Lost art treasures

 

I finally managed to retreive some film that had been jammed in my old camera and got the pics developed. I’d forgotten what was on it and was pleasantly surprised by the photos I found.

This one is of a very special place indeed, Creswell Crags on the border between Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. We’ve been a few times and enjoyed every visit. As you can see from the picture, it’s a rather beautiful place but it hides extraordinary secrets. For thousands of years the caves on either side of the gorge were used by early man. Hundreds of artefacts and remains have been found but in 2003 something even more astounding was found.

13,000 years ago, this was the place for artists to hang out and work.

Yes, honestly. In 2003, a discovery was made that shook the world of archaeology and anthropology. Until then, it was thought that the earliest European cave art was to be found in the caves of Lascaux and others in France. Creswell Crags is the site of not cave paintings but engravings and relief work. These were probably painted as well; traces of ochre and other ancient paint pigments have been found in the art.

In 2006, there were limited tours being offered of the caves where the art was found. Needless to say, we went and marvelled. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at the sight of a carving of a sleeping bear, of a horse, a reindeer and others. Sadly, the light was too poor to take photos and I’d recommend having a look around the offical site, www.creswell-crags.org.uk to have a look at both the art and the history.

What Witches Know ~ An Original Fable

 

WHAT WITCHES KNOW 

by

Psychscribe

© 2009 www.psychscribe.com

 

     My grandmother, just before they burned her, said this to my mother: the only difference between them and us is they don’t know they have it.  She gestured with her chin at  the bonneted, jostling women, who far out numbered the men in the seething crowd around the stake. Her own unbound hair snapped in the wind as they lit her.

     Afterwards my mother fled to this secret, wooded place that welcomes our kind.  The curse they call a power spills like gentle sunlight upon the bears  and other wild things that feed from our hands. The beasts of the forest are kin to us.

     I had no father.  She grew me, all on her own she liked to say. I never asked her for the truth.  I knew he’d met the same terrible fate as all the others, the ones who came after. 

     We never knew how they found her here.  They would just appear between the trees, squinting and searching, as if sucked from the great open spaces by a hungry wind.  Raking her fingers through that thick, viney hair, she would sigh so deeply you could feel the cottage tremble.  I trembled too.  For them and for her.  Go away, she would whisper.  Not again, I would pray. 

     The gods did not answer. The men did not hear.

     She tried to warn them.  I’ll hurt you, she’d cry.  Leave while you can.  They never believed her.  Princes and farmers, hunters and noblemen, even the friar thought he could save her.  They never said from what.

     Save yourself! she would shriek.  They only chased her more.

     She looked safe enough. Layers of violet gauze robes hung from a tall, fragile frame, concealing tiny breasts and skin so pale it seemed as if she might vanish at any moment.  They must have thought they were chasing a fairy.  How could they know what she was?

     What they hunted, hell-bent, was their own annihilation.   They would forget to eat and drink, or wash, or even sleep, and laugh in delight when she called it to their attention.  See what you do to me, crooned the hunter to his prey.   See what you do. 

     And each would whisper his dream of wholeness and nothingness, the dream we’ve been hearing since time began, the one that sends them from their churches and wives’ beds and into our damnation.

     Did she love them?  Almost, always almost, she once said.  But as soon as I can smell the fear in them the feeling is replaced by something else, something I can’t name. 

     Sooner or later she would grow tired from the hunt.  How long can you run from water when your throat is parched?  But she never succumbed, not at once anyway.  Breathless and laughing, she would toss the suitor her robes and the promise of tomorrow, disappearing into the cottage and bolting the door.

     Witch! they would shout at her naked, fleeing form, angry yet smiling in a way I did not understand.  Burn her! Burn her! the wives left behind cried out in their dreams. 

     In the morning, still naked, she would unbolt the door and open it wide, her dark hair coiling and writhing, lifting toward the sun.  I could feel her heat from where I lay in my small bed.  She would not close her eyes when she made what they called love . They liked that at first ( ah… spirit! ) arched triumphantly over her like bows and staring into the depths of what they fancied to be their souls.  They always got to the point, of course, where they needed to close their eyes on what they saw. But by then it was too late.

 

     We keep a little piece of them.  Not because we are evil but because it is our nature.  What we take are their shadows, their dark, howling secrets.  If you’ve ever seen a squirrel skinned alive then you know what it is like.   

     They live through it.  They go home to their wives, their hearths and their children.  But a man without his shadow is never sure he’s really there.  He looks at the ground and sees nothing beneath his feet.

 

     The witch hunts come cyclically, just like the seasons.  We know it is time long before we hear the pounding of hooves, the blood-thirsty cries.

