Otherworldly Travels: The Outer Hebrides ~ Lewis & Harris

SOMEONE ASKED me the other day, 'In all your travels, what place did you visit that most surprised you, especially in terms of learning something so new and different or seeing things you could never have known before?' At first I thought he was going to ask me what was my favourite place; or what place was the most dear to my heart; or in which place did I feel most that I belonged; but those things were not in the question, so I  said 'The Outer Hebrides of Scotland', which was quite true. I had no preparation (only hints) for what I'd find there when I went for the first time. In fact the whole of the Outer Hebrides truly were nothing like anything I'd ever even imagined before then.

Each island is like a world of its own: it really is like that—you simply can't believe how much so. Of course since most people only Look and don't See—or when they perceive things, it is only with their minds and not their souls; so should you find nothing remarkable in these intensely magical places, it is likely in the beholder and not the beheld.

Clachan Calanais - Callanish Stone Circle

I think all I'd heard about the place was of the Standing Stones of Callanish on Lewis (Leòdhas) of which there was a small pamphlet in a hostel I was staying at. The site has one of the most powerful stone circles on this earth. Even if you've never even considered stone circles before, you'd have to be quite insular and thoroughly introverted to fail to be moved by the place. I've never seen or felt anything like it before or since really. That unique. Nearby that was the Carloway Broch, a mysterious ancient building that also gives off this very living aura: an old, old place that still emanates life and roots of the past, still connecting it to today. I think if you tore it down, the feeling would still be there.

Dùn Chàrlabhaigh - Carloway Broch

Although it wasn't like me in my later travels, at the time I hired a car for a couple of days. It was high summer, and the light of the sun never really went away, before it rose again about 2am or so. I recall having stopped at one point at just around that hour and stood out in the midst of the empty and silent moorlands and drank in the wonder of the stillness. I saw the mysterious glow of the sun about ready to visit this otherworldly landscape after so short a rest.

No matter how many pictures you look at or words you read, there is honestly no describing such an experience than being there could give you. It is likely different for each individual: but I can only speak for myself; and for me, I think my life would lack some new development within if I had never been there and accepted the experience as I did. The intensity of the magic that surrounded me could not really be explained in words or images. So my hope is only to convey some interest that might one day bring you there yourself, if even in the Lands of Dream.

Rubha Robhanais

Way up in the northern tip of Lewis there was once a pair of lighthouses. Along the cliffs there, seals stare up at you at times. Though this time, no seals. I had an intense moment of wanting to hurl myself off the cliffs—there are worse deaths, like dying in some wretched hospital or 'passing away at your residence'; and the beauty of such a final destination is so full of sorrow and wondrousness that I could imagine at the time that it would do for me. Some bit closer to the village of Eoropaidh is the Teampall Mholuaidh, and I visited it with some weird anticipation—like I knew the site would figure in my life a number of times to come (which it did indeed), and that this first was to be the most spectacular of them. I sang Media Vita there, and Fortune Presents Gifts Not According To the Book; plus played A Mighty Fortress is Our God on the alto recorder.

I recall the second night having returned to my hostel when everyone was asleep, then getting up before they even were awake. I slept in the common room on a couch in front of the fire for those few hours. Honestly, I don't think I met a single one of the people staying there—only I had stopped by to pay the warden at their house, that was all. When I went out again, it was near dawn—probably really the middle of the night still. I then drove down one side of southern Harris (Na Hearadh), then up the other. Each coast is completely different; and when you go along the one that is like a moon-scape (the 'Golden Road'), and the sun is just coming through from behind the clouds, and it is also raining in sparse, but large raindrops, you cannot imagine the magic so evoked. When I got to around the southern tip of the island, I stopped at St Clement's chapel (Tùr Chliamhainn) in Roghadal—I had the place to myself, and it was unlocked as most things were then. I was impressed with the silence of the place; then I started to make some sounds, and it was fabulous.

These chapels were on either tip of these two connected islands: St Moluag's way up north near Rubha Robhanais, and St Clement's in Roghadal at the southern edge of Harris, which I found significant. And I do know that Moluag (Mholuaidh) was built on the site of a very ancient temple indeed—one that much predates the arrival of Christianity, and that it was associated with Seonaidh, the god of the sea. This was typical in the Celtic lands; and, in my opinion, it was the peoples' way of keeping the power of the Old Ways, even in the teeth of threats against their souls and lives by the heartlessness of single-mindedness. The two chapels also created an easy means of sanctuary for any fleeing individuals who could sit tight at either end of the pair of islands and wait for their friends to come get them by boat.

