OF MICE AND GODDESSES

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.