all comes so naturally in the star shine. Stand up Tall, because you are Beautiful. Breathe in Deep, For you are Free. come now, let us all get down reborn in the music. more consecrated than any prayer, the story of us can only but be told in music, as an offering hidden in every story spun, a divining tool layered inside of a spell of self maintenance. borne out of the music and movement, the body does not make moves, movement makes the body. forged in heart fire. all is natural and beautiful in this star shine. smiles, flip flops and flesh, a few days of heat reshapes this whole picture. children scream for ice creams at lobster shouldered mammas bathed in aloe and shade. another man sits on my bench these days, got to watch that monkey mind who just loves to revels in regret. absolution comes in connection. prostrate low to the soft grass and hear the music. this afternoon i lay tranquil beside a spanish guitarists watching young lads punch syncopated crap of out each other. The local German aboriginal myths dilute in this london satellite containing all the people tribes of the old new empire, reluctantly integrating in the park as the wash humanity seeds a new international European  masala, yet to be. enveloped in this golden shine the recall of chills bite is near impossible, just as in the depths of a dark lonely winter memory of sunshine is accessible, but this feeling is just out of reach. as brilliant as the previous snow blanket was,  i would trade up in a heart beat.  winter on your feet summer on your hands, bboys international relate. don't be fooled, this is spring, keep that rain coat at hand like a seasoned pro even at the heights of Britannic summer. as clouds drift in front of the sun wobbly bikini clad fatties nationwide begin to shiver. on a  recent personal fret pondering the direction of dance body intervened and told me hush. with spirit as guide the body knows all it needs and your opinion is not welcome. if there is an I involved, he is but an noisy spectator in the dance of Monkey and Immortal we create nothing. feet tell me to stamp proud like a toreador, lower back and arms call for stretches like some grand yogi. practical movements of samba jazz capoeira ballet in a blend flood up and out. this freedom from american dances allows me to still love them.  a few days past i spied a shiny black mink swimming in the pink blossoms . an onyx grace id not witnessed  before and needed google to attain what species he belonged to. the result told how in the 1970's animal activists released hundreds from essex fur farms. if he is of that lineage then they did us both a turn, i am in no chains, but in comparison this is bondage. A vegetarian diet is a no longer an option but an obligation. fam, i beg you to try it for one month and to amaze at the instant drop of a dress size, at least a third of the grocery expenditure and most importantly an unwelcome chunk of fear. more precious than the improved health i feel a  new calm realising that a lot of our fear stress and anger comes in from consuming our beaten enslaved relatives. on the head mate, we can fake so much on our feet, im even starting to learn that i also use bad posture when balancing on my hands. developing over strengths to cover weaknesses causes future problems. on the head the body fixes, finds the centre. this is therapy. try it on a pillow against the wall. more than once this week yipyip was interrupted by inquiry of whats that your doin mate, yoga breakdancing or ti kwon do? yesterday i had a most welcome intrusion of a tiny punch to the buttock, turning to see the smiliest four year old face with a question of oi what are you doing? on seeing his approaching pack of eight other monkeys OK Free Flexy class time me thinks, and prepare to perform for the tribe fixing the buffoon teacher hat. before i can even begin an angelic straw blonde nine year old adult descends and politely explains with demonstration how that in pointing the front leg it will help in my back walk overs. when ever i give any correction i want to see it immediately attempted, utilising this little gem of knowledge i send the chi down the front leg and arch back over in the bend. as hands hit the floor and second leg comes off i notice that she is right there beside me spotting over a man about four times her own weight. the monkey audience applaud and violently start to thrash about. not near stupid enough to let this opportunity pass, i ask advice on round off's back flicks and summys till worried mammas call the lesson to close. children come away from that strange homeless man. quickly i scribble her guidance in a note book and repeat what she taught. observing from a distance she gives me a nod and thumbs up like a seasoned coach and then motions for me to do it again. she even busted a