Tags: dissertation


Night Thoughts

~The Visions of the Daughters of Albion~ ~Jerusalem~ ~The Book of Thel~ ~A Vision of the Last Judgement~

The Sick RoseI am sorry, I can but try to be discreet. Worn down, completely exhausted. Somehow thankful for Friday's great deadline, where over a third of this year's work is due, the Dissertation finally leaves my hands, and there is finally room to breathe again. 'Carry on now. There is only a short way to go' A lot of the writing I've been doing recently has been about stepping back and viewing the concept of art, perhaps in each case asking with the author 'what use is a poem?' It gives a sense of perspective I only wish I could employ with greater circumspect for life as a whole. (Sorry for being allusive; it's the way it must be) A recent comment, not necessarily here, got me thinking nostalgically about certain anniversaries. Some people don't like the term (but there's another disreputable link). From a personal point of view, the year is neatly scattered with anniversaries of various upbeat and downbeat insinuations. Next week raises a nostalgic Marriage of Heaven and Hell. The reason it surfaces again it just because in taking a few minutes out ~ eyes have been sadly attached for many hours a day to the white screen of alternate lines of type for weeks, and now slowly starting to treat it all as a haze ~ I went prying and digging up where I shouldn't have; and it's just caught me, being in a delicate mood today, it's got to me for the first time. The Songs of Innocence and Experience. I've privately disparaged lots I've seen so far, without really being awake to what it was like for me, to where I can be empathetic. It's easy to look back and sigh relief at what has changed; not so to get yourself into that position of retrospective analysis. Just suddenly feel struck by an awful lot: not so much to say I know what's going on, or what I can do, but just how dare I judge, however privately, when I'm supposed to have been there before? Beit under the covers, writing on myself, slack grumbling at the hospital ~ I'd try not to call it hypocrisy, for I awaken eventually, but my self-employed ignorance often knows no bounds.

I should not write more here, even though I've no doubt I shall.

~All My Love~

The Lost Rhetoric

Living in Hope
For the Love of a Friend

Since both the title and, thankfully, to some far lesser degree, the sentiment, still stand, I thought I'd edit rather than update afresh. Hopefully , therefore, this won't reappear on friends' lists and find a better degree of subtlety than I'm used to. Lost, firstly, because I 'm coming to terms now with how much of the past 7-8 months I've wanted to find the time to capture and express at length, and realizing that the past is going to have to be consigned as the past, and give up the times to memory alone. Christmas, at least I can summarise for completion purposes. Christmas was a remarkably wonderful time, poignantly marked by - just the first time I've ever felt Christmas as a grown up. Christmas only belongs to one left in our family household: arguably the one who deserves it most. The time flew, it had to. In the same way as the cat/buttered bread debate comes a variable with deadlines ~ where deadlines exist, the time flies. I enjoyed magnificent company throughout, and if all Christmas times could be spent as such, I'd look forward to them earlier and earlier, in anticipation of life's most joyous time. Christmas had a little of everything ~ I just confess to missing people I haven't seen in a good while. New Year saw our household's lucky omen spend his third consecutive time with us; and hopefully, he'll take some of the luck with him for this year and not bestow it all on us, or I should say 'me' ~ deserved or undeserved, I seem to pick up the family's good luck.

Unlike Thomas Jordan, I wrote no Letany for New Year. Plenty I could have said, even analysed last year with a book. Life keeps changing shape; I dip in and out of circles, while my own stay just about strong enough. Nevertheless, even without looking forward to it, I had a sense of purpose for the year to be titled Aspiration. I travelled back, via an enjoyable night over in Loughborough, just over two weeks ago, and for those two weeks, I have worked almost completely non-stop without wavering on my dissertation, determined that the fruits of last term's labour should not fade without due justice. I wanted to announce it, have house mates back me up; but no - somehow realised that without this uncanny distraction, LiveJournal, which I have for a long time stated (as part of diarying in general) as priority number one, that I stay more polarized, more focussed, less self-obsessed (arguably): in tune with what I've found interesting and what I've found comical. Sometimes, it hasn't occurred enough within me to think that my good friends don't really want to be bundled with the more menial day-to-day happenings of some nobody English student. I think from somewhere, I've always assumed that people found this journal remotely interesting, intreguing, emotional, happy or sad, mystical, enigmatic - anything really - any one reason why any friend or random visitor might want to read for a reason. When I learn the word detachment, the step back - there's too many 'I's: when I read as someone else, I don't see that. When I engaged, I sold my journal ~ the topoi tended to appear more often. movere, docere, delectare. Perhaps, just temporarily, I stand removed.

