Jazz

The thread of narrative snakes its way around the Caledonian club, passing nooks where now-forbidden fumes hung, encoiling flames flickering, couples conspiring, glasses clinking and the heady mix of free pheromones and improvisational harmonic enthusiasm, but quick! it twines into a rope... all stories are ropes, with a thousand nooses, each cinching a sensation, event, or thing, leaving it hanging in ink, blackened tongue lolling, bowels voiding, swinging lifeless on the page.

Mulieritas aeterna nos salvat per cognoscere vacuum inter ilia quod meminitur vacuum inter alia omnia...

Concerning British Food

...but what was really odd were the crisps -- what the transatlantic crowd call potato chips-- of whcih there are as many varieties and flavors as there are of jelly beans e.g. prawn cocktail, roast chicken, spicy chilli, guacamole, cheese and onion, pickled onion, lamb and mint. At the moment, I am eating a Christmas Turkey and Bacon crisp, that smell and taste redolent of new-opened presents, pine needles, and familial disputes masquerading as holiday banter, were not so much like turkey as like someone´s idea of turkey, as if the fleshlanimal flesh had become, by inverse transubstantiation, a vegetable idea, Turkey made Potato, processed for our inward digestion, a metaphysical reversal that would blow Aquinas´socks off. Such is the power of the modern food industry -- able to undo even the mystery of the Eucharist!

Fragments

...but what was really odd were the crisps -- what the transatlantic crowd call potato chips-- of whcih there are as many varieties and flavors as there are of jelly beans e.g. prawn cocktail, roast chicken, spicy chilli, guacamole, cheese and onion, pickled onion, lamb and mint. At the moment, I am eating a Christmas Turkey and Bacon crisp, that smell and taste redolent of new-opened presents, pine needles, and familial disputes masquerading as holiday banter, were not so much like turkey as like someone´s idea of turkey, as if the real animal flesh had become, by inverse transubstantiation, a vegetable idea, Turkey made Potato, processed for our inward digestion, a metaphysical reversal that would blow Aquinas´socks off. Such is the power of the modern food industry -- able to undo even the mystery of the Eucharist.

D--- you, John Dalton

I am currently writing in a voodoo-themed off-license liquor and absinthe dealer/restaurant/the-cheapest-cybercafé-in-York, having been in town for one full day, which I spent wandering the slim alleyways of Parliament Street, the Shambles, and (pick a natural object)-gate, gatan having been Old Norse for road and consequently the suffix is severally applied in Old York, often in the shadow of the staggering Gothic Minster. But that is not the story I have come to tell, not my wanderings in the culturally fructuose environs of York, but one nearly culturally deserted Tuesday in Manchester.

It was the day after I had arrived and I began to wander the streets in search of some museums I had read about: the Museum of Science and Industry and the People's History Museum, which were in the north- and southwest of the town, counterrespectively. The plays not being on until the evening, I had the afternoon to meander about and could easily see both museums, which happened to be accessible along the same route: John Dalton Road. Named in honor of the founder of modern atomic theory, the road was quite long and I set out from my hotel, which was a dormitory underneath an Australian-themed restaurant. As I proceeded I noticed that a building was going up in roughly the area of the road. Thinking nothing of it, I passed numerous workers, cranes, and piles of concrete blocks more voluminous than double-decker buses. I arrived at last at the Museum of Science and Industry, shadowed by its long brick wall with inlaid bronze titles. As I turned the corner to the entrance I read the following note on the door: In support of public works, the Museum will be closed on Tuesday, M---- 2-, 200-. Infuriated that I had walked this far in the downpour only to find failure, I set upon Mr. Dalton's Road yet again in the opposite direction, my teeth clenched and wet with sky and saliva. Placing my hopes in the other major Manchester museum not on the campus and thus accessible by foot, I journeyed upwards to learn the People's history. Upon arrival, I found myself again staring at leant girders, construction detritus blowing in the gale, and a sign which read In support of public works, the Museum will be closed on Tuesday, M---- 2-, 200-. Now livid and miserable, cold and damp, I set yet again along the Bl--dy Chemist's Byway to seek the succor and sweetcorn of the cinema. Four quid, one ticket, two hours and a disappointing adaptation later, I had seen V For Vendetta. After exiting again into the pluvial sheets and aeolian shears, I decided to turn off of John Dalton Road. En voltant, I was confronted by a striking marquee: bright blue with a yellow cruciform figure and letters reading The Church of Scientology. A posterboard read "Free Personality Tests!". I smiled and at that instant knew how I was going to spend the rest of my afternoon.