full press and manna. all this mastery attained in three or four years then so with help is it possible for any of us. thank you Miss.  at one time every one of us had that identical androgynous baby culture before we went on and were taught how to be english or tongan and such fictions. babies are babies and i think thats why i get on so well with them. Sister you are my equal but when with child you transform into the living earth Goddess and i could always see the halo. Badu reminds me that we don't have to believe every thing that you think, we've been programmed, wake up, we miss you. as a small boy i was taught to anthropomorphise the almighty in deity worship of the ancient mouther with child effigy, nothing as exotic as the south European street processions highly Hindu in design and effect, my people just offer simple silent offerings to holy Mouther Mary. she remains absorbed into the present myth. often placed in a gilded cage shouldered to a corner, but the Devine female remains. i was kicked out of the temple because i turned over tables for her. had this complex since being crucified in a school assemble at the age of six. false selective memories leave huge blanks but i can so vividly recall this twisted ritual, last supper up resurrection. every communion mass since have been from the stance of Patrick Stewart at an amateur production of Macbeth. well my main critique is that he had his back to the audience. at the time it seemed that the worst thing about being Lord Jesus was having to receive the old Mafia kiss of death from my mate Adam (Judas), and that the cross was made of paper stuck to the wall providing no real crucifixion support, so i was there crying with wobbly little twig arms aching forcibly held out to the side suffering for your sins and thinking to myself, this is quite the role to ask of a six year old, and what kind of cult-ture have i got myself into this time? at Ballet Rambert School My Master Dr Ross Makim taught me how to see dance worship. respects forever go to all Gods, Prophets, Saints, Angels, Gurdians, Ancesters and enlightened masters but my full hearts devotion goes forever to the Mouther of all life and is payed as an offering in every step danced, in every breath sung. as now all love song i hear sing of her amazing grace. praise be to you forever my holy Mouther Nature,  prayers please to the peoples of japan who have always been such a huge part of my dance with so much beauty. bumping into old brothers last week and a decade of dust sits on chats of battles and old illusory beef. it hurts to walk that walk, just cant talk that talk any more. the gratitude does not allow me any more sacrilege. yo blood but i heard her say she would smoke you at locking now dow! wow, please express my gratitude for the compliment, pass on my encouragement and love. obliged to forgive, as we have all been forgiven, forced ever forward. our holy Trinity of lock-pop-break manifested in the fire circle and can not but be channeled there. i can no longer go to jams from the realisation of entrainment, the invisible law that pulls clock pendulums into synchronisation and proves the inter connectivity of us all.  its not that i am scared or selfish, i just refuse to be affected any more. not for the want of trying this gypsy never could conform well to the hive. the only real battle is with you, and if it don't come from passion you will end up petrified. this dance is full of love, the devotion in a real battle is electricity and a worlds apart from the modern staged sport dance. in first grade high school we experienced the cold ritual of organised public snogging matches for the critique of a mob, and this fully un erotic experience returns when i see cats in these so called battles spinning the bottle before the kick off. way 2 much man 2 man eye contact for my liking. Now I but can dance alone in the park ignoring spectators while watching dandy lion flowers go to seed and fill the air. fresh baby nettles leaves gift green tea and stinging remedy for the swollen wrist. at the jam young cats interrupt my prayer to challenge me in a  wane ker stance, i can not see them but for seeing of what a fool i have been. so hard for a young hood rat to fathom love, when he's so involved in trying to look and feel hard. child fuelled by fear finding false opponents at every turn. avoiding the plain fact that the only battle is within. this cult ure will attracts wane kers so that the dance can fix em. we have no choice. that is why it was gifted to us. we create nothing. hip hop is another telling of a very old tale. art music dance is the tale of humanity in a constantly reinterpreted ritual and the most powerful cultural propaganda. we are free to use it for our dark agendas but light must return to the source. the dance will fix us.