So, yes, this year has been very enjoyable to date. New Year's Day saw a trip to see Narnia, which I enjoyed very much. The night after was spent bowling [139, 118, 120]. The night before leaving, spent a night in Sunderland, just to acknowledge - times I treat far more relaxed than ever I did before - more detached, maybe. Back here, dragged luggage the 4 or so miles from Temple Meads to home; being greeted by Simon was worth it. From then onwards, I've had one single focus, and stuck to it professionally: and I am sombre in feeling proud of myself for it. Along the way, I had an accident one morning by spilling a scolding hot full mug of tea right into my lap, singeing my scrote, as it were. I had to dress on one side for two days. Amusing, perhaps; but not headline. This week, the English Department nearly had a hat-trick of innuendo, for which I would have been proud. Tuesday's lecture on Keats included the phrase 'So there's a degree of frustration that Keats could not consummate his love for Fanny'. Wednesday's meeting with dissertation supervisor, Prof. Hopkins, ended with him saying 'Keep thy sword erect'. Well, thankfully, we had been talking about Marvell for a hour, after which any pun is excusable; otherwise might have been worried. Thursday completed the semester's lecture sequence, and didn't comply for a third profanity of any kind.

All in all, I've lived very secluded and sheltered in this room for the majority of the time in private study, working deep into the night often when I had the momentum, and throwing sleep pattern all over the place again: perhaps this is what life is like as a Postgrad. student. On that note, I've sadly discovered that Royal Holloway absolutely is not an option. Out of the blue, however, from one of the dissertation books, did notice that the excellent royalist writer James Loxley is at Edinburgh, and given undergraduate study was a choice between there and here, I've been to visit, and could *just* escape living at home if taking a research M.A., I think I'll now place hope there. There is certainly the scope: I enjoyed writing up the dissertation, tough work as it was. Finished on 12,000 words (max. 8,000) on Monday night, 40 pages, having only just tantalizingly scraped enough over the total subject area to complete. I wrote nearly a quarter on two poems of Thomas Jordan alone ~ the potential is definitely there. I've been trying to edit since, and that has been difficult. Spent several days dwindling over tightening the prose, which is totally necessary for my initially weak, loose style of writing, but with another piece due in less than a week, I've had to snap the focus back.

Tonight has been the first break in the wave for this year. I've almost finished, in some numb despair. I've cut 3,000 words now, coming under 9,000. Initially I had included so many secondary sources, my footnotes to list them alone in their full form took 800 words, and footnotes in total came to 2,500 (which are included in word count). Sadly, after tightening the prose, I then had to start sacrificing, and feel now, at 750 over in total, but only around 7,000 of main text, that I absolutely don't want to remove any more, that this dissertation has been butchered enough ~ chipped away untidily at the edges when I needed a file to smooth them. All that's in my favour is that I was so insecure about an argument on Marvell's 'The Garden', on which a lot of criticism is written and normally you'd expect your thoughts to be mirrored by a handful of critics out there, and while making sure, I couldn't find anything on this idea, which normally wouldn't be the best sign, that I asked my advisor about it. Academics sometimes spout this principle that nothing new can be added to branches of literary study, just smooth amalgamations of what has already come before. A renowned Professor of English Poetry had not considered this idea before either, which could be a (holding breath) completely new reading of 'The Garden'. Hmm.. when this returns with a mark of 60 or something, I'll laugh at any shallow optimism I once had.

