• About

Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: Archbishop of Canterbury

Visio Monachi de Eynsham c 1196 CE (revised) or The Vision of Edmund, the monk of Eynsham.

23 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Community, History, Literature, Poetry, Religion, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Abbot, Adam of Eynsham, Archbishop of Canterbury, Baldwin, Benedictine Rule, Bishop of Salisbury, Blessed Souls, chain of being, Charismatic Renewal, Compline, corporal punishment, Easter, Edmund of Eynsham, election, Geoffrey of Eynsham, Good Friday, hallucinatory drug, Holy week, Joscelin, Lent, Matins, nepotism, Osney, Oxfordshire, Paradise, Purgatory, quinsy, Rapture, Saladin, sanctification, Sanctus, St Lawrence, St Nicholas, Sub-Abbot, vanitas

Vision of Edmund of Eynsham

 

https://i0.wp.com/amoureuxdulangage.m.a.f.unblog.fr/files/2014/08/eynsham-abbey.jpg

 

 

Adam – now there’s a fine symbolic name

for a Sub-Abbot, but it is not he

of whom we wish to write.  No, the fame

belongs entirely to his brother: Edmund.  He

is the one whose ‘deathbed’ revelation

showed him Paradise and Purgatory.

Taken by the hand of St Nicholas,

he saw the penalties of Vanitas.

 

 

We are in twelfth century Oxfordshire,

but the application is for us too,

though believers in Rapture are fewer.

Nowadays it would be put down to ‘flu,

a fever, or hallucinatory drug.

Out-of-body experiences – who

would credit them with the spiritual?

Movements like Charismatic Renewal?

 

 

Imbibing only some tepid water,

for fifteen months, Edmund lay, very weak;

his quinsy made him hotter and hotter.

As Easter approached, he commenced to speak

and, with the help of a supporting stick,

he wanted to celebrate Holy Week

in the monastery chapel.  Brothers

claimed he remained longer than the others.

 

 

From midnight until noon on the next day,

he confessed all his sins and lamented.

The following night, he began to pray

and lay on the ground, as if demented.

Adam had cold water splashed over him.

He thought Edmund had simply invented

this behaviour to gain some attention –

thus he wanted to defuse the tension.

 

 

How Edmund arrived there, without some aid,

was a point to be considered (but post-

Good Friday.)  Yes, though fresh blood was displayed

on the cross, the monks felt the Holy Ghost

was not behind Edmund’s troubling conduct.

Maybe he wanted discipline, to boast,

boost spiritual pride.  He’d asked for penance,

but was too weak for simple observance.

 

 

Through Good Friday evening, the next day,

water dribbled from his lips, till sunset.

They thought he was returning to the clay,

for he made no response and didn’t fret

when pricked.  They blew a horn in his ear,

but he did not stir – at least, not yet –

till Compline, when his eyes opened.  He sighed

and ‘Sancta Maria‘ many times cried.

 

 

He had begged for corporal punishment

and he kept on sobbing into his hands,

while compelling everyone to repent.

One of his more unusual demands

was to have a silver cross brought to him.

No one to this day really understands

why he was agitated; in this state:

raving like some kind of inebriate.

 

 

On Saturday evening, he ate some bread.

Miraculously, he went, unaided,

to Matins, where he bowed his tonsured head

and the cross and relics venerated.

The Prior and Sub-Prior heard him confess,

till no omission had been evaded

and he received the Sacrament as well,

to the ring of the credence Sanctus bell.

 

 

He then shared his dream, which began in Lent:

how a man had stood beside him, who said

that the prayers of a Godstow postulant

should join with his and be intermingled.

Then, roused to consciousness, he kissed the cross,

penitent for time he had spent in bed.

Entering the chapel of St Lawrence

and All Martyrs, he bowed in obesiance.

 

 

He begged Adam for further punishment

and bathed his eyes in blood and swallowed it.

He was birched further and did not give vent

to spleen; nor did he ask for a remit.

Adam denied the Benedictine Rule

condoned this practice.  He felt its ambit

was for daylight hours, but, apparently,

St Nicholas had amended the decree.

