it and he was lost. As we came out on the other side I turned to look for him and saw that he had crossed the bridge to do the same.
His face looked exactly like it did so many hundred years ago, except for a boyishness that was of this century. We held each other’s gaze until the endless labyrinth of canals swallowed us up.

My breathing became so shallow that Monica turned to see if I was all right.
- Are you ok?
- I saw Botticelli*.
Monica was used to hearing things like that when she was in my company.
- And now?
- I don’t know.
I didn’t remember all of my past lives all of the time. Whenever someone surfaced, it all came back with incredible clarity.
We continued to explore Venice throughout the day and finally settled to have wine in a small piazza that was frequented by locals. As expected it didn’t take too long for him to find us.

The most welcome of images. His golden mane, full of ringlets, his blue eyes and that body I once knew so well. His smile warmed the piazza and pulled me in.
Our eyes were moist but we laughed and hugged and let our palms fill with each other’s hair and neck and face.
- You’re here again, he said.
- You called out to me and I came.
- The last time you left too early. You won’t leave?
- No, I won’t. I smiled and touched his face again, not being able to control my appetite for him.
- I painted you in everything for years. He said.
- Shhhhhhhh. I know. I know

A few hours later I was curled up, sitting on the white bed in the middle of his studio. Botticelli put his hands around my ankles and looked into my eyes.
- I asked to be buried at your feet**, he said dragging me down the bed towards him.
I felt so small and feminine, as though my entire body could fit into the space between his arms and torso. Then there were no words for hours. We breathed each other in and out until we emerged in the morning, our mouths dry, our bodies raw from pleasure.
I got up to fetch water for us.
- Open the window and let anyone that it lucky enough to be passing by see you. You are my masterpiece and the most beautiful sight to behold in all of Venice, he said, his body rising from our sheets, intoxicated by his own passionate rhetoric. Then a change of thought appeared across his face and he lay back on the bed to watch me.

I crossed the room and opened the window to stand on the balcony. The zephyrus wind blew in from the Adriatic waking my skin and brushing the hair off my shoulders.
My body adored being naked in the open air. I was suddenly bathed in an overflowing sense of freedom. Botticelli came out to wrap me in a silk robe embelished with spring flowers and take me back into the warmth we had spent the night creating.

I had just been born again.

*Sandro Botticelli 1445 – May 17, 1510 An Italian painter of the Florentine school during the Early Renaissance. Details of Botticelli's life are sparse, but we know that he became an apprentice when he was about fourteen years old, which would indicate that he received a fuller education than did other Renaissance artists. He was born in the city of Florence. Among his best known works is “The Birth of Venus”.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sandro_Botticelli_083.jpg

**Simonetta Cattaneo de Vespucci, nicknamed la bella Simonetta 1453 – 26 April 1476. Simonetta was discovered by Sandro Botticelli upon arriving in Florence. She died in April 1476, She was only twenty-two at the time of her death. Botticelli finished painting The Birth of Venus in 1485, nine years later. Some have claimed that Venus, in this painting, closely resembles Simonetta
It is suggested that Botticelli had fallen in love with her, a view supported by his request to be buried at her feet in the Church of Ognissanti - the parish church of the Vespucci - in Florence. His wish was in fact carried out when he died some 34 years later, in 1510.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sandro_Botticelli_066.jpg

Waking up at Midnight in Italy ©

I woke up as the plane touched down in Marco Polo airport and sleepwalked into Monica’s arms who was waiting for me at the arrivals hall. I hugged her until I realised that the people in the airport were giving us inquisitive looks.
Two double espressos and a car ride full of stories later we arrived in Udine*.

Even though it was past midnight the Italians stood outside the bars that populated the little winding streets; drinking, smoking and gesticulating.
- This street is so beautiful. Look at the rusty-coloured shutters. I looked it up while I was in the airport; This part of the city was built during the Renaissance. And the air, it’s so clean. I love it here.
Monica laughed.
- You’re weird. Udine could excite no one else. Wine?
- Si, Grazie Bella

She brought back wine and a small army of local men. Sergio, Gianni, Andrea, Tomasso and Lorenzo. In a small town like Udine people preserve the natural curiosity about newcomers that is extinct in London.

They spoke very little English and even though I have about five words of Italian we understood each other perfectly. They talked about vino (wine), grilliate (grilled meat) and Sergio’s pantalone. I asked it they meant Commedia dell'arte** and they fell about the place laughing.
They had been talking about Sergio’s new trousers but now I had apparently come up with a new nickname for him. I was very happy to have succeeded in making them laugh with one of my five Italian words but Sergio didn’t seem very happy to be called Pantalone*** from now on.

I was about to buy a round of drinks when Gianni excused himself. It was late you see and he had to go home and make love to his wife.
I looked at everyone’s faces. What a sweet, uncomplicated bunch of people and how easily they spoke about pleasure. When Gianni left, the conversation returned to grilliate and the problem we tried to solve was if they should have the meat before, after or with the pasta.
My sudden urge to come to Italy was becoming very clear to me. What a fool I was to think Dionysus was gone when clearly he was inspiring my every move.
I heard his voice say: "Etsi apla"/“It’s that simple”.

There were very few streetlights on the way home so the next morning I woke up to discover that we were in the middle of a beautiful green field. No wonder I slept like a baby.
Monica had coffee brewing and a feast of cured meats, cheese, fresh bread and eggs, all layed out for breakfast. Begin as you mean to continue, I thought to myself.


With cardigans and woolly socks it was just warm enough to sit outside. We planned our trips to Venice, the nearby villages and the best little eateries in the area.(Always plan the next meal before you finish the one you're eating. An Italian tradition that proved very easy for me to embrace)
We talked about the mysteries of life and how it is that people can live so far away from each other and yet feel a connection that has nothing to do with the amount of time they spend together on a daily basis.
And we hugged. We hugged like we were giving thanks for each other. It’s only when someone goes that we understand how precious every single person in our life truly is.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Udine
**http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commedia_dell%27arte
***http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantalone