Last year I wrote THREE posts in December and this year can barely (no pun intended) get ONE out but I have strapped myself to the chair and intend to wish everyone a very Happy Christmas.
Because the girls are away this year I've been a bit lax on the christmas front. I think Beezle is a bit miffed he's not getting a stocking this year. Not even a small one. He thinks I'm not making an effort and has reminded me that he and William Blake think that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Above is the image I've sent out this year in the form of a christmas card - drawn by Chloe. Yes - I've gone digital - just as the world has probably gone back to pen and paper or even parchment.
There is a bear - Abel Dancer - in my book The Boy with the Tiger's Heart - and doing some research and visiting zoos etc. I've become fascinated with them. My bear - was brought up by humans and the girl in the story was brought up by animals and part of their journey was getting used to being in the world in their natural form. Bears were used a lot for entertainment, (and sadly still are) - being gentle.compliant creatures.Abel Dancer was trained to be a dancing bear and to wrestle - his reward being a bottle of coca cola.
I found this photograph in a book on the circus and probably am not allowed to re-produce it - but hey what are the chances of whoever took this reading my blog? By the way - The Boy with the Tiger's Heart has its own page on Facebook. check it out and like it if you can - I don't know why it's important to get lots of likes - perhaps there's a prize.
|Beezle dreaming of the road of excess|
|Pocket says he's been hanging around the palace of wisdom for ages and its not as good as it's cracked up to be|
|When the girls were younger I used to harness Harry up on christmas eve and put some sleigh bells on the cart and go out. This year it'll be a ride on Trude who will not be wearing false antlers or red ribbons.|
by Mary Oliver
There's a bear in the Truro woods.
People have seen it - three or four,
or two or one. I think
of the thickness of the serious woods
around the dark bowls of the Truro ponds;
I think of the blueberry fields, the blackberry tangles,
the cranberry bogs. And the sky
with its new moon, its familiar star- trails,
burns down like a brand new heaven,
whilst everywhere I look on the scratchy hillsides
shadows seem to grow shoulders. Surely
a beast might be clever, be lucky, move quietly
through the woods for years, learning to stay away
from roads and houses. Common sense matters;
it can't be true, it must be somebody's
runaway dog.But the seed
has been planted, and when has happiness ever
required much evidence to begin
its leaf-green breathing?