 

 

Edmund saw souls flogged and bound together,

but they still had a hope of salvation.

You could have knocked him down with a feather

when he saw, in the throes of purgation,

(previous Abbot) Geoffrey of Eynsham,

negligent in his organisation,

though he’d been in charge for forty four years,

now past nepotism induced his tears.

 

 

The Bishop of Salisbury – Joscelin –

committed sexual immorality

and, as for the dire dealings of Baldwin,

he had tinkered with criminality:

unwise Archbishop of Canterbury.

(Most preferred Saladin’s mentality.)

Much given to Chapter disputation,

Baldwin funded Crusades through taxation.

 

 

In the next place to which Edmund was led,

he smelled a vile pond and climbed a steep hill:

souls were burned on one side and they perished

with cold conversely.  A rotating grill

principle moved them from one location

to the other, like ants from an anthill.

To see a goldsmith from Osney- a drunk-

being purged here did not surprise the monk.

 

 

The third realm was a place of snakes, devils –

reserved for the homosexual.

A lawyer was suffering for evils

and monks too were punished by gradual

degrees.  Unchaste churchmen who had blasphemed

(so nothing much there far from the usual)

by dispensing holy things with foul hand,

epitomising the wrongs in England.

 

Those who had been successful in the world

endured more than those of a low degree.

Regions of Paradise were then unfurled

to Nicholas, Edmund: a panoply

of Blessed Souls, who approached a huge gate

set in a wall of crystal – so shiny

that, blinded, he scarcely saw the entrance

of those receiving their inheritance.

 

Edmund then saw Jesus Christ on a throne,

but, at this point, his guide made him return

and yet he sensed that there were those who’d flown

to higher realms and who with joy would burn.

They exuded Light Inaccessible,

but he was not yet ready to discern

the joys of one who finished his course –

his sanctification was yet perforce.

 

This vision showed him a chain of being,

linking angels and the perfected souls,

descending from God, who is all-seeing,

to those who’ve just embraced heavenly goals.

Necessary purging of perception

allots individuals specific roles.

Adam wrote this down for our perfection:

Verify your calling and election.

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Is the Pope A Catholic?

12 Tuesday Feb 2013

Posted by Candia in Humour, Literature, Religion, Romance, Suttonford

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, C S Lewis, Clark's Village, DNA test, Falstaff, Gloria Swanson, Mr Tumnus, Pope, Shepton Mallet, Speedo

Diana turned her head, like an owl swivelling its neck.  She had

prepared herself for the inevitable change that she must find in

Augustus, but she had to adjust her facial expression.  He wasn’t

the only one for whom the bell had taken its toll.

They hugged, embarrassed, not knowing how long to

maintain the embrace. Then Diana pulled away and walked

forward,  into the pub proper.  He followed her to the reserved

table in the window.

He couldn’t keep his eyes from her, but was trying not to stare.

Her figure was still firm after all those years of coaching lacrosse.

He could feel his own Falstaffian belly sagging against his thighs

like an oversized watermelon.

They ordered crab soup.  He kept reminding himself of the

quotation beneath his photo in the school magazine: a god

amongst mere mortals.  The trouble was that he had failed to

detect the irony, as it actually prefaced the quotation with: he

thinks he is.. It had also drivelled on about his formidable

reputation as a Classics scholar.  Who did they think he was –

C.S.Blinkin’ Lewis?  He more closely resembled Mr Tumnus, with

an emphasis on the Tum.

Monochrome head-and-left-shoulder photo portrait of 50-year-old Lewis

Still, he summoned the memory in times of feeling inadequate.  It

usually made him feel worse.

Diana finished her soup first and leant under the table to retrieve

a large envelope from her designer handbag- actually bought in

Shepton Mallet at a seconds store in the Clark’s Village, but it

gave the intended impression, she thought.  Small woman with

ridiculously over-sized bag. Wonder she doesn’t give herself

vertebrae injury, was what observers usually silently remarked

when they saw her struggling with it.  I bet it costs her a bomb in

physio.

People can be so unkind.  But Diana was there to atone for her

past omissions and commissions.

