Finding the true home for Dafydd ap Ffransis-Meilir  (aka The Revd David Miles Board)

And discovery of the self - followed quickly sad to say by a life-changing disaster, a health catastrophe

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                                                              They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,

                                                                They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

                                                              I wept as I remembered how often you and I

                                                              Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,

A handful of grey ashes, long, long ago at rest,

Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;

For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

Callimachus - third century BC epitaph

translated by William Johnson Cory who wrote: “You go to a great school not so much for knowledge as for arts and habits; for the habit of attention, for the art of expression, for the art of assuming at a moment's notice a new intellectual position, for the art of entering quickly into another person's thoughts, for the habit of submitting to censure and refutation, for the art of indicating assent or dissent in graduated terms, for the habit of regarding minute points of accuracy, for the art of working out what is possible in a given time, for taste, for discrimination, for mental courage, and for mental soberness. Above all, you go to a great school for self-knowledge”

The Mosaic of Mothering  now takes in  the Alma Mater  & History as mother



NB - Balliol Members - Please click here to read the brief intro to ALL the TRISCEL multimedia portals

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A PERSONAL LABYRINTH?                      Click for all Triscel Multimedia

Did you hear of the man who fell in love with the HYPERLINK?  Here by all means interpose your own punchline. But I am that man.

Years ago, when in Rome trying to predict the great challenges which burgeoning media would pose to the human community - all incidentally ethical problems for limited human capacity, intelligent machines, and for the ways we choose to cohere one with another in society and communities - I realised that we faced new possibilities for wider choice and plumbing depths. In the age of the documentary book and the confined half-hour broadcasting programme which then prevailed, one had no options but to take the selection and choice of the author and producer.  In future, new media and means (we foresaw the necessity of something like the internet) would allow one by an easy link, or hyperlink, to explore further or even seek alternative data on any subject, to assimilate only a part of it, or to delve deep into reflections and interpretations for which in a book or programme there could have been no room.

Several people had already seen that  they could author a book which could be read in a different order, or even with alternative approaches. But the use of the hyperlink enabled new mental voyages broader and more profound, at a mere click or option on a remote control.

C.S.Lewis once said if I read him rightly that he had never come across a biography in which the section on childhood and its childlike adventures was not the liveliest. Now it became possible for an author easily to expatiate the thoughts and adventures of this or indeed any other stage of life, and to be easily read or heard, filmed or portrayed doing that. Media could even be used differently but by links. Why stick to written prose alone, paired for instance with film? Use the lot, if selectable to complement one another. Choice would be supreme.

I have read many page-turning novels end to end indeed. But I cannot remember reading non-fiction in which I did not skip and choose. And I prefer novels and other works which offer digestible short stories. Thus then the enormous, but easily selectable (hyperlinked) ramifications of Triscel. And I planned that its various parts be stories, like the grandad I now am telling fireside tales to family of times past. and novel-like - story-telling - in that.

I personally am not that interested in expressing life as a whole, or giving vent to some philosophy of the whole thing - since I’m less sure of that than ever, and more sure that a total autobiography in my case would be pure public relations: the formulation of a totality I might like my children and friends to believe, but which I just don’t feel.

Just for myself, I’m interested in the mystery of how -  in the diverse bits and parts which made up my life -  each has a certain meaningfulness. That can’t be summed up, nor readily distilled, but I have tried to catch the half-realised tenuousness like one of the those dream catchers the New Agers have in their windows. Dr Jung, do they really HAVE to integrate and make mandala? Mine don’t. Concluded in a revelatory disaster: just one Balliol era?

For example, take two other episodes of my life -  on losing one marriage and gorgeous young possibilities, and then finding another love -loves- and new youth in a new age altogether. Writing, for me, both subtler and more truthful because there the recollection (not memory) is indeed what I have been left living with. And each ‘medium’ quietly alters what I seem to say.

I realise that I shall never know what a whole life means. If others do,  that’s great, and I make no judgment. I know I am ignorant of that sort of totalistic knowing. I don’t have a past. I have an altering cluttered house of stuff which I and especially my family are now stumbling upon. Is’nt that justification enough of the sprawl, the winding labyrinth? If interesting, well told, of course. No, choose what you like. There is no single Minotaur. Nor am I a Theseus.

Portal 1



Portal 3






Portal 2



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