#observant to the surroundings: dash commentary

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

"Wait. Stealth Elfs still here?! I thought all the skylanders went back home when skylands magic became too weak to support off world travel due to being forgotten." He is both flabbergasted and surprised from hearing her voice once more.

[princepokemon]

I’m BACK. Again. 😨 Between my VERY long trip away from home and school, it’s been hectic but hopefully I can get back to posting semi normally again!

Figured I’d start out with a dump of DnD doodles from my last campaign featuring my favorite boy, Mani :)

Anyway, Mani! He’s a tiefling merchant who doubled as the group's pack mule. His travelling companions were Benny the gnome archeologist and Rahm the goliath Vagabond. 

I had a great time with my friends but unfortunately our DM dipped mid campaign and I haven’t played for some time.

Here’s the character background/motivation piece I had to submit for anyone who’s into that kind of stuff. It’s sloppy but it gets the job done lol

—-

Fear is a powerful motivator. Fear of failure and death, fear of beasts and blood or the fear of being known; Manok Rhodara has molded his entire life around fleeing it.

Born into a small family of laborers in a very large city, he spent his younger years watching his parents trapped in the endless cycle of poverty. They’d toil away with seemingly no end in sight yet he still longed for something greater. Nevermind the nobles that paraded around in their carriages adorned with jewels, the simple merchant walking the streets with a full belly and spare coin was something he could wrap his brain around. His elder sister Nefaria had mocked him for his ambitions, but he kept his head down and did his best to observe the shopworkers he admired, emulating them in his precious free time.

Dreaming and doing are two different things however. His mother, a talented painter, had never successfully sold a single painting. Manok would watch her weep in their room after a day of fruitless peddling; tears muddying the beautiful discarded landscape. No one wants to sully homes with the work of an impoverished devil kin. He held out hope that the world outside the city walls didn’t hold these grudges. A fateful afternoon with his father would quickly extinguish these thoughts though.

He had so often felt the stares of disdain from the other races that he rarely acknowledged them anymore but that day he remembered them feeling particularly sharp. As they strolled through the city making their usual stops to resupply, Manok pleaded with his father to visit the local jewelers. The shopkeep was a shrewd elf who had recently lost his apprentice and Manok was confident he could wrangle a position if he could just get his foot in the door. 

Relenting, his father agreed on the condition that they never step foot in the store again if the master rejected him. Though unimpressed, the shopkeeper miraculously agreed to start training him as an errand boy after some smooth talking and a bit of pitiful begging (until he could find a “suitable” replacement he’d said). In the owner’s words, “Put a hat on and you could pass for an elf. If you keep that tail hidden and your mouth shut you might have a chance at doing this right.”.

An unusual victory was quickly dashed by an unusual misfortune as an insidious bystander took advantage of the irregular pair, swiping a handful of gems and planting a few on his father. It wasn’t long before the situation quickly devolved into a heated shouting match with police in tow and that was all it took to throw his family’s life out of kilter.

The remaining Rhodaras were scrutinized by the law after his father was branded a thief and thrown in prison. Stall owners rejected their goods and they were banned from many parts of the city. The places they could walk freely, judgmental eyes followed their every move and attempted to imprison them over minor insurrections. His sister swore revenge while his mother fell into a deep depression. Confused and scared for his life, Manok did the only thing he felt he could do. Run. So he did.

He ran for weeks and weeks stowing away on boats and picking through trash. In the forests he drank rainwater and foraged familiar plants and bark he could recognize from the markets back home. He didn’t know the full extent of his travels until he was much older but he had trekked an entire continent away to the Forest Islet.

It was there deep in the woods untouched by man, that he stumbled upon a grand weeping cherry and the fae within it: Punella. It had been decades since a sentient soul had wandered their way into her mystical grotto and even longer since she had formed a pact. A glance at his sniveling face was all it took for her to pity the boy enough to reveal her form and administer her guardian test. Three simple trials to expose his true nature. He was reserved, studious, observant and very afraid but when the kind-hearted dryad offered her guidance, he recognized a great opportunity and never looked back.

He would maintain responsibility for her grotto and in exchange for his dedication she would grant him knowledge, magic and, most crucial of all, companionship. He spent the following years learning the arts of crafting and deception while honing his hunting skills. By the time he could truly call himself ‘self-reliant’ he was nearly 17 and his thirst for knowledge was full throttle. 

His favorite of all was illusory magic, creating baubles and trinkets to decorate his camp and make him smile. What started as a hobby grew into something marketable and it wasn’t long before he was imbuing attractive charms into delicate crafts he made from the surrounding forest. Even his patron was impressed.

The woods had their own charm, but camping in a shabby hut he pieced together haphazardly had gotten old long ago. To really make a change, he’d need materials he couldn’t find surrounded by the trees. For materials he’d need someone to supply them and….. money. After some gentle encouragement, he hatched a plan to try his hand at the market once. 

Once he mustered up the confidence to venture out, he traded pelts for books. Many, many books. He spent months pouring over encyclopedias and cultural commentaries. The main subject of his study was covering elves. He knew some of their mannerisms from his time in the city but his end goal would have him immersed in their lifestyle. His time in the city taught him that tieflings are easy victims and if he was finally getting the chance to delve into the world of commerce, he was going to do it right. He didn’t need to be perfect immediately but he had to appear legitimate enough to sell enough junk to build an adequate home.

With that, the life of Manok Rhodara was snuffed out and the adventure of Manolari Nym began. Despite spending his early teens isolated in the woods, he was able to appear warm and personable to the closest neighboring townsfolk. It wasn’t long until he developed a rapport with the local craftsman and was regularly completing projects with them during his trips out from the woods. He would never stay long and his mysterious nature prompted some rumors but somehow, impossibly, the world he’d dreamed of was within his grasp.

On cold nights he thought back on his time with his family and wondered what he could have done differently. He remembered the despair and panic; He remembered how he abandoned them to escape it. But he was happy now. His days with Punella were carefree and her gentle presence was a gift. The guilt could be aching, but Mani was willing to live that and far greater if it meant keeping what they had built together.

Life is a lottery with impossible odds. If you’re lucky enough, you might get to draw again. How far would you go to protect that second chance?

[dweemeister]

The Stalking Moon (1968)

By the late 1960s, the American Western’s zenith had passed, and the genre was reinventing itself. Bonnie and Clyde (1967) unleashed a wave of films in all genres depicting violence more openly and graphically; meanwhile, the rise of the Revisionist Western (1962’s Ride the High Country, 1966’s The Professionals) led to the deglamorization of the genre’s protagonists and their sense of morality. Released by National General Pictures (NGC), The Stalking Moon reunites producer Alan J. Pakula, director Robert Mulligan, and Gregory Peck – no longer a dashing young man – a six years after To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). Though the team is a throwback, the mindset of The Stalking Moon fits squarely within a Revisionist Western. Mulligan’s dialogue-light film incorporates elements of atmospheric thrillers and, in its tensest moments, seems to resemble a proto-slasher. As a hybrid thriller-Western, The Stalking Moon – once the narrative pieces are in place – is a sharp-edged, gorgeously-shot affair.