She passed the envelope across the table.  It was full of photos of

Drusilla’s prizegivings, gymkhana competitions, a record of her

Confirmation and driving test results-all four of them.  It had

copies of her swimming certificates (100 metres), a cloth badge

which she had won for diving from the side of the pool and which

Diana had never got round to attaching to her daughter’s Speedo

costume.  There was a  mounted page with her A-level results and

a Grade 5 Theory certificate.

Oh, she only got a merit, he observed to himself, fortunately.

Doesn’t take after me in that realm. He felt a little more confident.

There was one respect in which she clearly did take after her pa,

however.  The Snodbury jowls were very much in evidence, so

there was no question of a DNA test being necessary.

Yes, he said, looking at a photo of Drusilla when she had been a

bridesmaid at the age of fourteen, I suppose she is my daughter.

She is, isn’t she?

Diana, slightly ruffled at the very suggestion of any doubt,

snapped: Is the Pope a Catholic?

Benedykt XVI (2010-10-17) 4.jpg

Well, he seems to have had enough of it all and has resigned,

hasn’t he?  So where does that place him? He seems to be copying

The Archbishop of Canterbury. They’re probably all C of E.

Diana’s expression was hardening.  She was beginning to recall

how much she had disliked his facetiousness.

But don’t worry, I will accept my responsibilities, to the bitter end.

Bitter end?  That’s good of you, she said caustically. No, I don’t

require a coffee.  She waved the waiter away rudely.

Father! exclaimed Drusilla.  She had been waiting outside for

some time in the car, until her mother gave her the signal from

the window. Augustus had wondered why she kept flicking her

hair all the time in the manner of a teenage Gloria Swanson– or

was it Swansong at this age?

Everyone looked at their table and overwhelmed by the enthusiastic

filial welcome characterised by the rumbustiousness of the daughter

of a once fearsome lax player, Augustus knocked the shagreen box

onto the floor and, to his chagrin, the ring fell out and

disappeared down a gap in the floorboards.  It would take

someone with very long arms to retrieve it.  Maybe it was a sign:

don’t do it, old boy!

 

 

 

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Augustine: a Mission in Letters

03 Monday Dec 2012

Posted by Candia in Arts, History, News, Poetry, Religion

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, Augustine, Augustine of Canterbury, Augustine of Hippo, Augustine's Oak, Bishop Laurence, Christianity, Columba, Ethelbert, Ethelfrid, Etherius, Isle of Thanet, Justus, Mellitus, pallium, Pope Gregory, Queen Bertha, YouGov

In the light of comments that the teaching of Christianity is often ‘incoherent’ and

disappoints those who, having studied the results of a YouGov poll, believe that

there is widespread support for imaginative communication about key events,

here is a poem about early faith dissemination in Britain:

 

 

Gregory,  I think we’ve made a mistake.

Maybe we should consider coming back.

This isn’t going to be a piece of cake:

St. Columba must be on the wrong track.

Sincerely,

Augustine.

 

The twenty third of July, 596.

 

 

It would be better never to commence

such an enterprise, if you cannot fix

your eyes on the goal. Brother, do not sin.

The greater the labour, so the reward.

I have written to the pontiff at Arles:

“Etherius, help this mission forward.”

Try to minimise your petty quarrels.

Affectionately,

Gregory.

 

 

 Holy Father, we have met Ethelbert.

He seems to rule what is here termed Kent.

I feel better, but it’s not a dead cert,

though saintly Bertha thinks we’re heaven sent.

The Isle of Thanet was our meeting place.

He worried that we might be magicians,

but at length accepted us with good grace;

gave us licence to preach – and provisions.

The king has now accepted baptism.

He says he won’t compel anyone:

subjects should choose faith to avoid schism.

(I think Canterbury could be quite fun.)

Your brother,

Augustine.

 

 

Dear Etherius, I thank you kindly

for last week’s wonderful consecration.

I’ve sent monks from our episcopal see

to tell Gregory we’ve won this nation.

Yours in Christ,

Augustine.

 

 

Dear Gregory, I hope you will not mind

if I pose some thorny questions to you.

(The pallium you sent me was most kind.)

About the heathen temples: what’s your view?

