A pool of light


Their eyes drew me,
And their eyes draw me again
Into a pool of winter light
Golden from the low sun.
I swim in it
Like a hawk flows on the wind
Over the depths,
Of life.
Contained by a white china cup,
I’m your reflection now
Drowning in the slanting sunlight
Like a stone in a lake.
Falling deeper until I find
the creative mud
with which I mingle
no longer a stone
but a soft flowing stream of sensations
which meets with joy
the earth’s depths and presence.
And something new will grow

Where have all the cliches gone?


At the end of the day,
it all boils down to
what happens in that moment in time
in that split second.
I offer you my words of wisdom,
Don’t delay… you don’t want to be
A moment too soon or too late.
We must listen to our hearts
To find out our gut feelings,
Trust your instincts
And remember,it’s never too early or late,
Or exactly the right moment,
To start saving for a pension.
At the end of the day,
I hope you made your bed
The way you wanted to lie in it..
Though usually,love needs truth
And lying is an art
unlike survival and love;
Though love is not all you need
but love helps us roll along
gathering a little moss.
Ask not for whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee,,
and me too.
But when we sum it all up

We can say,with hand on heart..
we were just following orders
Then the grieving will start.

Touch me again

Hand in colorize

Art by Katherine

When he went away

He went away


I didn’t know where


he had gone

where had he gone?

The call came.:

call came….

Man,white,good health

Has died.

Has died alone

Died alone in an hotel room.

So a stranger would find him.

Man alone;

man alone in hotel room.

there was a man


in his hotel room.

Not wanting to be any trouble.

trouble,no trouble alone

in his hotel room

not his room,you see.

not a shared room…

An hotel room.

Tall man with light brown hair

alone in a small hotel room

with no TV.

We had no smartphones



No,don’t tell , not me ,not yet.

Not me.

He was all alone.

He was behind glass

glass walls


a window of glass.

I could never touch him.

I could not touch him.

not touch,no,never,

Man alone.

Solitary man.

Tall man with brown hair.

Beds for love

Beds for leaving.

Don’t you die alone

in that hotel room.

Don’t die

Don’t go

You wanted to be alone,

I thought…

you were

afraid to feel.

Thin skinned and pale like a torn petal from a wild plant.

You were alone again

And you left me all alone;

alone without you.

Now I’m alone

in my hotel room.

my room.

Someone knocks.

I’m dreaming of you

wishing you were near me.


lonely for you.

He was all alone,they said.

In an hotel room.

His doom

In a lonely bedroom.

Don’t leave me yet.

Yet you were never here

behind your window

I see you

but can’t touch you.

Can’t touch you.

Can’t touch.

Touch me.

Touch me again.

Love me…

You were all alone


Why did I not break the glass?

Break the glass;

The glass.

Touch me again

Touch me again

Object relations link


Add Mediahttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Object_relations_theory

In case you don’t know about this…. it’s mentioned in my last post.It’s  is a psychoanalytical school based om the work of Dr W D Winnicott

Levinas, The Frankfurt School and Psychoanalysis (review) Neil McLaughlin


From: The Canadian Journal of Sociology
Volume 30, Number 1, Winter 2005
pp. 117-120 | 10.1353/cjs.2005.0027

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:The Canadian Journal of Sociology 30.1 (2005) 117-120

C. Fred Alford, Levinas, The Frankfurt School and Psychoanalysis. Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 2002. 186 pp.

The study of emotions is all the rage in the social sciences and humanities these days, so it was exciting to find C. Fred Alford’s newest book Levinas, The Frankfurt School and Psychoanalysis in my mail-box. Alford, a political theorist at the University of Maryland, College Park, is one of the most thoughtful, original and prolific social scientists writing on psychoanalysis today. Levinas’s social philosophy has become enormously influential within post-modern circles, especially after a widely discussed endorsement by Derrida. And the critical theory of the Frankfurt School has left a rich and contentious legacy that both critiques Enlightenment rationality and draws on psychoanalytic insights. A book with this title by a scholar of Alford’s credentials offers the potential for an important contribution to social science debate on the role of emotions in social life. Unfortunately, Alford’s book is a disappointment, marred by a shallow engagement with the literature on the Frankfurt School and a failure to address core issues involved in the use and misuse of psychoanalysis in social science.

The structure of Alford’s book is straightforward, if somewhat self-indulgent. The first chapter “Someone Rings Your Doorbell” introduces Levinas’s basic philosophy, interspersed with Alford’s discussions with a friend who reflects on the encounter with the “other” when someone comes to your home interrupting your work, as well as a brief overview of the literature on Levinas. The book then moves to an extended discussion of the relationship between Levinas and the object relations school of psychoanalysis represented by the British theorist and clinician Winnicott. There is then a chapter comparing the thought of Levinas to the critical theory of German philosopher and Frankfurt School icon Theodor Adorno and the work of the novelist/philosopher Iris Murdoch. The book then concludes with discussion of the relationship between psychoanalysis, politics and freedom, as well as the ethics of “love, pity and humanity.”