On Sam Varner’s (Peck) last day before retiring from the U.S. Cavalry, his regiment surrounds and arrests dozens of Apache warriors. Among the group is a white woman, Sarah Carver (Eva Marie Saint), and her half-Indian son (Noland Clay; Clay’s ethnicity/race is unclear). That afternoon, Sarah pleads for an immediate escort from the Cavalry’s camp instead of waiting for five days for an official military escort. The boy’s father, Salvaje (Nathaniel Narcisco in redface; Narcisco’s ethnicity/race is unclear), is a ruthless assassin and, according to Sarah, almost certainly in pursuit of their son. The Cavalry commander rejects Sarah’s request, but Sam agrees to take them to a remote train station. At the station, disaster strikes, and Sam invites Sarah and her son to stay with him at his rugged, mountainous ranch in New Mexico. Sarah and her son find the personal adjustments to live on Sam’s ranch difficult, but they have help thanks to ranch hands Ned (Russell Thorson) and Nick Tana (Robert Foster, whose character is a half-Indian scout). But even in this ranch, protected on three sides by treacherous rock formations, Sarah and her son have not yet eluded the violence to come.

Mulligan also appears to make comments on how the United States treated the American Indians of the West, but ultimately never does so. The Stalking Moon never highlights indigenous perspectives, declining to even give Sarah’s son a name or expressive space. These perspectives only exist through implication – the wars of the American West are going poorly for the tribes, and white settlers are moving ceaselessly westward and are cementing themselves in these lands. Sarah and Salvaje’s child, being of mixed race and approximately eight or nine years old, would almost certainly be the target of sociopolitical discrimination and the suspicious gazes of many a stranger. Never discussed by any of the characters is the possibility of such behavior towards the child; if Mulligan and screenwriters Wendell Mayes (1959’s Anatomy of a Murder, 1972’s The Poseidon Adventure) and Alvin Sargent (1977’s Julia, 2004’s Spider-Man 2) attempted to insert subtext regarding the child’s treatment, they do so far too subtly.

Salvaje himself is a largely faceless antagonist who never exchanges any dialogue, let alone a grunt, a cry of pain, a primal exclamation. Like numerous American Western movies too numerous to name, this is a reinforcement of stereotypical depictions of American Indians in Hollywood – anonymous, without specific bearing to the lead characters. Is he pursuing his son to reclaim him or the murder him? The movie never says. To Salvaje’s credit, he is a physical menace that could easily overtake an aging Sam Varner. More often than not during the Western’s heyday, indigenous Americans – whether individually or as part of a collective – would be all too easily slaughtered in a hail of protagonists’ gunfire or explosives (in part because of their antagonistic anonymity). Such developments would serve The Stalking Moon, which is partly a thriller, poorly. Thus, Salvaje is an aversion of the too-easily-killed Indian trope, but his complete lack of non-violent interaction with any character and empty characterization beyond his capacity for violence and vengeance uphold the trope of the anonymous indigenous menace. His physicality and obvious threat to the protagonists serve thriller genre; his nature as a blank slate killer is a legacy from American Western narrative traditions (and now largely a relic to that tradition’s contemporary practitioners).

Now in his 50s when he made The Stalking Moon, Gregory Peck – if only because of Hollywood’s obsession over age – was reaching a point in his career where opportunities for lead roles inevitably begin to decline (but not his influence, as Peck was currently serving as the President of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences). The Stalking Moon will, on paper, appear to be typical material for Peck. His Sam Varner, when no one else will tend to Sarah and her son’s safety, will take the initiative even though this decision, at best, is an inconvenience or, at worst, might cost him his life. As it is so often with Peck, his screen presence – assuredness of posture, the timbre of his voice, and calming persona – engineers a great performance. Even with a screenplay that avoids providing dialogue-driven details about his character’s life, Peck makes Sam Varner another entry in his long filmography of upstanding heroes.

The screenplay also consigns Eva Marie Saint to playing her character as a trauma survivor whose apprehension is pervasive. If one is seeking a role where Saint is able to display the fullest breadth of her acting range, The Stalking Moon is certainly not that movie. But for how the screenplay portrays her character, this is a capable performance from Saint alongside child star Noland Clay as the boy (this film remains Clay’s only screen credit).

Cinematographer Charles Lang (1947’s The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, 1959’s Some Like It Hot) and editor Aaron Stell (1958’s Touch of Evil, To Kill a Mockingbird) pay lip service to the Western genre with luxurious takes of the mountains and rock formations that mark their landscape photography. With on-location filming in Red Rock Canyon and Valley of Fire State Park in Nevada, the low-to-the-ground, slightly upward-angled camera shots suggest that Sarah and her son, while making Sam Varner’s ranch house their new home, have nowhere to escape to. Dry shrubs line this small, sloped canyon with somewhat steep angles that make even walking without ascending or descending hazardous. Yet Lang and Stell’s collaboration truly impresses during the action setpieces – most notably in a scene where Gregory Peck, in a darkened room, awaits the entrance of the man who has been hunting the people he has been protecting. Before the naming and identification of the slasher subgenre of horror film, The Stalking Moon – noting its selective cinematography and editing in its tensest moments – relies on numerous lighting and staging techniques that the likes of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) and Friday the 13th (1980) would later adopt. Though shot and edited like a thriller, much of the film has scenes of people-watching: adults observing children, children observing adults, people noticing small behavioral details otherwise glossed over in a less patient movie. These moments of observation substitute for the dialogue and are as important as the most critical pieces of dialogue in the film.

An unconventional score from composer Fred Karlin (1970’s The Baby Maker, 1973’s Westworld) is a restrained effort, making use of a full orchestra but rarely employing the aural grandiosity that an orchestra is capable of. Repeated often throughout The Stalking Moon is the opening motif whistled in the main titles, with the sparse melodies – usually performed by the whistler or a limited number of woodwinds and/or brass – suggesting the vastness and emptiness of the American West, even in the days of westward expansion. Karlin’s music has an unsettling quality that permeates into The Stalking Moon’s most joyous scenes. When Sarah and her son arrive and Sam’s residence for the first time, the cue “Sarah’s New Home” opens with solo triangle before the entrance of a lone flute. The occasional dissonance from the triangle conflicts with the flute – a subliminal, harmonic message (in addition to the various string harmonics used throughout) that Sarah’s dangers have not passed. So often in modern film composing, a director will relegate the music as background noise or the composer themselves will dispense almost entirely of melody. In the latter, numerous modern film score composers have reasoned that melody cannot serve action films or thrillers, so they will compose a wall of amelodic texture instead. But, as Karlin so ably demonstrates in his score to The Stalking Moon, the juxtaposition of memorable melodies and effective action scoring is more interesting dramatically and musically.

Today, The Stalking Moon’s influence has been limited in part due to NGC’s dissolution and sale to Warner Bros. in 1974. For anyone willing to dive into this relatively undiscovered piece of American Western, few of the film’s immediate contemporaries adapted its thriller-influenced cues for their own purposes. Its depiction of American Indians is not as egregious as other Westerns and it appears to make some sort of attempt at commentary, but many of the damaging preconceptions of indigenous Americans make their way into the film’s screenplay. Yet considering the undemonstrative approach that Robert Mulligan takes for his film, The Stalking Moon is a serviceable Western torn between the passing of eras for the genre.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.

[kneipho]

Submission: @mantrabay​

--

A Little Known Shortcut.

Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell.

Even when prickly brambles

scrape my eyelids or those bony ankles are being twisted by tooth like stones. The angular sort clustered mischievously among the green shoots that litter every footpath.