     The man who led the hunt for my mother was probably the most enamored of all her lovers.  And the most tormented.  He brought his wife, a small, plain  woman with flat brown eyes.  She’d known, of course.  They always know.  He’d offered her first torch when they found the witch.

     There must have been forty men.  You could smell the lust in the air when they stripped her.  I sure would like a taste of this one before we cook her, one of them said as he grabbed at her breast.

     Don’t touch her! I’ll kill the lot of you! screamed my mother’s lover, aiming his musket at all of them. The wife paled at his outburst.  She swayed on her feet like a sapling in a winter wind. My mother reached out a hand to steady her.

     A look passed between witch and wife that can hardly be described.. It flickered brighter than the torchlight in the air between them, a fusion of forces human shaped and witch radiant, so brilliant, so strong, that the men had to turn their faces from it. 

     She passed her torch to my mother, then gently wrapped her cloak around my mother’s bare shoulders.  Piece by piece she flung the rest of her garments at the men, laughing and spinning herself into the frenzy that is older than time.

     The men dared not say a word.  The husband could not.

     Embracing the stake like a lover, she wrapped her naked arms and legs around it as my mother lit the pyre.  Not a hand was lifted to stop it. 

     Afterwards he carried my mother home, belly down on his horse.  He married her and got his shadow back.  It was said, for a time, that he’d never looked better.  My mother, of course, died the death the wife had chosen for her.  It was slow, and a terrible thing to see.  First they bound her hair, then they put bonnets on her, and in time when he looked into her eyes he saw nothing.  Nothing at all.

 

     A witch without her magic is like a man without his shadow: useless both of them, and damned anyway.

Kev Moore @ Pride Park singing Commons People

Cafe Crem was for me always the place to share Art, Music, Thoughts and Words. but it was also the place where I could tell my friends what is going on in my/our life.

Some of you might have followed Kevin’s football  story which started about 2 months ago as his Home Team Derby got a new manager, Nigel Clough, the son of one the most famous English managers of all time. To express his deep joy and his new hope for a better performance from the team Kevin wrote a song called “Derby Pride”, went on the radio with it, and at different places in the net, and from reaction to reaction he finally wrote another song, and another and another. The project grew so big that it became an entire CD album. The CD will be released officially on the 25th of April, when Kevin will sing one of the songs from the CD

“Commons People”

in the very centre of the Derby Stadium,

in front of  33000 people.

It is an exceptional event in Kevin’s life. He has already been often on different stages throughout the world in front of many people, but this one, this is

AN EMOTIONAL BIGGIE!!!

Well, I am proud to say that I have been deeply involved in this CD, making the whole design of the 2 CDS (there are 2 different versions, one is officially endorsed by the Derby County Football Club), and I have also followed the creation of each song from up close, sometimes giving my humble advice and opinions.

I have also created a full product line for the fans: posters, prints, T-Shirts, fridge magnets, posters, keychains, mugs, etc… this was a lot of work!

A last info… Not that I believe that any of the Cafe Cremers might be interested, but who knows who will come across here:

The CD and some other memorabilia  are  available @ Miki’s Mart

and most of the other stuff @ Goodaboom’s Boutique.

PS: for the ones who don’t know: the Derby players are called “The Rams” and their mortal enemy, coming from Nottingham, down the road, are called   “The Red Dogs”.

This is why I have featured Kev Moore as a Ram fighting for the ball towards a red dog. I seem to be very successful with this design among the Derby Fans!!!

by Miki

Happy Earth Day!

Hello everyone! It’s hard to believe it’s been a whole year since I first drew my “Butterfly Flower” in honor of Mother Earth. The original idea behind it was based on the “butterfly effect” and Chaos Theory, the idea that one butterfly could eventually have a far-reaching ripple effect on subsequent historic events. The flower is my representation of the Flower of Life, a sacred geometric shape found in all major religions of the world. I want everyone to know that each and every one of us, through our loving creative thoughts, has the power to create the vibrations that will heal our planet.

Cafe Crem is the place where I feel most connected with this world. The creative interaction here from friends all over the planet feels strong, and always warms my heart.

Thank you, everyone, and have a beautiful day, in honor of our Earth!
Peace and love,
Shelley

My new photo-blog

Hi All,

I haven’t been around because I’ve been on a wonderful creative surge (this is one place where I know that is appreciated!) I’ve been making jewelry and taking photos and so enjoying myself!

Please check out my photo-blog, launched this morning, when you have the time:

http://psychscribetoo.wordpress.com

Thanks, and enjoy your day!

Psychscribe

Grotesque Café Art

Cafe Sketch, by Miki

One of my recent sketches at cafe Masko.

I was not in my best mood that day

- I explained why here -

and I tended to see the world in a quite  grotesque way, as you can see …

Some people try to invade everybody’s space, don’t they?

