On a recent Sunday I went with a neighbour to a goddess
festival. Anyone who knows me knows I
am not the goddess type. A few of my friends are self-proclaimed goddesses, all the more power to them. I even knew a divine healer once who became a
divine healer because she was sleeping with another divine healer. I didn't know divine healing could be passed
from one practitioner to another like an STD, but my friend assured me it could.
 |
| Goddess on the Move |
These goddesses gathered in Glastonbury dressed in full goddess
regalia. They paraded to the top of the
Tor hauling an effigy of an ancient female
deity. There was much chanting and
raising of arms to the sky in praise of The Goddess, with dresses and tresses
tossed about by the wind. I do not fit
in with this crowd.
 |
All Hail the Goddess
and The Nuclear Plant |
I am no fan of the
diaphanous flowing gown, and floral crowns have never been my millinery of
choice. I've been told I have swimmer's
shoulders. When I wear flowing garb, I look like a drag queen, but the kind goddesses were not strict with the dress code. And, no matter how wacky and
woo-woo this all sounds, it's hard to find offence with a celebration of feminine
strength.
The Tor is a unique place.
Look out at the vast vista and on one side you see the site of mythical
Avalon where Excalibur was forged and where Arthur and Guinevere are said to be
buried at Glastonbury Abbey. In contrast,
off in the distance on the other side of the Tor you can see the two lumbering
reactors of the Hinkley Point nuclear plant.
Past versus present. Myth versus
science.
 |
| Welcome |
Shortly after the brilliant optimistic celebration that is
the goddess walk, Husband and I found ourselves at Banksy's Dismaland, a bleak
commentary on contemporary society.
 |
| RIP Cinderella |
No
matter how depressing, and yet at the same time amazing, Dismaland forces you
to think about things like drowning migrants, economic inequity, pestering paparazzi and the
absurdity of grinning dancing mice. It
spoke to my heart since I am no fan of Disneyland. The extreme visual statements in Banksy's theme park make us uncomfortable in our complacency.
 |
Miserable Mouse Host
|
 |
If Only He Were This
Easy To Be Rid Of |
 |
| Dismaland Imbeciles |
The disassembled Dismaland is being taken to
Calais to build shelter for refugees. So
the exhibition didn't just highlight a bad situation, it's doing something to
alleviate it.
Everybody talks about following a middle-path in life, keeping
things on an even keel. I try to do this, I really do, but I am consistent in my failure. Extremes are a slap in my sleep-walking
face.
 |
| The Great Outdoors |
Our current life is an exercise in extremes. Husband and I craved an escape from the noise
of downtown L.A. so we ended up in a
village in Somerset with no store and more sheep than people. We were tired of driving everywhere, so we
gave up car-ownership and we walk, sometimes five miles to pick up
milk.
 |
| The Great Outdoors |
We lived in a cement landscape and
now we are surrounded by fields and farms, badgers and rabbits, and
of course, peafowl.
Years ago I had an extreme case of extremes. I was hired to look after a billionaire's
home-based art collection; basically just fending off requests for viewings by
famous people and art scholars. It was
an amazing collection, housed in his amazing Beverly Hills mansion. The first time I drove up to the place a voice squawked out
of massive shrubbery protecting it from plebeians. It asked me to declare my business.
I cheeped out my answer. Gates
opened, and I drove up a huge winding drive in my humble little Mazda. The place is magnificent. The collection is stunning. I was often the only one there, except for the house staff.
At the same time Husband and I were volunteering at the
Union Rescue Mission on Skid Row. We
tutored homeless children, one family in particular, four kids and a thirty-two
year old mom. The single moms tried to work if they had jobs, and keep their kids safe
from the dangers of the street. It was a sad and brutal existence. Once a
week I journeyed from one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in L.A. to
skid row and the mission and people who had no home at all. The juxtaposition of the empty mansion, (Mr.
Gazillionaire spent most of his time elsewhere), and the crammed shelter was disturbing. Neither seemed real; each one pointed out the
incongruity of the other.
Recently Husband and I were in London and we went to Hampton
Court, the former home of Henry the wife-killing VIII. It's the epitome of opulence, with ornate gardens
and a Chocolate Room designated for the sole purpose of preparing that
confectionary. Two days later we were
back in our little village, which has fewer houses than the palace has
chimneys, and we attended the local festival.
 |
| Two Quid On #3 To Win |
There were ferret races. I placed
a bet on the winning weasel. Gourds were
judged, beer was swilled. There was no
Chocolate Kitchen but there were plenty of fine jams and chutneys for sale from
Rita who runs our excellent local farm shop.
This week I met a dear friend in London. We were walking down Oxford Street around
rush hour, which means you can lift your feet from the pavement and be carried
along by the swell of pedestrians. We
passed the Oxford Circus tube stop. The
steps leading to the underground were crammed with people, none of them moving,
standing like Terra Cotta Warriors.
 |
We Want To Go
Home |
The
tube stop was closed temporarily because of overcrowding on the platform, and
it would open again once the crowding had subsided. Meanwhile, everyone waited on the steps, staring
at their phones, or at nothing at all.
They reminded me of the sheep I sometimes see out my window; an entire
flock standing stock still, all staring at the same nothing.
 |
| We Want To Go Home |
These contrasts make me sit up and pay attention. They remind me that peculiarities and
disparities and wonder and horror are all a part of life. They wake me from my sometimes sleep-walking
state, and I appreciate them for that reason.