I'd like to achieve this year, and enjoy hard work. Last year, Endeavour was more about surviving different waves of hard work. Hope for friends to keep safe, keep one another afloat, get rewards for their efforts, and find their accomplishment and happiness. This month continues to get harder: I like two weeks for an essay, I have one, which means having to work twice as hard. It can be done. Then, there might be the chance for muted birthday celebrations before ploughing into possibly the hardest combination (difficult of Special Subject with worst Period/Literature 4 Tutor and excessive reading). Over the next week, no doubt I'll be thinking of a handful of anniversaries: Simon sits the exam that I shamed myself in almost failing; of mine and Robin's magnificent shared birthday celebration [rather not of mumps, even though they were a wicked birthday present] and of first contact. What I keep: aware, that nothing here is important; apart from the very top ~ reminiscences of the worst kind, that nobody should have to ever face or go through; I keep appreciative of prayer, of friends, of great, supportive house-mates; I've always got the Berlin picture of *us* as background sight, malefact's amazing music on as background sound, and aristophains' letter in the front of my English folder for background inspiration. Plus, there's the months of last year consigned to memory ~ really, desperately don't want to lose any more rhetoric than I have done already. Huge thanks to the small NAGTY congregation who've sent e-mails and left messages - I'll reply to each and every one before long.

Love, Peace & Harmony
to anyone who comes across this,

Leave the Bitterness Behind

Dissertation BoundI couldn't really help the pun, after the lemons. I am pleasantly surprised and grateful that this journal gets checked over/scanned for relatively recent changes more than I thought; somehow feel there might be a lot of adding/editing of earlier updates to fill in gaps, and it's cool to know that not everything would go unnoticed. I smile ruefully at learning of psymun losing a long comment on the Lemons; and it's even frustrating when that happens. (Takes a gamble on the nudge, and crashes out.) However, I took a leaf out of his book today (rather unfortunate pun, perhaps) and joined him and tehpsy in the early awakening crew. Wasn't asleep long enough to dream last night: maybe that's a blessing. Went in nice and early, and began a fairly productive day with a constantly changing mood.

The aim today was to read some past dissertations, which are all available in the department reading room. There are about 10 dissertations per year on average, on a wild variety of subjects. Last year's marks ranged from between 71 and 57, but one on Marvell, which scored an admirable 65. I selected this and the lowest marked piece, reading the latter first. Perhaps I got scared very quickly: it looked like a complex, detailed piece of writing, on a topic I've got no clue about - and this would gain a 57. However, I was bored of it after about four sides, and chose not to read any more. The other was on Marvell and Architecture, and a wonderful piece of writing. This was far more encouraging in my eyes: generally simpler and more accesible to read, very well structured, and let down by occasional mistakes in academic conventions, and a loose bibliography. And again, it looked as though so much research had gone into this: looking into the intricate history of Palladian architecture, and it was easy to see how this person had picked a terrific subject, quite right to acclaim that very little has been written about it, and I really learnt something from it, perhaps which I could use in my own.

I took a break from that for my 10:00am lecture, and felt huffed that, because of essay due in tomorrow and weak attendance, I was not only the only person in the front row, but almost the front two, and yet the lecturing PhD student didn't give me a handout, he just passed them all straight to the back. Not used to feeling huffy in the Lecture Theatre; but it was a decent lecture, and I was cheered by the fact that my departmental idol, Dr. S.C / Stephen Cheeke will give every Thursday lecture now until the end of the term. Sat with machine coffee and organised file, trying to get everything in order, and then back to the dissertation pile, where I searched further. Over the past 11 years, I've found, as Simon informed me previously, the mark range between 85 and 45, and more specifically for my own cause, found two more dissertations on Marvell: one scoring 68 and the other 70+. I looked at the first: remarkably colloquial in intentions: 'Marvell and Choice', and spends the first two sides talking about the inability to find a title, so just thought they'd 'choose' a handful of Marvell's poems ~ I could do that - for 68! I need to remember that my effort is not based on Marvell alone ~ far from it. Some of the topics within the pile were fascinating, none I saw like my own, and not all rewarded with massive marks. The encouraging and terrifying fact is that 3 pieces have been written on Marvell, and the lowest, a wonderful piece, only scores 65. I am starting to feel very scared inside about this.