Yours faithfully,

Augustine.

 

 

Don’t use the sickle of authority,

dear Augustine, in another man’s field.

Destroy idols; keep the majority

of the buildings. I hear sick have been healed

and you’ve been doing miracles, my son.

Beware of pride – it affects all of us,

Gregory, A.D., 601.

P.S. Please welcome Abbot Mellitus.

When Mellitus arrived in London from Rome in AD 591, he found almost no evidence of a Christian presence

 

(Augustine’s Oak, 603 A.D.)

Concerning Easter, bishops, celebrate

it with the church – ecumenically….

I’ll heal this blind man while you fix the date.

Yours apostolically,

Augustine.

 

 

Bishops:

Dear Hermit, we think we need a sign:

should we abandon our tradition?

Is he a man of God, this Augustine?

Is he one of the sons of perdition?

Yours respectfully,

Bishops X, Y, and Z.

 

 

Bishops, there is only one way to tell:

does he rise to greet you when you approach?

If not, you can judge him very well

as guilty of pride, worthy of reproach.

Yours ascetically,

A. Hermit.

 

 

Augustine : I recognise your trite ploys.

I warn you, if you do not unify

with fellow Christians, you will forfeit joys.

Casualties under Ethelfrid were high.

 

Justus to Gregory:

When the Bishops arrived, he did not rise

from his seat, so he was not recognised.

They thought he had too many Kentish ties

and his approach was not homogenised.

 

 

 

File:AgCant-tomb.jpg

 

Laurence to his flock: sadly here he lies:

the Archbishop of Canterbury. Though

blessed by God, it was not terribly wise

to share his name with that saint of Hippo,

for Christians can be easily confused.

I hope you will distinguish him from now,

so that believers will not stand accused

of ignorance. His worth we must avow.

Amen.

 

 

 

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Noisy Neighbours

19 Wednesday Sep 2012

Posted by Candia in Humour, Literature, Social Comment, Suttonford, Theatre

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, Bing Crosby, boobs, catwalk, Christopher Robin, Duchess of Cambridge, husband, Mark Tully, Piglet, Prince William, Rowan Williams, Something Understood, St Andrews University

There is something funny going on here!  I have just remembered that Kate Middleton paraded down a catwalk at St Andrews University, wearing a transparent dress, possibly to deliberately attract Wills’ attention.  So should she turn on the coyness now?  Or is it suddenly immoral for journalists to intimately reveal her to the world since she has acquired an elevated status? Maybe it is all to do with the timing of disclosure being down to an individual’s personal choice.  (see Gottes Zeit below.)

Anyway, there is nothing worse than people becoming bored with your boobs.  Unless it is becoming incensed with noisy neighbours.  Now the two topics in this paragraph should be great tags for anyone’s blog!

I’m only getting round to discussing the latest Something Understood, presented by Mark Tully, on Radio 4, as it has taken me nearly three days to recover from the emotional wreckage and sleep deprivation inflicted by my noisy neighbours in the early hours of Sunday morning.

The theme of the programme was based on the quotation: Is Discretion the Better Part of Valour?

This struck a chord as I deliberated whether to simmer once again with suppressed rage at anti-social nocturnal activities.

Yes, dear readers, even in sleepy Suttonford where the local rag will report a missing budgie on the front page and scintillating evening classes may revolve around the crocheting of loo roll holders, there is still a serpent in Eden.

You’ll have heard it said that there is no rest for the wicked, but this has been amended to simply: there is no rest.

The rasping cackle of a female laugh which resembled the onomatopoeic rapid rifle’s rattle from the trenches, as described by The War Poets, cut through glazing and blinds and permeated the bedroom as noxiously as a gas attack.

I had been listening to Tully discussing whether Falstaff’s discretion was in fact comic cowardice.  This query was juxtaposed alongside the lyrics of a song:

You can stand me up at the gates of hell:

I wouldn’t back down.

I won’t be turned around;

Gonna stand my ground.

Thanks for that, I thought.  Go, girl, and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

Different camps had either criticised or praised Archbishop Runcie for being indecisive.  Sometimes, he had seemed to think, it could be helpful to nail one’s colours to the fence.  Compromise is not necessarily weak.

