Some solo piano music for you

Hi Folks

some of my piano music is now streaming live from my website - please have a visit:

www.richbatsford.com

recently described by the birmingham post as "utterly spellbinding"

please have a listen then follow the link for a freedownload if youre interested in a free album

thanks

Rich
Xx

New Blog and Website

Hi Folks

Just to let you know that Im blogging fairly regularly at my new website - thoughts and rants, also news of gigs, music releases and stuff. please come visit:

www.richbatsford.com

many thanks

Rich
Xx

I am poet!

I am young and old,
girl and boy.

Hero and villain,
loner and friend.

I am soldier and healer,
tyrant and slave.

I am Mother and baby,
I know cradle and grave.

I love you and resent you,
I wander, and remain.

I worry, and I giggle.

I stumble,

and I raise.

Rich
Xx

Demo release news

Hi Everyone

im back from Sunny Oz a few weeks now, and been getting steadily busier and busier as life gets back up to speed.

My exciting news de jour is that I have made available a three track demo of my solo music at

www.myspace.com/richbatsford

Im pleased to have made this little step forward and Id be very happy if any of you have the chance to listen and any feedback you might want to offer would be more than welcomed.

peace, love and all that sorta thing

Rich
Xx

Australia

Hello lovely Tribers

Im off to Australia for a month, so if you message me about anything, im not being rude, just on holiday ;-)

have fun

Rich
Xx

On letting go

I think the timing issue is again, something of a red herring. For some people, surrender may well be the work of a moment - but I think this is anything but the norm, more the exception that proves the rule if anything.

From what I can gather, and from my own experience, realisation is a series of moments of letting go - many throughout a lifetime. Some just tiny little moments that you barely notice, and others, much bigger re-adjustments – changes that take time to settle, and in doing so, unlock other changes in a sort of cascade process.

The whole idea of enlightened vs unenlightened is again a red herring I think. I read someone quoted saying that there are no enlightened people, just enlightened behaviour, and that struck true to me.

I think for many of us on this list, and elsewhere, enlightenment (ego death, realisation, whatever you call it!) is very much within reach.

The fact that we're here on this list, having this discussion, indicates in my mind that we are already seekers, already – whether we realise it or not – on the path. And that is in itself, the goal.

I do agree that certain drugs – psychedelics essentially – can be of benefit in this journey, and I do have some experience in this. I also believe that MDMA can be a very useful part of a life that is seeking to let down the barriers that prevent us from being the loving beings we hope to be and marijuana can provide a calm and peace for people in what is a fast moving and stressful world.

However, drugs can be dangerous when misused, so I would not recommend
it to another, tho I am willing to share my experience when asked.

Meditation though, is something that I can recommend whole heartedly and without reserve.

Rich
Xx

Fiction

I've just added to this blog a couple of pieces of short fiction I wrote some time ago. Reading them now, I can feel how much younger I was when I wrote them, but I still like them, and its interesting looking back on themes they explore.

Hope you like em!

Rich
Xx

The Blade

Blade

If ever there was a man who truly had everything, it was Jonathan Blade.

I remember being a little in awe of him from the moment we met. I was slouching in my office, daydreaming (as usual) of having the best of all things; fast cars, beautiful women, power, money. Jonathan Blade strode in with the unmistakably assured step of a man who has all of them.

The introductions quickly established that we would be working quite closely together and in adjacent offices. I was a little worried at first, that he would treat me with the sort of cursory disdain a man of his assurance and confidence usually reserves for lesser mortals, but in fact, he seemed pleased that I was interested in him and would confide in me with a frankness he denied his customary friends and rivals.

One morning, as was often the case, I sensed a slightly ostentatious touch of self satisfaction in his manner. On these occasions, Blade somehow managed to combine the look of a man fast approaching middle age, on whom a life of working and playing very hard was beginning to take its toll, with the glint of an adolescent, thrilled at the memory of his first conquest.
"Morning Johnson." he smiled with a charm that told a thousand lies.

Keen to be the one to discover the story of his latest exploits, I casually asked what he had been up to the night before. Blade raised an eyebrow with a kind of "You won't believe this, but..." expression and let slip a few choice details of the high powered party he had crashed and the dazzling young model he had "entertained".

Not for the first time, and with a barely concealed hint of jealousy, I demanded to know what on earth he thought he was doing sleeping with a beautiful woman scarcely my age, when she quite clearly ought to be sleeping with me.

“Watch and learn Johnson, watch and learn."

We talked almost every day. Blade didn't make a general habit of boasting about his outrageous exploits, but he always took the time to enlighten me. It was as though he knew that I would never have the guts or flair to match his accomplishments, but he wanted me to share in his experiences in this small way.

It was some time before I finally plucked up the courage to ask Blade to let me accompany him on one of his evenings of high society party crashing. It was a "do" that he had been talking about for some time, the launch of the latest block busting novel by the crowned queen of the racy, power play, battle of the sexes set. She had a reputation for hosting wild parties where many a reputation had been damaged or greatly enhanced.

We arranged to meet in a trendy West End wine bar. By the time Blade turned up fashionably late, looking comfortably impressive in a million pound designer suit, I was already feeling slightly sick with nerves, and had spilt my cocktail down the front of my specially-hired-for-the-occasion dinner jacket.

"So, are you ready to set the world alight?" grinned Blade. For a moment, I wasn't quite sure if he was trying to put me at ease, or whether he was enjoying my discomfort.
"I'm not usually particularly good at parties." I admitted. "I generally prefer one to one conversations. With some people, I feel comfortable and I can hold as good a conversation as anybody, I'm just not good at parties."

I could feel that I was getting dangerously close to babbling, but Blade, ever the gentleman, came to my rescue.

"Don't worry Johnson, it's just a matter of practice. I was as nervous as you once, but you soon get the hang of it."

We finished off our drinks and made our way outside. Blade demonstrated an almost magical ability to summon a black cab, and in no time the cabby swooped imperially to a halt outside the exclusive hotel. A doorman was questioning a couple who were desperately trying to convince him that they were invited but had mislaid their invitation. Blade ignored the short queue that was building up behind the discussion, smiled at the doorman and shot a knowing glance at the couple desperately trying to decipher the doorman's list upside down.

The atmosphere in the party suite was the just like other parties I had attended, in much the same way that the atmosphere at the launch of a child's kite is just the same as at the launch of a space shuttle. It was so utterly beyond the range of my experience, that I was virtually paralysed with nerves. After an eternity, I became aware that Blade was talking.

"....with some fish paste and a salami. Apparently, just the smell of a large wallet is an incredible aphrodisiac for her. Are you alright Johnson?"

In stark contrast to me, Blade couldn't have been more at home. Beautiful women hung on his every word and shot meaningful glances over their martinis. Actor's, musicians, even the brash, cigar smoking, power broking types roused themselves at least to shake his hand, or order him a drink.

Initially, Blade made the effort to introduce me to some people, but once he had moved on to the next friend or admirer, somehow the conversation seemed to peter out, and my new found acquaintance would suddenly discover an urgent need for another drink, or happen to notice an old friend that they hadn't seen for simply ages.

Before long, I found myself standing alone at the bar, feeling a little light headed and a strange mixture of fear and fascination at the scene before me. I desperately wanted to join in, to be a part of this beautiful, powerful society, but I knew that in this lifetime, I could never have the natural self assurance and style of their breed. I was a different class of person and always would be. I left the party quietly, almost overcome by feelings of loss and desolation. I never asked Blade for his company again.

After the night of the party, our daily routine returned to normal. I was still interested in hearing Blade's stories, and he didn't embarrass me by discussing my own failure. However, my interest in Blade's life increased still more, when I first noticed a peculiar pattern in his behaviour. Sometimes, he would arrive at work with some kind bandage visible, covering what seemed to be a fairly substantial wound. On these occasions he would pass some comment suggesting that he had been hurt when climbing, fencing or playing rugby. Other times, although no bandage was actually visible, he would sometimes stiffen slightly, as though struggling to conceal severe pain.

Although the rest of my colleagues seemed blissfully unaware of anything unusual, I was watching Blade very closely by now, and noticed that when these painful episodes occurred, there seemed to be an air of the deepest kind of calm and satisfaction about him, often followed by a period of particularly vigorous power politics at work and power play at night. I felt a compelling urge to discover the reason for this strange routine and, with a keen sense for the melodramatic, I decided to keeping start keeping this record and to follow Blade after work.

