Broken, Wounded, Healing: A Trilogy for our Time. Part One

First Part: Out and About in Glen Affric

My soul has had a long, hard day
she is tired,
she is seeking her oblivion.

O, and in the world
there is no place for the soul to find her oblivion
the utter darkness of her peace, for man has killed the silence of the earth
and ravished all the peaceful oblivious places
where the angels used to alight.

(D.H. Lawrence, 'Fatigue')

Empire likes to keep its true intentions well hidden. Yet, simultaneously, it finds it necessary to announce its power and might at every possible opportunity. To do it visibly is best. Once upon a time, this was achieved through castles, palaces, mansions, and great country parks. Nowadays, in order to express its might and dominance over nature, the land, and those who live there, it has windfarms. As a sign of imperial might and power, they are up there with the best.

A small  number of times every summer, I like to pick up my lightweight wild camping tent and walk. A couple of weeks ago I was in and up some of the mountains around Glen Affric, one of the celebrated places in the north-west Highlands of Scotland. I had in mind a few fairly remote peaks and ridges while, having absorbed a little of the stravaiger's attitude, reserving the right to change my mind at a moment's notice.

The Highlands of Scotland exude heart-aching beauty. At the same time, like pockmarks on the skin, they suffer an ever-spreading rash of wanton ugliness, all the result of misplaced human activity, all unnecessary and unwarranted. Abuse of this corner of our planetary home goes back centuries. Many of the glens, now barren and swampy, were once at least lightly forested, while others were converted for a simple agriculture that worked in harmony with the seasons and the land. Changes in economic, social, political and attitudinal circumstances brought this to an end. Today, ugly tracks scar more and more hillsides, bulldozed recklessly and heartlessly by owners of large estates. What a contrast they are to the skilfully constructed stalkers' paths of yore, which exist in harmony with the land they move across; products of a different mentality, I suppose. Temporary roads, pipes, mechanical diggers, and rude building sites spring up as estate owners take advatage of ridiculous government schemes to produce paltry quantities of electricity from hydro projects in remote areas. This is all the handiwork of the dark mentality of Empire, believe me, with its imperative of power, control, and dominion over people and land. But worst of all: the windfarms.

Two hours in, and I arrive at a crossing of a stream - or burn, as they are known hereabouts. Years back, I had managed to get across with ease by moving from boulder to boulder. Today, however, the water is high, and many of the rocks are submerged. These underwater rocks are, I have learnt from experience, invariably slippery and slimy; any attempt to cross the burn by jumping from one to another will be fraught with danger. I try in half a dozen places, but all end up with boulders submerged in deep water. With a sigh, I give in to the only alternative (barring turning round and going home). Off with socks and boots, roll up trousers, gingerly move across the stream bed, praying that none of the stones display a knife edge.

Sporting a mere tiny red blemish on the outside of my left foot, I am soon walking again, and climbing an excellent tiny path weaving its way up an increasingly narrow ridge. As height is gained, the power of the mountain kicks in, and I am invigorated, renewed, despite the load of tent and provisions on my back. Nearing the top of the ridge, I am met by a group of four men coming down. 'I've never known this mountain to be so wet,' pipes up the eldest, confirming my overall impression that was compounded by the high water burn crossing. Two months of cold, wet, cloud-laden air blown in by northerly winds have failed to dry out the peat at all in this chilliest of summers.

Soon I am at the summit, bathing in the magnificence of standing in the company of some of the most remote mountains in north-west Scotland. Amazingly, the mountain top is home to clusters of tiny flowers, nestled amongst the rocks. Ahead of me a long, airy crest of ups and downs, leading to the two highest peaks north of the Great Glen. It is already late afternoon, so I fit rucksack on my back and move on.

Over three-quarters of the compass, the Earth sings of its beauty, its power, its sometimes ruthless magnificence. To participate in this show, however imperfectly, is a privilege indeed. It is in the south-eastern quarter, to my left and a little behind, that Empire claims its ugly stake. Windfarm country. You need to go high to see what's really happening in and to the landscape - like one of those photos-from-the-air coffee table books. One wind factory in particularly is especially visible from my vantage point high on the mountains, its succession of gleaming metal columns marching along a hilltop that appears disturbingly close. It is located high up, so even from these relatively lofty mountains I look across at, rather than down on, the cold, robotic presences gleaming metallic in the late afternoon sun. 'We are here, we are here,' Empire screams into the wilderness. 'We shall invade every tiny corner. There will be no escape.' As if to compound the mockery, this particular piece of criminal vandalism calls itself the Millenium Windfarm. How they laugh and sneer! Yet their days shall be numbered.....

