Saturday, 10 May 2014


Have you ever met her, was she a friend, a mate, a meant to be long life pal or a soul partner. Her name was meant to be MA BAKER.

There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of themselves in various styles, but there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only of men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beauty like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to engage in conscious mischief, a beauty with which you can never be angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the state of mind into which it throws you. Beware the beauty of MA BAKER, that beauty lurks behind you  or toils infringingly in front of you. That beauty connives cunningly right next to you, MA BAKER dares you.

Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of angels, that appear like MA BAKER.

At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise, that denseness and that strangeness of the world is absurd. Watch her next move because her name was meant to be MA BAKER.