Wanting to Help.

There seems to be a rash of people in my orbit who are experiencing great difficulties at the moment, people I so want to help but don’t know how.

There’s my American ghost who glows and beguiles, who sends electricity and adrenalin coursing across cyberspace, who commands my presence with the power of her sensitive, sensuous and reluctant personality, and then fades to a quiet, invisible melancholy.

There’s my American surrogate sister who is so like me, who fears and frets and feels things keenly, who has the eye and heart to see beyond the bullshit and render the view unconsciously in pictures, and who loves her dog even more than I loved mine, apparently.

Then there’s the person who hails from Bedford, and comes to my blog through Google by spelling Beazley with three e’s. How do I help a poor, impoverished soul who spells Beazley wrong?

The latter is a mischievous joke, of course, and my mischief is always friendly and harmless. The first two I take very seriously indeed.