The clockwork perfection of creation on cue, solstice as last of the daffodil trumpets wake in unison to witness  big bright Mamma Luna, full in all her heavenly glory. coincidence you say? one prime reason for promoting in park training is the lack of space / funds excuse so used by slackers international. at least we in colder climates have the elements to blame when lazy bums in fairer lands need be more inventive with reasons not to yipyip. a proud stoat skips cross my path and dives into bushes with his wonky tail high as i enter my my new temple square of dirt. shared with his bushy tailed cousins in the trees, rude boys, bench drinkers international, babies plus mums and dog walkers.com a box caught between rail way tracks a motor way a canal and another rail way line and a sea of council estates. the lions share going to the peasant cult of running  around after a ball ooh blasphemy! a tiny play area that i am too old to enter, and beside the car park patches of raggedy over grown red spongey play surface. relics of long gone swings and a round about. ghosts of children past playing in my ears as i begin to jump rope the cleanest least over grown square. i think i can recall playing here once as a boy. with the first sweet dandelion flower tea of the year and cheating on my bench tastily i sit getting eaten by mozzies, out of the blue a good morning from a stranger, am i in England? yes. recently i found an old obelisk to the Gods of commerce by the canal from the days when they were the veins of the empire. still in Rome. this spongey play surface is well good on the knees for jump rope skipping. puffed out i lower volume as the clickety click clack freit freight train comes in on percussion accompanied by tree top jazz horns. we invented nothing. music is Gold, forked out queens heads on Badu's new album. have a smoke on flexito Mamma. throw rope to the air and bang on em. within seconds of poppin im surrounded by five giant black boys in similar prison school uniforms to what i once served in. they loom over me smiling. feels like summer again. please forgive the melancholy blog last. re borne with the leaves and many years of ghetto teachin i near mastered this ability to dance till i see a flash in the eyes exposing what they like and forcing them to learn something. most demand a performance, rear times a cat shows out strong, all leave with something, all leave teaching me something. if they stick at it or not does not matter to me, im not looking for students, just that the dance touches people, not cults. love of the music and movement is what we all need so much and  the reason the birds gifted us. we can name it what we will but will never own it. dance can not be created or destroyed. bboyin is  my yoga now, better than yoga, self realised, channeled pure energy. i seen little kids mastering themselves without any teacher or guru, just instinctive. this culture frees slaved and breeds sovereigns, the folk dance of the folkless.  have you ever moved house into the hood and not know it was hood for like a month because the place you were before blinkered you? only now can see the street walkers and after dark stand on the corners reeking of disaster. feels like home, i got mad council estate love fam. best hood ive lived in, in time. i pray. other day two lads passed me in the street practising waves and tuts. i dint say a thing just watched em showin out. internet made hip hop academic, it belongs here. they need it most. O.G Skeet was rappin to me about the concept of enlightenment through dance. interesting. i was more after salvation and absolution through dance. she makes me whole, connects me, besides breaking my heart. out of all the styles i find locking most tricky, i have seen some master all the moves but not get a sniff of it. elusive like hunting unicorn. i guess i am a locker like i am a pagan, in love with nature but u wont catch me in robes at stone henge, just same i am devoted to Funk but wont be found in Paris wearing a colourful suit. recently had this cat talk to me ish about preserving London locking style. see this is the problem when dealing with boffins turned artist. they twist any human interactions into a working in the field type anthropological study. that is not how to use the mythology baby, you cant preserve an era just like you cant put a party in a bottle. you can but try to document something in your own art. it was cool back then  but MJ impersonators are just scary strange. vandals spray chemicals across the skys and shitty tags on the trees. how can you tag a tree? trust i like nothin better than to board a freshly bombed out train but how can you tag a tree? even without the aid of tropics i can spend hours wrapped in the majesty of a flower. flash back 85 falling in love with a girl wearing daises in her hair. why don't we wear flowers any more but at weddings? that flower power stuff always seemed dated and white middle class. i guess all second hand truths get twisted and thats why i cant commit to your book brother. were did the hippies go? did any one tell that the wars never stopped.  gem of a tri green shaded wood pecker swoppes down  just to break my thought and show how she is just as glamorous as any imported parrot. all leaf coloured and kinda sneaky looking. so beautiful. just the other day a cat asked me if she was doing a locking move right. as if there was a sanctioned right and wrong way to do anything in dance besides making it look nice or not. i often ask myself and dancers that key question. do you think that that looks nice? see putting movement on top of your physicality is never gone look right over some one who has pulled spirit up and out from understanding the purpose of what they are doing in the bones before the brain box. that is how we can give life to it life again, by reinterpreting the mythology through self appraisal. our one and only obligation is but to be simply beautiful. take a limb any limb. now this limb is a work of anatomical perfection. if used  correctly and pushed to the very limits truly it is a thing of beauty as will be the movements to perfection. it is also circular, the quality of movement forges the body. anatomically correct movement develops a healthy beautiful limb, and ugly movement = ugly posture = and so on, who decides what is beautiful? well Mamma Nature is a good place to start. the beauty of our forms is to be discovered in the quest to find what it is capable of. we are obliged only to be beautiful. my new slogan is that hunching is something to be fought not taught. our father star kisses my face in this new temple park as i fight to stand straight with tree tops jazz as my inspiration.