It is strange to wander in these mountain fastnesses with the peripheral awareness of the mark of Empire over your left shoulder. Never before have I witnessed, with a single sweep of the head, the contrast between authenticity and Empire, between the natural and the fabricated, between reality and falsehood, so acutely. I take note, observe the disconnect, then return to rock, water, cloud, and sun. To the world of a greater reality. It is early evening now, and long shadows are cast deep into the coires and glens. I meet a couple heading back whence I came, and we exchange a few friendly words. They have been out to a particularly isolated summit at the end of a long spur overlooking the remote head of a finger-thin loch. Then onwards I go, to the highest point north of the Great Glen. Onwards again to its nearby twin, surmounted by a large enclosure built out of stones, providing welcome shelter on days of wind, rain, or winter blizzard.

Cloud is billowing up, enveloping the highest summits. Time to head valley-ward, hopefully to a restful sleep. I am tired, but content and quietly happy......

Photos from the mountain tops

Mountains in Monochrome

Anybody skimming through the photos of Scottish mountains on Pale Green Vortex might be excused for concluding that these areas are invariably bright and sunny, blessed with an ideal climate in fact. This is, sadly, nowhere near the truth. As an inhabitant of these regions, I have the privilege of being able to pick and choose. You won't find me on the hills on days of relentless gales, persistent rain storms, or white-out blizzards. I include here a few pictures from two most recent ventures into the mountains, both of which took place on dull, generally sunless, days. A challenge for the photographer. Note the banks of snow extant in some of the corries. This is the west coast of Scotland, where remnants of snow like this are not normal in July.

     

Life and Times at Oxford

It is a little-known fact that I spent the final years of my officially-sanctioned and approved education within the hallowed portals of Oxford University. The two parts of the college with which I was associated are joined by the celebrated bridge above. Not only did I attend Oxford: I came away with a good level degree, the best among the six of us in my year studying geography, my subject of (non) choice. My mother used to insist that I missed out on a 'first' only because I saved money by giving my thesis to a friend to type, rather than a professional typist, and she didn't make a very handsome job of it. My mum was probably right.

The mention of the place of my higher education to those who have not attended such an institution normally evokes a mixture of disdain and awe. Neither of these, I suggest, are particularly appropriate responses. Notions of unbridled privilege related to Oxford are only in part justified. During my residence, roughly half the students were like me, straight out of the state education system. The others were, truer to stereotype, from private and public schools, including a generous spattering from celebrated bastions such as Harrow and Eton. Socially and culturally, the two rarely mixed - seemed to form two quite separate worlds, in fact. The friends and acquaintances I passed time with were all from grammar schools, then the higher echelons of the state education system. We spent a lot of time playing bar billiards and listening to Roxy Music.

The effects of my years in this hallowed institution of learning on my employment opportunities in mainstream society have, in fact, been mixed. Following graduation, I took the not-exactly normal career path, setting up a commune with friends with the intention of eventually moving into the countryside and engaging in self-sufficiency. The project required funding, so I went in pursuit of work, only to be told at a number of industrial establishments that I was over-qualified, and therefore unsuitable. I eventually found employment at a Black and Decker warehouse, then as a local, sometimes friendly, Oxford postman. The one and only time that this Oxford degree has been an unquestionable jobs boon was some fifteen years later when, on exiting work within the Buddhist world, I decided to train as an English language teacher. The Oxbridge piece of paper proved to be an immediate help in this instance.

There are, in reality, two things for which I am most grateful from my years at Oxford. Firstly, my degree course allowed me plenty of spare and flexible time in which to explore the things that really mattered to me. During my first year I took up an active involvement with the national Vegan Society. I was a member of the young vegans; among other things, I fell hopelessly and helplessly in love for the first time, with another young vegan. The wheels fell off my honeymoon with organised veganism when I began to lose respect for some of those I was associated with, who seemed to find nothing better to do than feel paranoid about whether somebody had managed to sneak a few drops of honey into their biscuits while they weren't looking. 'Get a life' is the expression that would have come to mind, had it then been invented.

Then there were Oxford anarchists, a suitably disparate bunch of mainly, but not entirely, student politicos, or anti-politicos, depending on your take on things. I had little innovative to offer, but was a willing foot soldier, out on the streets cheerfully selling Carfax Comic. This was our regular broad/news sheet, Carfax being the name of the centre of Oxford. 'Carfax Comic, only a penny' I would shout out at all the passers-by outside the Bodleian library or on their way to pub lunch in Broad Street. We actually sold quite a lot.

The wheel started to slowly fall off the anarchist bus as well, as the realisation began to form of what later became formulated in 1970s terms as 'You've got to get your own head together before you can improve the world.' Societies and organisations were full of well-meaning folk who were, in the harsh light of day, just as 'hung up' as the 'straights' we were railing against.

