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Some people find perfection in stillness;
some people find perfection in silence;
some people find perfection in chaos;
some people find perfection in the instance
that they find balance.

Some people find perfection on a beach;
some people find perfection in a smile;
some people find perfection in what lies out of reach;
some people find perfection in a mosaic picture of broken tiles.

Some people find perfection in a photograph;
some people find perfection in a sunset;
some people find perfection in the sound of someone’s laugh;
some people find perfection in the sound of a clarinet.

Some people find perfection in a meal;
some people find perfection in a ceremony;
some people find perfection in being able to heal;
some people find perfection in the flowers, fruit, and leaves of a tree.

Some people find perfection in a waterfall;
some people find perfection in a coral reef;
some people find perfection in art painted on a wall;
some people find perfection in a recurring motif.

Some people find perfection in sharing;
some people find perfection in keeping something a secret;
some people find perfection in being daring;
some people find perfection in keeping the things
that no one would ever have thought to have kept.

Some people find perfection in words;
some people find perfection in music;
some people find perfection in telling someone something
they have never heard;
some people find perfection in the people, the places,
and the things that will forever be perfectly imperfect.

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There are always possibilities;
the future is not set in stone;
what we see and what we find
is sometimes beyond what we have dreamed about
in our fantasies;
what we build can last and endure for thousands of years,
like the Colosseum in Rome.

People and structures cast shadows
when the light of the sun is shining behind them;
thoughts and ideas are expressed instantly
when there is a phenomenal desire to share them;
music and poetry is the natural art of the soul
made tangible to ever sense of perception;
emotions and feelings always find a way
to give you some much-needed inspiration redemption.

Hope never dies;
those who fall must always try to get back up;
it’s good to smile, it’s good to cry;
you have to start at the bottom
to fully-appreciate what it takes to rise to the top.

You are always someone’s idea of perfection;
someone will always look back at you
and think of you as a dream come true;
you will always be the drug of someone’s addiction;
someone will do anything, and they will go anywhere,
just so that they can be happy-
and the reason that they are happy
is because they are with you.

We all go through things that are personal to us;
we are all at times affected and afflicted by the fever
and the cure of life;
we all remember what we have lost,
but what is important to you and to everything
is the thing that you take with you to sleep every night.

When you are out in the open,
staring out to the sea,
looking up at the clear blue sky,
or watching nature close-up maintain its never-ending cycle,
that keeps going, and keeps turning, and spinning,
like a multi-coloured, deeply-ingrained, album of vinyl;
when there is a light behind you
in place of a light and a direction to guide you,
you can always know where you are
and what time of your life it is
by looking around you and seeing the shape of the shadows
besides you and coming from you,
like telling the time by a sun dial.

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Sometimes you have to wait for things you really want;
sometimes you have to do all the hard work
and then sit back and be patient;
sometimes to see the fruits of your labour and passion
you have free yourself of any expectations,
so that what you put that effort into will truly count;
sometimes you have to leave things alone
and let things settle, dry, and be as they should,
like wet paint.

Everything needs time to cook;
everything needs time to come together naturally,
everything needs time to coagulate, be framed,
be bound tightly like the pages and cover of a book;
everything needs time to grow into what it is meant to be.

Different influences,
different sights,
different sounds,
different people,
different encounters,
make a piece of art,
make a creation,
make a life,
make a person,
and sometimes they can all be focused
into one perfect moment, or one perfect and amazing gift;
waiting for the right time can be all that is necessary
to pull together the dividing sides of a rift.

Having the will to hold on,
having the belief to not lose faith,
having the strength to carry on,
having the vision you rely on
to keep standing and keep going, can be hard
but when it all becomes real and tangible,
and you can actually hold what you have wanted in your hands,
everything that came before and all you had to do
to get where you are is eclipsed
and everything and you feel incredible, invincible, and great.

There is nothing worse than a ticking clock
that when you are waiting for the time to fly
moves slowly as if the seconds, minutes, and hours,
are not even moving at all;
there is nothing worse for the mind, the heart,
and the senses, than the time to think,
because sometimes you can think too much,
and you end up building and living behind a wall.

Counting down; seeing the next direction to take;
navigating without a map; making the choices
and embracing the mistakes that are not really mistakes
that you have to make,
are all a part of the adventure of a life-time
that is like Earth-bathing and Earth-gazing
a quarter of a million miles away on the surface of the moon.
The best of things are born into life slowly but surely,
meaningfully and poetically,
and we can all rest assured that phenomenal new adventures
are on the horizon, and are coming soon.

