EPISODE 82: WAITING FOR EVEN MORE RAIN.

Welcome to my blog which is waiting for rain. I’ve waited for rain in Australia in the past and in India. In those places, the waiting is excited, sometimes even desperate, for the dry could have lasted for months. I remember living with the dope-growers in Oz. Being guerrilla growers avoiding the attention of the New South Wales police, these farmers had their plants concealed in various parts of the national forest where, it was hoped, neither the park rangers, nor the helicopters, nor the rippers, could find them.

 Finding these unfindable spots would mean a couple of hours drive into the forest, followed by a long walk carrying bits and pieces, such as plant food and materials to make a cage for the plants to protect them from curious predators, possums for example, attracted by the outstanding greenness of the mollycoddled marijuana. Sometimes an ingenuous grower would find a way of running a pipe to the nearest creek in order to supply a regular watering for his/her loved ones but this was rare and unreliable so in times of drought it would be necessary to load up with enormous plastic cans of water and lumber them on the back through the forest to the secret spot. Apart from being an impossible thing to do discretely, it was physically exhausting and, for me, quite scary because it was no fun to stagger through undergrowth replete with venomous snakes, lethal spiders and all sorts of biters and stingers. Imagine, therefore, the sigh of relief when the rains came and this challenging, though rewarding, work could be delegated back to nature for a day or two.

Of course with nature being nature, the chances are that before long we’d find ourselves worrying that if the rain didn’t stop the plants would be washed away.

 The rain I’m waiting for won’t come as a relief to anyone, unless of course, it doesn’t really arrive. We’ve had more rain this year than ever before, so much so then when it isn’t raining it seems abnormal, as if something is missing.  

It wasn’t raining when I set off early on Thursday morning to visit a friend in Derbyshire and do a little business with him. It is a 360 mile round trip. The radio was warning of storms to come, of high winds and rain. I thought about postponing the journey but I was quite excited at earning a little money for a change and keen to spend a day with some sense of purpose. It was a slowish drive up the M5, mainly because of a lorry which, I saw, had caught fire and melted. Reaching Derby, I spent a pleasant couple of hours swapping news and shooting the breeze, before setting off back to Bristol, by which time the winds had picked up and debris was blowing about on the motorway; at one point I was surprised by a small tree branch clunking against my windscreen.

Twenty miles from Bristol, the rain began. It was already dark - the light goes before 4pm at this time of year - but it became black, despite the motorway’s illumination. Then the rain became torrential and all the traffic slowed, almost to a stand-still. An hour later, I crawled into the city where I was quite amazed to discover familiar streets with puddles turning into mini-lakes. Undeterred I set off towards Glastonbury.

It was like driving through a thirty mile ford that every now and then would turn into an angry river. The biggest lake was attended by fire engines and a handful of police. In the middle of the lake, two cars were drowning. As my car had already almost stalled because of the wetness, I hesitated at the edge of the lake and thought about turning around. A policeman approached me and I was about to wind the window down to ask his advice when I realized the car might smell of weed, so instead I plunged forward. It was a close run thing, not helped by a wave engendered by a four by four sweeping past me.

As a drove on, I was reminded of a time in Burma when the car I was in came to a similar flood and was taken through a river by a tractor. Once through this time, I was into the unlit countryside across the top of the Mendip Hills. The problem there was it was impossible to judge either the depth or the strength of the running water. I began to worry about flash-floods which by their nature are unpredictable. (In fact, later in the night a man died in one of the villages I passed through when his car was swept down a temporary river and then trapped under a bridge.)

It took me three hours to get to Glastonbury. Immediately I called round to visit someone and quickly realized I was exceptionally excited and contented. I had loved the adventure of the day and delighted to discover once again that you never know when you might be surprised by joy.

This morning all the fields around are again flooded. I can stand on Leg of Mutton Road and see the isle that is Glastonbury. I want the rain to come, to flood it more, and then I’m going out for a walk. Again the radio is telling us to fear the rain - but it hasn’t come. So I’ll keep waiting.

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The rain was forecast to start at 4am - the same time, it so happens, that the test cricket between England and India began in Mumbai. So I was up early.

My goal this week was to get Sad Sam on to Amazon kindle. I spent a few days failing to design a jacket and in the end commissioned someone on Fiver (five dollars) to do it. I don’t particularly like what he has done but it could be good enough for the now. It was only when I came to upload it that I noticed this inhibition from Amazon:

Pornography

We don't accept pornography or offensive depictions of graphic sexual acts.

Offensive Content

What we deem offensive is probably about what you would expect.

I guess this disqualifies poor Sam and this is a shame because amazon kindle seems essential for success as an ebook. I could argue that the book isn’t pornographic and the verbal depictions of graphic sex are not offensive. Me against Amazon. I wonder who would win.

EPISODE 81: IN WHICH THE AUTHOR DIDN'T WATCH THE CARNIVAL.

Welcome to my blog which has had a tedious and unsatisfying week attempting to apply Amazon kindle desktop publishing formats to my script of Sad Sam. The last three days have been stuck on designing a cover which, I have to admit, I have still failed to do. I am sure it must be less complicated than it seems but for all the You-tube videos and illustrated instructions, the correct technique remains elusive. Consequently my intention to have the work ready to buy on Amazon by the end of this week has been thwarted. I can’t believe that it has taken me two weeks to only get this far.

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Glastonbury’s biggest event each year is the Carnival which always takes place in the third week of November. I don’t know what the recent figures are but the carnival used to draw a crowd of 100,000 people, which is ten times the population of the town. For someone like me, i.e. me, the fact that 100,000 will come from all over Somerset and the country to watch a series of light-bulbed floats being dragged up the High Street seems quite un-understandable. So much so that, like many of my peers, I avoid the whole thing and haven’t seen it for a good decade. Last night I briefly walked into town when the preparations were still underway. Even before leaving my house I could hear crap music blaring up the hill and could hardly fail to notice that every space was filled with cars and that a smell of burgers was replacing the usual odour of dog-shit. As I got nearer I became aware of the people. Who are they? Why have they come? Wouldn’t they prefer to come to a meaningful celebration in which they could participate rather than just spectate? And, having come all this way to watch, why do they only contribute £25,000 (40p each?) to the various charities that are being collected for?

It is said that the carnival is a west country thing. It appears to be a development of fireworks night.

Local Paper: 1870

No Band. Were it not for a few Bonfires and a display of first class Squibbing it would have been difficult to believe it was the 5th November. Two GLASS WINDOWS were broken at the Rev. Allnuts residence. Avalonians have grown tired of Bonfire Festivals.

(Squibbing is fireworks.)

I find the use of the word ‘Avalonians’ interesting; nowadays Avalonians are the freak wing of the population (like me.)

1880: The Anniversary of the frustration of the gunpowder plot was celebrated with more than the usual spirit on Friday evening. Proceedings commenced with a Firework Carnival in Benedict Street School, admission was by ticket, here the fun ran high, music was provided by the AVALONIANS BAND. Soon after 9pm the Band paraded the Town and spirits were aroused. At the top of the Town a procession was formed (FIRST MENTION OF AN ORGANISED PROCESSION) and marched to the Market Place (Cross). Squibs and crackers were let off en route. Around the Cross and up the Town again to the strains of the Band, on turning at the top of the Town an individual took the lead with a Tar Barrel which he bore aloft in triumph and at last deposited it in front of Mr Barnes shop, where it blazed away cheerfully (AGAIN THIS REFERENCE TO LIGHTED TAR BARRELS). The proceeds were brought to an end at 11pm, when the Deputy Chief Constable told the crown that he would not summons anyone for what had been done previously. This piece of good Generalship earned Deputy BISGROVE three hearty cheers and the crowd dispersed.

One can only assume that these festivities continued over the years on the 5th November, as we still have references to the lighted Tar Barrels and races with them down the High Street to the Cross. The High Street then was nothing but a dirt track.

1848-55

Open sewers ran down the High Street and in 1865 the Town Council made a reference that Cholera might be expected..