They lie in wait, in ambush.

It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman.

Meandering landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills that are rife in my area.

Their rustic heritage sometimes sacrificed to the orphanage of malleable motives.

Crop farmers obsessed with bountiful harvest.

A restless developer pushing the limits of an urban jungle.

Fellow traveller in league with fugitives from the cockpit.

The pressure cooker of modern life.

The town dweller with split loyalties who clings to the tumult of the city but hankers after some rural idyll.

Culprits one and all.

A lair from the hubbub.

Dwellings of the quaintest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.

The more alluring aspects of tradition have been preserved.

Among these are shortcuts or bypasses.

Those sequestered passages that shave miles off for the perennial rambler or clueless hitchhiker.

The eye becomes a lense to all these

things hidden or supposedly hidden.

Human vision as sensor to magic trails.

Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.

They festoon the sprawling countryside at random.

My name is Eric Spring.

Anthea, my partner a transcendental meditation teacher retired early at an early age.

Her withdrawal from work was never meant to be permanent.

A final decision hinged on Anthea’s ability to purge that fiendish veil of sadness that had been shadowing her.

There were several obstacles in her path but they weren’t insurmountable.

Thoughts of Anthea in her halcyon days haunted me.

Mental pictures of a vibrant woman imbued with passion.

Poignant evocative heart-tugging images.

Bar excursions into town my station is that of Anthea’s carer.

This eternally stoic woman is mindful of her mental boundaries and the abyss concealed by each of them.

But she is not prone to self-hate or abuse. The more lethal plagues of the psyche hadn’t yet impacted on her.

Anthea was groping for exits but hadn’t found the signs.

She remains housebound as I embark on those age defying treks into town.

We keep in touch by mobile phone.

A very angelic sensitive looking person is she.

Reminiscent of a Sunday Times editor.

The accent filters every noun and stresses every nuance.

Like the sounds from an early morning orchard.

Anthea’s job became monotonous and her other pursuits painting and writing fled without trace.

A budding artist’s most dreaded syndromes struck.

Writer’s block. Artistic vacuum.

The wellspring of her imagination now devoid of those inspiring flashes that sustain creative impulse.

She had few outlets bar my care and a lady called Fidelma who had the edge on me with regard to local knowledge. I longed to hear Anthea’s voice on my device.

Her hypnotic voice bridges gaps.

You feel close even when speaking to her from a distance.

I love the walks and savouring all those pivot points of folklore.

I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of every branch strewn rivulet, stream and layered rock formation.

My links to the environment are almost erotic as I crave it’s sensual touch.

At times I enter a tranquil zone where the shutters are drawn.

Just myself and all those habitats.

“Hello Eric? Lost in thought again.

How is anthea these days?

I spoke to her over the phone a few days ago.

I sometimes drop in on her when you are out.”

Fidelma speaking with that chirping red robin voice of hers.

She had this penchant for suddenly appearing like an archaeological site.

And she vanished just as quickly leaving the person she spoke to scrambling to process her asides and insights before they disappeared.

Neighbour, friend, root and branch archivist whose grasp of detail was legendary.

“She seems to be coping.” I said.

“Glad to hear that. Maybe I can pay a flying visit some time soon.

But aren’t you a foolish man to be imposing all those Olympic Marathons on yourself?”

Fidelma about to share one of her treasured nuggets.

“I love walking but any tips?”

Spring enquired naively as events soon demonstrated.

“There’s a shortcut…..a little known shortcut.

People in the know recommend it though I have never actually used it myself.

Maybe I will one day.

See, it’s on the right hand side up the road there.

Think it might be useful when you want to get home in a hurry.” She concluded.

Fidelma in advanced middle age was still sprightly and youthful in her ways.

I missed a text from anthea and Fidelma noticed.

“Yes. I have one of those gadgets too.

Keeps me connected.

Took me awhile to master it.

Wish there was a shortcut for that.

But I’ll best be on my way.

Take good care whatever the route.”

As always having spoken to Fidelma I wondered about in a trance.

Another colourful aspect of Fidelma’s personality was her “Banana Skin Syndrome.”

She could lose her balance betimes when enthusing about a topic or when she stumbled on an area that fascinated her.

The feet were a little wobbly.

All this against her philosophy about how interconnected everything is.

The mind is an antenna sending out signals to others was a frequent broadside of hers.

Even when Fidelma said very little she always had this magnetic effect on others.

Those terse one liners could trigger an avalanche in the mind.

Her thin phrases were always shrouded in a well crafted poetic meter.

It was in the tone, gestures and body language.

Those beady yet expressive eyes scanning her environment like a radar screen.

A cascade of images and sound bytes ensued when she left.

Several hours passed as my mind was in overdrive like a central processing unit.

I heard this inner voice telling me to explore this “shortcut.”

Having texted Anthea I then proceeded to this offshoot of a lane.

It was going to lighten the journey of this slope and pavement plodder.

Off I went down this quaint country shortcut.

Nothing out of the ordinary to begin with until Anthea rang.

“Gnawing feeling of sadness.

My mind is a dark blue canvass at the moment.”

Her lilting twang mingling with the song birds at the start of my downward journey.

I sensed this was urgent and started to walk quickly.

That’s when problems arose.

Just a plain country passage with a primarily flat surface at this point.

There were houses on each side and some weeds strewn and partially mangled, turned to mulch by wild and indiscriminate boots.

Strange feelings welled up within me as I felt like a geyser at yellowstone.

The puff and splutter of tractors in nearby fields as furrows, the epicenter of future yields were turned.

Scarecrows were strategically perched in the meadow behind the right hand hedge to ward off some menace or other.

Something told me to relate my surroundings to Anthea.

If only to divert attention from an impending gloom.

Those barely audible inner prompts again.

“Eric, I don’t want to pressurise you but at the moment I feel this dark cloud.”

Eric paused.

It then occurred to me that I was engulfed by dark foreboding clouds in tandem with a rising rainbow like haze.

As Anthea continued her disorders seemed to be complemented by external threats of rain intermingled with sunshine.

“I feel, Eric there is a radiance trying to break through.

Just to see you … your presence is a light which I could focus on.”

Then I realised that speed was of the essence.

That’s when I could have panicked.

Anthea’s voice seemed louder, but also more lyrical as I realised this obscure

overlooked route could have done with some restoration!

Tufts of grass oozing slime.

Mounds of mud with pockets of oil stained water.

The briars were a shock team that endangered every part of the human body.

I was conveying all this to anthea as I was trying to dash at my normal pace.

Oddly Anthea’s tone of desperation started to dip.

But she did appear less tense as I told her this story over the phone.

“Someone told me this is a shortcut.”

Eric said gingerly.

“Who was that ? Anthea asked.

“Fidelma. We met on the main road just a short while ago.” I responded.

“You know her a bit better than I do.”

Anthea observed. “She’s going to call over one of these days I’m sure.”

By now Anthea, initially nervous was mellowing as I continued with my frantic running … and staggering commentary!

She didn’t have had much to excite her over the last five years.

But I had to be careful lest those dark brooding phases returned.

Like a roving reporter I regaled her with lurid descriptions of limp green shrubs, tea brown leaves shredded on fissured rocks, juice dripping blackberry bushes with foraging earwigs seeking shelter from the sun.

But here I was almost knee deep in tangled foliage while keeping the love of my life up to speed!