Personally, as I flew out of the back door into the garden, I must confess that I felt like nailing some people to the fence, possibly with a staple gun.

In the past I had been indecisive. I’d compromised. Okay, so President Kennedy had avoided a Nuclear Armageddon by masterly indecision.  Elizabeth I’s foreign policy had been marked by procrastination.  But one day she decided to cut off her cousin’s head.

Bing Crosby smarmily sang: I surrender, dear. I could still hear it in my mind.  I immediately repulsed the thought and replaced it with a reminder of the philosophy of Pooh and Friends. Even Piglet did not avoid confrontation and he was accorded the highest praise for his bravery.

Pooh:  Did Piglet tremble?  Did he blinch? [sic]

Piglet:  I-I thought I did blinch a little.  Just at first!

Pooh: You only blinched inside, and that’s the bravest way for a very small Animal not to blinch..

So, I went out into the garden and I tried not to blinch. I bellowed as if I was a very big Animal. I told them to behave themselves in no uncertain terms.

Dr Rowan Williams PC, DPhil, DD, FBA the 104th...

Rowan Williams spoke next.  No, not in my garden.  He wasn’t behind a bush, burning or otherwise.  He had been on the programme too.  I could still hear his voice:

Don’t lose touch with both sides in the conflict, so people keep speaking.

Would he mediate?  I couldn’t imagine him approaching the rowdies in his mitre and dalmatics.  Presumably, at that time of night even the Archbishop of Canterbury would wear pyjamas.  Mind you, they would probably take as much notice of him as if he was wearing the invisibility cloak we have discussed in previous posts.

Rowan had said that one should never be tempted to be seen to be doing something decisive in order to gain approval.

No, I think I am safe there.  Approval is not going to be an outcome.

Then The Archbishop chided with a caveat:

Who carries the cost of what I say or do?   

a)   Others.  Well, they don’t seem to be affected at all, so that is that.

b)  Myself.  Yes, the Husband knows that I won’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night as I will be emotionally wrecked.

But, Rowan is encouraging here.  If I alone am to bear the cost of any decision to stand up and be counted, then, what is there to be afraid of, so long as I can cope with myself afterwards?

I can cope.  I can cope.

So, BELT UP, WILL YOU?!

Tully inserted an interesting little poem at this juncture about a cautious man whose relations made some kind of life assurance claim on his demise.  However, they were told that they were due no payout, as, since he had never lived, he could not have been considered to have died.

Vivamus, mea  Lesbia , vivamus.  Let’s live then, baby.

Shuddup!

Rowan counselled that the fear of God was the beginning of wisdom.  There is a proper fear which acknowledges that you know to whom you are answerable.  So… forgive me, God, but, I mean it …  Shuddupayaface!

In Zimbabwe, eight years ago, a Harare bishop proved his loyalty to Mugabe.  Why hadn’t Archbishop Rowan DONE SOMETHING ABOUT IT?

Ah, said Rowan, because if I had denounced him, it would have handed him a weapon.  So, instead I listened to J S Bach’s Gottes Zeit – God’s Timing.

Okay, I have listened to the noisy ones for twelve years, off and on, so now seems like a pretty good time, deo volente, of course…

Quiet!

Were they?  Yes, eventually.  After making the point that it was in their own time.

So, was valour the better part of discretion, or vice versa?

Ask me next weekend.  Otherwise I send in Piglet, aka the Husband.  That’ll make ‘em blinch.  (Not)

Husband is like Christopher Robin:

What I like doing best is Nothing….just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.

Bother.

So, Husband, dear, what are you going to do?

Oh, nothing.

He is for Discretion and I am for Valour.