1891

In the year 1891, the Avalon Independent, the local newspaper, carried a two-page story of events which occurred in that year leading up to the November celebration. Two sets of Masqueraders appear on the scene a) The „BONFIRE BOYS‟ who had been responsible for many years‟ organising the November Bonfire on November 5th. b) a new body came along, naming themselves the CARNIVAL CLUB. These could not agree as to who would now organise the Bonfire Night. A Public Meeting was called and several hundred people attended. It was resolved to appoint a new Committee to by styled „The Glastonbury ad District Carnival Club‟, but alas the BONFIRE BOYS did not agree with this proposal and decided to carry on as before. Disagreement continued right up to and including the Bonfire Night. To mark their differences the BONFIRE BOYS arranged a huge bonfire at the top of the Town and the New Committee arranged one on the Cross. Two processions were held. They paraded through Benedict Street, Magdalene Street, Bere Lane, Chilkwell Street, Manor House Road and along Northload Street. It is noted that the two processions met in Northload Street, where they were very „polite‟ to each other and made room for each to pass by. At the conclusion of the processions, Carnivalists gave a grand display of Fireworks in the Market Place, Tar Barrels were lit in the High Street, the fun was kept up „til Midnight. At this time Mr BISGOOD, Deputy Chief Constable, appeared and congratulated everyone on such a peaceful display, he said his Officers had enjoyed a „night free of duty‟, the crowd called for three cheers for the popular Deputy Chief Constable, the Fire Brigade then extinguished all fires and the crowd wended their way home. (This is a condensed report of the article which appeared in the Avalon Independent 7th November 1891.)

‘There were over a hundred competitors, and some of the dresses were exceedingly smart; there was a close run for the prizes awarded. First honours (15/-) for the best tableau was unhesitatingly awarded to the car representing Britannia. This was a massive structure, rising tier upon tier to the height of 20 feet, and on the summit was seated Britannia with her trident, and at her feet were soldiers and sailors. On the lowest tier were stationed a number of British subjects from every point of the globe, all of whom were effectively dressed in characteristic costume.’

‘One of the features of the procession was the miniature car drawn by two donkeys, and on which was seated the two inimitable King Clowns – “uncle Joe” and “Tompkins” (Messrs. E.H. Roach and A.R. Williams) in company with their “leetle dawg”. Both Clowns were grotesquely attired, one wearing a skull cap and the other a sugar-loafer bearing the inscription “How do you do?” preceded ad guarded on either side by torch bearers came the immortal Guy Fawkes, borne aloft on the shoulders of several men, the archtraiter being drawn by a pair of horses. This was the nigger troupe each of whom manipulated an instrument of some kind and filled the air with nigger songs and absurdities. The following composed the troupe:- Messrs. W. Pearce, A. Pearce, A. Dunthorn, T. Kerridge, J. King, W. Bryant, and R. Marsh.

I was going to add a lot more there but it got lost in the cut and paste procedure. Having begun this piece with nothing but antipathy towards the carnival, a little research has added a dimension that I find quite fascinating - mind you, I’ve always had some taste for history. As far as I can tell, the carnival was a haphazard and occasional idea that continued to flicker in the first half of the twentieth century, re-emerged in the 1950s and actually only became what it is in the late 1970s. From that point of view, by the year 2050, the Glastonbury day of the Dead could seem as traditional as the carnival now does.

Not that I’ll ever know.

EPISODE 80: AFTER THE AFTERMATH

Welcome to my blog which this time a week ago was nervously advertising on the radio for an event which had filled my mind for over a year. In truth the event didn’t go very well with lack of staffing leading to disorganization and lack of punters to keep us all on our toes. In the end I’ve lost so much money that I don’t know how to manage. Of course I’d always foreseen some loss but this was quite spectacular because as low as I had imagined the numbers to be, the reality was lower still. And yet, as I indicated last week, the original vision (bar the people coming) was more or less achieved. Maybe I should have been more determined to include income in the vision although I always assumed, and hoped, that someone would donate to what I thought was a good cause.