The first two evenings revealed nothing much of interest. Blade seemed a little quiet and out of sorts and simply drove his sports car home and spent the evening sullenly watching television, or reading from the large library of books he kept in a downstairs room. From my previous observations of his moods, I expected that the cycle of his behaviour was about to enter the next and most mysterious phase.

The third night was dour and empty. Blade had deviated from his usual route and I found myself struggling to keep up with the streak silver sports car as it sped smoothly through deserted country lanes. I eventually lost him, but was fortunate to catch sight of his familiar stride hurrying through a small side entrance to a deserted warehouse building. I drove on a little way and ran back to the warehouse.

Peering cautiously through one of the windows, I could see only that an inner room was dimly lit. For the first time a brief wave of fear washed through me, only to be instantly submerged by a desperate urge to know what Blade could possibly be doing that could require such secrecy.

Although my heart raced as I reached the door to Blade's inner sanctum, the horror of the scene before me left me gasping weakly for air. Each of the four walls was a monument to terror and torture. Vast collections of daggers, swords, and knives of every description, paintings depicting horrific scenes of fear and pain, instruments of cutting and slicing that I had never imagined existed.

In the middle of this razor edged lunacy was Jonathan Blade. The centrepiece of the room was an altar-like platform on which he lay, naked from the waist upwards, with his left wrist secured by a leather strap.

His features mingled terrible pain with the fiercest concentration and deepest satisfaction, as he carefully sliced off every inch of the skin from his left forearm. I struggled to wrench my gaze from the revolting mutilation, but some dark corner of my mind seized control and forced me to watch the red rich blood pouring thickly from beneath the loose flap of skin. Near delirium, I finally tore myself free and fled desperately into the welcoming arms of the night.

From that night onwards, my mind was consumed by my quest to discover the truth about Jonathan Blade. Bringing to bear the full range of the knowledge I had gathered from my back issues of "The Amateur Psychologist", I began by investigating his youth and early manhood. If I could only find the key evidence; the bullying, overbearing father perhaps, or some traumatic sexual encounter that could have demanded such extreme release or gratification.
To my dismay, everything that I could discover about Blade's early life seemed almost impossibly normal. He had always maintained a close, healthy relationship with his parents, and teachers at his school paused slightly, before recalling a polite, if unspectacular scholar.
He had progressed to a modest degree at one of the better universities and friends remembered him as a happy, well adjusted young man. From this safe, normal, almost ideal kind of background, I felt that Blade had no right to be anything but thrilled with the extraordinary success he had gained in later life, but clearly there was some important point I was missing.

Late into the night and through endless cigarettes and black coffees, I searched my notes and findings for an explanation, or even a decent clue. Blade's life had evolved from one almost as ordinary and humdrum as my own, into little short of a Bond like playboy and if anything, he seemed almost bored by it. Gradually, my faculties ground away. Perhaps Blade's average but entirely satisfactory early years had initially left him so completely free from trauma and neurosis, that he had none of the deep motivation of someone struggling to rectify a major deficiency in his upbringing. At the same time, his background had given him a base for the extraordinary success of his later years, but had deprived him of any genuine satisfaction in correcting a psychological imbalance. He was entirely lacking in motivation!

I was certain that I had cracked the enigma of Blade's psyche and I could barely wait to confront him with the truth and, hopefully, effect a miracle cure. It all seemed so straight forward in my mind, but it wasn't until the cold light of the following morning, that I realised that this was not going to be the easiest subject to broach. In any case, I noticed that Blade's behavioural pattern seemed to have taken an interesting, if worrying, course alteration. I had expected that, after the bizarre activities of the previous night, Blade would enter a state of deep satisfaction, followed by the extravagant period of hard work and hard play. Instead, Blade seemed moody and out of sorts. I suspected that Blade was entering a downwards spiral. I hoped to be able to intervene in time, and I began to follow him even more carefully.