All English students with the exception of a few Year 3 Dissertating students have an essay to hand in tomorrow. Simon has been in to see his tutor regularly, prepared it and written it comfortably in advance, and is so expertly prepared that he deserves to do so well. Thinking back to this period last year, I feel envious of the luxury of time and non-illness he has had, but am delighted to see him take full advantage and can't wait to see the rewards. But with that said, it feels worse not handing in an essay, because it feels like I've done nothing, and in coinciding with this time of year, I have done, in relative terms, very little over this past fortnight - it doesn't feel like too much in the context of the 15/16 weeks available, but I just hope the panic that's creeping in proves to be a positive catalyst and not an uncomfortable one. All in adding to the confusion, which I knew would happen from spending half the night thinking and writing 'I'm set to leave Bristol soon', I spent time with Simon today realising the benefits of possibly staying for Postgrad. work here: but it's all getting a little tangled and complicated. Coincidentally, the best source of funding, Arts Bursaries, has a deadline of tomorrow, which is impossible. Mind is leaping from idea to idea, place to place, changing mind every week, and if this dissertation doesn't go well, it's all fairly futile anyway. So many options make for a good headache, but getting pretty confused now with this all piling in at once. Leave the Bitterness Behind, a song by the electronic synth group The Second Sight helped me get over my grandad's death forementioned on Valentines Day a few years back; I wouldn't mind some music to magically soothe the mind again. I'll see what I have, and must crack on like mad.

Three Lemons

Brilliant. Firefox crashed twice on me tonight, and twice lost an hour's work. I don't want to hear the whole MS Word thing - if journal writing worked for me writing into a word processor, then I'd do it, but it doesn't, so I don't. Therefore, as you do, I typed 'Firefox Bastard' into Google, and it had 30 images. :) Genius! So I've picked one, (thanks Lara!) and that will stand for now, because where posting this post tonight would have given me plenty of spirit, I've not got the energy or remaining spirit to write everything out again for a third time. Now just feel very, very tired...

Updated on 2nd/3rd November: I've been influenced by yon anonymous commenter and supplier of the amazing, wonderful picture, which I rather rudely stole: (huge thanks to Lara at The Desired (Awesome site!)) to complete the original post, and put the current Halloween ghost of Firefox to rest for another duration. I suppose if you will choose to title a post 'The Three Lemons', you are inviting some paranormal interference, just itching to see this particular fruit used for good measure. Hmmm... anyhow, going to have a quick backtrack over the later end of October and hopes for November, with some random nostalgic thoughts added for good measure.

Lemon MultitudeThe last memories of University work were in May, a particularly kinetic rollercoaster of a month, and I was scared to return to anything quite so volatile. Yet, with little academic work done over the summer, it seemed that might be on the cards. Perhaps October was meant to be kind, though. Lovely, enjoyable spell at home, a wonderful welcome back here, and then off visiting and having far too good a time to be justified during what is perhaps meant to be designated University time. Therefore I compensated, and slogged for a good week and a half, preparing for an appointment with my dissertation advisor. I was scared at the prospect as well: just wasn't sure whether the attitude would be 'You are behind schedule and are badly prepared' or 'Thank you for having the care and showing up'. Thankfully, it went really well and came away feeling mightily positive. Admittedly, it does give a huge kick for self-motivation to feel that you are working off the set syllabus on a 'special subject' of your own choosing.

Sadly, that positivity was ripe for souring. The post Dissertated / Mastered was started on this hyper-positivity Wednesday, and then updated 24 hrs later as crash (rattled on about here) ensued. It was always going to be a testing end of month as gremlins crept into the system, and I didn't expect for it to hit me in that way and so hard and so suddenly: but then I live in the dilemma of wondering whether all this is total over-reaction and self-centeredness (and therefore feel more ashamed that I can't seem to escape the annual encroachment of fear): thankfully something that psymun relates to at the moment, and just by making me feel comfortable enough to talk a little about this a few days before the anniversary day, he helped me enormously. One of the most uncomfortable, perhaps, (Re: The Fall, etc) is feeling alone in dwelling on something you feel is trivial or that you shouldn't be thinking about - but which, for whatever reason, you cannot help be affected by. This month can be full of that: two years ago, having just moved to Bristol, it struck in force. knightmaredave had visited the weekend prior to the date, and his departure set the fear in motion; by the day itself, I was near to a shivering wreck. If people are left to guess to understand what is going on when they see someone like that, they're not likely to want to ask. The price was paid for not dealing with it properly, and not opening up as fully as I could have done, and amongst other factors, I'm still sure that was the main reason behind why I wasn't included on any invitations to share houses the following year.