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The rain-soaked pavement shines and reflects like a mirror;
the infinite water-drops fall slowly without a sound;
the sky looks as if it is one giant grey cloud;
the wind blowing makes the trees shiver;
the people walking around are as wet as the ground;
people keep moving, the Earth keeps spinning,
life keeps growing and revitalizing-
as does everything,
and I see the evidence everywhere I look around this town.

Things start off slow at first
and then get faster and more intense with every passing moment;
the best of things take time to build;
answers to questions sometimes feel like they are coming from far-away,
like a reply to a letter that you sent;
there are lots of things to treasure and love
about living in the blessed places of this beautiful world.

The city looks like a photograph I once saw in an art gallery;
the misty countryside looks like something out of a dream;
the colourful umbrellas being held above people’s heads
bring back different, and yet connected, memories;
the air is so pure and potent to my senses-
my ears hear only music, my tongue tastes only clarity,
my nose smells only the fragrance of nature,
my eyes see things and make them seem brand new and never before seen.

The world outside through the window
looks like a moving piece of art;
the feeling inside, where it is warm and dry, is cozy;
the character of things is accentuated,
and details hit you like a dart;
the place where you want to be
becomes all that you can think about, and want for,
and you know that who you are when you are there
is you being you only.

When the roads are a river;
when the parks and the benches of open spaces are vacant;
when the way you think and feel change because of the weather;
when you can do something you want to,
but other things you simply can’t;
when life demands that you take a breath, keep calm,
be a fighter, be at rest, soldier on, take it easy,
see order and beauty in chaos,
and look and appreciate everything you see-
like the world and the rain creating a wonderful,
real, dynamic, deep, and rich, constantly-changing,
watercolour.

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I am like a cool breeze on a hot day;
I am like a flash of lightning
and the sound of thunder in a wild storm;
I am like a light that guides the way;
I am like a little boy running free
through a head-tall field of corn.

I am like a bird flying free,
and singing loud and listening always
for familiar close and distant calls;
I am like a piece of art that is being remade;
I am like the billions of water-drops that make a waterfall;
I am like the light of the stars,
and the hope that you find after searching and reaching
the centre of a maze.

I am like the leaves of a tree;
I am like the clouds of the sky;
I am the one and only me;
I am the one who feels everything
with all my heart, and who is not afraid to cry.

I am either one way, or another;
I do not often walk the line;
I am a believer that every moment
is full of energy and inspiration;
I am a lover who gives all of myself,
all of the time;
I am the space-ship
that travels to many different and distant space-stations;
I am the echo;
I am the footprint;
I am like the perfect white flakes of snow.

I am like the expression of art
that everyone creates when they are a child
in the form of a hand-print in wet paint.
I am the thoughts that fill the silence;
I am the artist that paints the infinite picture;
I am the question mark at the end of a sentence;
I am always living and hoping for what awaits in the future;
I am a man filled with fascination;
I am the one who will never give up,
and who will keep trying over and over, time and again;
I am surrounded by perfection;
I am who I always am, no matter what day it is, or what time-
no matter if it is a Saturday afternoon,
or a Thursday morning at 1 a.m.

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A song sung for someone;
a poem written for
and because of someone who inspires you;
a picture created so that someone’s light can be shone;
a photo in your mind,
or a memory that you can hold in your hand
that immortalizes a person, a time, a moment,
and a forever place of heaven on Earth
that will always be a part of you.

As raindrops fall on the sand,
as the sea swells and the waves rise,
as the wind blows and you fully extend the fingers of your hands,
as the seagulls squawk and fly,
as the memories flood back,
all around me becomes an ocean that I am happily
and contently under the surface of
that is an energy and a light
that no matter how far I go or how deep I descend
will never go out and go to black.

Names ingrained in Oak trees;
words like ‘I love you’ engraved in gold
and worn close to someone’s heart;
song-lyrics and meaning left for someone to find
and re-read and listen to again-
a beautiful verse of immortalized poetry,
an embodiment of quintessential perfection;
like a unique birthmark;
like a message written in wet concrete;
like the layers of life that build up over time;
like a person that instantly touches our soul
from the moment that we meet;
like the steps that you take as you climb-
every touch, every word, every footprint, every indentation,
is a piece of natural sculpture
and like nothing else that has come before
or could ever come after;
like the colour and shine of someone’s eyes.
Things of importance endure;
people live forever;
every heartbeat leaves an echo and a wave;
everyone returns-
no one truly dies once they have been immortalized.

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Everyone has their own unique colour,
everyone has a way, a walk, a word, a wardrobe, a wish,
that is theirs, which perfectly describes and shows
a great deal about the heart that is constantly beating in their chest,
as well as the heart that they always wear on their sleeve-
like a child being held tightly by a mother.

Everyone carries a box of secrets,
everyone has hidden interests and thoughts,
feelings and loves, that they snuggle up to
when they are alone and in need of some comfort, or reassurance-
like an owner giving attention and affection to a beloved pet.

Everyone has a work of art that is a self-reflection
that they look at daily,
everyone can be everything they want to be,
and can feel things intensely externally,
and deeply internally.

Everyone is remembered by someone for being something,
everyone has been more in their life-time than they think.
Everyone has a favourite song, a favourite place,
a favourite thing to do, that brings them happiness;
everyone is a participant, an instigator,
an observer, a user, a witness.

Everyone is a scrapbook, an album,
a collection of special and shared memories and experiences;
everyone is a calendar, a diary, a phone-book,
of dates, people, fascinations, numbers,
and souvenirs of their travels,
that they have packed inside them and with them wherever they go-
like someone off on an adventure,
or off on holiday with their suitcase.

Everyone makes choices in their life
that feel right at the time they are making them,
which were always meant to be made the way that they were;
everyone feels great and warm in the sun,
and when standing in the rain everyone gets wet-
for some they actually feel better and cleansed
just by the act of being in and being touched
by the droplets of a rainstorms downpour.

I have an intense light within me,
and an overwhelming fire that no one could ever just describe
as a mere flash or a spark;
I have a sight, an instinct, a pulse, a passion for life,
a love of the best and the uniqueness of everything of Earth;
I have a life-long belief in hope,
and in the power of its effect, and witnessing hope,
and giving hope to someone in need, in any way,
is the key and the way to my heart.

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Since I was a kid
I have been exposed and interested
in every decade of the 20th Century,
and I have always been fascinated
by the phenomenon of things created in different decades
that were a staple and an example of their time
that come back into fashion, and the touch of the influence
and the art of them continues to inform the present
in many different and brilliant ways.

I feel like a collage of styles,
likes, lessons, morals, and trends;
I love the fact that I am not stuck or constrained
in any particular way of dressing, thinking about,
or seeing the world, and I never have-
I have always loved individuality and originality,
uniqueness and specialness,
and the things about life and people that never
detract and always enhance.

There is a reason why things repeat;
there is a reason why ideas, designs, and concepts
come back into peoples consciousness time after time;
there is a reason why a good thing never dies;
there is a reason why hearts, minds, and souls meet.

The music of the 1980s,
the ideas of the 1970s,
the style of the 1960s,
the art of the 1950s,
are loved every day and are still all around us
and they can be heard, thought, seen, and enjoyed,
in any and every one of the worlds cities,
and knowing that everything that used to be considered
every-day and ‘run of the mill’ is now truly special,
treasured, and cherished, by people who were
not even born when they were new, unheard, and unseen,
gives them a quintessential, classic, vintage feel,
and ambiance, that some things of the modern age
will not have when they too become replaced
by something that resembles a change of ways,
or a refreshed screen.

I love the look, the feel, the sound, the crackle, of vinyl;
I love seeing and being inside a “classic car”;
I love something that doesn’t ever lose it’s charm,
because it was made to be a one-off,
but has transcended, endured, and lasted,
and will enrich peoples lives forever
and make them smile.
I love as story, a person, that is, and who is,
so special and unique, but also ubiquitous-
but not because they were forced on other to be
who and what they are now considered to be from their genesis,
but because no one took them for granted,
and love them because they will always be as singular as a star.

Seeing an iconic invention and expression of a time gone by
that still exists in some way, is like being in a tunnel
and hearing the distinctive voice of someone in an echo;
seeing the source of a revolution,
and also going back and learning about something of importance’s
origin, is always the best thing in the world-
and that is why I love to rediscover things,
and make a part of my life and me many of the things
that people call and consider nostalgic and retro.

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On a morning walk down the city high-streets,
passed countless people, passed shops,
stores, restaurants of all names,
I am stopped in my tracks instantly when I see
a Golden Gunslinger reading a book
while sitting at the foot of a tree.
I’m not sure how long he had been there,
I’m not sure what he was thinking,
but when I looked at him looking down at his book,
to me, the gunslinger looked
as if he didn’t have a care in the world,
and it seemed as if to the gunslinger
the rest of the world could carry on their way
because he was lost in thought, in state,
and frozen in time, but like a performer at a carnival,
the gunslinger sat with a tin pot
just to the left of his right boot
asking politely of his generous passer-by
for a token of interest, fascination, respect,
and a thought to show that they care.

I sat in-awe of the gunslinger on a bench nearby,
and I even took a picture-
I felt like I was looking back in time,
or as if the gunslinger had been transported to the future,
to our present-
and as I sat looking at him, the sun shone brightly on him,
and made him glow even more golden,
and he looked even more amazing than he did before,
and even the sky above looked even more blue.
I thought long and hard about approaching the gunslinger
and putting some money in his pot,
and I wondered what he would do if I did-
would he lower his book? Draw his gun and take a shot?

The incredible living-statue of the gunslinger
that mesmerised me, painted head to toe in gold,
in himself was a work of art-
he was so brilliant to behold,
because as soon as I saw him I was instantly transported
back in time to my childhood,
and my fantasies of wanting to be a cowboy.
The Golden Gunslinger was like a living photograph
of a time of adventure and a reminder of the heroes
and out-laws that fill the stories of the Wild West
that once was in America that for so many
still holds a special place in their heart;
The Golden Gunslinger reminded me of how care-free
and amzing it is to a child, or someone who acts on and follows
their instinctual passions-
whether you are a man, or a woman, a girl, or a boy.

As time caught up with me,
even though in all the time I was sitting there looking at
the gunslinger he did not move an inch,
I realised that it was time for me to move on.
I decided to approach the gunslinger and give him a coin
from my pocket to repay him for his time,
his inspiration, his generosity, and his golden spirit,
and even as I got closer and closer
he still didn’t look up or look away from his book
and didn’t for a second flinch;
and then, as soon as my £2 coin hit the rest of the coins
in his golden pot and made a sound,
The Golden Gunslinger suddenly came alive
and he looked up at me-
he lifted his left hand to touch the rim of his Stetson,
he looked right into my eyes, and I saw him smile
without him having to move his lips at all,
and he bowed his head slightly,
and it was in that moment that I smiled too
in appreciation, and I too began to shine as the sun shone.

As I stepped back the gunslinger reverted back
to the pose in which I first saw him,
and he immediately went back to his prefered-posture
of reading his book, at-ease against the base of his tree;
while I turned to my right and continued to walk down the high-street-
I didn’t look back, but I knew and I was so glad to have met him,
to have given him my time, and for him to have given his time to me
and to everyone who saw him, because he reminded me
in lots of ways of myself, and he was obviously someone
of great patience and a deep-thinker.
I promised myself to capture this moment that would never come again
in as much detail and with as much meaning as I could,
and I also promised that I would never forget
The Golden Gunslinger.

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The sound of a spanish guitar being played
wonderfully and exquisitely by its player
echoes around the circular chamber
at the centre of the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery,
and everybody standing, sitting, looking, is enraptured,
surrounded by magnificent and beautiful paintings and artwork,
and all before a statue by Jacob Epstein sculpted
to represent the archangel Lucifer “the bringer of Light”
from John Miltons epic poem ‘Paradise Lost’,
and the resonance and the music that fills the crowded space
noticeably lifts everyone off their seat and off their feet,
and I can tell that I am not the only one who feels like
they are in another world, and we all are feeling this sensation
of being cleansed in some way-
just like that feeling we all have
after we have splashed our faces with water
just after we wake up in the morning
and the first thing we all do when we wash.
I feel like a deep-sea diver, at the bottom of an ocean,
in a magical underwater realm,
and I feel like I can actually see the beautiful
and wonderful sound waves being created
and travelling through the air and touching everyone squarely in the chest;
as as if in slow-motion, I see the moment in everyone’s eyes
when the power of the music hits them and they feel it
at the same time that they hear it,
and I watch them be drawn in and be enraptured
and be lifted in so many ways.

There were points during the performance
in which I clearly remember what I was thinking
and who I was thinking about-
during the faster guitar playing, for example,
‘The Spanish Dance’, I could actually feel my heart racing and beating fast,
while during the slower songs I remember having flashbacks
and recollections of fallen and lost friends
who I will never see again.
Unfortuntely, I cannot remember all of the names
of the beautiful guitar pieces-
they all had an interesting italian- or spanish-sounding name-
but they were all amazing, and I honestly felt so
privileged to be there to hear them being played
to me and a captive audience,
and I can honestly say that being lucky enough to be there
was a true right-place, right-time, moment,
and it was a magical experience in which all that there
felt like there was in the time that the music was being played,
and we who were hearing it were all that existed,
as well ad our own individual memories and shared emotions,
and everything that we all brought with us to that echo chamber
of a room, which was filled all the way up to the glass dome above
with divine sound and necessary silence.

When the players were not playing
you could hear everything- a foot-step, a pin-drop, a heart-beat,
the vibration of a still vibrating guitar string.
Sound is special. Music is unparalleled.
The voices of people and man-made instruments
of all types, shapes, and sounds, fascinate me.
Sound is something we feel deeply.
Music is like a constantly ringing bell.
The voice of an instrument would not be the same
without the unique voice, gift, and life of it’s player,
and there is nothing else like living, hearing,
and feeling, the most beautiful string poetry.

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