Tuesday, September 02, 2008

Mabon: The Beginning Of Everything

It's coming up to that wonderful time once more, the Autumn Equinox, another Pagan holy day stolen by the Christians and turned into Harvest Festival. Mabon was the son of Mordon, the Goddess of the earth, the Pagan festival celebrates his birth; and of course, this is John Keats' season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. Day and night are of equal measure. Here in the north, it's getting dark at 8pm and there is a freshness to the mornings, even though the afternoons can still turn your skin brown.

I love this sketch of Keats; it gives him a romantic intensity and reminds me of his awful tubercular death.

The coming of Autumn always brings out in me a deeply introspective side, the balance to the energy which we experience as we anticipate winter and all our rural collective memories tell us to fix the roof and fill the cellar with turnips, apples and potatoes. I still possess notebooks full of whimsy, produced by the season which all romantics love the most, because, as Patrick Keiller pointed out to me, it is the beginning of everything.

John Keats - To Autumn

I

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.


II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.



III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.



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Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Annual Sex

Overpopulation is the reason why we as a species are out of balance with nature. It's really that simple, and I think we all know why, in our secret, greedy little hearts, that situation has arisen: sex.

Too much sex is killing the environment. No matter that we can use contraceptives, we don't, or at least, not enough of the time to prevent the messy collision of cells that generates another prototype saint or sinner, i.e. fellow human being.

Six billion is five billion too many. It cannot last, and it will not last. However, you can bet your bottom that once wars, famine, mass population movement to escape rising sea-levels and rampaging strains of obscure biological weapons, of which we as yet know nothing, escaping from a Hungarian or perhaps Chinese laboratory, enter the biosphere spreading hitherto untreatable diseases and havoc in whatever landmass they infect, leaving only a few scattered pockets of humanity living in the sad and useless remnants of the promised high-tech future that never was, that the remaining homo sapiens will still be obeying the biological imperative, having sex, and making babies.

I have therefore decided to promote a new paradigm which, if widely adopted, will at least start to mend the appalling exhaustion of the planet which is brought about by there being too many of us: ANNUAL SEX.

Annual Sex as a way of life will return sex to the special place it once enjoyed, a place of precious celebration and rare pleasure. Gone will be the daily exhortations to measure life success by this crude yardstick. Sex sells will no longer be the mantra of the mass market. Sexual rarity will increase value, bring peace to nations, and bring about cohesive societies. Nakedness will be no longer be taboo; gender relations will lose iniquity. Sexual stamina will be rewarded since no limit will be put upon the length of the single, annual sexual act. The entire world will once again love, live and breathe, secure in the knowledge that we are in balance with our environment.

All this will be brought about by genetically modified toothpaste.

Remember: you read it here first.

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Wednesday, August 20, 2008

You Only Live Twice Again

It is not the physical death of the body, nor mortal fear inspired by religious myth, nor the agony of physical failure that worries me. The death that I fear so much is that which we experience in disappointment, the death of hope.

I did experience hopelessness once or twice as a child, but not as a young adult. Throughout my 20s and halfway through my 30s I remained strong, shrugged off defeats, persisted, came back and enjoyed victories. When things went wrong, I turned up a collar of determined optimism. When the collar didn't work anymore, I changed it to dogged fatalism. My psyche rose intact several times from ashes, smacked into shape by the iron hammer of events, forged in heat, and remained recognisably, cheerfully, pugnaciously mine. Everything would work out, eventually. Until one day, I woke up and everything in my life was in pieces, and what wasn't broken had gone, and with it, my hope.

Despite extreme mental trauma and occasional psychosis, I retained sufficient sanity during this long period of clinical depression to recognise that, since I am not by nature suicidal, I would have to continue life, with or without hope, until my body expired. I had no feelings about this one way or the other. I presumed hope may return, but even this presumption was a message from a past now unavailable for further comment, an abstract, vague, unrelated memory from a version of me that was now dead. I had not yet got around to clearing away the body, there were parts of it rotting everywhere. I could recognise them by the fact that they resembled me as I had been.

