Synopsis
THE JOY OF MISS FORTUNE For many years the poems Kevan Myers wrote first found their form on his computer screen. There he could move the words around and choose which ones would fit most perfectly the music and the meaning which he wished to speak, and thus the art of this machine extended his technique. But new-born visions rarely came to guide his typing fingers or to freshen up his brain. And thus it was that his creative joys were mainly found in patching up old toys. But this all changed one day in June 2006, when he came home to find the door had been bashed open and a void was in the space where his beloved laptop liked to sit, contented in its place. He found himself amazed to find no shock. Knowing that there comes a time for everything to go, he said his sad goodbyes, and staggered out to buy a pad of paper, that was strong, and wide enough to scrawl his lines. And then there came an opening in the clouds for ninety days and nights as cats and dogs were shoved aside by poetry that even now still soaks him in surprise and bring him smiles wider than his eyes.
About the Author
Kevan Myers was born, and lived a while, in London; then took off, thumbing his way to many lands; and now that planes are cheap, he always bags a window seat, hoping for cloudless skies to show the ground below, where still, his itchy feet have dreams to spread their toes.. In 1967, he set off to round the World, but got waylaid, in Punjab, sitting backwards on a horse-cart, faced by setting sun which spread across the skies, between the trees; accompanied by clopping hooves and birds with wild cries. He found that India had grabbed his hand and when he dared to think to leave, she wouldn't let him go. He tried twice more to round the globe, but every time she mugged him on the road, and stole his watch, and spun him round, then dragged him to a holy place, deep in the South, where, by some grace, he found the place to plant some trees and build the house where he would stay, for many years. And even now it still remains his winter refuge, far from the cold and damp of Northern climes. But other seasons brought a heat that roasted him too much, and at those times, he fled to where the Himalayan peaks look down from high at hilly feet. Then on he went to places, cool and distant, like Alaska, which held him amazed for two summers. But then, he opted to try out Europe again. He started exploring the back roads of France in a motor-home, which carried him one day to an odd-shaped house, with a gorgeous view, on terraces beneath the kind of tower, where Rapunzel dwells, on the edge of a rough-hewn granite village, deep in the forested, Corrèze hills. And there he now resides most of the year, enjoying his time with new-found friends, helping to inspire and organise the writers' group, where many of these poems first saw life. Between these times, in other lands, he worked in schools, in Britain and in Denmark, trying to teach the words and tools that make it possible to speak the feelings and the thoughts which make each being unique. Of course he learnt as much from those he taught as they found out from him. And still their unchanged souls will bring him smiles on frequent visits to his thoughts and dreams. But other moments may deliver nightmares where he panics in his mind, pursued by time, unable to recall his teaching plans and gather up his stuff, till suddenly he wakes up, half-way to a class, completely in the buff. He's much relieved that he escaped in time; as governments turned classrooms into prisons, where each move must be pre-planned and given marks, for fear that raging fires might spring from any stray creative sparks. It's now a long time since he left, with few regrets and now he lives a different life in each of his two homes. In France he's glad to shower with hot water, park himself in comfy chairs and eat and drink too much. But India remains the place which feeds his soul, and heals his body from the excess of the West, with simpler food, and ancient cures, which send him back more youthful than he came. And while he's there you'll find him still, inside or near, the round and simple house, he built, beside the holy mountain, in that climate where his windows never close, and sleeping can take place, high on his roof, near to the breathing trees and stars, which peer through the mosquito net, to light his face.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