Thankfully today I can still smile and explain it as one of those circumstances which was just 'meant to be', but I admit it lays me low just knowing that this strikes out of my control and can be difficult to deal with. This year, the difficulty has been that there is more than ever to lose if something went badly wrong; and to counter that, took what I might have considered a 'gamble' of tackling the fear: (the best I could do was write the story through in more detail than I ever have before). Trusting in words to be understood, and feeling understood, takes away some of the fear and paranoia at what could go wrong, what people think of you, who you could 'lose', and that's a large part. If that feels more at ease, then the system feels a lot more settled. The day itself went fairly peacefully. I tried to take advantage of a blown body-clock and slept through as much of the day as possible. There were some uncomfortable thoughts and some uncomfortable moments, but thankfully there were no bursts of any kind and I didn't really feel threatened at all: as successful as I could have hoped for, and the day quickly passed, and mindset fairly quickly mollified itself over the following day. It's just picking up the pieces from that really. No work done for the best part of a week, and still with an uncomfortably reversed body-clock. Where do you kick-start momentum from?

Momentum normally seems to arrive from looking forward: having something to look forward to - a light, to retain fresh focus. Anything - a trip out of Bristol, where the last few weekends have sadly, largely through my own fault, gone begging. The reason behind October's roaring momentum and power of feeling came, no doubt, initially from the round trip of visits, spending a wonderful time with f0rester (first ever time in Laser-Quest - magnifique) and girl_wombed, and then from what was meant to lie within this before attention was diverted. Without heading to make this more self-centered and uninteresting than it already is, details are spared, other to say that with enjoying the early stages of the dissertation, it has seemed ever more feasible to continue onto a Masters, rather than diving into P.G.C.E. territory. There are, inevitably, reasons for and against an M.A., and yet with unexpected but wonderful help and support again from psymun, some of the options we've talked about look hugely appealling. The one difficult area to contemplate is that next academic year will not likely be here in Bristol; I've had a wonderful time, and would feel equally at home to move here on a more permanent basis after educational rounds are complete, but just instinctively know that those aren't going to continue here. It feels far too soon to be thinking about this, but since I'd hoped to have a plan fixed before I arrived back, time left here is flying. Just don't want to get stuck in that position as so many do, coming to graduation and not having any plan of what to do next.

RippleAt the moment, I do feel like I'm still struggling: perhaps the reason is clear. I keep having strange reminiscences and thoughts back to childhood, adolescent and teenage years: most of it all feels from the mindset of a troubled 15/16 year old. It feels as though, by writing about that time and having to remember it, I've absorbed some of that and it continues to trouble and intrigue in equal strength. As November begins, I left the kitchen the other day thinking 'that's a Whitburn kitchen' ~ a memory of my late grandparents' (on dad's side) house in the gorgeous village a little further North up the coast. I spent a lot of my childhood there, admittedly less and less so once my grandmother had passed away in 1994, but it still felt a total treat to go, and it always felt the essence of nostalgia to visit. The Three Lemons: all for my favourite gambling machine in the arcades there, the reverse nudger. I remember one occasion, probably about 12 or 13, having 50p and winning nearly £4, with the three lemons (£1.20) coming up twice and me timing my way to doubling one of them ~ it felt like so much money. I treated myself to something little every day for the whole week I spent there. *sigh* More and more trouble came about as time went on, with my dad's sister and her family causing all kinds of interference and problems: what a travesty and horrible catalogue of events in early 2003 - I'm half-thankful my L.J. didn't exist then, and fully thankful that I met the R.P.G. group when I did. It does feel sad to remember though. The weekend before I returned back to Bristol, our household went on a random trip to Whitburn, and we had lunch and went by the lighthouse to look over the sea (the day I meant to tell them, and lost my nerve). My grandad had a stroke not long after I turned 19, and finally gave up on Valentine's Day - it seemed like the perfect excuse to treat it differently: the day now meant elegy ~ Valediction Day. The reason this all comes to light is because separate to thinking back to 1999 and subsequent times, I'd also tried to raise as many painful times to the surface for October's healing surface as possible: perhaps the cost for feeling redeemed in one place is countered by so much else remaining fresh. Moreover, there is no excuse that I outright forgot the 10th anniversary of my precious grandma's passing last year. I've corrected my dad on the date many a year: the 16th. 12 months on, and the guilt still filters.