Composing myself with a look of awe and naïveté, which I thought would be irresistible to the purveyors of what I considered a swindle at best, a cult at worst, I crossed the threshold. Upon entry, I encountered a literal wall of books, easily twenty square meters of paper and print, with the spines prominently declaring their author, "L. Ron Hubbard" or "LRH" as the Church's literature often refers to Him. The rest of the office was relatively empty, with sanctimoniously sterile white walls and a desk on which piles of papers quaquaversally coated the entire surface. An exhausted-looking easy-faced woman with frizzy hair and a Northern accent gently guided me to a chair, after some courtesies and a pencil, where would I fill out a two hundred question quiz? and it takes about half an hour... Resolving that the initial outlay of effort in number two would be more than compensated by the entertainment of what would most probably follow, I filled out the personality tests. The questions on a three-point scale (one for agreement, two for maybe, three for disagreement) were odd, many concerning tics and body sensation, none concerning bad habits or disappointments, several concerning feelings in the wee hours of quietude and lonesomeness. Upon completion, the paper was whisked from me and brought to a computer and manual entry of all 200 answers was begun. I snarkily commented that they should get a computerized grading machine, like schools have, so numerous must their newcomers be. Midway through the sentence though, I modulated my inflections so that a little less of the disdain I had for their ridiculous operation leaked through my masque. She barely noticed the comment but swifter than I had expected finished entry and left, excusing herself that they had no more blank score sheets. While I awaited her, I perused the book What Is Scientology?, a heavy book, easily two kilos, 12" x 17", and five hundred heavily illustrated pages, costing, according to the reverse, £59.95. She returned, filled out the score sheet and handed it to a thick-set Manchester native named George, who invited me to follow him through the double-doors and upstairs. But I didn't get through the double-doors before my attention was grabbed by a stack of many large plastic packages, each containing six DVDs and associated material, each consisting of one "congress" of L. Ron Hubbard, in reality the video record of the annual meeting for Scientology for certain years, each given a snazzy name like Enlightenment Congress, Future Congress, Clearing Congress. I learned that 'the word Scientology literally means "the study of truth." It comes from the Latin word "scio" meaning "knowing in the fullest sense of the word" and the Greek word "logos" meaning "study of."' This is what was parroted to me by George; I later found the exact same wording on some Church materials. All eighteen congresses could be purchased for the low, low price of £1795.00, declared a sign.

***

We began the ascent up the stairs to where L. Ron Hubbard's office was kept as well as the interview rooms. When I topped the landing, I heard shouts and song and applause emanating from the floor, only to find that some Scientologists were watching the L. Ron Hubbard Birthday Celebration in Clearwater, FL at the colossal Scientology center there. The celebration seemed a mixture between a televangelist revival and a corporate awards ceremony complete with trophies given for "expansion" in various world regions. In a nearby room was the recreation of L. Ron's office, containing a simple desk, with everything organized and a strange metal device on the table by the wall. I had little time to view it before George suggested we go into a side room. There he produced the graph of my personality, as revealed by the Oxford Capacity Analysis. He scrutinized it for a moment before reversing it and pointing to the left side, where highly negative scores in unwellness, depression, and anxiety were indicated. Haltingly, he inquired if that resonated. Internally, I said yes, thinking of the last few years and the turmoil I've gone through in my life with exactly those problems. How could he know? Was it that obvious? Had I betrayed myself in the questions? Were two hundred questions enough? But I said no, not really. I was still cynical, something in me burst though, and as he asked again, emphasizing that these traits are ones that dianetics and Scientology can help, I felt a cold flow within my belly and guilt bubbled up at having feigned lack of identification and falsified my information. It was the Impersonator's Curse. An urge to tell the truth, a longing for Truth emerged and before I could intercede intellectually I was spilling my guts as it were, everything that had happened to me, all my problems, what angered, delighted, disappointed, and irritated me about my life. What is the answer? I finally gasped. He settled back into his chair, pensive.