Atlantic Bridge – 21 –

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge 20)

Operational Headquarters, British Army Intelligence, Cheltenham

General Sir George Lacey drained the last vestiges of his innumerable cups of coffee and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. Where’s the sense of being sat at the heart of the intelligence community if I haven’t got a damned clue what’s going on? He thought bitterly. He ran through the events of the last few hours in his mind. At least the Stealth support for the team at Millau reported nothing untoward, so it would seem Tobias and his men had so far executed their plan to the letter. But what was going on in Ambialet? The loud, insistent buzzing of the phone abruptly dragged him from his introspective reverie.
“General Lacey.” The General listened impassively as he was fed the latest intel on the situation in Southern France. It seemed there had been reports of several large explosions in the town of Ambialet within the last hour.
He replaced the receiver. “Good luck, Ben” he said to himself, staring at a map of the town. He hardly had time to marshal his thoughts when his phone buzzed for a second time. It was General Alberstein.
“George? We got trouble.” He proceeded to brief Sir George on the suicide mission against Polyflex. By the end of the conversation Sir George had promised his opposite number a rigorous enquiry to try and route out any spy in their midst. It was unthinkable that they had been compromised so easily.
“They must have a sleeper, Thomas, it’s the only answer” said Lacey.
“It’s a damned scary one, George” said the General, “Let’s flush the bastard out” .

Main Entrance, Ambialet Monastery

Bakti and Iqbal were pressed hard against the rock, only ten meters from the Monastery doors. The great studded oak structures silently mocked them, daring them to enter. Anwar was some twenty meters further down, urging his comrade on. “Sunil, now! Join me on this side, there is cover!”
Sunil delayed, just a fraction of a second. Stephenson was lying uncomfortably high inside the facing wall above the main entrance, his Hauser falcon crossbow pointing through the ancient archers slit in the old stone wall. His target had hesitated. That moment was all he needed, the deadly steel bolt rocketed down, burying itself in the chest of the hapless invader, who fell in the dust at Anwar’s feet. Stephenson rolled away, just as a burst of machine gun fire blasted his position.
“Anwar, run!” yelled Bakti, breaking cover with Iqbal, their machine pistols jumping in their hands, directing fire above the great entrance. A stray round caught Stephenson in the leg, and he screamed in agony. The three Fundamentalists charged forward, nearly at the gates, when suddenly, from either side of them, emerging from hidden stairways that led into the crypt, the dust covered figures of Bryan and Thompson ran, machine pistols at their hips firing as they went. Bakti, Anwar and Iqbal seemed to go into a grotesque dance, riddled with hundreds of rounds that slammed into their bodies, and continued on, splintering the great oak doors behind them. Blood issued from their mouths as they fell, as one, in a bloody heap in front of the Monastery.
“Thompson, go check on Stephenson, I’ll recce the immediate area, see if there are any more of the buggers.” Said Bryan, slamming a fresh magazine in, wiping the dust from his eyes.

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

Next instalment: Sunday April 19th

View from a mountain top

I walked through pouring rain through a Scottish forest and up a small mountain (you might call it a hill but my legs said it was a mountain). I stood against winds that nearly tipped me over. I gazed through mist and rain at the view of the Solway Firth, obscured and stormy. And then, having gone up, I needed to go down again. The bit I hate the most; I get occasional attacks of vertigo.

As we started our trek back off the mountain, we saw in the valley below us a sight that you can just make out in the photo above: a rainbow.

For me, the rainbow is a symbol as well as a scientific phenomenon. To me it means the storms are breaking and the promise of sunshine ahead has appeared. I had a bit of a shiver when I saw this one, as if it had personal meaning for me.

This winter has been an awful one for me; I’ve struggled with depression, mild paranoia, anxiety and a host of other delights. The winter is over but the causes of the issues remain and while I know that if I keep busy and focus on other things I can keep ahead of it, even so, the issues still remain, patiently waiting for me.

After we came back from Scotland, we went to stay with one of my oldest friends in north Yorkshire. A great time was had by all, but certain things came out of the visit, that I believe presage enormous changes for me. I’m hesistant to give details, partly because details are still scanty, but if I say that I had a strong feeling throughout of history being made. Maybe only my own history and maybe also hers, but even so, in a quiet way, something momentous took place.

I especially wanted to report it here first, because Cafe Crem is extremely important to me, and you guys have all been great. I will report more as time goes on but I can simply say that for me that Scottish rainbow is a sign that some of my storms are breaking and sunshine is beginning to appear.

Streets of Derby

I feel like I’ve not been in the Cafe too much recently, except to post the serialisation of my novel, Atlantic Bridge, and indeed, I occasionally hear the tumbleweed blowing between the chairs and tables, and the creaking of the Cafe Crem sign as it forlornly dances in the wind outside….

