Hit between the eyes when River Phoenix died, in my gasped sigh I swear a piece of my own soul died. You were far too young, far too perfect to be gone speeding just like a passing train flashing by… but that was your way that was your life. In ‘Stand by Me,’ I could not believe the beauty of this elfin face so elegantly delivering words of maturity so eloquently beyond your tender age. But in hindsight I now see your whole doomed life was etched over that young tender haunted…innocent face. Your sibling once a Leaf now Joaquin carries on your name, he is less than perfect more substance to him, more bone, he is not so pure, he broods his voice is as shallow as dark as a whisper in the night. His face carries the physical scar from a childhood accident? His eyes carry the scars of a burden of a perfect brother so cruelly taken away. You are now quite a while gone but he is still walking in your shadow…I am concerned for him and urge him to move on…and yet again selfishly I think of you and him together and dream of the films that might have been.



In 1982 I watched a whole nation embrace an ageing prince and a young (to be fair a well to do) woman, I sat gasping almost crying with a mixture of anger and admiration at their devotion to this insidious deceit. “No, no what are you doing?” I cried, how could people celebrate so passionately this arranged wedding manufactured, purely designed to prolong an archaic family’s way of life…how could they not see this? If she Diana, was unaware at first she soon realised because she was not so dim as imagined, that they would sacrifice her if she did not play along with their game. The night she died is another of those moments where you wheeze and then suck in air, blink, shake your head at the TV, close your eyes open them again and see that the truth is not a dream that will fade away.



Beauty and impressive are not words that you should openly use when describing the destruction of the twin towers during 9/11. But when I got home from work that day after hearing all from word of mouth, I have to say amazement rather than horror was my first emotion. Amazed that they could do this, amazed that they could be so cruel, amazed at their own sacrifice, amazed that they could do this knowing fine well what the reaction of a brain dead but brutal American administration would be, amazed at the visual spectacle of two 757’s actually imploding on sides the twin towers. Never has a message from the east to the west been so precise, unequivocal and to the point. Never has the way of life that I take for granted been so callously demonstrated to be so fragile and not so invincible after all. And since, never has the precious air I breathe tasted so sweet.



I heard about this chap called Charles Hank Bukowski, I am not a poet or a great fan of it, but I heard great things of him so I ventured to find his words, but to be truthful his love of cats was the reason for my curiosity. I found a site amongst others with over a 100 of his pieces. Now I am player of this writing game, perhaps naively thinking that it can be learned, I tinker with word and phrase and smile smugly with delight when I accidentally conjure up a tasty line…but the truth of the matter is on this web page, the truth that writers are born not made. His words are simple; the message clear, the honesty of emotion is profound, and the clarity of how it really is can reach in and rip the heart out of your back.



Reading,



I laugh out loud still at ‘I Met A Genius.’



I cheer at the loyalty, realness and honesty of ‘The History Of One Tough Motherfucker.’



I anger when I read ‘Hell is a lonely place.’



I am in despair during ‘The death of an idiot.’



And when I read ‘For Jane,’ my breath for a small moment is always captured, crushed and then torn away.