Emotionally, I was flatlining, dragging myself from bed to kitchen to bathroom to bed. I kept the TV on, even as I slept, awakening to stare blankly at the screen again without changing channel. I didn't care what I watched, as long as it wasn't music, which disturbed me - it just had to take the final remnant of concentration. When my eyes hurt, then I employed a radio. Talk radio was best, or sport, or world news. I didn't leave the house. I was agoraphobic. I had enough food for a week, ten days, mostly canned, dried. Nothing fresh. I was thinking anxiously about that ten-minute trip to the shop to re-stock for five days, if I was thinking anything at all.

I had a prescription for a low-level SRI from my doctor, but I was scared to take it.

Two months before the crash. It was the Edinburgh Festival, cultural showcase for the world, and I was producing interactive content in a rock club, with art-music acts like The Divine Comedy, and suffering the indignities of a cocaine-addled promoter's bipolar behaviour.

It was a hot August, 1997. My girlfriend was appearing in a cool Edinburgh show, one half of a physical performance duo, which was doing well, eyecatching posters up all around town, decent to good reviews, newspaper coverage, and as I had spent as much time building her career as mine, I was pleased. There was no recognition of this, though, from her work partner, an uptight controlling character who resented my influence, and who created conflict. I felt I had to always avoid the "choose between" syndrome - between work and relationship, between work partner and love partner, between training and sex, between domestic life and touring. Anyhow, for once, we were able to attend the same festival on different gigs, and I had looked forward to it.

About a week into the month-long festival, one night the promoter asked me to go to the front of the stage and video; as soon as I did, I was grabbed left and right by two huge security men, lifted bodily, and carried through the amused crowd to front of house.

Apoplectic, I insisted that I was acting on request of the promoter, and demanded that they find him to verify. He was nowhere to be seen. Turns out he had wanted the material, but had a deal with the band management that nobody would video them, and he was sending me into the pit to see how true it was. The venue manager looked apologetically at me, seeing my disgust, and sensing the truth of my story, as he said in his gentle Scots accent, "Sorry mate I am going to have to ask you to leave." I left, thinking of of throwing bricks through windows, of torching cars, boiling and raging.

I walked home down Princes Street, to the nice flat at the other end of town where we were staying, cursing the puffed-up conceited pimp who had humiliated me on a whim. The kind journalist who was putting me up took me out and poured beer down my neck, consoled me, advised me to let it drop. The next day, I took legal advice. Yes I could sue them. No it probably wasn't worth it. My hope began to leave me, then, although I didn't know it until sometime later.

Having no further work to do, but with more than half a month's tenure remaining in a pleasant flat in a capital city full of beauty and culture, I determined to enjoy myself, but it was not easy. I was harbouring a morbid fear which had come from a dream at the beginning of the month, before we left and came north. I had woken up with a voice in my head, my own voice, but as if spoken to me, not by me. It said, "You haven't got very much longer to live."

I struggled fully awake, shocked at the experience. I had been dreaming, but the dream had disappeared. All I had was the final line, certain and indisputable. "You haven't got very much longer to live." Fuck. I remember jumping out of bed and trying to rationalise, but it was impossible. I had just been told that my number was up. It was a dream, it was only a dream, I told myself. As I waited for the morning kettle to boil, I shivered, as if a ghost had walked over my grave. Later I recounted the tale to several friends, and did my best to laugh it off, but I had never, and still to this day have never experienced anything like it. It was so direct a warning, and however irrationally, I knew that I was kidding myself that it was not meant for me, and I tried hard to suppress the memory.

After the video debacle, as the empty days moved on towards September, although I could not yet see my depression, I realised that physically I was in trouble. I had chronic fatigue, insomnia, loss of appetite, occasional palpitations. I had finished working for the company I had set up three years previously. I was in a waiting room. I was waiting to see what happened next. I had no idea what it would be. This was a new thing. I felt directionless. I may have drifted for periods in the past, but even that was conscious drifting. In this I had no option.

In Edinburgh, a kind female red-haired GP saw me and told me I had ME, that I needed to relax, stop working immediately, and go see my GP as soon as I got back to London. I looked at her blankly as she talked chirpily about relaxation tapes, sensing her worries about my mental health, thinking, you are very nice, and you are right, but you have no idea how to deal with me, no idea what I am experiencing, none at all. I knew I needed to relax, but it was deeper than that. I needed to let go of the years of holding it together, for myself and those around me.