But I am his Better Half, so:

Shurrup!!!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Piglet (Winnie-the-Pooh)

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Royal Boobs

14 Friday Sep 2012

Posted by Candia in Humour, Literature, mythology, News, Philosophy, Religion, Social Comment

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, Candaules, Derren Brown, Harold the Helicopter, Harry Potter, Invisibility Cloak, Kate, Lambeth Palace, Las Vegas Nevada, paparazzi, Plato, Prince Harry, Prince William, Prince William Duke of Cambridge, Republic, Rev W. Awdry, Ring of Gyges, Wills

Prince William on the Balcony at Buckingham Pa...Interesting that Prince William on his tour to Singapore should have replied to the rather intrusive questions as to what it is that he would really, really like by freely announcing the number of children that he would opt to sire. Apparently what he would choose would be an invisibility cloak and two children.  (The Duchess quipped that she would also have to have access to the aforesaid garment, or else the prince might sneak up on her.)

Kate, the Dutchess of Cambridge, on Buckingham...Maybe if she were to be asked now what her desire would be, she would sincerely state that she would wish that she had kept her top on.

Why did the Royal Pair (no, I don’t mean that, do I?).. I’ll start again: why did Kate and Wills refer to such a Harry Potter-type garment, when, as educated young people, they could have mentioned the original conferrer of invisibility?  This was the Ring of Gyges, as in Plato’s Republic and the important thing about this stolen object was that it raised all sorts of ethical issues.

"Candaules, King of Lydia, Shews his Wife...A shepherd who worked for the Lydian king, Candaules, came across a corpse in a mountain cave and he stole a ring from its finger.  It rendered him invisible and so he was able to seduce the queen and to take part in a plot to murder her husband.  The descendants of this thief included King Croesus.

Now Wills may be as rich as the aforesaid monarch, at least in relative terms, compared to most of us plebs, but adopting an invisibility cloak is a fantasy for any mortal:

Derren Brown.

unless, I suppose, you are Derren Brown.

Oddly, on occasions, I have been under the impression that I must be sporting such an item of clothing.  How so, dear Candia? I hear you ask.

Well, when I was decades younger, with a pushchair and toddler in tow, I often found myself entirely overlooked when I was struggling to enter awkward doorways or ascending/ descending steep flights of stairs.

As a femme d’un certain age, again I seem to have disappeared from view and attract very few appreciative glances from male passers-by.

On crossing the road, I find that drivers accelerate towards me and on pavements, toddlers, usually three at a time, aim for my ankles with those aluminium-type scooters, while their adoring parents look straight through me.

In Costamuchamullah café and other such establishments, assistants (hah!) never seem to notice me standing plainly in front of them while they fiddle around, tidying up their counters, or suddenly finding an absolute necessity to stack their dishwasher.

If I am in a totally empty hotel pool, some mother will arrive with two or three kids in her wake who are buoyed up with bulky flotation devices and the said enfants terribles will make a bee-line for me, thrashing around and splashing me – no doubt magnetised by the force field of my powerful personality, as I am obviously invisible to their little naked eyes. The adult who is supposed to be in control of these young people (or should I call them students of early years?) also cannot see me, by all accounts, though the water disturbance/ displacement around me ought to give a clue that there is a mass of some dimension obstructing her precious offspring’s royal progress through life.  Maybe she hasn’t understood Archimedes’ discovery and thinks Eureka, rather than being an exclamation, is a possible trendy forename for a future infant.

Anyway, Wills, if you had been given the magic cloak, you might have passed it on to your brother for operational use in Las Vegas.

If you could have used one on flight duty, people might have thought you were a drone.  Some people do, actually, while most think you are a fairly industrious worker bee.  People might have mistaken you in the air for Fergie’s Budgie, anthropomorphically resurrected.  Did anyone buy the book?

Harold the HelicopterI always thought she borrowed the basic idea from the Rev W. Awdry’s Harold the Helicopter. Imagine if William had had invisibility conferred upon him.

Brian made this picture while Rowan Williams, ...Think what joy could have been his if he could have kicked a couple of corgis, or addressed The Archbishop of Canterbury from behind some foliage, burning or otherwise, in Lambeth Palace Gardens.

No, the whole point of Royalty is that they should be highly visible, but, of course, that makes them easy targets.  The Duchess’ function is to be seen and to produce the heir and spare that William mentioned.

Harry, not so coy, borrowed the whole mythical ensemble of clothing from the Emperor and paraded himself before a gawping crowd in a private hotel room that he invited half of California to enter, if not le monde entier. Then, to his surprise, he found that people were commenting that he was not perceived to be wearing anything at all, except a sheepish grin.  People who play strip poker can’t really complain.

