Fireworks of my mind

For as long as I can remember I have been blessed (and/or cursed) with being highly sensitive alongside an excellent long term memory, strong sense of empathy, curiosity to know more than the surface area that I am told or learnt, a vivid imagination that opens doors to new worlds, and highly visual mind that paints these. The world around me acts like fireworks with one thing firing off these, which together makes up something uniquely special. I am only ever sad that I have yet to find media beyond the spoken or written word to share these with others, perhaps an installation of some kind. However, I am uncertain if they would understand or get what they are saying and/or showing, as sometimes something very personal or just of that moment in time so may not be able to replicate it again.

As a child I felt like that many grown ups were just as Antoine de Saint-Exupéry had written in Le Petit Prince (‘The Little Prince’) with no imagination, with only my Great Uncle able to tell the difference between a hat and a boa constrictor that ate an elephant. Teachers told me to write about what I knew, not the stories I felt from the world around me from reading newspapers to watching starving people in Ethiopia with famine or war hit families in Bosnia and Iraq all of which called out from beyond the television screen to the rivers and hills with the animals that called them home that I passed regularly when out with family on foot, bus or car. I wanted to tell their stories, the empath in me wished it could do more than watch my fellow humans hurting in ways I could never imagine and giving money felt like a tablet that never cured anything. As well exploring the rivers and hills to tell the stories that people like my ancestors would have known and told the tales of. Being a grown up I still want to tell these stories. but now more determined than ever that I do, as they need to be seen and heard with their own voices not through the biased lenses of the media or anthropomorphise into cutesy images that no longer speak to the younger generation.

My family enjoy the arts and are highly musical: as a child my father and I enjoyed visiting art sales in the local area and beyond, as well as his own painting (sadly I do not remember what he painted) to the playing organ, often Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor with a passion you could feel as his fingers touched the keys and were escaping to the worlds he was playing as I sat beside him equally immersed in this world but with my spin; where as my mother sings alto in choirs and plays the piano a little but lacks the artistry with it as almost a painting with numbers not colour when she does, and does not get art beyond the popular artists of Monet and Turner. This I often find when I hear mainstream pop musicians their voices are similar, perhaps as they are not investing in the emotion, feelings and story of the lyrics and music, which with autotuning have become quite grey and maybe because they did not create it  to begin with (despite claims they have done, but perhaps only changed the odd word if that) and was written for profit not as a piece of art to be admired, it truly is disposable.

The song Pure Imagination from ‘Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory’ for me celebrates imagination and showing us that it is all around us if we let it. Our imagination can be a comforting way to escape harsh realities in our present world rather than dwelling on what has or is hurting us now, which with an outlet can stop the pain from flowing for a while. I find it hard to understand, despite my empathy, those that may see this is childish or day dreaming when great ideas to art works can come from it, but then I remember an art installation I saw a few years back with the following quote:  we live in a contrasting world – where imagination is a luxury for some but a necessity for others”. I find anything and everything can start the fireworks display in my brain, from something I have seen or heard, a picture to a quote to a song or video, I never know what will next and that is part of the enjoyment and excitement as it is endless.

One example of my recent fireworks display was walking back from a shopping centre/mall on Easter Monday. I have walked down that street umpteen times, yet rarely walk up it as it is a steep hill, which may explain why I had never spotted an old mile stone on it, simply showing Edinburgh 2 miles. I stared at it for a good minute and took a picture of it before walking on but then my imagination kicked in, what was this street and area like when this milestone was new. I am now watching the 21st century disappear around me and be replaced by how it may have looked around three hundred years previously when there were distinct villages all over that are now part of the city of Edinburgh. As my visual mind and imagination worked in tandem to create a scene so different to the one I now found myself in, as tried to use my senses to get a clearer idea of what it was like to be there then. After about five minutes I took my phone out to investigate further the area as curiosity was now wanting a piece of what imagination and mind were doing, as I could not draw or paint the scene I decided to let it and return to the 21st century. I discovered that author and creator of Sherlock Holmes Arthur Conan Doyle had lived during his childhood aged seven to nine (1868-1888) around two minutes from where I had seen the milestone, which ticked a box in my head as to why the doctor’s surgery by the shopping centre/mall bore his name. The house he lived has recently been restored, and believe me I had to resist running back to look and see! Learning this created fresh ideas and colours to paint into the scene, ensuring Arthur was the little boy at one of the houses, that I will continue to see for some time when passing that street.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Do we live in harmony with our environment?

Maybe as our environment is dominate by shades of grey and red that are rarely seen in the natural world we have learnt to adapt to this new environment. Unlike those in parts of Brazil to Borneo, which live untouched by outsiders and live in tune with an environment have no need for human manufactured medicines, supermarkets that sell everything and anything, and a welfare state that is meant to support those in a vulnerable position in life. It is impossible for their numbers to grow beyond the level which their environment is capable of supporting. They are interested in preserving as much of their environment as they can because otherwise their ability to support themselves would be lessened and their numbers would decline, with a special bond with their environment that is very different to our own.

