Kindof ran the idea of a huge increase in the number of seagulls recently past 2 or 3 workmates to day. One out of 3 said that they too had noticed greater seagull activity lately. Bristol happens to be a coastal city I admit, but why so many seagulls for fuck's sake? The office is on a square adjacent to the inner city ( St. Pauls). Sat on a bench, seagulls fucking about above ground nearby (birds reckon that flying is so clever), I said, "one of them is gonna shit pretty soon." .... Git - bullseye right on my crown chakra. Me, I sticks up for the dudes in feathers, why treat me like all the other dumb critters? Not to mention miles of road kill over in Wales last weekend. Wish the fuck that I could read into it, but nature reveals its secrets in its own time only. Stupid birds - get a fucking life - show me your counselling skills and your awesome public monuments. You fly so high and swoop so low, Timothy Leary. But what about us humans? Fit for recycling? Lost the plot? Actually saving our asses? Yeh - we're saving our asses, putting our soul power to the karmic wheel. Almost like Man U scoring a couple in the dying seconds (dreadful analogy.)

Z.

Yer 'tis gurt Bristle our boy's handle's gurt Banksy.

We sez our hero's from France: "Banksy is French." True there is cartoonist technique straight out of the Bande Dessine. True that Banksy's episodic allusions are frequently risque.

Lucky for me I walk staight down Stokes Croft in Banksy heartland with time to admire all the graffiti episodes rising on the Banksy bande dessine tradition.

All along the boundary of the Free St. Pauls citizenship workshop.

Obviously the publicists and commentators whisper out of earshot, in Bristol, the rising of the tribe is the next agenda, the next party, the next thing of free beauty. Free Banksy! Free Bristol!

Z.

Now and then my brain alights on a fragrant bloom of my own inner peace. I submit the truth of the smokey quartz gem that encapsulates the harmony of death and beauty. That gem? Because the combination of death and beauty has a characteristic of sepia opaqueness that is crystalized and hard just as if the truth is set in stone.

Had I an animal spirit, mine should be a stag. One of the images I most dwell on in paintings, it's the painting of the stag in the verdant forest, where I substitute "stag" for "artist" staring back triumphantly at the monad viewing the painting. The viewer is alone with the stag which symbolises his unique soul. For the same reason I pay special attention to Stephan Mallarme's Apres-midi d'un Faune.

I must say that death is the epitome of beauty, because and when it clarifies the boundaries of everything. Doesn't death stop a mountain from increasing in size? Death must put a limit on the height of trees, also on the hardness of rocks and stones.

Crucially, the most beautiful choses, are the choses that come close to death but I don't know why or how, but I should like to know. Great art, great lives and exceptional people know these things.

Probably Schopenhauer wrote all about it. Probably.

Z

The spring greens of the golf course trees tremble in the tender sunlight of the end of the world afternoon. All the trademarks of nature since a short while have an end of the world aura. Hangover of this fin de siecle, scrambling and scrabbling to get not just a century, but a whole millenium, underway. I will buy the reality of this summer of love if it is for sale. All across the richly hide of green fur prolific baize of Durdham Down, runners in groups, people in training, rugby league and rugby union tackling in merriment, prove to me that relationships are beginning to work and be worked upon.

Z

There's been shedloads of bad luck lately, I cannot even believe that this is not normal. Did I strive to become a grown up, only to be faced with huge personal and collective challenges? Me, mine and fate - the gloves are off. My misunderstood tarot card - the wheel of fortune. Those dicey Egyptians who brought luck to the table, and the subsequent contributions of the Romans and Greeks. Fridays can be scary with special helpings of both malheur and bonheur. Western Civilisation thrives on the mighty currents streaming down from antiquity. Chop and chop again. Some of my dad's ashes are going to be scattered in my back garden, and my mum's and my brothers' too. As gardeners, Jackie and I plan to choose a plant shrub or tree to be planted in a hole lined with his ashes. Karma, karma, blind justice, travelling across multi-billion light years just to lightly brush my soul and cut down my plans and any puerile adulation to the deaf and lurid statue that is, Lady Luck.

Z

Since he died 3 weeks ago, have I used a variety of methods in an attempt to confirm or refute the notion that his life underwent obliteration (Dad).

Perhaps it befits me to keep that largely inconsequential notion between parenthesis.

He held the belief that some still hold, that of an afterlife (kindof debrief is what I imagine). Apart from that he was a very intelligent person.

He may have raised his eyebrows (if they survived cremation) at the sight of those quaint golden gates and all those pansies with white smocks plucking at their comrades heart strings (awwww).

Doesn't it piss you off to keep being reminded that death can so easily spring out at us from behind a tree? Or from some poxy car (usually second hand) derailling up the sidewalk and making our guts spew over some hapless git's windscreen.

Oh yes! Death! Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly.

RIP dad, you old git - I love you, ace Skyrider.

Z

Where do the children play?

The title for my magic box is a quote from a Cat Stephens song; Cat, so demonised for an infamous allegiance to Islam. His lyrics and upbeat tunes pointed forward to his (pretty logical) eventual conversion. 'Miles from nowhere' presaged the climbing of Mount Zion, still a reality to Youssouf the islamist.

And kids? The same inspiration as was to the buddhist monks playing off ground touch and knock knock ginger. What are always behind us but always ahead of us? Any adult growing old who attempts to 'teach 'em a thing or two' lives in fear of losing the source of youth lying at the threshold of existence.

The children can spot the cynics, the bitter, and the pessimists, ever caught one looking at you a bit quizzically? That will be the grim reaper, GO ON! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! Or stare the tiger in the eyes.

Z