The labyrinthine outcrops and mock craters were all included.

Suddenly misfortune struck without warning.

I nearly sprained my leg as I fell face down on a grassy patch.

Sprawled awkwardly across this surface my phone went flying but I managed to catch it.

“Eric, are you ok?

I don’t mean to be a burden.

Will I get someone to meet you at the end of this lane or short cut.”

Anthea again.

“I’m fine, Anthea.”

Eric said before slowly rising.

I kept detailing my observations and Anthea was reacting positively.

But I made it eventually with the sounds of the road as guide.

The temperatures continued to rise causing perspiration.

Peering thru the maze of entwined growths I saw … Fidelma.

“Where did you spring from?” Eric punning his own name.

“Fidelma …you fell too.” A question that might have appeared tactless.

She was getting up, having fallen when taking her bearings it seems.

“Fidelma …. thanks but no thanks.

The shortcut.” I said.

“You are shivering.” She observed.

“I am. Spring responded.

“Got to get to Anthea because she might be in need of help.” Spring continued.

We both headed for my house as quickly as possible.

But it wasn’t far.

I texted Anthea and she answered by saying she had every reason to speak to me.

One wondered what that might be.

My face whitened.

Fidelma and I soon reached the house where I lived.

Eric pressed the doorbell as his heart pounded.

The door opened suddenly and we couldn’t believe what we saw.

“Anthea, is that you?

I haven’t seen you smile like that in years.”

I said.

Fidelma and I were perplexed to say the least.

“It’s early days yet but those locusts of darkness hopping around in my head maybe dwindling.

Those creative juices returned when I sensed your anxiety down the lane because I didn’t want two sick people in this house.

But you brought splashes of vivid colour into my drawing room.

I could almost smell the rustic fragrance of every wilting petal and the creaking of every twig.

You set a whole cycle in train.”

Anthea then showed me two items she was working on.

“I have started a rough sketch of the lane you detailed and a short story.

There’s been a sea change.” She said.

“Oh I wonder what I’ll call this sketch and that short story?

Any ideas?” Anthea enquired.

Fidelma and I looked at each other and spoke almost in unison.

“I think we both have a fair idea what they both might be called.

Your story included.”

A little known shortcut indeed!

Photograph and short story mantrabay copyright protected

[mantrabay]

A Little Known Shortcut.

Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell.

Even when prickly brambles

scrape my eyelids or those bony ankles are being twisted by tooth like stones. The angular sort clustered mischievously among the green shoots that litter every footpath.

They lie in wait, in ambush.

It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman.

Meandering landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills that are rife in my area.

Their rustic heritage sometimes sacrificed to the orphanage of malleable motives.

Crop farmers obsessed with bountiful harvest.

A restless developer pushing the limits of an urban jungle.

Fellow traveller in league with fugitives from the cockpit.

The pressure cooker of modern life.

The town dweller with split loyalties who clings to the tumult of the city but hankers after some rural idyll.

Culprits one and all.

A lair from the hubbub.

Dwellings of the quaintest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.

The more alluring aspects of tradition have been preserved.

Among these are shortcuts or bypasses.

Those sequestered passages that shave miles off for the perennial rambler or clueless hitchhiker.

The eye becomes a lense to all these

things hidden or supposedly hidden.

Human vision as sensor to magic trails.

Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.

They festoon the sprawling countryside at random.

My name is Eric Spring.

Anthea, my partner a transcendental meditation teacher retired early at an early age.

Her withdrawal from work was never meant to be permanent.

A final decision hinged on Anthea's ability to purge that fiendish veil of sadness that had been shadowing her.

There were several obstacles in her path but they weren’t insurmountable.

Thoughts of Anthea in her halcyon days haunted me.

Mental pictures of a vibrant woman imbued with passion.

Poignant evocative heart-tugging images.

Bar excursions into town my station is that of Anthea’s carer.

This eternally stoic woman is mindful of her mental boundaries and the abyss concealed by each of them.

But she is not prone to self-hate or abuse. The more lethal plagues of the psyche hadn't yet impacted on her.

Anthea was groping for exits but hadn’t found the signs.

She remains housebound as I embark on those age defying treks into town.

We keep in touch by mobile phone.

A very angelic sensitive looking person is she.

Reminiscent of a Sunday Times editor.

The accent filters every noun and stresses every nuance.

Like the sounds from an early morning orchard.

Anthea's job became monotonous and her other pursuits painting and writing fled without trace.

A budding artist’s most dreaded syndromes struck.

Writer's block. Artistic vacuum.

The wellspring of her imagination now devoid of those inspiring flashes that sustain creative impulse.

She had few outlets bar my care and a lady called Fidelma who had the edge on me with regard to local knowledge. I longed to hear Anthea's voice on my device.

Her hypnotic voice bridges gaps.

You feel close even when speaking to her from a distance.

I love the walks and savouring all those pivot points of folklore.

I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of every branch strewn rivulet, stream and layered rock formation.

My links to the environment are almost erotic as I crave it's sensual touch.

At times I enter a tranquil zone where the shutters are drawn.

Just myself and all those habitats.

“Hello Eric? Lost in thought again.

How is anthea these days?

I spoke to her over the phone a few days ago.

I sometimes drop in on her when you are out.”

Fidelma speaking with that chirping red robin voice of hers.

She had this penchant for suddenly appearing like an archaeological site.

And she vanished just as quickly leaving the person she spoke to scrambling to process her asides and insights before they disappeared.

Neighbour, friend, root and branch archivist whose grasp of detail was legendary.

“She seems to be coping.” I said.

“Glad to hear that. Maybe I can pay a flying visit some time soon.

But aren't you a foolish man to be imposing all those Olympic Marathons on yourself?”

Fidelma about to share one of her treasured nuggets.

“I love walking but any tips?”

Spring enquired naively as events soon demonstrated.

“There’s a shortcut…..a little known shortcut.

People in the know recommend it though I have never actually used it myself.

Maybe I will one day.

See, it's on the right hand side up the road there.

Think it might be useful when you want to get home in a hurry.” She concluded.

Fidelma in advanced middle age was still sprightly and youthful in her ways.

I missed a text from anthea and Fidelma noticed.

“Yes. I have one of those gadgets too.

Keeps me connected.

Took me awhile to master it.

Wish there was a shortcut for that.

But I'll best be on my way.

Take good care whatever the route.”

As always having spoken to Fidelma I wondered about in a trance.

Another colourful aspect of Fidelma’s personality was her “Banana Skin Syndrome.”

She could lose her balance betimes when enthusing about a topic or when she stumbled on an area that fascinated her.

The feet were a little wobbly.

All this against her philosophy about how interconnected everything is.

The mind is an antenna sending out signals to others was a frequent broadside of hers.

Even when Fidelma said very little she always had this magnetic effect on others.

Those terse one liners could trigger an avalanche in the mind.

Her thin phrases were always shrouded in a well crafted poetic meter.

It was in the tone, gestures and body language.

Those beady yet expressive eyes scanning her environment like a radar screen.

A cascade of images and sound bytes ensued when she left.

Several hours passed as my mind was in overdrive like a central processing unit.

I heard this inner voice telling me to explore this “shortcut.”

Having texted Anthea I then proceeded to this offshoot of a lane.

It was going to lighten the journey of this slope and pavement plodder.