Walking home on Monday was another powerful re-memory of the mid-teenage years. Dark and wet, and around 17:15. The previous two years avoided this through timetables, sometimes neatly coincided to catch amazing sunsets over the Downs, and because large numbers of students take that journey up Whiteladies Road and across the Downs towards the Stoke Bishop Halls. This time, I walked alone, wearing the black zip-up fleece I used to wear back then, passed under the Arches, and heard the rare shunter of the regional trains overhead. It needed a breaking walkman with a Chris de Burgh cassette: Into the Light or Flying Colours perhaps. Thankfully, despite the powerful thoughts flying through, it isn't along GreenDay's Boulevard of Broken Dreams although I see how the potential would have been there. It brings tears just thinking about the parallels: just because you have doesn't always let you forget...

It's when you come home to a different house, living with friends - a different life, and you sometimes can't grasp the idea of having moved on. These two periods are so amazingly different, trying to compare them is fiendish, but leaves it's mark. A dream last night has left me stunned - spent with some people from my primary school class, and a strange, visionary-progressed mentality that I couldn't describe. I'll really need to think about this one: it makes me want to reach for the more distant past... Something tells me I can't regret this at all ~ as I feel I've recently had a refresher course in jealousy, so this feels like one in... realising what was to understand what is, which ties in quite a sombre, fulfilling way with this fascinating comment from the inspirational aristophains. Ultimate happiness isn't always the immediate goal in life, but perhaps realising yourself: what you have and what you want can be a closer target. Appreciating what you have isn't always easy: but [Past has tried hard, but Since has well played] being taken through a mind's dark corridor to a time when I had so little of the Asset Love I have today brings so much of this to light. So, I believe momentum comes from looking forward, and I'm living in the past? It's been heavy thought of late: difficult, challenging, upsetting, nostalgic, and leaves me pondering and writing more often than working, but it seems more about accepting the thought patterns that come, and working out constructive life positives from the deepest and saddest that can be found. That's the heartbeat pattern to momentum. October was a heartbeat pattern.

Water + SmileAnd so to November: two reasonably constructive days so far. Not a great deal achieved work-wise, there's felt this heavy burden here to unload first, but some ideas flowing and progress in other areas. I fancy trying to kick-start the Creative Writing group soon - that's a major plus. I'd like to write an article for the Epigram, and need to get in touch about that. I need to get in touch with the organisation said article relates to get properly signed on. One plus of last week was being interviewed for a Student Tutoring job again. This will be fantastic: not the stress of a heavy job like the bar, but working 3-6 hours per week in education, possibly the Children's Hospital again, will suit just right. I did get nervous about the interview, wondering if I might be over-complacent, but when Zoe (university mum) comes down to collect me, smiles and says 'We can just sit and chat here. I've probably interviewed you more than any other person, ever - and I absolutely want you to come and work for us again' ~ wow, Zoe and Widening Participation are amazing. They make you feel great about what you do, the person you are, and can leave you feeling big-headed ~ I love working for them, I would happily do it for nothing. But for the money side of things, I look at scorn towards Wills Hall. I'm glad I don't live there any more because they've pulled their final stunt, and I'm going to speak to the Deputy-Head of the Students' Union on Friday before Tutor Refresh Training to get some advice before I let the rest of the small, affected group know, and we give them a hammering. This has to be handled carefully, but I'm hugely thankful to one of the senior staff there for being on my / the students' side.

Oh, how I'm looking forward to November! I'm looking forward to Christmas, my mum still has a wickedly dirty mind, I'm still burping as loudly and unproudly as ever, and Dilbz is still at home! I miss him so much. Yes, refresh is the order of this fresh November. Bedroom here is clean and tidy, and I'm experimenting with different ideas for this journal, which has never been changed since it began. I'm sorry if it's painful/unpleasant/uncomfortable to the eye. Any feedback is gratefully appreciated. Thankfully, come the end of this little essay here, I'm left with a wonderful recent memory: on Tuesday, walking to University and back, I was taken aback with the number of people smiling. Labourers, postmen, guys working on water mains ~ everyone smiling. It was the perfect day: wet, but sunny, everything dripping and glistening, the sun warm but breeze just strong and cool enough to keep the temperature just sublime. Tonight, we've had a quality superspeed thunderstorm. In due of these, I've looked for an image combining water and smiling, and strangely enough, I was gifted this lovely sunset on Caribbean Waters; which combines the beauty, melancholy, joy and serenity of all here combined. Just want to say a very profound thank you for being friend enough to read this, and I wish you all my Love, Peace/Pieces & Harmony. ~Kx~