The snow has melted and with it gone all the magical reflective light. The days grow darker and colder, biting through my gloved fingers as i scribble this hunched up on my beloved park bench. how can this be the next year when the winter has not peaked? as a boy this nonsense always vexed me. ancients of these islands and my own new year have always been signalled by first sight of gilded trumpets in march. 2011 means little to me, if im really in any year i am still in the last one and will remain up until the day again i see daffodils. flashback 85. I sympathise on how attempting to teach an abstract concept as time was no easy task with a peculiar child, but still struggle to forgive being branded as slow for seeing it as something relative. Just like then i now only see truth in nature. She is sleeping these days, if was not for the evergreens you could be convinced that she was dead and gone. there is no day only continual dusk shifting into night in this purgatory. I took a scenic route to my bench this morning cutting through whippendell woods to the rough patch of slanted green where i pray no dogs can foul the oasis. like an untapped bitter rocket all year long dandy lion leaves wait to be foraged. bitters make us grow up just as the sweets make us babies. i do miss the calming summer tea gifted by the flower heads. What the Funk does this ish have to do with dance? you may ask. well very little to be true, but like most of us council estate yoots my diet was always piss poor frozen packet shite microwaved then off to the G.P weekly for more sanctioned poisons. on introducing fresh greens, especially wild foods health and directly dance have notably improved. I love tooth of lion, i even seen her spouting up between concrete cracks in grittiest of hoods and think to myself on how the mouther provides and we deem the gifts as weeds. call me mad if you will as i sit journaling in chilly london drizzle with a bag full of unwanted plants destined for my ramen. ashamedly I confess to very little yip yip since the snow left us over the so called new year. the damp often forces In The Park to the confines of In The Filthy YMCA Squash Courts, and  spirit into Seasonally Affected Depression. S.A.D innit. do try to make a daily park pilgrimage but the elements are against us and as much as the complexion says native, the heart cries for tropics. not seen the Sun in how many days? Father when will you return and bring back life to me and this land? is this day or night? dawn noon or dusk? is this blood in my veins? im not quite sure if im alive. even the tree tops jazz is subdued. gotta do something to get it moving but the concrete skipping is out as the knees cant take the poundage. force myself to roll some heavy rope begrudgingly, just a quick one to shrug off the cold. Flash, the sky blanket cracks and our brilliant Star kisses my face. Flash. hidden again just as quickly as he came. did that really just happen? cant tell. best roll this rope before the bite sets in and we just call it a day. roll hard for bout three minutes until lungs burn. Instinctively I look up to see the blue grey beast materialising slow motion between foggy trees and darting strait at me. freeze. is it confused by the rope, thinks this a game? now can see glazed eyes, tucked ears and pearly fangs exposed. this bitch aint playing and just a few meters from me now at full pelt. Dam. I'd completely forgotten this moment but been here more than once as a skinny paper boy half a life ago. remembering from experience that as tempting the monkey urge to run is, I gotta take the alternative. fixing a wide stance dead centre and leaning forward on tippy toes, wait for it, wait for it, bend knees, wait for it, lean forward,dont crack wait for it, deep breath, wait for it, look her in her eyes wait till that very last split moment. the leap attack almost meets us face to face, pull thighs together twist and matador that bitch in pure poetry. the runaway train cuts strait past and crashes into my bench. i swear i could cry OLAY over an arrogant shoulder but just grunt and lick that bitch across the back with the rope. HA! amazingly she turns and comes at me again seemingly unfazed but sluggish now sans sprint, she leaps. crane stanced high on back leg defending with the front foot, rope raised ready to strike. fake a lick once, twice, this is the best dance ive had in years. the blue grey beast stops sparing and fixes a stationary confusing stare right in the eyes. almost looks disappointed, should i strike again? ears and head raise and turn as if hearing something out of monkeyman range and then Poof. back into the misty brush where she came from like a dart. what was that all about? why do some take a dislike for no reason when others want to greet every soul they meet? i remember forcibly loosing that puppy urge when twice bitten by consequence. it is what