What I have noticed, throughout, is a lack of interest with no responses to my articles, no surprising interventions from anyone with influence and most often not even a reply from charities or spiritual groups who should have been interested. Equally, although my name appeared alongside articles on the festival, still no-one got in touch either to support or condemn. So to feel that with better PR we would have been more successful, as some do, is not really evidenced. Even now that it is over, very few of the participants, the talkers and performers for example, have given feedback. 

Because of the dramatic moments with Copperdollar at the Market Cross and the upliftment of the party, we were, on Sunday morning tending to call the day ‘a success despite the things which didn’t quite work’. On Monday I was in tears because I was so awed by the achievement of getting from conception to completion. By Wednesday the self-congratulation was fading and now I feel, as often I do, like a drunk looking back on an alcoholic evening, sadly aware that all the drama and excitement was just the drug whereas the cold morning reality is a broken nose accompanied by mental and emotional deflation.

Naturally there have been comments about ‘next year’. A band has already volunteered itself to perform, Jo wants to do the food again, and we can all see how to do everything better. Of course I’m not going to use any of my own money again but even so I don’t know how interested I would be in producing it another time. Yes there is the temptation to perfect and to show the mistakes weren’t in the thinking, just in finding enough people to execute and manifest the thinking, however, when I reflect on the last few months, little was really enjoyable and, of more importance, I’m not sure at all that there is really any point, any purpose, in doing it.

By which I mean, what? A creation doesn’t have to have a purpose or, as in this case, it can have various purposes. This creation was hinged on the belief that getting people to think and talk about death and dying is ‘useful’ and could result in betterment for the terminally ill and their families. I don’t know whether I personally hold this belief or not but certainly a number do. During the last few months I have tried to be passionate about this view but maybe the fact that it is a borrowed belief means that I have gone as far with it as I can. While I couldn’t take this part out of the vision, or the day, the satisfaction for me, I now know, is in the spectacular.

Meanwhile, in desperation for money, I have remembered my pornographic comedy about Sad Sam, the book that Chris Somebodyorrather twice promised to publish as en e-book. The last two days have been spent fathoming the intricacies of deformatting my haphazard Microsoft Word document and reformatting it to be crunched into a kindle manifestation. This learning process has some way to go.

 Now the Dead Day is over, I have had to begin addressing the matter of what happened to the original purpose of this novel which was stated clearly in the original title, "I'S NOVEL ABOUT HOW THE WORLD'S YOUNGEST BEST-SELLING AUTHOR (FAILED) ACHIEVED REDEMPTION AND MODERATE SUCCESS AT THE AGE OF 60 - HE BLOODY HOPES"!  With just five or so weeks to go, well, it hardly needs saying. The unanswerable question is why did I let myself get so diverted at such a cost?

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Last night I went up the road and hung out with friends smoking and chatting and, in their case, drinking. It seems an inordinately long time since I last had such an evening. I suppose the main reason for that is that my main hanging-out friends Terry, Phil, John, and Crispin, died and I got out of the habit. There were attempts to steer me around to talk about the GDD but I was unwilling and wanted to be discussing philosophy and the illusion of self

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I read a stack of books this week, the best being ‘Measuring the World’ by Daniel Kehlman and the worst, by far, being ‘Magic Seeds’ by V.S. Naipaul. I suppose once a modern author has achieved the Novel Prize for Literature, it’d be a little insulting to turn down the next few offerings, especially if you expect them to sell, but this book can’t be worth the £17 the publishers tried to get from it. Give me his contract and let him attempt to make a living as an unknown on kindle.
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Now is Monday morning; the radio is blathering on about the BBC which is under attack because of its handling of the 'Jimmy Saville child abuse case'. As with many things in the UK thesedays, such as parliament, an old-fashioned way of doing things by nods and winks is being replaced by a lack of ambivalence which is more transparent but less in tune with reality. It is the same sort of thinking that turned the british into Americans, all black and white with no grey areas, fox news rather than the BBC, right-wing capatalism instead of negotiated justice. So it goes.

EPISODE 79: ON THE EDGE OF THE AFTERMATH.

Welcome to my blog which knows that while we are attaching the word 'success' to the event, the truth is it was close on being a disaster. Maybe it was just that; a few thousand pounds lost, a partner threatening to leave me, an ex-partner who innocently worked her guts out to help me abandoned and distraught and everyone knackered. It is a truism but how close the difference between opposites!

