Object of the Month – March 2015

Serendipity …
the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.
“a fortunate stroke of serendipity”
synonyms: (happy) chance, (happy) accident, fluke;

Strangely, the Free Dictionary phonetically spells the word, differently from the actual spelling? … The vagaries of the English language.

The word “serendipity” is used by sculpturesteph, https://gurkykowsky.wordpress.com/2015/03/08/object-of-the-month-my-pearl-necklace/. In her challenge for this month, for March.

My object used for the challenge, is “The Giant”. A local stone sculpture.



Now I’m not really sure whether the object might seem serendipitous?

For myself it is. For I have been back to the spot easily 4 times since late January. Trying to get a photo that will convert to WordPress, framing the whole large sculpture. I have turned the camera sideways on to capture the largeness. That works well into something like iPhoto. Yet converting into my image files, here at WordPress. The head is chopped off, or the feet, etc.

I was trying to use the original photo, taken in January. For use as an example of local sculptures. It is at the very end of a local park, called Lakeside Park. It is located under large trees, which in summer are cool and shady. In winter the snow hangs on and it is cooler also, from the chilly wind that blows off of the lake. As a site for the sculpture, it has much to be desired. With a backdrop of the bridge, leading across to the other side. The lack of sunlight during the winter months and the children’s playground close by. Brings people to use the swings, etc. Yet few stop to look at “The Giant”. With his large feet. Hands, clutching a cat in one and a bird in the other. The sightless eyes, staring out across the water.

How serendipity bought me back again and again, trying to capture the right snapshot. Yet each time I leave, makes me think about the statue itself. Is there a point, or meaning, of the cat and bird? The notion of a large person holding the creatures and proportionally how the hands and feet seem to be about the only things out of scale.

I suppose I could go and ask the sculptor himself? For I know where he lives. Somehow, I do not really want to know. Preferring the enigmatic questions that serendipity has bought me to.



The Song of the Pacifist …

What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?

If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt’ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!

If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom’s throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;

If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.

Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.

Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.

Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall’n in vain.

When our children’s children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.


March madness …

Mad as a March Hare, goes the saying. Likely because in March, the lust of mating lies heavy on their bodies? Once, while living in Wales during mid-1970’s. Witnessed a Hare, or Rabbit, likely a Hare. Leaping and gambolling in the field across the road, one late March day.

Alberta, in the city of Calgary. One may see Hares, Jackrabbits. Astonishingly fast, when they need to be. A zigging and a zagging, outrunning their predators. Once only,  was I in Calgary in March. Didn’t see any Jackrabbits then. Just a skiff of snow across the black top, waiting for take-off on my way to Heathrow, London. The brown and pale gold patchwork of fields as we left.

Eventually descending 9 hours later. Into the landscape of brilliant greens that make the home counties what they are. No matter how many times I’ve done that trip, that descent and circling of London City, in holding pattern waiting to land near Hounslow. Hounslow Heath, one row of cottages – Heath Row. Gave what became London’s main airport, its name.