Rough Billy

the newest thoughts of the making boy.

2007-07-15T01:24:00.000-07:00

Hello real world, I am still here, cannot believe the truth, cause we all line ourselves up to live an illusion. The illusion is basically our dreams put into action. We must create NOW, what happens next? I am a cartoon, a carricature of the living Billy, I am living, I am drawing, I am unable to photograph it. Yet here is where I am. Loourrverrs Billy. (There are lourrvers every where you look.)

2007-06-30T22:19:00.001-07:00

Hello This is Suzanne Bills friend, we were just trying to get a few pics in to see if it all works and we got it right on my bloghead. Check ya!!!!
Bill and Suzanne

New Poem

2007-06-03T02:35:00.000-07:00

Publishing a piece that must not stay on the paper, here in little West End.

SLEEP IS DANGEROUS

This work of mine should firm your constitution! EAT POTATOES

If you find the work basically naive, you are spot on.......this spot.

SLEEP IS DANGEROUS

Every evening, Every Evening All evenings

I dread, I dread I dread my soul,

It seems that Mother and Father have instigated a discipline that insist, HE
must sleep...
why he asked...?

I have never wanted to sleep, I find it wasteful of inventiveness, of creative individuality, of a wastefulness of nocturnality. Very discriminate upon special moments, when just at dawn, the scream of dawn, this planet is based only observational daylight.

Or is there a blacker bluer, indigo way?

Close your eyes, you see EYES CLOSED NOW, you see purple, red, green, yellow, even orange, now open your little eyes, and you see your actual life, "bugger" she said, " my life, in front of my eyes". This is crucial, 'one does' said the Caterpillar sitting on top of the Mushroom. CS Lewis knew what he wasn't about. What in the absolute dark do you see when walking in your very own forest? Your’e very own forest, You almost own this piece of land.
You are as high as you can get, because you can IMAGINE Take SLEEP carefully, stop indulging, use valium, asprin & morphine, DO NOT SLEEP!

Who sleeps well, alone, selfless, in company, in safety?
\
Who sleeps unwell aaah those alone for there is no ONE to turn to
How will we make sleep better,
How will we interpret waking dreams?
If there is no one to turn to, (REPEAT)x3
In a significant way, can I propose an answer?. How many questions can you ask before you explode?
I sleep around, and occasionally not with myself, All with whom I sleep are usually lovers. Then I cannot choose to sleep with those with whom I cannot love! I think the word carrot is appropriate. Carrots are an anathema, an anologue, even digital, and then even a metaphore.

Who, yet thou with your’e Knowledge, luck and experience, have hands to touch me, not thee, I am but small change in your hands
I can breathe your sleep and joy in the breaking of the day, any day, yet I sleep not in the joy, that you are sleeping with me, even the safety that my holding hand will always respect for thee

SLEEP with me and wake free, thou heart, thou own soul, will always be, and is always free,. How many always do you want?
I will never, though, possibly as sometimes it happens, I may try to hold your dreams to my will….I will you, though, as you are blessed thing, never hold you too hard to my heart.
Dream on sweet
Billy 02 06 07

This strange but lettucely and tomatoe, elegant wrap of words, have been sitting upon a half a dozen sheets of A4 for 5 weeks. Finally committed to the air.BR

Letters upon Willow Fey

2007-05-31T13:19:00.000-07:00

A private letter, but all can read,

Dear Master Willow Fey Fettuceshist, aah Lettuceshist, oh well Celeried with a Cap sicum on your'e capella,

" yon faerie methinks is well capped with fine cap si cum" said the elf wearing an overly large squash upon his noggin. The fellow goblin had little to say, as he was not wearing anything at all, and some people laughed at this. Not a worry he thought to his wee goblin self. The elf and goblin on observing the "faerieboy", had little or no language with which to communicate to him, yet being of the lower orders, felt better at simple comments, and did not desire to reach a place of faeriedom. Such is the way.