The aftermath hasn't quite begun; no account done, no story made, no review of the realities, nothing more than feelings. The best feeling was watching Copperdollar arrive at the Market Cross. That was the spectacular moment I wanted to create that made it all worthwhile. Quite honestly, without that moment, it would have been failure and disappointment. That's not to say that nothing else worked. The talks were good but poorly attended. The same applies to the kids programs. The stands didn't work at all, the art exhibition was badly laid out and ill-explained, the food was over-priced and over bought and the play interrupted by the rude cries of football supporters. The mexicans were a laugh but wouldn't have carried the night. Bob Heath was sweet.

PROPOSAL ONE: 6/9/11.

1.0  GOAL:

To set up, organize and manage, an annual Glastonbury Day of the Dead Event beginning on November 3^rd 2012. This event will loosely resemble the Mexican El Dia Del Muertos¹ and have a similar purpose.

1.1  PURPOSES:

1.       To Celebrate and Remember the Dead

2.       To Acknowledge Death

3.       To Party with the Past

4.       To Encourage the Community to communally enter the chthonic liminal.

1.2  AIMS:

To have a town party celebrating the dead.

To provide death education and encourage discussion of death issues.

To consider the future of death and dying in the community.

1.3  FORM:

EVENTS, TALKS, ART EXHIBITIONS, PERFORMANCE, WORKSHOPS. RITUAL, DANCE, MUSIC, ETC with the theme ‘celebrating the dead’.

1.4  FOR WHOM:

For all, at whatever level they want to take it: an extension of Halloween for the kids, a melodramatic theme for the creative, another excuse to party for the energetic, a meditation for the spiritual, a rare chance to be included for the dead, a release for the grieving, an education for many, and an opportunity for all to take part in one of the most fundamental rituals that bind societies, the remembrance of group loss and the coming together and repairing after death.

The Mexican Day of Death arises out of a mixture of beliefs and traditions, primarily Christian and Aztec. Modern Glastonbury holds many beliefs but the majority of the people are culturally Christian.  Although there is nothing unchristian in the Day of the Dead – which is the equivalent of the catholic All Souls Day – and although thousands of tourists from all over the world now visit Mexico and the USA for such days, it is new to Glastonbury and needs to be unrolled respectfully. Inclusiveness is essential and this will be shown in the programming and advertising of events.

1.5  WHO WILL COME AND WHY?

Year one will be pitched as a Glastonbury/Mendip event though Bristol, Bath and Somerset residents are all within reach. With decent publicity, there will be coverage and curiousity for an event presented as entertainment and education. By appealing to very different groups and by encouraging any organizations connected with Death (and there are many!) to offer their own contributions, pre and post the actual day, a fair degree of local interest can be engendered.

Reading the above just now is quite surprising because 14 months later, I produced more or less what I aimed for. Last night I read through Fritz's book, the one that started all this, trying to find out how to finish it.

'The completion stage calls for declaration. You, as the creator of and authority on your own vision, can declare that the creation is complete. At this point you are able to formally recognize that the creation matches your vision of the creation; you may even say aloud, 'It is done!'

'In this stage of the creative process your creation is complete. There is no more to do. The creation exists. Now you develop a different relationship with your creation than you had when you were working on it. Now you are the audience for your creation. You are able to evaluate your creation as if you did not create it and to relate to your creation by virtue of its own merits.

During the last 48 hours, a number of people have mentioned next year. Next year! I can see that they are enthusaistic and each person could see how their interest could have been done better - which is good. For me, it is too early and I recognize the importance of completing the first one and then seeing whether there is the desire to make a different, similar, creation. Of course I can see the value of tying up the pieces and building for the future now, while it is fresh in our minds, but that isn't me committing to doing it again, yet. Also, as diligent readers of this journal would know, I wasn't actually trying to create a Day of the Dead when I began all this for my intention was to become a successful writer.

So it goes.

Been listening to Karl Jenkins 'Benedictus'; cried and cried, awed by what I have done. I don't know why.