After a moment he responded, spirit. You are a spirit, not a body. This is the lie that psychologists and their ilk have been foisting onto the world for years. Man is an animal. Psychology is a chemical process, subject to stimulus and response. In 1950, L. Ron Hubbard revealed to the world the true nature of mind. It is in two parts, analytic and reactive. The reactive mind is constantly recording, every incident, every memory is crystallised into matter within the mind. The movements of this matter and energy mentally can be measured ona device he invented called an E-meter, or electropsychometer, which sends a small voltage through the body and into a meter which detects the positive or negative character of the thoughts. When something is resolved, the meter changes and a literal weight is lifted as the charge of the reactive mind unravels and releases the memory in the analytic mind. He told me a story about a woman who had asthma problems. Through dianetics, she realized that she had fallen into a pool as a young girl and heard her mother say, "She can't breathe". She internalized this as a command and when she neared water later, it triggered an asthma attack, once through Scientology, she realized the truth, she was freed. This and other amazing stories were rejected by my mind, I thought them silly, spurious, unreliable. But that was my reactive mind, reacting negatively to what was the hope for mankind.

George said that the goal of Scientology is a world without insanity, without war, without cruelty and that all of this is achievable once we realize our true nature. This is not our first life. All of the experiences of our spirit, or thetan, to separate it from other ideas about the soul, throughout our many lifetimes have made us react to the world the way we do.

You cannot understand what this realization meant to me. For so long, I have tried to treat my problems with chemistry and psychoanalysis. I have been through endless therapies and drugs, the experience of which grows wearisome. Suddenly, the scales fell off my eyes and I realized that I had been lied to, the truth lay within the new science of LRH and his dianetics. I am a thetan. I have lived before. The true enemies of mankind are psychologists and materialists who deny the thetan and Scientology which is meant to free us all and bring about a new civilization. The devils of history are not Hitler, Stalin, Mao and other tyrants, but Darwin, Freud, Wundt, and other materialists, especially John Dalton, father of the atom, who have caused all of the suffering in the world expereinced by those who are lied to by materialists and incomplete religions.

I pointed out that there was a street in Manchester named after Dalton, who had allowed materialism to proceed and take over science and chemistry and consequently psychology. He said that there was a campaign for name change which was working its way up through the municipal government. I nodded in concordance, knowing that little could do worse harm to a populace than revering a man unworthy of reverence (hence the title).

We went downstairs and arranged to meet again for an auditing session. I signed some forms which made me a member, and gave them my credit card number, so I could have easy access to auditing at any of the Churches in the US or UK, without needing to pay separately each time. The first session was only £40 and when an hour later I emerged, having clutched the cans of the E-meter, feeling the electricity flow, the thoughts rearranging energy and mass, my sadness dissolving in the light of L. Ron, who if not a god, was certainly a gift to all mankind.

In conclusion, I exhort you all to learn more about the summa religionis that is Scientology, how it has made possible the end of irrationality and insanity in the world for all of us. I have never felt so happy. I have never felt so certain of myself. I am at peace. I am a Scientologist.

http://www.scientology.org

The End of the Isle

This then is the aching aeonic mating dance
of Gaia and her second husband Okeanos
her soaring arrogant cliffs jutting
coquettish, signalling response,
his ceaseless watery furor slowly breaking her resolve,
dissolving her minerals,
his shellfish recycling them.

I have descended at least a hundred feet
clambering over great slate sheets and tufts of turf.
All along the hump of gorse and grass which curves towards the
break, swift-sliding death,
at thirty two feet per second per second,
the rock bleeds quartz, whitish exuded drippings
down in tapped veins two hundred more feet to
the tide-rounded boulders, lost sons of the cliff,
spattered in yellow and orange lichen
as if giants fought their battles with mustard and Russian dressing.