it is. i take this omen and resolve to squash court head spinz before the heavens fully open. YMCA ten minutes away just in time avoiding a proppa soaking and in the dusty courts i try but fail to skip some rope, just not bouncy today, then fail an attempt at some hand stands, well that aint happening is it. apathetically stretch some more. sleep is all i crave these days and struggle to snap out of it. SNAP OUT OF IT! head spins OK, thats what we came for, no no no they just not happening todaynight either. cant find the centre and desperately search for anything external to blame. yeah the floors are not level innit, and the dust wont allow hand grip and the hat grips way too much etc etc bs bs bs. knowing full well what the core problem is. the core. countless years of shallow breathing and a seeping heart chacra cultivated pokey out ribs and bruised nucleus. I must stop indulging in suffering and learn to cap this crap if im ever gonna stand up tall again, i need to ground down, let alone dare to  take flight. chacra does not easily mould and ribs don't go in without a fight, yes they sat atop a flabby gut five minutes ago but that went out with all the boozing. the resulting loose abs and spine arch is not just an ugly line  pulling off turns, but the whole essential up down connection is muted. knowing these truths for many years I never was a convincing lier. transparent like all fake orgasms i never managed the jump strait to heaven and  refused to pay necessary devotions. Just ran away and self intoxicated to near oblivion as all the fears manifested into a host of demons. head spins can wait, try some of locking. been told you know how that one works. just about manage to force out an eight count before it's gone like attempting to recall a dream. standing sober the joy is elusive and these steps are  foreigners, alone and estranged from an old friend. slap myself to STOP IT! gotta turn up the beats to drown out that monkey mind with funky music. that bs voice in your head is not you and never was, inherited from cults and cultures. just breathe life in deep and shake it out. no more indulging in pointless suffering, that has done its path and its time to move on.  you are only obliged to be beautiful for you know that the Sun will soon return.

Entering Cassiobury park Im greeted by the unmistakably pitched Eeep of a London Parakeet as he cuts down over head. Eeep with the accent on the EEEE now as familiar as any magpie rattle or crow horn, part of my London soundscape. This is the furthest north ive ever seen him. mostly they like it by the Thames around west london. Richmond is where i first saw him, and at the time I was so baked that as three emerald gems banked over me in a V formation I though I was trippin an did not even believe my own eyes. Parrots in London! WTFunk! Tropical green long ass tailed beauties wild in england is still a trip to me, something out of my fantasies. how i would have loved to have seen them as a wee boy, they surely would have  filled me with hope. An old girl in Barnes once spun me the tale of how they escaped from a Tarsan set at shepperton in the 1950's and survived along the Thames. Another old cat claimed that they are the decedents of Jimmy Hendrix pets. Where ever they are from i welcome em brightening up the dark dull morning. just the dose of colour needed as the fog blankets the ground wisping around trunks an bushes. i blow on my fingertips trying to bring back the sensation and then kick off with skipping. man how I have missed jumping rope outside. My little square of concrete in front of my treasured park bench. A hard an slippy sanctuary so necessary to step lightly. Surrounded by nature skipping is Hoofing, is Rocking, it is Sioux it is male and war and life. FLASH… the fog vanishes as Sun beams bust over the horizon punctuated lasers by the tallest trees. This now is the magical moment. the holy time before he angles above the smog cover and hides away all day, amateurs are easily fooled into thinking that we are about to have a nice day. being a hardened veteran of these islands I know we have less than thirty minutes of light before he disappears not to be seen again until again dusk when he dips again under the cloud cover before setting. I must be out side at these times. church. All the colours and urgings are unexplainable. a few weeks ago at dusk surrounded by snow with everything becoming so very bright and picturesque i found myself spinning around bewildered as to where the light source was coming from? until i realised it was only me, reflecting from the snow as if in Avatar state. The sublime beauty makes me say a little prayer, asking please that as unmatched as this all is, i don't want this to be my last winter. Oh YES MAMMA, the baptising step out of the grey concrete prison onto the white carpeted fields as my snow eyes turn on and everything becomes so