Yon noted faerieboy, who was probably known to his kinfolk as Feyknot Tuggle was blissfully unaware that he was being observed, as the higher orders need care little about the 'others', (who gallop around observing), rather he was happy with his new found cap si cum, and meant to make a day of it. After all is said an done, it really is only, but also, one day at a time. The celebration of "Nearly the Full Moon" was an open event and all things were invited, and as it happens all things turned up. As they do. It would be nearly impossible to describe one quarter of them let alone the entire entourage of the prince, Queen or King.
"An effort must be made" said the scribe, who though dressed in drab tweed coat and pants, with white scuffs, still made a reasonable dress statement, even without a fruit or vegetable upon his head. So the effort was made.
As he and scribe looked, the dandy little prince wore an enormous amount of purple, his skinny white stockings, came up to the silk breaches, of reflective striped corduroy, the vest was laced with Golden Orb spider strings, the cape was nothing less than startling, in it's Tahition Lime stripes underlayered with Taiwanesse Snail Purple Quilted Silk. Grandma Phouka had given it to him for his fifteenth birthday. On his carefully sprayed, helmet like dark bronze hair, was a small silver coronet, and to add event to the spectacular, he had Kajal'd the heck out of his eyelids, maybe because, having a small nose, as he did, it made the little upturned snub stand out like dogballs in a thunderstorm.
Many of the gathering cheered at his gloriously misappropriated behaviour, as though it was expected. He expected it. ' Well you don't get to be a prince often', he would say to himself. And he did often say things to himself. He used a funny little internal voice that he called Felix the Cat. It was rather surreal to have this tiny little cat voice in your head, yet it worked for him.

Beside him or maybe just a little bit behind him, was some creature, almost like his favourite attribute, attachment, or possibly akin to a special handbag, there it was this floating body in white Indian Cotton. This creative "thing of a vision", strummed upon a harp, the face had Angelic features, the eyes were quiet, the hands so delicate, the demeanour so fadingly charismatic, that one could hardly believe 'twas there.

Often this vision of the harp player, faded in and out of view, so the congregation never really knew whether or no it existed, someone would turn to another and say "My goodness look at the harp player" and the other would look and there wasn't anything to be seen. He would turn back to the other and give a very queer look toward him. Later that night he would say to his wife, "I think we are losing Billy, he keeps seeing Harp Players behind the Prince"
So as it goes, some people can't see things. However for the most part everyone enjoyed themselves to the enth degree. And the enth degree is a hard place to stay, for any length of time, though in the Faerie world it can be maintained and maintainenced, without any extremes of difficulty. For your information, it takes a very fine Shaman to keep this under tow. As for the rest of the parade, words are hardly useful to describe such irreverant and perversely ceremonial behaviour.

The naked goblin for example was one of those people who never noticed what anybody was wearing, so ceremonies and parades were quite beside, even outside, his range of vision, and he often said to himself, "Why are they spending all their gold when we could eat like Kings or Queens?" Mind you, he said that to himself, through his little internal voice, which actually. was called 'Spot the Dog'. The voice was OK, it just was annoying when it barked at night. The naked goblin thought that maybe he should feed
it more often, but actually didn't know where to put the food. He personally did not like dog food. So during his long nights of sleep he simply resigned himself to various spontaneous bouts of barking. "Should I take this internal voice dog for a walk more often?" he asked his other self, All he got was a couple of more barks.

(Dear Willow and others, more to come)

"Still one must" said the Scribe.

Willow Fey Chap 2

2007-05-31T13:18:00.000-07:00

This particualar chapter begins with a warning that may be stated prior to the exhibitions of these studies. It may seem shy, however the events which have and will occur in these writings, as innocent as they are, may cause a a large amount of our sleepy society to question, recondition, become aghast, possible commit spiritual suicide, as they flip the pages of this very heartfelt story. There is little I can do to clean it's edges, there is little I can do to polish the brass for a religiously prone society, a society that demands all fall inside or outside the word of their own specially invented God/ Goddess is my preferred.

GOD can be good for many souls, many souls have Allah, Bhuddism has no immediate God, neither does the Dao/Tao, no more,the Deities of 5000 years of the Inca and Aztec peoples,....... they happily eat each other, sawatswrong with that, are we suddenly saved by Jesus after the known 200,000 years, or maybe 6 million years, of our particular species living, loving, eating on the shores of our little planet. In the 2000 years that have passed since Jesu Christe died and re--=- surrected, have we massively, or even quietly and effectively, improved anything?