Sure enough, that night Blade again took the winding country lanes towards the seclusion of his private torture chamber. Even as we raced together through the dark countryside, my mind struggled to formulate the speech I hoped to deliver, whilst fighting the steadily growing feelings of fear and nervousness. As before, Blade's skill and seeming disregard for his own safety proved too much for my lesser nerves and I lost contact with him some time before I reached the warehouse.

The adrenaline really began to pump as I crept up the driveway towards the warehouse. I broke into a sort of crouched trot in my eagerness to liberate Blade from his burden. Then, tentatively pushing open the outer door of the warehouse, I almost turned and bolted as I was hit by a sudden rush of fright and claustrophobia, as though I had become trapped in some recurring nightmare. Inside, I noticed three large petrol cans which Blade must have brought with him. My fears were confirmed, he meant to finish his final torture session with a blaze that would destroy all evidence of his bizarre actions.

Reaching the inner door I paused, doubting my resolve to face whatever horror Blade was performing inside. Bracing myself, I began slowly, minutely, to ease open a crack in the door. No amount of mental preparation would have been adequate for the sight in front of me. This time, Blade was preparing himself for the ultimate sacrifice.
His forehead and torso were restrained by leather straps and Blade, as if on cue, had already begun the deep incision across his neck. This was no mere experiment in agony, judging by the amount of blood already flowing, he would be dead within minutes of the final cut.

Desperately, I ran towards him, almost losing balance as I slipped in a thick pool of his life blood. I seized the knife and threw it down, tearing away the straps. Even as I grabbed Blade's shirt from the ground and clamped it over the gash in his neck, I could hear myself babbling, gushing like blood from an open wound.

"Blade, Blade its alright, everything is OK. I understand, there's no need for this to carry on, its all over."

I must have gabbled on for two or three minutes before I stopped suddenly, like an hysteric slapped in the face. Blade was smiling.

Stunned, I could not comprehend how Blade could be just sitting there, a smile of wry resignation playing about his lips. A moment earlier he was committing suicide, yet he didn't even seem surprised to see me.

"I'm afraid I have a small confession to make. I know you've been following me, in fact, I made certain that you did." Blade peeled the blood sodden shirt from his neck and tossed it carelessly into a corner. Miraculously, the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

"Have you ever wondered how a man like me, on the face of it a little old and average in appearance, can have such enormous success in the important things in life?"

Dumbly, I nodded.

"Well, it all boils down to experience and self confidence and I'll tell you how I came by mine. I've been alive for seven hundred years."

Blade sat back, studying my reaction with amused indifference. I was stunned far beyond my capacity for an intelligent response.

"Of course, virtual immortality does have its drawbacks. For one thing, I have to endure this rather unpleasant cutting every so often, so that my skin grows back young and healthy and for another, after the first few centuries, even making love to the world's most beautiful women grows a little repetitive. That's why I chose you Johnson. More than anyone else, you desperately want the things I have, the power, the success, the women. Well, I can give you all of them, but I require something in return. I want you to kill me."

The quiet assurance and almost fatherly tone in Blade's voice worked its usual magic, I knew he was telling the truth, and I also knew that in return to putting a final end to his boredom, the offer of an immortality of Blade's lifestyle was one I couldn't possibly refuse.
Blade didn't bother to wait for me to speak, the hunger in my eyes was his answer.

"I'm afraid its not so easy to kill an immortal. A little cut like this won't do at all. You need to skin me completely, every inch of flesh must be exposed for me to die. Then, drink a mouthful of my blood, and you too will become a Blade, you'll have everything you dream of."
With that Blade lay down on the altar and handed me the knife. "Don't worry about the pain" he smiled, "I can take it."

I paused, the knife shaking in my hand. Then, gritting my teeth, I plunged the point into Blade's shoulder. His back arched with pain and his breath became laboured and fierce. Slowly, I guided the razor sharp blade in a long line from shoulder to wrist and began to cut away the skin. The blood flowed copiously as the skin peeled away. I vomited for the first time.

Believe me, it takes a long, long time to skin a man alive. Eventually, my clothes were utterly drenched with blood and Blade's skin lay in a messy heap beside his bloodied torso. I hadn't got this far for nothing, so I cupped my hands and gulped down some of the still warm blood.