very bright and so vivid. Sobering. These old trees recognise me ''hey kid where have you been since the 1980's? weren't you that lil kung fu nut, wheezing away with a bowl hair cut and sunburn? an orchestra of birds plays for me, it would be completely divine if not accompanied by the low noisy growl of mankind in the background and heavens. Been skipping now about 3 minutes and really push it for that last 30 seconds. my internal Mickey trainer screams ''DONT YOU GIVE UP! FASTER FASTER FASTER YOU SOB''. Panting and bathed in this glorious light I now strip right down to my Tshirt and start to go through my basic alignment forms. O.O.G Fazo explained how as nippers him and his boys did a form of cadet military service at school which influenced the synchronisation and the formations of the Bay Area style. These dances are martial and turn boys into men. we need a ritual. After breathing through rigid upper forms positions and hits the beautiful contrast of rolls and stretches are welcomed. If i can balance these two and i will not only be a competent popper but also a aligned human. these simple rituals are golden gifts. I no longer long for the sprung wooden floors mirrors and radiators. once hot i stay hot for hours, as long as i slap the sheep skin on between sets its not so hard to stay acclimatised. I've always longed for nature, these parks keep the sadness away. such a crying shame we use them mostly as lavatories for dogs. Americans have a common misconception that the English are friendly. Being looked at like a mad man for saying good morning to a stranger is common. The only eye contact i have had in days is from a stiff dog owner who looks me straight in the peepers as his mutt lays an egg not 3 yards from me facially stating ''theres no way in the world that i am picking that up! enjoy MF'' taking pleasure at desecrating my temple. I move on to the heavy rope swinging opening the shoulder sockets, I get a bit carried away sometimes and start dreaming that I am Samo. a few weeks back mid swing i looked up to see a police helicopter bird hovering in front spectating, made sure to throw in a few open jumps to show that it is no weapon. Occasionally old people will smile, most pretend they don't seem me, it says much about the English stance. It is nice to disappear into a city,True. i don't like fools chattin me up on the tube either but here in the suburbs we can afford to drop the mask cant we? or can we just not be bothered? our apathy is drummed home every time i train abroad. Around the parks in Beijing i witnessed the sight of couples in the hundreds waltzing in the reflected night lights, floating butterflies. As we sped by over the little pond bridges in the rickshaw piloted by an girl 70 years old if she was a day, i spied a lone Master gliding through dancers gifting advice on this entranced flock. that sight will stay with me forever, in my fantasy not a single note ever soiled holy fingers. Alone here covered in sweat and dirt i shed a little tear for the life i am missing in asia. I must work on my neglected angles, four detentions up and down. front back left and right, so basic and endless. I play with circles and 3 will always be the magic number. in this mind set i am so very European. i can never stay here for too long so i grab a tendril and up and away im gone into the music, away and free the 3's wash and i fly. Looking up noticing three lads passing slams the ground beneath feet like a hard shock breaker. I am back in my monkey body again and surprised at how hard im panting, i was gone. Wow here among the trees is far superior to any dusty studios stinking of armpits and feet. The lads are staring hard at me standing sweating and panting. Fonk it.. i refuse assume anything, yes the culture here is pure yobbo, but these lads are of asian decent, they will have family music and culture and ill bet they appreciate and understand, i will dare to wave. I remove an ear peace, raise one arm and ''allrite boys'', surprised they stop dead, the alpha steps forward, takes a moment as he breathes in deep, he begins to mock me erratically with sloppy wild popping he has clearly practiced. been here before so many times. The betas laugh and congratulate as they roll on accomplished and fed by my dressing down. In this split moment i am once again a sad defeated lonely little boy, i want to sit down and never dare to dance again rather than feel the shame SNAP thats not who i am any more, i am a grown man who has been all around the world and know what just happened. I have performed in front of hundreds of thousands, millions in film projects, do i still crave approval? I was you once young blood, I too mocked and cursed every thing and every one around me and remember how painful it was. Only the booze and smoke allowed freedom from the Englishness. Fragile soul so easily shook. somewhere down deep inside