This new awareness found full manifestation during my final year at Oxford. I met the people I was to enter into full-on communal living later, and our preoccupation became regular meetings to discuss details, visiting other communal projects in England, and generally preparing for the communal life. Three months before my final exams, LSD decided it was time to make an appearance; from then on, the personal landscape and its attendant maps were both comprehensively redrawn.

The second great boon of my years at Oxford was the way that it compelled me to rub shoulders with those who would, in time, be in positions of some power and influence in the world. First-hand experience of people who are supposed to be important has had a lasting impact on my take on life. On my degree course, I had two main tutors. One was, I always felt, a man of some substance and integrity. He is a leading expert in tropical geomorphology (the study of landforms) - though I notice that he has also become seduced by the global warming bandwagon (with Oxford you gain the impression that, if only enough people would get around on electric bikes, all will be well). My other tutor, within a few years of my leaving the university, became a Conservative M.P. He served for a time as a minister in one of Thatcher's governments, but arguably didn't do very well in the job, and was ushered upstairs, now sitting in the House of Lords. What kind of adjectives come to mind to encapsulate this man? Shallow? Ineffectual? Spineless? Lacking in fiber? Maybe I am being unkind. To see him promoted to ministerial status was an eye-opener for me: this is how it works, I began to realise.

My time at Oxford provided a general insight into that world of great influence, academia. I came out with the realisation that to be in awe of academics and their cerebral artifices is a grave error of judgement indeed. Academia weaves a magic spell over the populace, leading the gullible to believe that it is formed of an ever-so slightly superior form of humanity, one whose words and opinions should be taken most seriously. In its promotion of cerebral thinking as the highest of human pursuits, it represents the grandest of alienations, a split-off  mode of being, far from the totality of human possibilities. 'Reason' can be utilised to back up almost any spurious viewpoint, and is to be trusted alone no more than any other human faculty. This is a prejudice seeded into the culture over the past two or three centuries, and we do well to be aware of it as just that. My experience of academics and of those devoted to academia as a way of life was not generally positive. Clever reasoning faculties, but undeveloped in most other respects. The thinkers who have made a real difference to my life have tended to be self-taught, propelled, not by career, prestige, or a cosy life, but by an inner burning desire - the auto didacts.

So I would walk the streets of the city, the corridors of the college, sit at desks and tables in the libraries, and gaze around me at the future of the nation. It was nothing to be impressed by. The world these people inhabited was small, their minds limited. My commune friends were far more invigorating, stimulating; dare I say intelligent. This is the way things work, I began to see.

I still receive an occasional magazine from the university, to keep track of whatever might be happening. It is, in general, remarkably uninteresting, a tepid shrine to the memes of the day. So, should you ever bump into somebody whose official education pathway has taken them through Oxford, Cambridge, or the like, don't be taken in. View them with neither contempt nor unwarranted respect. Just check them out as any other human being.



  


        

Migration Wizardry, 1984-style

I wrote a little time ago  ('Thought crime....etc', May 28th 2015) about 1984, and its masterly exposition of how words are used to devastating effect to create our realities. Without an understanding of the power of words - the potentially manipulative power of words - we will almost inevitably be suckered by those who would like us to be suckered.

A recent example concerns all the people arriving in boatloads on the Mediterranean coastline of Europe from northern Africa (much of this also applies to folk around Calais trying to hide in lorries to get into Britain). It is instructive to note that these people are nowadays generally referred to in the mainstream media simply as 'migrants'. In its pure sense, the word 'migrant' simply describes a person who moves habitat. However, the implication with the word has always been somebody who moves in an accepted and acceptable way; above board. In this case, they've got a passport, applied for a visa, been officially given the green light by the destination country. The people arriving in boats have no such things. They are secretively bundled aboard a dodgy waterborne vessel, to (sometimes) arrive in a country without warning and without invitation.

It was once de rigeur to speak of 'illegal immigrants' to distinguish these folk from those who have spent years getting a degree in medicine, been through the tiresome bureaucracy of obtaining visas and the like, and have a firm offer of work from a hospital in Sheffield. So the change in denotation by much of the mainstream media, from 'illegal immigrant' to simply 'migrant' oozes significance. It is a mind control exercise pure and simple. The new 'truth' is that folk who turn up unannounced in their hundreds on a beach near you are afforded the same legitimacy, given the same treatment, as anybody else in the country. It is a further step down the path of open doors to anyone and everyone - in Europe, that is.

I am not talking about good or bad, right or wrong, or anything else here. You can sort that out for yourself. I am simply pointing out the power of words to manipulate perception, our sense of what is normal. People who know how to use this tool to further their own dark ends do so all the time. It is up to each and every one of us - those of us who value integrity and freedom, at any rate - to be sharply conscious of this, and not get taken in. It is happening all around us, all the time. You need to keep your eyes open, and your wits about you - nobody can do this for you. A razor-sharp mind is essential for the survival of personal authenticity in this day and age. Don't let yourself down.