The above I jotted in my notebook as I stood on the cliffside on the southern part of the Isle of Man on March 21, before hiking down to the Calf of Man Sound and up to Cregneash, a Manx folk village which is unfortunately closed for the season.

London Redux

My first period of respite found me residing in North London at YHA Hampstead Heath, having lately returned from Cornwall, then to spend the subsequent few days resting and relaxing, attending films, museums for round two, or in some cases four, and hiking on the aforementioned Heath, while I contemplated my next move. The first night I got in late from Bristol and spent the evening chatting about Zionism with a British Jew who approached me by commenting on the chess game being played by children in the room where we watched a doc about Genghis Khan, which was drowned out subjectively by our conversation and objectively by a plethora of young Spanish children who nattered on about their pre-pubescent topics (either willfully or blissfully) ignorant of their effect on the proximate adult populace. We discussed a wide range of topics, but the Middle Eastern conflict and the establishment of the State of Israel and its attendant consequences and history seemed to exert a centrifugal attraction on the conversation, as a tetherball may be batted further or closer to the pole, but never so far as to break free entirely of the subject. Such a thematic overarch, I suppose, was because of his early revelation of his ancestry and his name, David Cohen, and also his inquiry into my thoughts of the Iraq War as an American, seemingly collecting my opinion so as to add to a sort of personal Yank demography.

As with most such conversations, nothing came of it save sharpening of rhetorical teeth and further entrenched uncertainty. It came to light that he wasn't actually staying at the hostel but lived nearby and did not own a telly, so I never saw him again.

Other highlights of the Golder's Green trip included the viewing of Hidden (Caché), a French mystery film with Juliet Binoche, and Manderlay by Lars von Trier in cinemas, and Hamlet in theatre. The British Library was alos particularly impressive. While I lacked the time to peruse the stacks, which I think costs money anyhow, I viewed their collection of antique books, including the Lindisfarne Gospels, a Gutenberg bible, a fragment of Beowulf, and a page from the manuscript of Finnegans Wake, with the words written over each other, as if not a monolayer but palimpsest, and with marginalia going in all four cardinal directions. I also listened to some of the vast recordings collection, which I think is accessible online, including Yeats reading from some travel guide concerning Innisfree.

La Pared de Maíz

(incompleto)

Finire Fabulam...

Also in Cardiff I visited the Museum of Welsh Life, a 103 acre outdoor museum of transplanted traditional Welsh edifices, be they farmhouses, blacksmiths, churches, or barns. In one of the houses, dating from the 1700s and decorated accordingly, I met Geraint Bowyer, a bright-eyed Welshman who spoke in Received Pronunciation, as he had travelled widely about the UK, though in his cor cordium he was fiercely Welsh, advocating complete independence politically from the UK, however presumably not the Commonwealth and thus the just-terminated Commonwealth Games, though I did not press him on this point. Instead, we discussed the state of the Welsh language, culture, and politics for half and hour, then I left to continue exploration (incompletely by leptochrone necessity) of the Museum of Said Life.

My nights in Cardiff despite the previously professed knowledge of extant nocturnal revelry were calm, watching the movies played in the evening at the hostel such as About a Boy and Meaning of Life. On Tuesday, I took the train back to Bristol for a blessedly short stay of two hours before departing for Camilla's Duchy.

I am again about to leave London for the second time.
But that's too far ahead. I suppose I haven't updated, since, what, Dorchester. So I must fill in the interepistolary period with my memories, thus:

Dorchester night, I had nowhere to sleep, so I hopped a train to Bristol, paying more than I wished but acquiring in the process a still unused return ticket for cheap. I spent two nights in Bristol because, exhausted as I was, not knowing where to go next, that's what I paid for. So I got to know Bristol over the next few days. The film prices are half the rate in London, which is nice, and it's the location of one of the first Methodist meeting-houses outside of Oxford, next to the home of Charles Wesley. But other than that it's a fairly unimpressive port town extending first in twain, like trouser legs, on both sides of a truncated canal then into a main square lined with restaurants and clubs. I grew to detest it, though probably unfairly, because every time I went there it was due to poor travel planning or intractable train times. So anyway, after another night there I went to Cardiff, also because of intractable trains which insisted on being purchased in advance to be reasonably priced, despite my futile pleas to the till jockeys.
This time I liked the city a lot, in fact, I wish I had had more time there, and probably will go back, because Wales is quite beautiful. Cardiff as a city is, meh... There's Cardiff Castle, the Millenium Stadium and a science-cum-arts-cum-history museum and apparently very many nightclubs, as I was informed, but never experienced. From the descriptions, I gather that at ten or eleven o'clock on weekends a flood of terpsichorean flesh leaks out of the buses and restaurants to wriggle in smoke-drenched, overpriced fire marshal's nightmares. As with most large cities.

But I have tended to restrict myself to cinemas and underpopulated pubs, playing snooker perhaps or chatting about local culture and history with the locally-accented locals, as my modus potandi.

Well, I have not permitted myself enough time to finish this now, so I must to the bus for Liverpool, as it leaves in ten minutes.

Door to Dorchester

Hopefully, I will not have to resort to the above referenced strategy, but I have still not found accommodations for tonight. Hotels I had found in Weymouth turned out to be full. I'm going to go to Tourist Information though, here in Dorchester, they should be able to help me out.

On to today's travels: I took the 0840 GMT bus from Salisbury to Dorchester. As I left the town, we came up over a hill and, though I had spent much of yesterday traipsing around the hills and farmland near Stonehenge when I walked back to Amesbury from there, visiting the contemporaneous King's Barrows which crest the ridge facing the henge along the avenue to the Avon, the hypothesized processional path along which the great stones were transported, I had not expected the above sight. This photographic representation pales in comparison, quite literally, as the colors of life in the south Wiltshire were bright flashing chlorophyll and emerald, sapphire and sky, the early morning detritus of the night hung over what artists refer to as the middle distance giving it a haze which is, I think well represented in the photo. The white splotch on the left is not a stunning atmospheric oddity but whatever cream-colored grime is capable of climbing to the windows on the second story of a bus.

I arrived in Dorchester at half past ten and proceeded to find somewhere to leave my luggage, I mean backpack. Then I had tea and a sandwich and went to the Dorset County Museum, where I saw the study of Thomas Hardy, an ichthyosaur found in Lyme Regis about 10 miles southwest, and much information about the prehistoric mounds and ruins in the area. I then walked to Maumbury Rings, a Neolithic site once used as an amphitheater, following the invasion by Rome. These can be seen here: http://photos.yahoo.com/dougefresh42 in the album Oxford to Dorchester, along with many other pictures from the last few days.

Pulling Up My Salisbury Stakes

I spent this morning at Stonehenge and have just arrived at Amesbury (the library in fact) having hiked across the farmland, studded with prehistoric barrows, in between.
This area of England is quite beautiful. It is cold but not especially so. The birds are flocking, starlings, great tits, crows, as are the sheep, who are spray-painted brightly on the tails, I suppose for identification and ownership purposes. I have found what appears to be a primitive tool of some sort near one of the barrows on Salisbury Plain. On further reflection it is not nearly so finely articulated as to be of purposeful construction, although it uncannily fits my fingers just so, able as I am to imagine using it to chop roots or scrape the fat and tendon from inside of an animal hide. But these are fancies.

It has been quite fun travelling the land of Thomas Hardy, whether his Christminster (Oxford), his Melchester (Salisbury), or his Casterbridge (Dorchester), where I go next. The wide-rolling fields and copses of trees, the ancient monuments and the modern conveniences: it is quite a land.

Tonight, I will stay in Salisbury again but tomorrow I leave for Dorchester.

"The band of silver paleness along the east horizon made even the distant parts of the Great Plain appear dark and near; and the whole enormous landscape bore that impress of reserve, taciturnity, and hesitation which is usual just before day. The eastward pillars and their architraves stood up blackly against the light, and the great flame-shaped Sun-stone beyond them; and the Stone of Sacrifice midway. Presently the night wind died out, and the quivering little pools in the cup-like hollows of the stones lay still." - Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles

Pictures forthcoming