Exhausted, I slumped to the ground, not caring that I was lying in a pool of blood, and hardly noticing as consciousness slowly slipped away.

Suddenly I was awake, horrific pain seeming to tear apart every cell of my brain. Uncontrollable rage and madness took me as I realised I was unable to move and the revolting, skinless body of the Blade stood over me knife in hand.

The Blade poised a moment in the process of lacerating my arm. He spoke, his lipless mouth struggling to form the words, blood spattering in my face.

"You didn't really think I would throw away a life like this." he hissed. "I need your skin."

You might wonder, since my skinless body was left, blood boiling in a burning warehouse, how this story ever came to be finished. Well, since poor Johnson seemed to take it all so seriously, and I have a couple of days to kill whilst the scarring heals, I decided to finish it for him.

Longinius

Longinius

His time was growing close, of that he was certain. Unable to do much more than eat, sleep and relieve himself with irregular monotony, Father Peter sometimes looked forward to it.

For as long as he could remember, Peter had been trapped in a frail and damaged body, his left side barely functioning and the rest of him deteriorating steadily. His most rewarding experience with medical science had left him only with the knowledge that he had suffered a major stroke in his late twenties, beyond which he could remember virtually nothing.

As Father Peter lay, making unnecessary adjustments to his bedclothes with enfeebled strugglings, his mind lay heavy with the one all-consuming thought that so dominated his waking mind, that only Ann's presence could dislodge it. His granddaughter had become his only comfort, her longed-for presence a searing glory of innocence and enthusiasm.

He tried to focus on Ann, reveling in his unfailing amazement at the child's capacity for unassuming love. In those bright, uncorrupted eyes lay a vision of the purity that he longed to attain. How quickly exposure to a harsh and complex world would taint that vision with an understanding and fascination with vice and sin that no one, surely, could wholly deny.

Suddenly, a black, gaping hole of doubt and terror opened up below Peter's fragile fantasy and he plunged, helpless against the inevitable fall. His weaknesses and failings charged around him like a biblical swarm of locusts and hornets. Cross words, erotic fantasies, moments of lost faith, all the little lusts and infidelities of the man's life were upon him in an instant. He stared forward, seething in sins, overwhelmed by the terrible certainty of his damnation.

He began yet another exhaustive search if what was left of his memory. Surely, even the most extravagant of remembered misdeeds could not justify this powerful sense of his own damnation. Peter was increasingly overcome by his imaginings. His breath, laboured at best, grew shorter with each ill considered action that returned to taunt him like a demon pushing him ever nearer to the hottest flame. Terrifying images of biblical torture flashed before him, his heart stuttered and panic gripped him as his worst fears were realised.

Father Peter died with his doubts unresolved and no one to comfort him.

******************************

Peter lay, quiet as death, growing increasingly aware of an uncomfortable brightness, yet content to remain motionless. Like a new life, his mind awoke and began to search for an answer, or even an appropriate question.

He remained trance like for a while until, with a flickswitch suddenness, his memory returned and Father Peter shot bolt upright, clutching his hands to his silent chest. True then! His bodily struggle had come to an end and he was now experiencing what had solely been the territory of dream and conjecture.

In a further instant of realisation, Peter felt a rush of uncomplicated ecstasy such as he would not have believed possible. He was whole. For the first time in his imperfect memory, Peter was young and strong.

An irresistible surge of energy seized Peter. He skipped around the room, arms flailing, alternately laughing and crying and singing the praises of his one, true God. His relief was absolute. Almost since he could remember, his fear of divine judgement had been his constant companion. His relentless quest for piety must have been a success after all. Redemption was his!

As Peter's first rush of enthusiasm began to fade, he knelt to pray, fervently giving thanks, and feeling his relief permeate the far reaches of his mind. A small stronghold of doubt remained within him, questioning his situation. Certainly, his miraculous return to youth and health was a blessing of immense proportions and Father Peter felt truly grateful. What concerned him was why he was left, completely alone, in a plain white room.

Whenever Peter had envisaged a heavenly afterlife, he had dreamed of meeting lost friends, great thinkers and men of history. He had dared to hope he might take a place amongst these people and devote himself to an eternity of philosophical debate and worship, freed of earthly worries and physical constraints.