Off I went down this quaint country shortcut.

Nothing out of the ordinary to begin with until Anthea rang.

“Gnawing feeling of sadness.

My mind is a dark blue canvass at the moment.”

Her lilting twang mingling with the song birds at the start of my downward journey.

I sensed this was urgent and started to walk quickly.

That's when problems arose.

Just a plain country passage with a primarily flat surface at this point.

There were houses on each side and some weeds strewn and partially mangled, turned to mulch by wild and indiscriminate boots.

Strange feelings welled up within me as I felt like a geyser at yellowstone.

The puff and splutter of tractors in nearby fields as furrows, the epicenter of future yields were turned.

Scarecrows were strategically perched in the meadow behind the right hand hedge to ward off some menace or other.

Something told me to relate my surroundings to Anthea.

If only to divert attention from an impending gloom.

Those barely audible inner prompts again.

“Eric, I don't want to pressurise you but at the moment I feel this dark cloud.”

Eric paused.

It then occurred to me that I was engulfed by dark foreboding clouds in tandem with a rising rainbow like haze.

As Anthea continued her disorders seemed to be complemented by external threats of rain intermingled with sunshine.

“I feel, Eric there is a radiance trying to break through.

Just to see you … your presence is a light which I could focus on.”

Then I realised that speed was of the essence.

That's when I could have panicked.

Anthea’s voice seemed louder, but also more lyrical as I realised this obscure

overlooked route could have done with some restoration!

Tufts of grass oozing slime.

Mounds of mud with pockets of oil stained water.

The briars were a shock team that endangered every part of the human body.

I was conveying all this to anthea as I was trying to dash at my normal pace.

Oddly Anthea’s tone of desperation started to dip.

But she did appear less tense as I told her this story over the phone.

“Someone told me this is a shortcut.”

Eric said gingerly.

“Who was that ? Anthea asked.

“Fidelma. We met on the main road just a short while ago.” I responded.

“You know her a bit better than I do.”

Anthea observed. “She's going to call over one of these days I'm sure.”

By now Anthea, initially nervous was mellowing as I continued with my frantic running … and staggering commentary!

She didn’t have had much to excite her over the last five years.

But I had to be careful lest those dark brooding phases returned.

Like a roving reporter I regaled her with lurid descriptions of limp green shrubs, tea brown leaves shredded on fissured rocks, juice dripping blackberry bushes with foraging earwigs seeking shelter from the sun.

But here I was almost knee deep in tangled foliage while keeping the love of my life up to speed!

The labyrinthine outcrops and mock craters were all included.

Suddenly misfortune struck without warning.

I nearly sprained my leg as I fell face down on a grassy patch.

Sprawled awkwardly across this surface my phone went flying but I managed to catch it.

“Eric, are you ok?

I don’t mean to be a burden.

Will I get someone to meet you at the end of this lane or short cut.”

Anthea again.

“I'm fine, Anthea.”

Eric said before slowly rising.

I kept detailing my observations and Anthea was reacting positively.

But I made it eventually with the sounds of the road as guide.

The temperatures continued to rise causing perspiration.

Peering thru the maze of entwined growths I saw … Fidelma.

“Where did you spring from?” Eric punning his own name.

“Fidelma ...you fell too.” A question that might have appeared tactless.

She was getting up, having fallen when taking her bearings it seems.

“Fidelma …. thanks but no thanks.

The shortcut.” I said.

“You are shivering.” She observed.

“I am. Spring responded.

“Got to get to Anthea because she might be in need of help.” Spring continued.

We both headed for my house as quickly as possible.

But it wasn’t far.

I texted Anthea and she answered by saying she had every reason to speak to me.

One wondered what that might be.

My face whitened.

Fidelma and I soon reached the house where I lived.

Eric pressed the doorbell as his heart pounded.

The door opened suddenly and we couldn't believe what we saw.

“Anthea, is that you?

I haven't seen you smile like that in years.”

I said.

Fidelma and I were perplexed to say the least.

“It’s early days yet but those locusts of darkness hopping around in my head maybe dwindling.

Those creative juices returned when I sensed your anxiety down the lane because I didn't want two sick people in this house.

But you brought splashes of vivid colour into my drawing room.

I could almost smell the rustic fragrance of every wilting petal and the creaking of every twig.

You set a whole cycle in train.”

Anthea then showed me two items she was working on.

“I have started a rough sketch of the lane you detailed and a short story.

There's been a sea change.” She said.

“Oh I wonder what I'll call this sketch and that short story?

Any ideas?” Anthea enquired.

Fidelma and I looked at each other and spoke almost in unison.

“I think we both have a fair idea what they both might be called.

Your story included.”

A little known shortcut indeed!

Photograph and short story copyright protected

[bharatiyamedia-blog]

Dalai Lama's touch upon refugee disaster illuminates what's on the coronary heart of anti-migrant sentiment