I went back to the flat and thought about how isolated I was, and the lack of intimacy in my love relationship. Although we were both locked into our work and had been under strain, I thought everything would be fine. I thought our love was strong enough to last. I thought I would get the support I had given. I got nothing except a terse request not to rock the boat.

Thus I found myself alone in a foreign city with no work and no companionship, and I spent time walking around, just anywhere. I found myself up on the castle rock, looking across Edinburgh. I found myself watching an obscure play in a tiny, dirty theatre, surrounded by Spanish students. I found myself at the bus station, looking at destinations. I had some money at least, so I went shopping. I bought, over a period of three weeks, black shoes, black trousers, a white shirt and a black jacket. Funeral attire, I realised later.

The final week dragged to a close, and we were joined by old friends who somewhat distracted me with their family energy and good heartedness. I was feeling tired more than anything now, as my emotions closed up, shut down, and more and more the expectation grew in me that my dream was right. I was witnessing each day as if it was my last, I had abandoned all thoughts of anything future, baffling attempts to draw me into conversation so that I could just wait to see which second on that ticking clock would be my last. We survived the last night, the fireworks, the bonhomie, the drink.

It was Sunday, August 31st, 1997. A bright, sunny morning in Edinburgh. We packed the van, ready to leave. "Diana is dead!" announced S, just back from the shops. Cue general disbelief and mild consternation all round. My head started to spin. "How? When?" I marched to the shops and bought a copy of every newspaper - the first editions with partially-clothed paparazzi pictures of Diana and Dodi on the beach, full of claims that the relationship was destoying the royal family, the second editions, respectful R.I.P. headlines, with all scandal removed. I walked back to the van, slowly, thinking, "You haven't got very much longer to live." It wasn't me. I wasn't meant for me. It was Diana, it was about Diana's death. I felt a wave of euphoria, and I smiled for the first time in three weeks. "You know the best thing about this?" I asked a Scots passer-by, showing him the paper. "It's not me." I caught a bemused grimace back, and decided it was too complicated to explain.

It is amazing how long one can labour under particular illusions, the accuracy of one's perceptions and analysis being chief among them, illusions revealing their clever mechanisms at the moment of downfall, suddenly unmissable mountains appearing as the mists vanish.

As the great tide of grief swept the nation over the following week, it had a soothing effect on me. I felt that somehow I had caught an advance glimpse of this very public death, and interpreted it as my own, and so while all of Britain wept for this stolen icon, I experienced relief, and a resurgence of hope. But, I was still wrong. My lovely partner went to Venezuela, and although she sent me postcards and faxes proclaiming love and loyalty, she left me within a week of her return. And then, die I did, although not physically, or permanently. Just for a while.



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Tuesday, September 18, 2007

A Sunlit Tent

In this morning's meditation, I was suddenly filled with an awareness of love, more accurately, of the immediate presence of love. It was as if I were inside a white, sunlit canvas tent. I had a sense of the thin layer between myself and the outside world of light, and I had the simultaneous realisation that this was love.

The improving sense of self-regard I am gaining from resuming regular meditation can be quite definite and unmistakable. It's all well and good embarking upon the wholesale integration of the self, but this is a path which leads to unexpected results. I have been concerned that the consequences of losing my inner resistance to change will be almost too much for me to cope with in the context of the life I am leading, and I have been wondering how to enact the changes I now know are necessary for me to progress meaningfully.

At the end of the meditation, which I allowed to continue beyond time until it was quite finished, I looked up at the ceiling and saw a small casement moth, one which I had chased last night before going to bed. It had eluded my attempts to kill it, and ended up in the room I am using for meditation. I felt rather wistful at the thought that I would now have to remove it so immediately after my finding peace and a sense of well-being. It is in this state that I am best at employing "live and let live" as an active philosophy. Although I generally chase out spiders, bees and wasps, flies, cloth-destroying moths and mosquitos are insects I normally kill quickly and without compunction, but now I found the thought of killing difficult.

I stood up on the raised platform, disengaging from the cushions and the covering which had kept me physically stable and warm while I meditated. Getting closer to the ceiling, I saw that it was not a moth, but a tiny cobweb. I smiled; this was easily removed, and harming nothing, I gave thanks for being spared the role of executioner.


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