Perhaps his destiny was to remain alone in this room? If a man has knowledge of God, then any other influence could only be a distraction. Peter saw the logic of this argument, but was struggling with the disappointment he felt that there was no further enlightenment forthcoming.

Peter sat down, calming himself, whatever happened, he must not lose his capacity for rational enquiry. Could this be a final test? Was some feat of faith or intelligence required to escape the room and assume his true place amongst the faithful.
Impatience gripped him, he could wait forever to come up with a logical solution, or he could look now for a more practical one. He began feeling around the walls, searching for any crack, or sign of weakness. He prodded and pressed and, as he became more agitated, he thumped his fists against the wall. The wall entirely absorbed the sound of his hammering and the room remained unrelenting in its solidity.

Peter was becoming a little frightened and claustrophobic, was this a cell to encase him, would he feel thirst and hunger and be doomed to a lonely torment?

Taking heart from the thrill of exercising his youthful muscles, Peter began to force his weight against the wall. He pushed with all his power and then started slamming his whole body, shoulder first against the smooth surface. He was so taken up by his efforts, that for several seconds, he failed to notice that a door had been opened in the wall behind him.

Peter span round to face the man in the doorway, thrilled that he was no longer alone, a thousand questions on his lips.

"Lie down." The stranger spoke in a flat, commanding tone that brooked no response.

His options limited, Peter lay down on the table in the centre of the room, craning his neck to keep the other man in eye shot.

Whilst he was still struggling to find a comfortable position on the unyielding surface, a strong force seized him, pinning him down, his head striking the table with a sickening thud.

The stranger walked around the room, stopping level with Peter's eyes and watching him impassively. Peter met his gaze, fearful and entirely helpless.
Although the other man remained motionless, Peter felt the tip of his little finger slowly being pulled slowly upwards. The movement was slow, but inexorable, and it did not finish until Peter's finger bone snapped and he was screaming in excruciating agony.

The stranger smiled and directed his gaze to the little finger of Peter's other hand. Peter was yelling hoarsely, incoherently. The process was as interminable as it was agonising.

Peter lost control of his mind and body in a frenzy of pain and bewilderment. The stranger stood quietly and, one by one, broke every single bone in Peter's body.
Only when the last stroke came and Peter's skull was crushed slowly inwards, did he finally stop his screaming, his desperate, futile protests asking over and over the question that had been with him since the dawn of his memory.

Why?

Peter awoke, his mind clearing from a restless sleep. A hideous wash of fear and sadness took him as he remembered where he was and what was about to happen to him. He was starting to lose count of the amount of times that he had been slowly and systematically tortured to death.

As before, having left him for a few wretched minutes to ponder his fate, Peter's torturer arrived, impassive and irresistible. Peter had quickly resorted to physical violence as a way out of his predicament, but the awesome force that the stranger controlled had stopped him in his tracks.

This time, Peter merely sat and wept. Softly, he begged the stranger, not for an end to his torment, but for the one thing he really wanted. The truth.

"You really don't remember. Very well."

**********************************

In a blink, Peter was straining his eyes against bright morning sunlight, and whirling around, trying to take in his surroundings.

He whooped with a breathless delight at the beauty of the fields and trees, before breaking down in tears of relief at his reprieve.

As he was struggling to rally his thoughts, Peter was distracted by the sound of an old cattle truck roaring along the road behind him. Soldiers wearing bucket like helmets leaped out and ran towards him brandishing rifles.

"Throw the filthy scum in the truck" screamed the leader in a harsh sounding European accent which Peter recognised instinctively. As the first soldier's rifle butt smashed viciously into his body, Peter caught sight of the officer's face, lean and handsome beneath the black cap and familiar in every detail.

He recognised and he understood.







Richard Batsford.

God and Man

I just sat, listening to music, and watching the visualisation on
itunes, thinking itd be more effective still with less light. Looking
at the lamp and willing it to go on, produced no effect, so seemingly
I'm not God.

Then, without thinking about it, I found myself standing, going over
to the lamp, switching it on, and switching off the main light before
returning to my seat. So it seems, I am.

Rich
Xx