So, the young couple are furious that they have been spied upon.  Yes, it is regrettable that privacy is difficult for them, but, if Kate wanted to keep her boobs for Will’s eyes only, then she could have kept her top on outdoors.  After all, she ought to know that it is the paparazzi that are the wearers of really effective invisibility cloaks which are embroidered with the immortal phrase: investigative journalism and are the bearers of lenses that can spot a mammary gland from outer space.  Don’t be naïve, Kate.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Recent Posts

  • Life Drawing with Tired Model
  • Laurence Whistler Window
  • We Need To Talk
  • Wintry Thames
  • A Mobile Congregation?

Archives

  • March 2023
  • February 2023
  • January 2023
  • December 2022
  • November 2022
  • October 2022
  • September 2022
  • August 2022
  • July 2022
  • June 2022
  • May 2022
  • April 2022
  • March 2022
  • February 2022
  • January 2022
  • December 2021
  • November 2021
  • October 2021
  • September 2021
  • August 2021
  • July 2021
  • June 2021
  • May 2021
  • April 2021
  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • January 2021
  • December 2020
  • November 2020
  • October 2020
  • September 2020
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • February 2020
  • January 2020
  • December 2019
  • November 2019
  • October 2019
  • September 2019
  • August 2019
  • July 2019
  • June 2019
  • May 2019
  • April 2019
  • March 2019
  • February 2019
  • January 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • October 2018
  • September 2018
  • August 2018
  • July 2018
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • September 2017
  • August 2017
  • July 2017
  • June 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • September 2016
  • August 2016
  • July 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2016
  • April 2016
  • March 2016
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • November 2015
  • October 2015
  • September 2015
  • August 2015
  • July 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • May 2014
  • April 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014
  • December 2013
  • November 2013
  • October 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013
  • May 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • January 2013
  • December 2012
  • November 2012
  • October 2012
  • September 2012
  • August 2012

Categories

  • Animals
  • Architecture
  • art
  • Arts
  • Autumn
  • Bible
  • Celebrities
  • Community
  • Crime
  • Education
  • Environment
  • Family
  • Fashion
  • Film
  • gardens
  • History
  • Home
  • Horticulture
  • Hot Wings
  • Humour
  • Industries
  • James Bond films
  • Jane Austen
  • Language
  • Literature
  • Media
  • Music
  • mythology
  • Nature
  • News
  • Nostalgia
  • Olympic Games
  • Parenting
  • Personal
  • Philosophy
  • Photography
  • Poetry
  • Politics
  • Psychology
  • Relationships
  • Religion
  • Romance
  • Satire
  • Sculpture
  • short story
  • short story
  • Social Comment
  • Sociology
  • Sport
  • Spring
  • St Swithun's Day
  • Summer
  • Summer 2012
  • Supernatural
  • Suttonford
  • television
  • Tennis
  • Theatre
  • Travel
  • urban farm
  • White Horse
  • winter
  • Writing

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

acrylic acrylic painting acrylics Alex Salmond Andy Murray Ashmolean Australia Autumn barge black and white photography Blenheim Border Terrier Boris Johnson Bourbon biscuit boussokusekika Bradford on Avon Brassica British Library Buscot Park charcoal Charente choka clerihew Coleshill collage Cotswolds David Cameron dawn epiphany Fairford FT funghi Genji George Osborne Gloucestershire Golden Hour gold leaf Hampshire herbaceous borders Hokusai husband hydrangeas Jane Austen Kelmscott Kirstie Allsopp Lechlade Murasaki Shikibu mushrooms National Trust NSW Olympics Oxford Oxfordshire Pele Tower Pillow Book Prisma reflections Roger Federer Sculpture Shakespeare sheep Spring Spring flowers still life Suttonford Tale of Genji Thames Thames path Theresa May Victoria watercolour William Morris willows Wiltshire Winchester Cathedral

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,570 other subscribers

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • Candia Comes Clean
    • Join 1,570 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Candia Comes Clean
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
%d bloggers like this: