Abyss

I tumbled out of bed at 8.30 the other morning, then staggered across the cold, hard floor into the bathroom. I had hardly slept a wink; when I dared to peer blearily into the mirror, it showed. My dried-out hair was flying in every direction, like an elderly Warhol gone wrong. The rims of my half-closed eyes were red, the eyes themselves shot through with fatigue. Sinuses were up, and my brain felt dessicated. In many ways I resembled the sunken-eyed protagonist of the chapter that I had read the evening before, the main prior condition for my nocturnal disturbances. The main difference was that he had, the day before waking in his Los Angeles apartment, jumped into an abyss thousands of miles away in the Mexican desert. Despite the plenitude of suitable precipices within a two-hour drive of my bathroom in northern Scotland I had done no such thing. Not to the best of my knowledge, at least.

The very mention of the word 'Castaneda' provokes a veritable avalanche of views, feelings, opinions and counter-opinions. Scattered across the face of the globe are the remains of those once-believers who still reel in confusion at the discovery that maybe not everything Castaneda wrote was true in the literal sense. These people feel betrayed, victims of a pseudo-spiritual conman par excellence. I find this slightly perplexing, or at least not very clever. When, along with a close friend, I first came across the writings of Casaneda in the mid-1970s, we did not question the literal verity of the books. There was the unmistakeable mark of authenticity about them, they resonated with something within us. And that was the most important thing. The tantrums of the disillusioned are not, I suggest, the mark of emotional maturity.

It occurs to me that people claim to learn plenty about life from Shakespeare, or for that matter Buddha, without resorting to literal verity. Fundamentalist Shakespeareanism is not commonplace. So why apply this criterion to Castaneda? 'Ah' the smart will pipe up. 'Shakespeare didn't pretend that his plays were real. And Buddha goes back so far that we don't know for sure. But Castaneda passed off his writings as literal accounts. They formed the basis of his doctoral degree. He was dishonest in the extreme, and a very bad man.'

This is the crux. People have a crisis of faith, not because the lack of literal truth makes Castaneda's work any less valuable, but because they feel duped. This pseudo-shamanic bastard has got one over on them. He has insulted their intelligence, their ability to discern. He has well and truly humiliated them. What a great teaching this is! Ego mortally bashed where it most hurts! They don't realise it, but these Carlos-knockers should be truly grateful for his artful piece of sorcery; it has done more good than a wheelbarrow load of books on self-improvement could ever do. And as for writing a thesis built on fiction - another master-stroke. If Castaneda is out to demonstrate anything, it is that our linear, 'rational' mode of experience is only one of many. Don't reify that university view of life as the biggest, best, or one-and-only, please. Should you do so, it's further proof that you haven't done your Castaneda studies properly yet.

Many are the critics and detractors from Castaneda's life and work. There are the knockers of literalism and academic deception that I have just written about. Then there is Amy Wallace, She was one of Castaneda's inner circle of witches, and has written a book about life with the Great Shaman, majoring on his sexual preferences and propensities, not generally in very glowing terms. There are others still who point out that Castaneda died in a way unbefitting a great Sorceror. Instead of living to 110 years old in rude health, then disappearing into a rainbow at sunset, he was afflicted by a particularly nasty form of cancer of the liver, and died at the unremarkable age of 72. What's more, rumour has it that he spent a portion of his last period on Earth watching war films. Most inappropriate.

Without wishing to exonerate Castaneda at all, I am left with the unavoidable impression that the criticisms of Castaneda say more about the critics themselves than about the object of their ire. Their presumptions, prejudices, preconceptions about what sorcerors do and how sorcerors behave. They are all, as Don Juan puts it in an early chapter of 'The Active Side of Infinity', making 'figures in front of a mirror'. Making their own show, their own display, saying 'look at me, with my shit-hot intellect, my shit-hot reason, my shit-hot debunking of this loathsome fraud and trickster.'

For worthwhile critique, there are John Lash's thoughful and thought-provoking articles on the themes in the 'Gnostic Castaneda' section of the Metahistory website, communicating more sense than most of Castaneda's critics put together. Meanwhile, it remains for me to say that, in my view, there is one fatal flaw in the Castaneda world, a flaw not uncommon among the moulders of spirituality of a certain generation. Needless to say, it is a topic that appears to have passed Castaneda's hardcore detractors by. I shall return to this topic at a later date.

In the meantime, the volume giving rise to my early morning horrors is 'The Active Side of Infinity', in my view one of the finest and most important volumes in the Castaneda library. Written during the final passage of Castaneda's time on Earth, it catalogues the 'memorable events of his life'. The creation of an album of these memorable events is, according to Don Juan, a vital piece of work for the warrior-traveller. Having read the book several times, and on each occasion spellbound, I begin to understand just why.



  

    



  

  

Down By The Riverside

Oh please. Just a few small ones. Please...... please!!!

On another occasion my wife and I were walking beside the river when we spotted four seagulls standing in the shallows. Nothing unusual about that: seagulls are all over the place hereabouts, even viewed as a pest by some people on account of their learned behaviour of dive bombing unsuspecting victims for their sandwich. On this occasion, however, the four seagulls were totally immobile, standing perfectly in line, all four pointed in precisely the same direction, and all standing on one leg. It was a sight both comical and magnificent in equal measure. We were not the only ones to notice the remarkable sight: a young male tourist was down by the river, camera in hand, smiling as he looked in their direction.

We watched for a moment before preparing to continue our walk. I then noticed something a little strange about the tourist with camera. Surely plenty of time had passed for him to take his photos, but he hadn't moved from the spot. What's more, his smile had hardened into a broad grin that had taken on imbecilic proportions. The birds were amusing, but not that amusing, I thought. He was beginning to look quite idiotic. It was at that moment that the truth dawned on me. The young man with camera wasn't taking photos of the gulls at all. In all likelihood he hadn't even noticed them. What he was taking was a selfie.

An Unholy Trinity

Nigel Farage. Jeremy Corbyn. Donald Trump. Not the kind of dudes who normally check in to Pale Green Vortex. They do, however, have more in common than may appear at first sight. They deserve their day in the sun (kind of).

One region of common ground is the way that they have the habit of uttering utterances that are not fashionable, devised for media appeal, not even politically correct, goddammit. In the face of that monstrous juggernaut that is global imperialism, they dare to speak their mind. Sometimes, anyway, and to a degree. All three demonstrate a certain fearlessness in putting their heads above the parapet, to utter things loathsome to the orthodoxy. Regardless of how we may feel about the content of some of these utterances, we should feel grateful that there are a few high-profile folk around who speak their mind - or, indeed, have a mind of their own to speak about. We live in times when such people are sorely needed.

While Mr. Farage seems to have gone into hibernation, Messrs Corbyn and Trump hit the headlines, in Britain at least, on a daily basis. The amount of outrage, venom, scorn, and holier-than-thou righteous indignation spewed in their direction by large sections of the mainstream media is truly jaw-dropping. The attack is relentless and unrelenting. This, in itself, should alert us to the possibility that they might actually be onto something.

Last week it was Corbyn, daring to suggest that bombing the hell out of a place that British forces have no god-given right to be bombing might not be the brightest idea. This week it's been Mr. Trump with his idea of banning Muslim immigration into the USA while they sort out how to deal with the threat of terrorism. What is most revealing is the viciousness with which the guy has been attacked. In this way, the underlying problem shows itself. Headlines have appeared openly and shamelessly in the mainstream media: Trump a bigger threat to the USA than terrorists. Large numbers of people who have surely lost their own mind are baying for him to be banned from entering the UK. Hang on a minute, folks, let's get this straight. The guy's not actually going around shooting Muslims, or threatening to do so. He is simply expressing his point of view, that's all.

Thus does truth emerge. As pointed out previously on Pale Green Vortex, the mainstream agenda isn't really too concerned about terrorism. Look just below the surface, and you will find that it can be found funding groups engaged in terrorist activities. Furthermore, the occasional terrorist outrage provides a ready-made raison d'etre for our western governments to continue  their policies of aggression and increased control over the general public - all in the name of national security, you understand. These are all players on the same ball park, playing a game that they all know only too well. Terrorists and the executives of global imperialism understand one another's games intimately.

No, folks, the real war is not on terrorism, but on those who dare to point out that the emperor wears no clothes, and his naked body smells bad. On those who dare to insinuate that the war is on independent minds and independent thought, and it is a war bent on the destruction of the magnificent human spirit. Anyone who deviates from the mean is deemed dangerous, a threat. It's bizarre, but Trump now finds his place in a lineage that goes back to once-most-dangerous-man-in-the USA Tim Leary - and way beyond, of course.

Here in Scotland, our local chief executive of global imperialism, Nicola Sturgeon, has weighed in with her voice in favour of exclusion of Mr Trump from these fair shores. At the same time, procedures are now being put in place for refugees to be able to enter Scotland openly and 'legally' with fake passports, or no documentation at all. There will be proper prior checks on anybody entering, we are told; but these 'checks' are ones that appear to me to be, well, not exactly bomb-proof. Always one to jump on the right-on politically correct bandwagon, Sturgeon is allowing anyone in who passes themselves off as a refugee - while simultaneously wishing to bar someone else simply for their views.

There is a strange schizophrenic attitude to Islam. On the one hand, a number of 'believers' are held responsible for 9/11 and nearly every other terrorist atrocity of the past fifteen years. At the same time, any discussion regarding Islam and its adherents requires the wearing of kid gloves. Criticise at your peril. Above all, we must be careful not to offend people of different faiths. Here on Pale Green Vortex, it's always been pretty clear. Monotheisms - the main ones today being Christianity, Islam, and Judaism - all score badly on a range of scales, in their exoteric forms at least. They all have the tendency to persecution, suppression, a neurotic need to convert or exterminate non-believers. No monotheism gets the vote on Pale Green Vortex.  

Hate speech, hate crimes. These, too, reveal their true nature. While their public, 'official' aim is to protect those in need of protection, in reality they are used to suppress  views and opinions inconvenient to the dominant worldview. Few pieces of legislation are as full of ill-will as those rolled out against 'hate'. A look at various cases from around the world demonstrates how this type of legislation is used, not just, or mainly, against those who propagate violent terrorism, but against people who criticise the actions or ideas of certain groups of people, particularly Jews and Muslims as it turns out. 'Hate crime' legislation is a brilliant piece of work, perfect for shutting people up and ensuring that their opinions are not heard. Truly Orwellian.

While speaking of things Orwellian, here is a newsflash! Even as I write, news is coming in from the grand finale of the Climate Change Conference over in Paris. At  the very last minute, a deal has been brokered to Save the Planet! Well, thanks, guys and gals, that's great. Here at Pale Green Vortex we really appreciate that. We especially liked the photos of you giving yourselves a standing ovation. Fully deserved, I'd say. The planet is saved - fantastic!

Oh, hang on a minute. The bullshit-ometer in the corner of the living room has gone onto maximum red alert. It's started shaking and shuddering. It's gone completely off the scale. Oh no! This can mean only one thing. Oh dear! Now it's completely exploded, splattering nasty little gooey bits all over the carpets and curtains. This is going to take a while to clean up. I'd better sign off now........




      

Bunches of Bullshit

Frome time to time the dark clowns like to get together, to have a chinwag, solve the problems of the world, sip port and nibble caviar together. It gives them reassurance, makes them feel good about what they are doing. One of their favourite jaunts is to the occasional conferences that take place on the subject of climate change. For example, the one in full Parisian swing at the moment. In this case, they emit enormous quantities of carbon dioxide jetting around the world, to be able to sit down and talk about the evils of emitting carbon dioxide.

Any regular visitor to Pale Green Vortex will, I hope, have taken in the reality that most of this is complete bullshit. Another classic case of things not being what they appear to be. Not one little bit. Thankfully, there is an excellent summary debunking most of the false claims made by the anthropogenic warming crew. It's linked to below - find Christopher Booker's article for early December this year. For his tireless and excellent work on this most tiresome topic, Christopher Booker gets heartfelt thanks from Pale Green Vortex. For services rendered to the pursuit of truth, he deserves a decent rebirth.

So read, and all will become clear.......


www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/columnists/christopherbooker/

image: tapnewswire

Conspiracies and Strangeness on the Earthship

Image: truthandaction

"To see what is in front of our nose needs a constant struggle"  George Orwell

"All the great events have been distorted, most of the important causes concealed...... If the history of England is ever written by one who has the knowledge and the courage, the world would be astonished"  Benjamin Disraeli, former British PM 1868, 1874 - 80

"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within. An enemy at the gates is less formidable, for he is known and carries his banner openly"  Marcus Tullius Cicero, 106 - 43 BCE

Part One

'Ah, Pale Green Vortex - another conspiracy nut job.' I expect more than one innocent web surfer has stumbled upon these hollowed pages, skimmed a couple of articles, then moved hurriedly on, remembering to delete it from their browsing history.

Is Pale Green Vortex a conspiracy site? I can't say. Partly because I don't really know what 'conspiracy theory' means. It seems that the terms 'conspiracy theory' and 'conspiracy theorist' first came into widespread usage following the untimely death of President Kennedy. They were employed to describe anybody who dared question the official mainstream story of the incident. The terms served the purpose of suppressing any questioning of the narrative by depicting sceptics as odd, paranoid, likely messed up, and possibly dangerous (this is a conspiracy view, by the way). 'Conspiracy theorist' comes dripping with ad hominem connotations, aimed at marginalising the person who  questions what we are told 24/7 through the organs of officialdom, the mainstream media.

Pale Green Vortex isn't interested in fitting into other people's twisted categories of humans, human thought and behaviour. Personal investigation over recent years has, however, alerted us to three related truths. Firstly, that the narrative relentlessly pushed in the mainstream is frequently one-sided, very partial, or plain untrue. Believe nothing without checking it out. Secondly, that a lot more is often going on than people let on - or that most people know is going on. The populace is presented with a very surface layer of reality, that's all. Thirdly, that many events that are put down to coincidence, or as 'just happening', are anything but that. A lot more planning, premeditation, and organisation are involved than we are told. Not always, but frequently: major international events don't usually 'just happen'.

The notion that there are forces at work darker even than the Camerons and Merkels of this world may be difficult to stomach. But the model is actually out there is the world already, recognised and assented to by millions of people every week. It's mainstream - remember Orwell's quote above. Take James Bond, for example, and Doctor Who - it's the same old theme. Weird, quite nasty, things are happening  - people dropping dead in large numbers, getting strange diseases, mutating at the drop of a hat, this sort of thing. Our hero sees that there's something seriously wrong, even if everybody else remains oblivious to the reality, and steps in to check it out. Overcoming fearful armies that possess an array of deadly weapons, blasting past terrifying monsters with eyes all over the place, our great hero finally reaches the inner citadel, the secret room at the centre of the spaceship, or whatever. Breaking in, he finally comes face-to-face with the little, bald scary guy, who just happens to be Controller of the Universe.

The thing about the scary guy is that he doesn't quite look and behave the way we expect the Master of All to look and behave. And the other thing - most important - is that his existence is barely known or suspected by anyone else. The vicious armies, the psychopathic monsters are all, seen from this new perspective, nothing more than sad and unwitting victims of somebody else's game, pawns and puppets in a bigger agenda they are oblivious to.

People love this stuff, lap it up. Maybe there's a subliminal recognition of truth there. Reality served up as entertainment. As if confronting the truth directly is too painful, too incongruous with what we are led to believe. Instead, reality presented as pure escapism. Harmless fun, ridiculous fiction. Brilliant. In the meantime, apply the James Bond model to present-day world affairs. It works, down to the finest detail.

Part Two

I try to proceed from a foundation of 'intelligent intuition' - a sense of whether things feel congruous or not. Intuition can be a more reliable guide than reason alone, since the rational faculty so often puts itself at the service of the most irrational ideas, ideologies, feelings and prejudices. Reason can be used to justify anything. so I mostly look out for a sense of strangeness, listen out for things that don't sound quite right. This is my normal starting point.

Here's a case of high strangeness. It concerns a burning issue of today, the so-called migrant crisis or refugee crisis. During the course of this year, enormous numbers of people have entered Europe from Africa, the Near and Middle East, by boat over the Mediterranean or over land through the south-east of the continent. Some are from Syria, others not. Some are genuine refugees, escaping war-torn areas, others are not. Some have real passports, some have fake passports, some have nothing at all. Most of them have their origin in countries that are well-known as hotbeds and breeding grounds of Islamic fundamentalism and terrorism. Nearly all pledge allegiance to a religion that is not top of the list for tolerance of other cultures and religions, or for encouraging multiculturalism on its home ground. Nevertheless, it has been pretty much open doors for these people, entering Europe without difficulty, being left free to march across the face of the continent to Germany, Sweden, wherever. Come on in; you are welcome.

So I find this strange, that people can just turn up at random, while western Europe is apparently at war with terrorism. Yet it passes without serious comment as to its 'rightness' in much of the mainstream media and in the utterings of the majority of politicians. That, too, requires some serious questioning. There have, in fact, been large demonstrations in several European countries protesting against the uncontrolled influx of migrants, but these gatherings have gone largely unreported in the mainstream. Funny, that.

At the same time should I, fully armed with my UK passport, wish to travel anywhere outside Britain, I shall be subjected to ever-more stringent controls and security checks: shoes off, bag search, pat down if I'm really lucky. You see, it makes no sense at all.

Here's another strange thing. How come ISIS (or ISIL, or IS. IS Cream?), which was completely unknown a few years ago, has turned into the most feared organisation in the western world so quickly? How is it able to hold the whole of Europe to ransom? Where does its money come from? Did they all work extra hours in Debenhams to fund their activities, their weapons? Isn't it all a bit,,,er... strange?

Then there's Syria itself, awash with a hotch-potch of rebel groups. Turkey aids rebel groups A,B, and G. The Saudis favour groups B,C,F, and G. The CIA covertly supports A,D, and E. Western governments indirectly help fund C,D, and F. It's a bit like shying at coconuts at the fairground: choose your target and have a go. And since rebels are known to quite easily change allegiance from one group to another, and that money and weapons are likely to flow freely as a consequence, the boast of various western governments that they support nice rebels while opposing nasty ones doesn't add up at all. We might almost start to wonder whether it's all a smokescreen, and that somebody stands to benefit from the chaos and confusion. Hey, shut up - that's conspiracy stuff.

The one consistent foreign agent appears to be Vladimir Putin, who at least says 'rebels are rebels, end of story.' And amidst the mess, everybody has conveniently forgotten there is a President of the country with as much legitimacy to go about his business as most of those in the nations all around him.

So it's all highly bizarre, taken on the surface level at least. You might end up feeling that there's more to all this than meets the casual eye. That there are forces, designs, at work that the BBC and Daily Telegraph, Cameron, Obama and the rest aren't very up front about. Maybe they don't know exist themselves.

One of the 'conspiracy' (read 'nuts', 'crazy' to the mainstream) notions relevant to the interrelated messes detailed above is that of 'white genocide'. Bit of an emotive term, that.  The story goes that there is a conscious, deliberate attempt to wipe out white, European cultures, and that the ideal of multiculturalism, pushed relentlessly despite the unfolding mess that it has spawned, is part of this programme of racial removal from the face of the planet. Crazy. Nuts. Lobotomy case.

I do not intend to present any opinion here. But I feel it is incumbent on any responsible individual, concerned about the state of human affairs today, to avoid knee-jerk reactions and at least check this kind of idea out. Don't try wikipedia, which is fine for births, marriages, and deaths, population sizes of cities, that kind of thing, but not fit for purpose otherwise.You need to go closer to the source; Red Ice, linked to from Pale Green Vortex, has little else nowadays. Some of the articles listed there are good, others moderate, others prejudiced trash; but it's up to the individual to discern. There's plenty of other stuff on the internet, easy to find if you only dare. 21st Century Wire is another news site worth looking at to get different angles on the global political game.

Another question - bit of a taboo, maybe slightly less so today - concerns the role, if any, of Zionist Jews in the current poisonous soup. Check it out. there's no need for immediate conclusions. Put it in your bag of possibilities and get on with your life. That's the method.

Having said that, I am going to make a few tentative suggestions which, if adopted, might help bring a bit more sense and humanity into these subjects. Firstly, that the world stops feeling sorry for the Jews. If I look around, I feel they are doing very well for themselves, thank you. By the same token, I propose that people of Germany abandon the attitude of eternal guilt and atonement for the sins of the past. Most people alive today weren't even born when World War Two ended. These are outdated attitudes that continue to be promoted by those who stand to benefit from them (hey, that's a conspiracy view if ever I heard one). Time to move on. Maybe it's also time to stop blaming the former imperial powers of Europe for all the woes of Africa. I am aware that many nations of Africa continue to be fleeced, manipulated, blackmailed by global financial institutions, but the time comes when personal, or at least national, responsibility needs to come to the fore. Most African nations were granted independence half a century ago, plenty of time to do something. Yet many continue to live at a level of conflict, division, and general viciousness that the imperial nations could not have dreamed of. It's time to go Zen: look at the present, live in the present. Anything else is a self-indulgent luxury we cannot afford.

And that, folks, is it for now.......





                        

A Few Demons Revisited

Part One

Mountains, the natural world in general, may enthuse and inspire. They can do many different things. They are certainly not essentially 'nice' or 'benign'. If anything, nature manifests a complete indifference to the cares, worries, and tribulations of humanity. It may or may not have a wider programme at work. But it comes dancing in all manner of moods and guises; some of which may be to our liking, others less so.

I go to the mountains; nowadays it is tantamount to a personal need. But not all mountains or mountain places are the same. Some appear designed to evoke happiness, relaxation, uplift. Some have little 'atmosphere' about them, to me, while others knock me over with something or other. And others still have a supernatural quality about them that is not obviously benevolent. It may be hostile, or may exude love in the toughest of disguises, enough to provoke mental breakdown.

Find Ullapool on a map of Scotland - a little fishing port on the north-west coast - then trend south eastwards for a number of miles. The first sizeable mountains you will come across will be the cluster referred to in the mountain books as the Beinn Dearg group.

During the first years of my living in Scotland I made several expeditions into the Beinn Dearg group. On one occasion I went in late winter. It was a glorious morning, the landscape resplendent in Highland sun. Then I turned a corner into a dark, awe-ful valley of the shadow of death. Ground still frozen hard, no rays of sun penetrating, bearing down on me with heavy oppressiveness. I was relieved to get out of that place. On another occasion I visited following a particularly harsh winter. After squelching across a seemingly endless stretch of peat bog, rendered especially squelchy by the ample snowmelt, I almost stumbled over the freshly dead body of an adult female deer. Her eyes still bright, wide open, she had given up the unequal fight against cold and malnourishment. I sat beside her body, spontaneously chanting some mantra (what else do you do?) before walking sombrely on. On yet another occasion I set off to climb Beinn Dearg itself. I had spied previously a graceful, airy ridge that would provide a far more exciting route of ascent than the path normally taken by mortals. However, once on the ridge, I found it to consist of enormous angular boulders, an almost impossible nightmare to traverse. Stumbling and struggling, trying not to twist knees or ankles, I considered it one of the least pleasant mountain ascents of my life.

Then came the end of May 2009. A friend of mine was keen to do a slightly adventurous multi-peak walk, including some rough and rather remote terrain. Was I interested? The question was rhetorical....

The first hill was fairly grassy, but from there we descended into a wild and lonely gap, crossing the outflow from a lochan in remarkable surroundings. From there it was a steep and rocky climb up a pathless ridge onto the summit of arguably the finest of the Beinn Dearg peaks, that of Cona' Mheall. The trip thus far had taken longer than anticipated. It was already late afternoon, and we still had the descent to do, along a narrow ridge, then down the steep, blunt end, whence it would be two hours across the moor to return to the road. It was while we were walking along the airy ridge that I had a freak accident. The bow in one of my bootlaces got caught in an eye on the other boot. This meant that, when I went to stride forward, one foot failed to move ahead. At the same time, momentum plunged the upper part  of my body forwards, then quickly down towards and onto the rock beneath me. I have never hit the ground with such force in my life. I fortunately got my right hand in front of me just before I smashed onto the rocks, otherwise my skull might well have been splintered into pieces. As it was, my wrist was unmoveable, various fingers refused to do what they normally do, and the lower arm didn't yield very pleasant sensations at all.

In the early evening, we scrambled across the ups and downs of the rocky ridge, then began the precarious descent. Steep, stony, slippery, it required the use of hands for security. Ouch,ouch, ouch. I moved gingerly, painfully, but we eventually reached the bottom of the ridge. All along, the surrounding scenery was magnificent in the extreme, seeming to add to the gravitas of the situation. Once off the rocks, we were dismayed to find no trace of a path. Though this route appears in the definitive guidebook to such exploits, it seemed that we were the first humans to actually ever do it. By now the light was fading, and we were pretty exhausted. Still, nothing to do but to walk, stop for three minutes for a rest, then walk some more. Light faded, and we reached the car.

The following day at Accident and Emergency, I was told that, amazingly, I had no fractures. The consultant seemed slightly disappointed. The fact that I am a pretty lightweight version of human made all the difference - less impact on hitting the ground. Still, I was in pain and discomfort, restricted by a splint-like thing on my lower arm, for weeks.

After that, I decided to give the Beinn Dearg group a miss. There are plenty of other mountains around, which seem to bode well rather than ill. Until September of this year, that is.....

Part Two

I felt strong, well, changed since the Cona' Mheall mishap, and the perverse idea manifested within my mind to revisit the Beinn Dearg group. Thus it was that I set off up a long, slowly rising glen, first through forest then across open hillside, on a day that was far gloomier than the weather forecasts had predicted. Cloud hung over the mountain tops, refusing to disperse. I had actually passed this way many years previously, on a walk that I didn't even bother recounting above. But it was a day when I had been beaten back by strong winds and horizontal hard hail and sleet cutting my face raw. On that occasion I had found the glen bland, devoid of real interest. Today, however, it appeared in a more enticing guise. Waterfalls and rockpools punctuated the water tumbling down the glen; rocks and high cliffs marked the upper parts, conveying a sense of quiet awe to the place.

I climbed the steep end wall of the glen, to emerge on a high, lochan-studded plateau which serves as a kind of crossroads, with Munro-sized mountains to the left, to the right, and straight ahead. On my right, the summit cliffs of Beinn Dearg disappeared into thick, grey cloud, still displaying sizeable accumulations of snow left over from the spring (and this in September! Global warming, my friends...). Instead, my attention turned to my left, to a mountain I had not visited before. Up I went, soon on the flat but rocky peak, with a view over monochrome grey hills, glens, and sea lochs beyond. The ridge continued to another unvisited hill, but I looked back. There, appearing like an uninviting pile of scree from this direction, was Cona' Mheall. It had not been my conscious intention to climb Cona' Mheall, but suddenly the urge took me over, irresistible. I had to revisit the scene of my accident.

The route to Cona 'Mheall was longer - and took more time and effort - than I expected. I wondered whether I was doing the right thing, with this spontaneous add-on to the day. I climbed rapidly up a rough rocky path, to clamber over boulders at the top and finally emerge on the familar ridge of Cona 'Mheall. I gazed all round. My heart missed a beat or three, my stomach churned, It is indeed a magnificent place, a surreal spot in which to have a freak accident. 3000 feet up, and hours of walking from the nearest habitation. The funny thing is that I was able to pinpoint the precise spot on the ridge where the accident had occurred those six years ago. It is as if even mild trauma leaves a deep imprint in the mind. I wandered around the place, silently nodding my head. Then I went off down the ridge a way, to take it all in, and to let go of the trauma still lingering from the events of 2009. I spent a while at the summit, reviewing our trip of that day. What a marvellous landscape we had passed through. The only change is that, on that day, no wind farms were visible from our route; today, no less than five could be seen from the two peaks that I visited. Even the newly-built obscenities of low-grade humanity could not detract greatly from the magnificence of the location, however.

I retraced my steps to the scene of the accident once more, then headed downhill, across bog and rock, towards the plateau. At one point I was aware of being watched, and looked up to see an enermous mountain goat standing on a boulder scrutinizing my moves. While deer tend to watch with dreamy eyes, with an alert yet languid attention, the mountain goat seemed focussed, ready for action, not to be messed with. I moved swiftly on.

I felt that a freedom had been released in my mind following the revisit to the ridge of Cona' Mheall. There are times when demons of the past need to be revisited in order to free their grip, however subtle and unrecognised, on ones consciousness. I felt happy, relieved even, to have encountered once more the spirits of Cona' Mheall, and the Beinn Dearg group, and to find that they are not necessarily out to get me. Maybe I'll be back next year.....


 

       
    

Beneath the Surface: Jim Morrison

What price reputation, that most fickle of things? Fame, infamy; praise, ignominy. Where does it begin? Where does it end? Who creates it anyway?

I have mused over recent times on the incomplete, uneven, unpredictable beings among us. These occasional wonderings and wanderings have led me back to a mercurial spirit, a shooting star, as those who turn up, do their thing, then exit this life in a flash are sometimes named.

Jim Morrison has appeared on Pale Green Vortex before ('Bright Midnight', June 2011, and 'Ship of Fools', Sept 2012). You either get Jim Morrison - and by extension the Doors - or you don't. I know one person to whom the mere mention of his name is enough to precipitate a tirade of expletives; he is, to this person, pretty much the most loathsome being ever to walk the surface of the planet. Morrison seems to touch many sensitive spots in many people. For my part, I know the music of the Doors less than a few people, but better than most. I have read less about Jim Morrison and the Doors than those few same people, but again more than the majority of folk. I have books of Morrison's words and poetry, which I have dealt with cursorily. There are a number of biographies. Some people consider Stephen Davis's to be 'authorative'. I would beg to differ. Should you wish to know where the Doors were performing when, and which concerts Morrison was too drunk to sing properly, this is the book for you. However, in terms of real insight into who Morrison was beneath the skin, and what made him tick, aside from a small number of purple empathetic passages, this book is remarkably lacking.

So, who was Morrison? According to the mainstream viewpoints he was singer, writer, poet; drunk, slob, bar-room brawler who burnt out real quick. To the more romantic among us, he was also of a mystical and shamanic mentality unique among the 'rock stars' of the time. Fame and infamy: in the media version of the life and death of Jim Morrison, he is a sensational and salutory example of how not to do things. For my part, I followed the official paper trail to a tee. In 1968, Jim Morrison was the closest thing to a god that there was in my life. Having shed his pretty-boy rock-god image, he was sexy in a way that was both tough and beautiful, charismatic, possessed of a marvellous voice, and wrote memorable songs with a dark and primal edge to them. If you wanted to be anyone, it was the Jim Morrison on the cover of 'Waiting for the Sun'. By 1970, though, Morrison was the last person I wanted to be. He became fat, grew a shaggy beard, looked twice his age. He was into alcohol, had up on charges of obscenity on stage in Miami. He was, in my mind, uncool and irrelevant. A new generation of long-haired skinny guitar heroes was emerging, playing music far more cutting edge than the not-very-progressive songs of the Doors's final two albums.

Time changes perception. That new generation of guitar-wielding young dudes has largely passed into oblivion, while Morrison, the Doors, the words and music have endured. In some respects, Jim Morrison was way ahead of me. At the tender age of seventeen I just couldn't get a lot of what he was wrestling with. But, in the on-off romance of 45 years that is my relationship with Morrison, I find myself appreciating more and more of what he was about.

To return to my question two paragraphs back: who was Morrison? Is there any reason to trust mainstream rock press more than any other mainstream media? They need sensation, a good story, to survive as much as does the Sunday Mail. During the period of Jim Morrison and the Doors, there was a perception that rock music, and everything associated with it, was a force for good. A perception which, it turns out, was naive and distorted, to say the least. Particularly, perhaps, with regard to its public relations and media emissaries. So - where else can we look for an inner view of the life and times of Jim Morrison? Let's get personal....

First stop: 'Strange Days' by Patricia Kennealy Morrison. Patricia purports to have undergone a Celtic handfasting marriage with Jim Morrison in 1970, and her book is subtitled 'My life with and without Jim Morrison'. She has some vicious detractors, mainly females who continue to spit venom through the medium of the internet. This alone suggests that there is something in Patricia's story. My suspicion is that what she says is considerably embroidered and embellished; yet there is the ring of authenticity about her book as a whole. What seems to be problematic for some to realise is that there was a bundle of young ladies in the life of Jim Morrison, all of whom had their part to play. Their error was to fantasise of themselves as the one and only. Whenever in the shit, Morrison returned to Pamela Courson, long-term muse and chain. In 'Strange Days' Morrison comes across as a proper human being, not as a rock god, rock devil, or whatever. He can be remarkably kind, sensitive, and gentle, and is intelligent and articulate. Yet he can also behave like a narcissistic, cowardly bastard. All are parts of the emanation that was Jim Morrison.

'Strange Days' at least provides an insight, albeit one-sided, from somebody who knew him, and knew him in intimate ways. Where else can we go?

Second stop: 'A Feast of Friends' by Frank Lisciandro. There is a recent edition, which is fairly expensive. However, I got hold of an earlier one through Amazon for 37 pence (less than one dollar to our transatlantic readers). It arrived quickly and was in tip-top condition.

Frank Lisciandro was a friend of Jim Morrison. A few quotes from his opening chapter tell the story, I suppose.... 'Like other rock heroes whose lives ended too soon, Jim has become a cultural icon. Now the tabloids and magazines, Sunday supplements and MTV devote columns to recreating the Morrison myth. For a friend this should be welcome news. Don't believe it. I find very little truth in what I hear and read.'  And again.... 'As the misinformation barrage about Jim increased, I noticed that the people who should be heard from - the people Jim trusted and worked with and tripped with and those he shared his time and thoughts with, his friends - were not being heard from at all. So I began to contact and interview Jim's friends one by one.....' Such is the content of this unique little book.

In the standard renditions of the life of Jim Morrison, he often disappears, for days on end, much to the frustration of the other musicians, the record producers, and suchlike. It's as if the 'disappeared Jim Morrison' is a non-entity, doesn't count. Which is an interesting perspective, since when a person 'disappears' they turn up, appearing, somewhere else. Where Jim Morrison 'disappeared' to was sometimes solitude, but often it was to the company of his friends, that part of life outside the limelight. 'A Feast of Friends' goes some way to filling in the gaps: when he was 'disappeared', Jim Morrison was frequently most himself.  

The Jim Morrison who emerges from 'A Feast of Friends' is not without his warts, his problems, especially his drinking problems. But he is a human being of humour, capable of decency and generosity of spirit, imbued with the passion for discovery, for pushing the boundaries, confronting people with the poverty and mediocrity of the culture. A free spirit indeed.

In the end, Jim Morrison had to go. Listen to the succession of songs on 'Absolutely Live', from 'Universal Mind' ('I was doing time in the Universal Mind, I was doing fine....'), through 'Dead Cats, Dead Rats ('Fat cat in a top hat, thinks he's an aristocrat, that's crap....'), down to 'Celebration of the Lizard ('Lions in the street and roaming, dogs in heat rabid, foaming, a beast caged in the heart of the city....'). Nowhere else in live recorded music have I sensed energy like this: electric, dangerous, about to explode. Controlled, but barely controlled, chaos. A layer has been tapped into which threatens the status quo. Jim Morrison becomes one of the dangerous men of America, alongside the likes of Timothy Leary. He has to go.

There are different ways to get rid of a person. One is to persecute them, play on and destroy their sense of omnipotence. Hound them out of existence, watch them implode. Such was the case with James Douglas Morrison. 'A Feast of Friends' is, maybe, the closest we have to a meaningful epitaph. Thanks, Frank. And thanks, Jim.