http://tinyurl.com/y6tef7qo Joining the Dots is a weekly column by writer and journalist Samrat through which he connects occasions to concepts, typically by evaluation, however often by satire *** The Dalai Lama has the uncommon distinction of being a spiritual chief who enjoys the respect of the secular, liberal public, however a recent interview he gave to the BBC has made a dent in his picture of serene knowledge transcending conservative worldviews. The Dalai Lama mentioned, amongst different issues, that European international locations ought to soak up refugees, shelter them and provides them coaching, however that the refugees ought to finally return residence. What in the event that they need to keep, the interviewer, Rajini Vaidyanathan, requested? “A restricted quantity is okay, however the entire of Europe finally develop into Muslim nation, African nation — unimaginable [sic],” he replied. This was not the primary time he was saying this. It has been his consistent position. Final 12 months, in Rotterdam within the Netherlands, after a public speech, he was requested by an viewers member to elucidate this stand of his. He mentioned there was plenty of struggling in these lands that the refugees have been escaping from. European international locations should present shelter to those refugees, however finally the refugees should return residence, to rebuild their very own international locations. He gave the instance of Tibet and his personal neighborhood, the Tibetans, and mentioned, that they had all the time needed to return. The thought he was working from appeared to be one directed alongside the Buddhist superb of compassion. The Dalai Lama was successfully saying that past saving themselves, the refugees have an obligation to attempt to assist the struggling folks within the lands that they had left behind. The place his assertion turns into extra controversial is when he says “Complete of Europe develop into Muslim nation, African nation – unimaginable”. What the Dalai Lama’s remark implies, is that migrants should not change the important character of the place they transfer to. REUTERS That is precisely the concern that each one the Proper-wings around the globe are expressing. Whether or not it’s Donald Trump in America together with his nice wall, or any of a clutch of Proper-wing leaders throughout Europe from Nigel Farage in England to Victor Orban in Hungary, the thought is identical: migrants should not change the important character of the place. The identical concept is and has lengthy been in operation in India too. Right here, the standard bogeyman is the Bangladeshi, and the states of Northeast India have a substantial historical past of ethnic violence in opposition to the minority Bengali communities throughout the area, Muslim in addition to Hindu. The present train of drawing up a National Register of Citizens in Assam, from which over 4 million folks discover their names lacking, is an try by the federal government of India and the Supreme Courtroom to attempt to weed out anybody who might need come after 1971, near 50 years in the past. There may be additionally a parallel means of detection of migrants by foreigners’ tribunals, by which persons are being locked up in detention camps. Trump, Orban and the remainder have plenty of catching as much as do to get to the place India is at; they’re nonetheless solely speaking about stopping additional migration, not about discovering anybody who might need come illegally within the final 50 years and placing them in “detention camps”. Lowering thousands and thousands of individuals, who in precise observe are sometimes discriminated in opposition to by floor degree workers on the premise of their non secular and linguistic identities, to statelessness, or placing them in camps, has been unthinkable in Europe for the reason that Holocaust. That anti-immigrant concepts are gaining foreign money around the globe once more owes one thing to what folks perceive by nation-state. There’s a clear notion that it’s a land that belongs to a selected folks. That is true of nations as totally different as Israel, Pakistan, Poland, China and more and more, even the extremely various India. It’s also the identical concept that the Dalai Lama, who has spent his life as an exile from Tibet in search of return, has advocated all alongside. If he didn’t assume Tibet rightfully belongs to Tibetans, and had no objection to the Han Chinese language taking on the land and turning it into part of China by a course of that features cultural colonisation, he wouldn’t have bothered opposing the Chinese language authorities all his life. Migration of individuals in giant numbers can and has modified the characters of locations prior to now. Australia’s aboriginals and New Zealand’s Maoris have been utterly marginalised by migrant settlers. The identical occurred to the American Indian tribes in North America. There may be actually a distinction between settler colonialism, the place the colonisers have superior firepower, and the migration of destitute refugees fleeing persecution — in some instances attributable to the overseas insurance policies of the international locations the refugees are fleeing to — however the fundamental concept that migration in sufficiently giant numbers might flip Europe into an African or Muslim land will not be as absurd because it initially sounds. In line with a United Nations report titled ‘World Population Prospects‘ which was launched in revised and up to date type in 2017, the inhabitants of Africa is anticipated to double from 1.25 billion in 2017 to 2.52 billion in 2050. The inhabitants of Asia is projected to rise from 4.50 billion to five.25 billion. Europe’s inhabitants is projected to fall from 742 million to 716 million. From 2017 to 2050, the report anticipated half the world’s inhabitants development to come back from simply 9 international locations: India, Nigeria, Democratic Republic of Congo, Pakistan, Ethiopia, Tanzania, US, Uganda and Indonesia. In brief, the populations of Africa and Asia are anticipated to rise by over 2.5 billion, whereas the inhabitants of Europe is anticipated to say no. Many of the rise will are available in international locations that are comparatively poor in comparison with Western Europe. A Nationwide Migration Institute (INM) agent tries to relax a bunch of migrants dashing to enter the Siglo XXI migration facility in Tapachula, Mexico, in Might 2019. REUTERS The conservatives, and this clearly consists of even the Dalai Lama, are clear that they see cultures as rooted in sure geographies and carried by sure peoples. They don’t want different cultures and peoples to intrude excessively into their homelands. The liberals, globally, have failed to speak an equally clear imaginative and prescient, as a result of there appears to be lack of readability concerning the eventual concept of the world as they want it. Do they advocate free motion of individuals? Are they in favour of a world with out borders? Or are they solely attempting to make sure establishment, with fundamental human rights accorded to these fleeing persecution? If the battle is about guaranteeing establishment they don’t seem to be discussing a essentially totally different concept; they share basically the identical concept because the conservatives, only a kinder, gentler model of it. Additionally learn: Western theories of nationhood don’t capture India’s complex realities Motion of individuals is a truth of life, and the tempo and scale of this motion have accelerated like by no means earlier than prior to now 100 years. The method continues to be gathering tempo, and local weather change will add drive to it. The thought of the homeland shall be at stake. With out readability on the thought of what it’s a couple of tradition and a those who requires a homeland, thorny questions surrounding migration and identification will proceed to bother the world. One attainable reply might lie within the instance of the Tibetans. The Dalai Lama, regardless of his place on the problem, has really proven throughout his lifetime that it’s attainable for a tradition and a folks to outlive, and certainly, to thrive, regardless of the absence of a homeland. Different persecuted peoples prior to now, notably the Jews and in a smaller manner the Parsis, equally preserved their cultures by centuries of exile. The guts of the exile might all the time search return, however as a rule, such return proves unimaginable. More and more, whether or not we prefer it or not, all of the world is our residence, and is in our houses. Samrat is an writer, journalist and former newspaper editor. He tweets as @mrsamratx Your information to the newest cricket World Cup tales, evaluation, studies, opinions, dwell updates and scores on https://www.firstpost.com/firstcricket/series/icc-cricket-world-cup-2019.html. Comply with us on Twitter and Instagram or like our Facebook web page for updates all through the continuing occasion in England and Wales. !function(f,b,e,v,n,t,s) {if(f.fbq)return;n=f.fbq=function() {n.callMethod? n.callMethod.apply(n,arguments):n.queue.push(arguments)} ; if(!f._fbq)f._fbq=n;n.push=n;n.loaded=!0;n.version='2.0'; n.queue=[];t=b.createElement(e);t.async=!0; t.src=v;s=b.getElementsByTagName(e)[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(t,s)}(window,document,'script', 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/fbevents.js'); fbq('init', '259288058299626'); fbq('track', 'PageView'); (function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "http://connect.facebook.net/en_GB/all.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.9&appId=1117108234997285"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk')); window.fbAsyncInit = function () { FB.init({appId: '1117108234997285', version: 2.4, xfbml: true}); // *** here is my code *** if (typeof facebookInit == 'function') { facebookInit(); } }; (function () { var e = document.createElement('script'); e.src = document.location.protocol + '//connect.facebook.net/en_US/all.js'; e.async = true; document.getElementById('fb-root').appendChild(e); }()); function facebookInit() { console.log('Found FB: Loading comments.'); FB.XFBML.parse(); } Source link

[biofunmy]

These Hypnotic Pictures Capture The Beauty Of Nature On A Microscopic Scale

Red Algae and Diatoms

Robert Dash

Diatoms create a significant amount of the Earth’s oxygen. Warming oceans are stressing diatoms and, in some situations, reducing their numbers.

For some, climate change can be an abstract concept — for artist and photographer Robert Dash, it’s what informs his creative vision. As a teacher for the last 25 years in the fields of biology, environmental studies, and photography, it’s at the intersection of art and nature where Dash uncovers stunning beauty that often goes overlooked by the human eye.

Dash’s work employs the use of a scanning electron microscope, which is able to photograph details too microscopic for the naked eye. With this tool, Dash captures hypnotic patterns deep within the nature that surrounds us, while at times capturing the very real effects of climate change on a microscopic scale. Through digital collages, Dash draws parallels between those parts of nature that are both visible and unseen.

Here, Robert Dash shares with BuzzFeed News a selection of his hypnotic works as well as the concepts behind the images.

After decades of travel and work, my dream was to travel as far as possible with my camera and pen while studying one small space. Remarkably, I was welcomed to use a scanning electron microscope (SEM) at the nearby Friday Harbor marine biology laboratories at the University of Washington.

My process of working begins with a fascination with natural patterns and textures. I work with images that totally shock me at first sight.

I want viewers to feel the same thrill I felt when I viewed a certain leaf, feather, or pollen grain. I then use my DSLR camera to photograph the life-size version of the micrograph’s source — a barnacle, flower, or leaf, for instance. Each image suggests its own composition, although I mess around for a while, sometimes months, until the image “works.”

I’m looking for compositional and metaphoric relationships between the life-size object and the microscopic parts of itself. I continue by researching the role of this species in the biosphere, and how it is impacted by environmental stress. If all of these elements make if through the filters of beauty, intrigue, and relevance — they get to join the party.

For my source material, I originally looked around the land where I live, finding seeds, feathers, pollen, leaves, lichens, dragonflies, flower petals, and spiderwebs. As the work expanded, I collected samples from beyond my home. I’ve taken hundreds of samples to the SEM, most being about the size of a fingernail. All of the samples added up could fit in a small pail, with room left over for hitchhikers.

Nearly every sample that I’ve studied has a story to tell about environmental degradation or climate change. Most everywhere I turn, the planet where I’ve grown up is in deep distress. Diseases are spreading into new communities of insects as a result, and at the same time, there is increasing worldwide documentation of insect populations crashing, with potentially huge consequences for crop pollination and ecosystem health. All of this news is haunting to me, and these images express that haunting, coupled with beauty.

Western Red Cedar Stomata

One of the first mind-blowing things I saw were the stomata of Garry oak leaves. Stomata are the cells that allow a plant to take in CO2 and expel O2 and water. All of the moisture in the atmosphere cycles through plant stomata twice a year — the stomata help drive the climate; a poet would say they’re a kind of collective planetary lung — and a hundred of them, edge to edge, would span a pinhead.

In the tropics, high temperatures caused by climate change and deforestation cause certain stomata to close, killing the trees. I was fascinated to find that these tiny pores play such a magnificent role in the biosphere, that they’re on the front lines of climate change, and that they’re incredibly diverse and mysterious in design.

Garry Oak and Leaf Stomata

Robert Dash

Trees play a huge role in capturing moisture and reducing temperatures. Water, and plants’ ability to capture it, is as important as carbon in terms of responding to climate shock.

Wasp Nest Fibers

Robert Dash

Warmer weather is more favorable to wasps.

The focus of my images is contrast in scales from life-size to minuscule layers of ideas and beauty. These pictures encapsulate a sense of depth and dimension, a blend of abstract and vivid fact, as well as metaphor and social commentary. I think of these pictures as a visual exploration of whimsy and humor which echoes surrealism, still life, the works of M.C. Escher, Ernst Haeckel, Karl Blossfeldt, and Jerry Uelsmann.

I’ve been a huge fan of tiny nature my whole life. To put this in perspective: At age 5 I was out in my backyard woods looking under logs for salamanders when my mother yelled out the window that John F. Kennedy had been shot. Over all these years, nature has been my profound solace, inspiration, and teacher. If I can give back a fraction of the inspiration I’ve received, I’m living my purpose.

Arbutus Trunk and Leaf Surface

What I hope people take away from these images is the understanding that the practice of close, patient observation of nature is tremendously rewarding and instructive. Questions, stories, imagination, and teachings arise at this slow pace, which is the opposite of soundbite culture. This connection to nature is free and priceless; this way of seeing has deep value.

Skin of Soy

Robert Dash

Yields and nutritional content from this staple crop are likely to decline, putting extra stress on developing countries.

To see more of Robert Dash’s work, visit his website at robertdashphotography.com.

Sahred From Source link Science

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[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

The Inkling is currently roaming the rooftops listening to chatter. At first nothing caught interest until he heard a female voice say 'I knew it.' At that point he focuses on the conversation until the two disperse. "A mother willing to use pajama squid poison to have her way? Not on my watch." He stands from his perch and follows the mother until he spots an opening for entrance.

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

The Inkling was outside his home on a private island overlooking Greater Inkopolis listening in on different conversations Using a well built Communications Interception system.

He won’t be listening for long when one conversation caught his attention. He was mentioned to someone he met ONCE. So of course he would give a loud remark on the statement.

He reaches for his pocket pulling out a recently released SPhone 14 (IPhone) and he dials a phone number. Then taps on call.

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

The inkling was in the process of figuring out how to escalate the spire knowing his black ink cannot harm the Jelletons. With that in mind the inkling had to message Smollusk. Now he’s on the first floor figuring out how to succeed Entirely with a weapon In the midst of the encounter he suddenly gets a sixth sense. “I feel something is watching me. Smollusk might’ve have alerted the Parallel Canon and they sent a lone individual to keep an eye on my progress.”

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

*gives a salute to the commander running towards his office with enterprise on his six.* “Good luck, commander. Enterprise will not stop until she gets you a dress.”

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

“There’s been a lot of sightings of an Unidentified Flying Object in splatsville lately.” He pauses before getting up and gets ready to leave. “Better get to the bottom of this before someone gets really hurt.”

[dexter-the-inkling-boy]

“Won’t be long until Frye gets what’s coming. Vodka and an energy drink combined will have a devastating consequence. The fact she can’t feel her hearts now is enough to know just much longer she has until she crashes from energy loss.”

[mantrabay]

A Little Known Shortcut.

Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell.

Even when prickly brambles

scrape my eyelids or those bony ankles are being twisted by tooth like stones. The angular sort clustered mischievously among the green shoots that litter every footpath.

They lie in wait, in ambush.

It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman.

Meandering landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills that are rife in my area.

Their rustic heritage sometimes sacrificed to the orphanage of malleable motives.

Crop farmers obsessed with bountiful harvest.

A restless developer pushing the limits of an urban jungle.

Fellow traveller in league with fugitives from the cockpit.

The pressure cooker of modern life.

The town dweller with split loyalties who clings to the tumult of the city but hankers after some rural idyll.

Culprits one and all.

A lair from the hubbub.

Dwellings of the quaintest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.

The more alluring aspects of tradition have been preserved.

Among these are shortcuts or bypasses.

Those sequestered passages that shave miles off for the perennial rambler or clueless hitchhiker.

The eye becomes a lense to all these

things hidden or supposedly hidden.

Human vision as sensor to magic trails.

Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.

They festoon the sprawling countryside at random.

My name is Eric Spring.

Anthea, my partner a transcendental meditation teacher retired early at an early age.

Her withdrawal from work was never meant to be permanent.

A final decision hinged on Anthea's ability to purge that fiendish veil of sadness that had been shadowing her.

There were several obstacles in her path but they weren’t insurmountable.

Thoughts of Anthea in her halcyon days haunted me.

Mental pictures of a vibrant woman imbued with passion.

Poignant evocative heart-tugging images.

Bar excursions into town my station is that of Anthea’s carer.

This eternally stoic woman is mindful of her mental boundaries and the abyss concealed by each of them.

But she is not prone to self-hate or abuse. The more lethal plagues of the psyche hadn't yet impacted on her.

Anthea was groping for exits but hadn’t found the signs.

She remains housebound as I embark on those age defying treks into town.

We keep in touch by mobile phone.

A very angelic sensitive looking person is she.

Reminiscent of a Sunday Times editor.

The accent filters every noun and stresses every nuance.

Like the sounds from an early morning orchard.

Anthea's job became monotonous and her other pursuits painting and writing fled without trace.

A budding artist’s most dreaded syndromes struck.

Writer's block. Artistic vacuum.

The wellspring of her imagination now devoid of those inspiring flashes that sustain creative impulse.

She had few outlets bar my care and a lady called Fidelma who had the edge on me with regard to local knowledge. I longed to hear Anthea's voice on my device.