Perhaps I should wander over to the jukebox in the corner and slip a quarter in, make a selection….clunk…there you go.  There just so happens to be my version of the old Ralph McTell song, Streets of London on there, only this one’s called Streets of Derby.  I couldn’t seem to stop working once I’d put the Derby album to bed, and Dave Mortimer, who has helped out with contacts in the town regarding the CD project is set to do a 10k run in aid of The Teenage Cancer trust, a charity under THE WHO’s patronage, and he asked me to put his re-worked lyrics to the song. Here’s the result. I hope it can do some good for this worthy cause.

Streets of Derby

Have you seen the young kids, bravely smiling through their illness?

So full of life, though some may not have long.

They need help fighting cancer – we can improve their chances

Let’s all get moving, to try and make them strong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chorus 1:

So how can you turn your face away, forget their pain – ignore the call?

I’m going to put my trainers on and run around the streets of Derby

I must do something to try and help them all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For some, their home’s a hospice but their lives are still for living

All their hopes and dreams must surely match our own

We can use our energy to give those children liberty

From fear and isolation – they can’t fight it all alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chorus 2:

So how can you say you’re lonely

And that for them the sun won’t shine?

If you can’t run, then sponsor me as I run through the streets of Derby

Your contribution means just as much as mine.

Lyrics by Dave Mortimer

Atlantic Bridge – 20 –

(Prologue) (Atlantic Bridge 19)

The Presse shop, Ambialet

In the bedroom down in the village, Akbar was readying the fourth grenade. He had barely put his eye to the viewfinder when a single high velocity round exploded through the lens and buried itself in his brain, causing immediate and catastrophic damage before exiting in a pink cloud of matter and bone debris. Already dead, Akbar’s body crumpled to the floor, in a grotesque parody of a pilgrim at prayer.

Back in the devastated monastery, Ben Tobias was marshalling his men.
“Okay, the RPG’s neutralised, but we don’t have much time. A small task force has made cover beneath the Monastery and will be seeking incursion to mop up any survivors. There are at least five of them.” He turned to Henri, who had jumped down from the table and was shouldering his weapon.
“Henri, I think you should get your people out the way we came in. We’ve two inflatables hidden beyond the tree line by the river fifty meters upstream. You can use them to get out of the immediate area. My men and I will try and neutralise this invading force. You can’t be caught. You need to get out and regroup.”
“Non!” Henri was indignant. “We will not run and leave you to fight our battles, Lieutenant!”
“Henri!” said Ben desperately, “You have intel that these people will extract from you, one way or another. If we’re captured, we can’t tell what we don’t know. It’s better that way,” he said, his face an unreadable mask.  Henri thought for a moment.
“An honour, Lieutenant” he said, extending his hand. The men held a firm grip for a few moments.
“Now go, Henri, get to safety, and send a transmission to British Army HQ when you’re secure.”
Henri ushered Marie-Christine and the others into the passageway Ben and his men had used earlier. He turned and called over his shoulder as he was disappearing into the darkness within the great stone fireplace.
“Live to fight another day, Englishman, and we will endeavour to do the same”. He raised his hand, and was gone.
Ben spun round, all business now. “Corporal Vann, take Bryan and Thompson with you and cover the lower levels. We need to try and contain them down there. We can’t be sure how many of them there are, and I don’t want them having the run of the place.”
“Sir” replied Vann, as the three men took off down the relatively undamaged staircase.

Bakti had watched the devastation wrought upon the Monastery with satisfaction. The incursion team were all pressed up against the face of the rock, covered in the dust and debris that had showered down following the attack. They prepared to crouch and run zigzag up the exposed path leading to the Monastery entrance. Bakti checked his watch. Why hadn’t Akbar fired the fourth grenade? He activated his comm. link. “Akbar? Come in. Fire the fourth grenade! Repeat, fire the fourth grenade!” Static was his only reply.
“The infidels have neutralised the RPG. There will be no cover fire for our assault on the entrance. Allah will protect us. Mustafa, return to the bridge and maintain position in case we need cover fire for our departure. Anwar, hold a position at the base of the path, count off thirty seconds then follow. We will zigzag in two pairs, thirty seconds apart. Iqbal, you’re with me, we’ll lead off. Go!”

Henri and his ragged band made their way slowly through the tunnel, reaching the steep gradient that would take them beneath the River Tarn to safety. The further they went, the more they could taste the dust in the air, irritating their eyes, sticking in their throats. Suddenly, in the darkness, they saw it. A huge rock fall had collapsed the tunnel dead ahead. There was nothing for it. They would have to dig through with their bare hands.
“The torches, Dryden, bring them here, we have work to do!”

© Kev Moore 2008 All Rights Reserved

(Atlantic Bridge 21)