WAS THERE?.... an enormous loss of knowledge somewhere in the Inquisition Period?Are the Spanish guilty? All these questions will be put to rest in their very own coffin.
Just as we seem not to be able to accommodate women in senior roles in 2007, is it not like the early 11th century, where if they offered healing, we burned them as an example, to show the poor idiots that inventiveness was not allowed and in that, we as Popes and Cardinals kill the flowing, growing, knowledge of the unwritten classes. Before I was the Pope, Ill Papa, many people had their own relationship with their spiritual beings.

WHAT IS NEXT?

My continuing story is of Cherubim,Seraphim and Archangels. Most of the Heavenly Host, can be apparently seen in all of the great painters works of the Catholic West, Europe to Asia, Colonies, and now, let us have the best of 'em and my story will begin in surprisingly , a tiny town in the Antipodes, affected by the best the very best weather, and upon this wild tropical sunrise, a gentle young angel that I have been visited by, landed from a tree top, yet have hardly known in the Biblical Sense, though we have heard each others music,

It happened by surprise at a gathering that could be considered spiritual, folkloric, multicultural, or simply...let us face the base line, a celebration of living on the earth globe. If it were possible, he had plants growing from his ears and nose, his fertility was obvious, though she was fertile in her enormous integrity and great vines and vibes sprouted from her head there was music at her and his fingers, I believed I had arrived at my final home, I was just 39.

Letters to Willow Fey

2007-05-31T13:16:00.000-07:00

Dear Bill, I am talking to you while you are here. This work began while re-uniting with an important fellow, I am now in a fury of spirituality and ramblings.

NOW OW OW, I am talking to you while you are up Hardgrave Road, I dislike Hardgrave road as it is too far away from my body, mind soul spirit, aaaah I beg your pardon, the spirit is forever within me and always will be. I forget all the speeches I have made, half the productions I've created, the auditions I have done, the literary pieces I have recited, I can even be responsible for forgetting the names of one or two lovers, and the President of the Rotary Club of Childers who awarded me the Rotary Youth Leadership Award in 1969. Yet in truth my visual, spiritual and physical memory of you is almost without pixelation yet highly picsalated, in periods that we were near each other, (This first year that phone call, that year that letter, that moment we have enjoyed). How lucky am I, & for that matter I hope you feel lucky, I could be unreasonably joyous, yet how does reason work within the realm of admiration. I have spent hardly ten minutes since your departure thinking upon how or what I would write. The word STUNNING still rings in my ear, as of course I said it to you, so I decided to look up the McRough Thesaurus of Colloquial Adornment.

STUNNING : LATIN / GREEK, from Stunner (G), Stunt, Cunning, Stunning Cunt (L) , possibly also adjusted in Peregian Beach Queensland, Australia during the Floods of 1884, when because of wet paper and severe damage to the Colonial Maps, the Creek became enshrined in Government Papers as Stumers Creek, an unknown name in this era. The discoveror of the Creek in Peregrin, had noticed the large amount of SEA HAWKS in the area, and wanted to name the creek after the resident bird. His name was Walter Mc Dougal-Cock. He had, in his observations, secretly come across a Male Sea Hawk presenting himself to his female armour and said to himself I can kill two birds with one name, stunning cock creek, alas the wetness the poor quality of the paper, the slackness of the young English Cartographer, (incidentally his part time armourite} contributed to the mistaken name. Their relationship had begun on a convict ship some years before, where he as the rich adventurer had desired an apprentice, and down in the holds he beheld a boy of some bright eyed intelligence, fed him some of the Captain's Food, asked many questions to which he received satisfactory answers, and then convinced Governor Phillip that the lad had skills. So wee Billy Rogers at a tender age became the Cartographer and Botanical Artist for Walter McD Cock. He had never had such good food, nor had he had such attentions prayed upon him. Not only that but also, never had he enjoyed so many pens, bottles of ink, etching plates and the murmurs of approval from the Captains Boardroom. They dressed in fine Midshipmans Cloth and he bathed and soon as he could, shaved regularly. Fom stealing a silver spoon in Essex, to this, within one year, our Billy was at the peak of his dreams and was more than determined to live this life.

This is episode one of a long story about Billy Stumers Rogers, to be continued........

I thank you for having me at your Place...... Billy Rough. Somewhere in Feb...07