However, many of us see them as ‘backwards’ and how we live as civilised. Let us pause for a minute to consider how crazy that really sounds. We no longer see food coming out of the ground, being caught out at sea, or living in a field eating grass. Ask a child today and they will tell you our food comes from Lidl to Walmart. Our attitude is to shrug our shoulders and say ‘what does it matter’, it all goes the same way in the end. The sea is massive, so a little bit of toxic waste won’t matter. The sky is even bigger – who cares if we pump a little methane into it? Plenty more sky where that came from. Doesn’t matter if the harvest is failing in Africa, we still get our bananas or pineapples from Latin America and the Caribbean. Cannot be bothered to cook tonight, we’ll just get something to cook in the microwave. Now perhaps we should reconsider who are the crazy and backwards ones!

© Fi S. J. Brown

Earth: The Movie

Lilly of the valley ring out all along the river bank as the daffodils nod their heads like jaded heavy metal fans to a new beat but young tree branches sway back and forth like teenagers at their first gig. The sun shines and paints the sky in a blue of 50 shades and clouds gather like sheep in the fields. River waters run past hearing stories and songs from the birds to bees as it goes by but never stop long enough for the endings. Generation after generation this is the way the movie went, well until now that is.

Ragged men and plastic women walk on by oblivious to the songs and stories around them. For theirs are not those of their ancestors but ones repeated from words and pictures seen and heard on black boxes; as false as a rabbit laying chocolate eggs and lies spinning in quicksand. As young cyborgs cling to handheld blocks with screens to create their own tales and music that are just as false and fake as those from the black boxes. Creating new worlds but do not know the script of fate is already written.

How long until the songs of nature are replaced forever with auto tuned cover versions by the cyborgs and will anyone notice in a decade or more? Pictures of their ancestors are mere images stored in clouds in cyberspace but nobody dares look at the sky’s clouds as chemicals fell poisoned many. Stories that nobody alive now remembers how as it was before, rewritten and spun so many times now so are accepted as truths and history of this planet but not the one many fought and died to try to preserve for them.

The world is always changing as the Earth spins on its axis with few prepared to pole dance at the north or south. Human song is a symphony by a group of composers but not the only one on the planet. cats and dogs, flowers and forests, sing too, just listen. There are stories written down by the birds and bees to the trees and mountains engraved in an ink that is not invisible. Humans stop trying to direct and act this movie, it’s not the role for us, grab the popcorn and enjoy the journey to the fullest.

© Fi S. J. Brown

A Surprise

Hey you, please stop for just five minutes of your time is all I need,
Gently sit yourself down on that chair of brown and olive green tweed.
Slowly closing your eyes on ten for your little journey is about to begin,
See that red door open it wide and step inside to explore therein.
What can you see, hear, feel, smell and touch but where are you?
Let every sense guide on this journey to a place you many once knew.

The green of the chair has dissolved into a forest where its life began,
A place to escape a world of grey to plastic women and lying madman.
To the left is an old oak tree with branches stretched in every direction,
He is the grandfather of this world and in charge of its protection.
In a hole around the centre sits an owl of white purer than any snow,
Singing songs and telling tales far older than any human would know.

Below your feet do not kick or pick the crowd of toadstools gathered,
They are gossips and liars so always leave their questions unanswered.
Wait what is that sound like fingers down the blackboard at school?
Oh it is a grey squirrel running down the oak’s bark acting the fool!
Follow in and out the trees until you can no longer see or hear him,
As a gentle breeze catches up with you and starts tickling every limb.

Walking on into the forest a clearing stands where a two rivers meet.
Take off your socks and shoes to let their waters calm your tired feet.
The sun starts to set with a sound like a church bell tolling for mass,
Day is now almost over and before nightfall you must whistle with grass.
It brings up the red door once more to return home away from here,
Close the door as you enter and open your eyes but never forget there.

© Fi S. J. Brown

 

Written for World Poetry Day and International Day of Forests.

The spider and the fly

The sun shines brightly in the early morning air,
Gems of dew twinkling and ringing in her glare.
As a lonely spider spins a web with artful care,
Moving in a defined zigzag pattern over there.
Drawing with her silken thread in silent fanfare,
No pausing to wonder at what she will ensnare.

A fly passes by in the sunbeam’s warming dance,
Attracted to the silken pattern with one glance.
Hoping he flies on by far away from the tool shed,
Or will he become hypnotised by web’s the trance?
Slyly she watches ready to pounce like a warhead,
As he takes a step ever closer to his deathbed.