Alford is often an enormously careful and generous reader, and he does a remarkable job of both taking Levinas seriously and sharply offering his disagreements with his ethical theory. The book, however, has a disorganized feel to it. This is by no means purely Alford’s responsibility, due to the “Levinas Effect” whereby readers tend to find what they are looking for in Levinas’s complex and diverse writing. As Alford puts it, “Levinas has been found to be a “proto-feminist deconstructionist theologian who reconciles postmodern ethics and a rabbinic Judaism” (p. 33). As a result, Alford must range widely over literature in philosophy, theology, political theory and post-modern social theory in order to do justice to Levinas. Alford’s generosity in attempting to deal with Levinas on his own terms therefore results in an confusing argument. Are we discussing the plausibility and desirability of Levinas’s version of postmodern ethics? Are we engaging Levinas’s implicit psychology with the insights of the object relations psychoanalytic tradition? Are we primarily concerned with thinking about the relationship between Levinas’s work and the critique of the Enlightenment and modernity offered in the writings of the Frankfurt School tradition? Are we to treat Levinas as an ethical philosopher, or as a political theorist? Are we concerned with the meaning of life? Alford’s book does all this and more, and thus far less.

Questioning Levinas’s assumption that “ethics must forever stand in opposition to nature” (p. 40), Alford offers a psychoanalytically inspired alternative to both a sappy humanism and Levinas’s philosophy. For Alford, Levinas’s work lacks an appreciation of shared freedom, the value of art, and the importance of pity, compassion and tragedy in human affairs. This reader, at least, found Alford’s critique compelling. Alford’s well received earlier work, particularly Narcissism: Socrates, the Frankfurt School, and Psychoanalytic Theory (1988), Melanie Klein and C

Stan and his ass




Stan was outside polishing both his balding his head and the brass doorstep.”My,these microfiber cloths are wonderful” he thought joyfully.Mary was out taking a large bag of unneeded clothes to the Oxfam Charity Shop.Thank God!,thought Stan…that wardrobe is going to burst one day and spray her clothes all over the room like …what? Not cannon balls,maybe like the ghosts of dead giant sized bats!

Suddenly he heard a loud cry and then he felt a pair of hands fondling the top of his bald head.

“Eeh,no rest for the wicked,even at 81,” he screamed.He staggered to his feet and rubbed his knees.

“Just give me a hand” ,he said,”I’ll have to stretch my hamstrings.They tighten up so.”

“I’ll stretch them for you!” Annie whispered roguishly.Stan leant forward to touch his toes and she could not resist the temptation to give his bottom a tender slap.

“For Pete‘s sake,Annie” he shouted turbulently.

“Someone might see that.”

“Don’t worry,there’s no-one around at this time of the day” she tittered.

“I can’t help it anyway.I just love your ass.That’s what women like.”

“Do you normally slap the things you love?” Stan enquired politely yet firmly….what next?

“And furthermore “ass” is an American expression.

“Well,I’ve always been fond of Americans,”she whispered naughtily.

Stan recalled that her son had borne a strong resemblance to Bill Clinton but refrained from mentioning this.Anway Annie had never been to Oxford,as far as he knew and Clinton was only there for a year…though a man could father many children in a year as the terms at Oxford were only eight weeks long… leaving 28 weeks vacation.

“What do you think of my ass?” she murmered humorously.

“I’d rather have a donkey.” he said childishly.

“I could ride on it into the town.”

“You are so horrible,Stan.You never pass any  jocular yet charming remarks about my body.”

“I never knew you lacked confidence in that department,” he said peevishly.

“Besides,you know I prefer to show my feelings non verbally!

With that he pretended to kick Annie on the butt with his Hotter laced up shoes.

“Now then,what’s going on here.You seem like a couple of teenagers!”

It was Dave,the paramedic.

He had been lying behind the wheelie bins,all three bins standing plaintively in the tiny front garden, where once fragrant red roses had bloomed in summer and scratched people with their thorns all the rest of the year.

“I’m an MI5 spy,and I’ve been reading your blog,Mr Brown.”

“I’m not called Brown”,said Stan proudly.

“Refuses to accept reality,”Dave wrote in his little notepad with some blood he had taken from himself earlier,

“Jesus Christ!”,said Stan.

“Now,now” said Dave,”that’s not your name,

“No my name is Tan,not Brown,you’ve been reading the wrong blog!”

“Stan Tan!”

Dave appeared crestfallen,

“Any chairs need mending today?”

“My what beautiful ears you have,sweetheart,”he said to Annie,

“They look like sea shells,”

“Your eyes are like shallow pools in Lake Windermere during a thunderstorm.”Annie replied womanfully.

“Are you still a transvestite?” she followed on incoherently.

“And how about my ass?”

“I never knew you had an ass.Is it in the back garden?