this still stings. not a kid any more i know why and what who and how, above all judgement, although here human i still ask for empty acceptance just same as in day one. why didn't you just wave kid?  so generous and simple. I know you wanted to, would have loved to have known my name, to have asked me how to improve his waves, you just wanted me to know you an play cool for the boys. brown skins with British curses. Brothers, why not push the boat out a bit once and in while and stop being such a hard arse audience. Truly Golden are the gifts of encouragement. Here I need to constantly keep an eye over my shoulder but do feel that i am quite safe. Just a touch more into the sticks and this here foreign sacrilege against football is unforgivable and i would find myself some tangible grief and not just N.R.I snobbery, brown white or black or whatever we English are a real tough audience. In the late 90's we met a crew of eastern block bboys and busked with them over an afternoon around the west end, later over a pint one of the young cats told me how lucky I was to live in such a free society, he then broke down as he explained how they could not dance like this publicly back home for the violence it received. I so love Bboys, no matter where he is from a Bboy is a Bboy, truly an international tribe. Jump rope again, just to get the blood back up and keep the cold out, man o man have I missed this feeling as I channel Mr Bo Jangles with the Father Suns magnetic waves on my face I am charged. The bird chorus stops for a moment as we give reverence to the source of all life. In a matter of moments he's above the clouds and we are all dressed in grey. Think of the winters wasted inside boxes. If I don't get out at these times I miss the day. Out here breathing life is the difference between happiness and despair. Training alone can be tough bro, partners to bounce off are a joy. The long long hours because you don't want to be the one who quits. Also freedom is a blessing and i must remind myself that here now i am not alone, all of my masters and inspirations are with me and i will not let them down. I am warm enough now to play with my boogaloo knee rolls hearing brother Sash encouragements in my ears. I give up this here offering for you my brother. Man this is so easier in Espania. Everytin is easier in Spain not but a mere stones throw via easyjet but a whole different cultural world away to these peoples. Parks give a accurate sample of local culture, be it the defecating dog walkers, drunkards, joggers, or male gay sex fiends, these parks tells volumes on the communities. I do so very love my little bit of concrete and bench, but don't quite like how they are tombstones. does some one really need die so that i can rest my arse from the dirt? I don't require a marker when im gone. Please burn this body and skater the ashes so that I may return to the Mouther faster. Don't advise skipping on concrete but on mud is dirty work and i so need to keep blood up in this climate. bend knees and control. all is good. Cant wait for summers kiss, spread out on the grass stretching the lower back oh yes, and flipping about like the monkey I is. Roll on baby. There is a fantastic play area with climbing frames and with sprung all weather surfaces just across the way. I train there when its empty but don't want to scare the mothers with babies away. There is a sign that states No under 14 permitted unless with a child. At times it hurts my heart that now as a man i am obliged to leave the play ground and stop myself from watching the spirit in children's eyes for the fear that i may be mistaken as a pervert. I cant wait to hear the crickets again. last year so many young scamps interrupted my yipyip to ask what i was doing, or to demand that I perform a back flip again. I always give ragamuffins a good ten minute private class and force them show out for me. Golden. they teach me so much. Like all Uk parks this was once the playground of rich folk and an oasis from us common folk. few life times back i was not allowed inside this here eden, more likely i was a foxy fox and this here was my flexy den. i like that better. Now public they are my only oasis from the grey prison growling behind and above, vomiting unknown chemicals across an already crowded Britannic skyline. I wonder if this is ours like they play or just as bourgeoisie as ever? was me gauging on all the blackberries last year an act of royal poaching? Been around the world an, I, I, I, and England has always been waiting for me here in Yellow Watford. She truly the nicest cold place i have ever had the pleasure to been homeless in. Being in recovery from city living we all feel the need to get it together again, to clean ourselves and receive the rewardes of fruit and songs in the trees. The divine is in the forests. I give reverence to her and head back into the grey. Flexito 2011