Her hypnotic voice bridges gaps.

You feel close even when speaking to her from a distance.

I love the walks and savouring all those pivot points of folklore.

I pride myself on my intimate knowledge of every branch strewn rivulet, stream and layered rock formation.

My links to the environment are almost erotic as I crave it's sensual touch.

At times I enter a tranquil zone where the shutters are drawn.

Just myself and all those habitats.

“Hello Eric? Lost in thought again.

How is anthea these days?

I spoke to her over the phone a few days ago.

I sometimes drop in on her when you are out.”

Fidelma speaking with that chirping red robin voice of hers.

She had this penchant for suddenly appearing like an archaeological site.

And she vanished just as quickly leaving the person she spoke to scrambling to process her asides and insights before they disappeared.

Neighbour, friend, root and branch archivist whose grasp of detail was legendary.

“She seems to be coping.” I said.

“Glad to hear that. Maybe I can pay a flying visit some time soon.

But aren't you a foolish man to be imposing all those Olympic Marathons on yourself?”

Fidelma about to share one of her treasured nuggets.

“I love walking but any tips?”

Spring enquired naively as events soon demonstrated.

“There’s a shortcut…..a little known shortcut.

People in the know recommend it though I have never actually used it myself.

Maybe I will one day.

See, it's on the right hand side up the road there.

Think it might be useful when you want to get home in a hurry.” She concluded.

Fidelma in advanced middle age was still sprightly and youthful in her ways.

I missed a text from anthea and Fidelma noticed.

“Yes. I have one of those gadgets too.

Keeps me connected.

Took me awhile to master it.

Wish there was a shortcut for that.

But I'll best be on my way.

Take good care whatever the route.”

As always having spoken to Fidelma I wondered about in a trance.

Another colourful aspect of Fidelma’s personality was her “Banana Skin Syndrome.”

She could lose her balance betimes when enthusing about a topic or when she stumbled on an area that fascinated her.

The feet were a little wobbly.

All this against her philosophy about how interconnected everything is.

The mind is an antenna sending out signals to others was a frequent broadside of hers.

Even when Fidelma said very little she always had this magnetic effect on others.

Those terse one liners could trigger an avalanche in the mind.

Her thin phrases were always shrouded in a well crafted poetic meter.

It was in the tone, gestures and body language.

Those beady yet expressive eyes scanning her environment like a radar screen.

A cascade of images and sound bytes ensued when she left.

Several hours passed as my mind was in overdrive like a central processing unit.

I heard this inner voice telling me to explore this “shortcut.”

Having texted Anthea I then proceeded to this offshoot of a lane.

It was going to lighten the journey of this slope and pavement plodder.

Off I went down this quaint country shortcut.

Nothing out of the ordinary to begin with until Anthea rang.

“Gnawing feeling of sadness.

My mind is a dark blue canvass at the moment.”

Her lilting twang mingling with the song birds at the start of my downward journey.

I sensed this was urgent and started to walk quickly.

That's when problems arose.

Just a plain country passage with a primarily flat surface at this point.

There were houses on each side and some weeds strewn and partially mangled, turned to mulch by wild and indiscriminate boots.

Strange feelings welled up within me as I felt like a geyser at yellowstone.

The puff and splutter of tractors in nearby fields as furrows, the epicenter of future yields were turned.

Scarecrows were strategically perched in the meadow behind the right hand hedge to ward off some menace or other.

Something told me to relate my surroundings to Anthea.

If only to divert attention from an impending gloom.

Those barely audible inner prompts again.

“Eric, I don't want to pressurise you but at the moment I feel this dark cloud.”

Eric paused.

It then occurred to me that I was engulfed by dark foreboding clouds in tandem with a rising rainbow like haze.

As Anthea continued her disorders seemed to be complemented by external threats of rain intermingled with sunshine.

“I feel, Eric there is a radiance trying to break through.

Just to see you … your presence is a light which I could focus on.”

Then I realised that speed was of the essence.

That's when I could have panicked.

Anthea’s voice seemed louder, but also more lyrical as I realised this obscure

overlooked route could have done with some restoration!

Tufts of grass oozing slime.

Mounds of mud with pockets of oil stained water.

The briars were a shock team that endangered every part of the human body.

I was conveying all this to anthea as I was trying to dash at my normal pace.

Oddly Anthea’s tone of desperation started to dip.

But she did appear less tense as I told her this story over the phone.

“Someone told me this is a shortcut.”

Eric said gingerly.

“Who was that ? Anthea asked.

“Fidelma. We met on the main road just a short while ago.” I responded.

“You know her a bit better than I do.”

Anthea observed. “She's going to call over one of these days I'm sure.”

By now Anthea, initially nervous was mellowing as I continued with my frantic running … and staggering commentary!

She didn’t have had much to excite her over the last five years.

But I had to be careful lest those dark brooding phases returned.

Like a roving reporter I regaled her with lurid descriptions of limp green shrubs, tea brown leaves shredded on fissured rocks, juice dripping blackberry bushes with foraging earwigs seeking shelter from the sun.

But here I was almost knee deep in tangled foliage while keeping the love of my life up to speed!

The labyrinthine outcrops and mock craters were all included.

Suddenly misfortune struck without warning.

I nearly sprained my leg as I fell face down on a grassy patch.

Sprawled awkwardly across this surface my phone went flying but I managed to catch it.

“Eric, are you ok?

I don’t mean to be a burden.

Will I get someone to meet you at the end of this lane or short cut.”

Anthea again.

“I'm fine, Anthea.”

Eric said before slowly rising.

I kept detailing my observations and Anthea was reacting positively.

But I made it eventually with the sounds of the road as guide.

The temperatures continued to rise causing perspiration.

Peering thru the maze of entwined growths I saw … Fidelma.

“Where did you spring from?” Eric punning his own name.

“Fidelma ...you fell too.” A question that might have appeared tactless.

She was getting up, having fallen when taking her bearings it seems.

“Fidelma …. thanks but no thanks.

The shortcut.” I said.

“You are shivering.” She observed.

“I am. Spring responded.

“Got to get to Anthea because she might be in need of help.” Spring continued.

We both headed for my house as quickly as possible.

But it wasn’t far.

I texted Anthea and she answered by saying she had every reason to speak to me.

One wondered what that might be.

My face whitened.

Fidelma and I soon reached the house where I lived.

Eric pressed the doorbell as his heart pounded.

The door opened suddenly and we couldn't believe what we saw.

“Anthea, is that you?

I haven't seen you smile like that in years.”

I said.

Fidelma and I were perplexed to say the least.

“It’s early days yet but those locusts of darkness hopping around in my head maybe dwindling.

Those creative juices returned when I sensed your anxiety down the lane because I didn't want two sick people in this house.

But you brought splashes of vivid colour into my drawing room.

I could almost smell the rustic fragrance of every wilting petal and the creaking of every twig.

You set a whole cycle in train.”

Anthea then showed me two items she was working on.

“I have started a rough sketch of the lane you detailed and a short story.

There's been a sea change.” She said.

“Oh I wonder what I'll call this sketch and that short story?

Any ideas?” Anthea enquired.

Fidelma and I looked at each other and spoke almost in unison.

“I think we both have a fair idea what they both might be called.

Your story included.”

A little known shortcut indeed!

Photograph and short story copyright protected to mantrabay