Beside the tool shed proudly sits an old oak tree,
Now waving in the breeze to warn the fly to flee.
Shedding three of its leaves in a sacrificial plea,
In warning to the spider not to be quite so greedy.
She does not care so bites his head off with glee,
And runs off manically laughing like a banshee.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Nature’s Way

Many trees of the forests are now ablaze with fires,

But the flames will never burn their leaves,
One by one Mother Nature painted with her brushes,
In every shade of red, yellow and orange.
Most get caught in a melancholy duel with the wind,
Sounding like a plucked harp’s many strings.
All leaves hope not hear the fatal G’s trap door open,
As automatically drops them to the ground.

Some leaves stand by on guard always in army green,
But never in wanton jealousy, hate or envy.
For these are the chosen ones to protect from Mr Frost,
With his chilling laughter turning all white.
For when he laughs the whole world shakes in terror,
Even human teeth chatter in fear of his name.
Others go to sleep to hide from his malevolent shrills,
Only to wake when the other leaves return.

The guardian trees are not alone in protecting the Earth,
Hidden are a secret air force ready to strike.
Sat high among the branches are birds in a chorus line,
Keeping their ears open for his opening aria.
So they can swoop down onto his long wrinkled fingers,
Pecking to make little holes through the skin.
And drown out his laughter with their harmonious song,
Filling his whitewashed landscapes with light.

© Fi S. J. Brown

The dandelion

The dandelion is a flower thought of by many as weed, regarded as one that should be dug up and thrown away as has no value or worth. However, it is actually a symbol of hope, spreading nurturance and joy even in hard places. So instead of being quick to judge another we need to help each other, spreading joy instead of hate to those we meet.

Nevertheless, some deserve to be thrown out to the rubbing pile for how they treat others, thinking they are better than us, want something we have but jealousy fires within, or expect something to land on their lap automatically. They are the real weeds and need to be removed from our lives asap as will only carry on as nobody takes the spade to remove them.

Therefore, treasure those that show us with their actions, for they’re the evergreen trees to support us throughout the seasons and like our personal army defending us against the evils of this world. Being mindful of those that pretend to be our friends, as when winter comes they’ll will show if evergreen or deciduous. Finally, see my drawing of a dandelion below, make a wish, and just maybe it will come true.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Dandelion

World Environment Day (2016)

Open the window of the room you’re in right now, and take a minute to pause to take in what you see/hear/feel/smell/touch and how many different colours with shades/tones/hues/tints are there? Note down what you have experienced. How many of you said the sky was blue? Was it truly blue, one shade of blue or many colours? In Ancient Greece they said the sky was ‘bronze’ not blue; by this they meant it was dazzlingly bright, like the sheen of a bronze shield, rather than actually bronze-coloured. In Russia, there are two words for blue: goluboi and sinii, one word referring to light blue, the other dark, which to Russians are two different, distinct colours, not shades of the same colour as per navy and denim.
 
The world we live in is multisensory and multicoloured yet how often do we stop to acknowledge how diverse and infinite t it is? To me it does not matter who (if anyone) we ascribe as its creator as causes so many arguments that we cannot be just thankful it exists and we get to share it with a vast array of different species from tiny insects to massive trees that give this world an aesthetic that is truly remarkable. It is one we could only dream about if tried to remake it from scratch from our memories alone; as how we experience this world is as unique as we are. Today is ‘World Environment Day‘, so try spend a minute being thankful for what our senses take in each day that we do not always acknowledge around us.
© Fi S. J. Brown

6 am

Waking up with the sound of sunshine tapping on my window,
Nearly blinded by his beam of amber rays hitting dozing eyes.
Heart matching the beat in 4/4 time and setting toes tapping,
But this is no Morse code message but the daily dawn chorus.

Through the light comes the sound of birds singing songs,
Hiding among the green of lime to apple and oak to beeches.
The wind plays each branch of a tree like cello’s string,
Turning the sky above to blue as paints with its sounds.

Now blocking out the buses and cars making their own musical,
Human kings and queens rushing around their concrete jungle.
As the colourful sights and sounds fade away to their grey,
And try to cling on to that final note of nature’s dawn song.

But another day has begun with twenty four hours now ticking,
A page lies unwritten except for fate and destiny’s whispers.
Learning today’s lesson and laying foundations for tomorrow,
And leave all that hurt from yesterday in the past now gone.

© Fi S. J. Brown

Spring Song

Spring’s song begins today in the northern hemisphere with snowdrops ringing to wake all sleeping from their winter’s sleep. The croci playing bass, giving a rhythmic and harmonic foundation to the world. With the melody sung by the newborn wildlife throughout the land, reverberating through hills and valleys, and the trees and bushes their backing singers resplendent in their new season green clothes.
 
Every year this song can be heard but how few of us stop to see, hear and feel it? Mother Nature displaced as the leading lady, as we humans do our cover version. We insult her further by autotuning our voices as cannot sing in her unique style, colour or pitch. With footprints stamping across the world like a booming hip hop beat. Forming chorus lines full of grey, filled with drills and bombs tainted with fear, jealousy and hate.
 
© Fi S. J. Brown