I had a mystical experience and now I’m a Zen Bhuddist”

“How did that happen?” demanded Stan querulously.

“Well,I was knitting myself a Shetland lace sweater in pale blue mohair,and I suddenly had the feeling that everything was interwoven.

Going forward or backwards,sideways or straight ahead,it is all part of the warp and weft of life.”

“Mistakes don’t matter” he continued wildly his eyes gleaming like the preacher’s at Hyde Park Corner

“Oh,yes,they do,”Annie said pouting her full lips,cherry pink by courtesy of L’Oreal of Paris and New York

“As I was saying..,”


Emile the cat ran out expectantly,knowing the sound of a human imitating a bicycle bell.He was already salivating expectantly.

Dave dived back behind the wheelie bins.

Stan polished the brass step and Annie disappeared in a puff of smoke.

It was Mary’s famous imitation of a bicycle bell that had alerted them all to her imminent return from the Oxfam shop,fortunately.

In fact Mary knew everything but didn’t want them to know she knew,for if she knew and they knew she knew,she knew it would make life too complex.she just knew it,for sure.I know she knew,though she doesn’t know that I knew.


“Don’t they make bike bells any more?” Dave boringly wondered as he carried on reading the new life of the poet Emily Dickinson named

“A loaded gun.”

He had thought it was an army training manual,but,hey,mistakes don’t matter!

Or do they?

Read the next instalment yesterday at your local newsagent,free at the point of service just like the NHS and watch your ass as you never know who else is watching it.Though as you will never know,this fact will never impinge on you.Though you may feel a kind of tingling sometimes…

You know it makes sense!Sometimes,at least.


I have had to imitate a bicycle bell all my life till now….I have real bell on my bike..how cool is that?

I owe it to myself to keep my life secret



A few weeks after Annie moved into the house next door to Stan,he met her when he was  seeing his wife off to work.
Why does your wife not have a car? she enquired suspiciously.
She is trying to keep slim,Stan told her.
Well,she’s not been very successful,Annie said scientifically.
She might be much fatter than she is now if she drove a car,he stated ponderously
That’s true,muttered Annie meditatively
I am your new next door neighbor.she continued
Yes my dear, said Stan,I have seen you sunbathing in the garden in your bikinis.
How come? she asked scientifically.
There’s a big hole in the fence.
Is it legal to look at women through a hole in the fence?
asked Annie.
I know it’s illegal to look into their bedroom windows.
Is it really,asked Stan nervously,I had no idea.
How about women looking at men through a round hole?
Oh,they are not bothered to do that,she told him charmingly.
Well,said Stan,clearing his throat,I think I owe it to myself to tell you that I love you.
Wow,you’re quick off the mark,the lady said saucily.
What do you mean,you owe it to yourself?
Nothing,said Stan,I could not think how to word it.I mean I wish to unselfishly love you and admire your ripe body and your cute sense of color.I love your teal trouser suit.And you sing sos well in the bath.
You didn’t mean you owe it to yourself to take advantage of me?
Not unless you want me to take advantage of you,the gallant old man informed her.
And you can take advantage of me.I make cakes and biscuits,wholemeal bread and I am training my cat Emile to do statistics on an i pad.
How extraordinary,Annie whispered.I didn’t know cats had an “I.” let alone pads.
Well,they have pads on their paws,he informed her intelligently.
True,she said,but where are their I’s?
Where are our I’s ?he responded in a manner to rejoice the heart of Mary Midgley or Susanne Langer two of Stan’s favourite writers on philosophy,logic,symbols and ethics.
Not that he practiced the Ethics but he liked to know what he was doing wrong.It’s more fun that way.If you sin,sin big!
A man who seduces women merrily one after the other may have no idea it might be wrong.Neither might the women.Why is it wrong?Surely it’s better than killing people or leaving the lid off the jam all night so the wasps get into the jar?
Still,not many men get the chances that Stan got.No-one suspected this kindly,handsome practicing Catholic was a womanizer despite his blue beard,green eyes,white skin and red hair.And his slim yet strong figure clad in navy trousers and white shirts all the year round.Maybe his wife did but she preferred to read Aristotle in bed and dream about mercury… those little silver balls,so cute!
Well,as we know,Stan is about to make Annie his mistress but in such a cold wet summer,where can he take her to do the deed?
The shed?The public library? Cafe Nero?
I owe it to you not to tell you yet.That will give you time to think of a solution for this sweet old man and his naughty but nice neighbor.
Like,how about the confessional in the local Church?
Whatever next?I owe it to myself to keep it secret as you may come along and spoil the fun.
Stan went indoors and washed up in the boiling hot water he kept by him constantly as he owed it to himself to be ready to make a hot drink at any moment he fancied and by gum,he did fancy like no man has ever fancied before.So his daemon tells me.

Next time:Why did God create Stan and why does it matter?


Seriously wonderful poem

?????????????Seriously wonderful poem

This poem’s a bit cerebral but well  worth reading…philosophy,art,war

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