Tùr Chliamhainn

If you happen to be a singer or musician, the acoustics of both these churches are wonderful: I sang more beautifully than ever in my life in both, and played some recorder and tin whistle in them too. There was just something in them that brought alive even the most rudimentary vocal chanting, which led me to understand what makes monks and such chant: some of the best spaces in which to resonate one's voice and sounds of the soul.

When I'd settled in to remain in Lewis for a bit, I discovered another thing I'd read about from a pamphlet: the Lewis Chessmen. I know anyone who has heard of them will likely believe they are in some museum in England someplace—but in this year, they had come home to their rightful place for awhile. This was celebrated with a chess tournament, and some of the players were staying in the hostel I was at then. I saw those chess pieces too—and they have quite the appearance, including ones that bite and gnaw their shields, or ride little island ponies that did for the mounts of knights. These are thought to have come from Iceland, and were discovered in a cave on Lewis one day, long ago.

Sometimes it feels like only today that I was there, in these places, so alive are my memories. I think most memory is of information and inhabits the mind, and some of emotion or physical sensation inhabit the heart or the body. But memories of spirit exist in spirit, and so perhaps pervade one's Self more thoroughly and forever. And I find myself grateful for these all, and I treasure them.

Artistic Alchemy

I HAVE ALWAYS HAD a passion for unique creative works—and ones that are in book form, and clearly made by some latter-day alchemist with a love of plant-life and cosmology and unique bath-houses for ladies...well, those just have to be my favourite of all! Some time ago such a work came to my attention when looking up little-known alchemical art. The book in question is a one-of-a-kind illuminated manuscript, and has had the misfortune of being named after a man who found it (I so dislike that penchant for doing this); they call it the Voynich Manuscript, when it deserved a lovely name of its own. I'll just call it Artistic Alchemy, and you and I, reader, will know what we mean. Just take a look.

Written in an unknown language all the author's own, this magical text has illuminations reminiscent of William Morris and Hieronymus Bosch. These baths are splendid and like something one would encounter in my fave graphic novel The Arrival by Shaun Tan: the similarity being that the workings of the things depicted are magic-like and otherworldly in their wonderful sense of dumbfounding delightfulness.

I want to leave a big, old, mysterious book like this behind me one day, unsigned...perhaps walled up in the wainscoting of an old house in the country, along with several other small art objects that stupify so-called scholars, but excite the esoteric eccentrics amongst us.

No More Quiet Desperation

IN RECENT DAYS I’ve been contemplating whether or not I’d write things on this otherwise upbeat blog I’ve got here that might seem “negative”…but an old friend of mine used to complain that my writing (back then) was so funny and fun and why, he’d asked, did I never write about all the terrible things that have happened in life or how I really feel at times. It struck me at the time, and I have since started to write about the darker side of life as well as the brighter. We are all made up of the things that create our world: some of them we chose; some we most certainly did not. Balance is about light and darkness too, and our life experience has elements of both. And too many people in this world want to hide how they really feel. “How are you?” people ask. When I tell them, they say they’re sorry they asked sometimes. “It is wise,” I tell them, “not to ask a question if one does not want a sincere answer.” That’s the Taoist Sage in me I suppose.

So lately I’ve been in an upheaval, in particular regarding an injury I have that is getting much worse as time passes. Having the same things come back in a circle to one’s life again when they hoped they would not is enough to alter one’s entire outlook and day to day existence even: look at Poe and his life, having his wife at death’s door over and over again. Well today in response to a very sincere blog post by a woman whose indie comics I adore, I wrote something similar to what is below. Here I have changed it so it isn’t an obvious response-format to any one person.

I’m envious of the fact that other artists/ writers can actually work on their stuff: I have been unable to do much drawing due to injures that I suffered a few years ago that are getting progressively worse. I think also that being “depressed” about it is also preventing me, though I do continue to write and develop stories I’ve been working on.

What disturbs me in this culture is the fact that the medical “profession” sees individual aspects of a person’s life as diseases that should be covered up or gotten rid of. I have learned that this is bunk, and that all such things as “depression”, “anxiety”, “trauma” or whatever they pull out of their book of labels are actually legitimate voices from within a person’s soul, and they’re there so we can pay attention to them and where they come from. They are part of the myths that make up our lives.

You know what a myth is? It isn’t a story that isn’t true: it’s an expression of something that is so real that there is no other way of expressing it than by some metaphor. And this sometimes takes the form of us hurting ourselves, or hiding, or even suppressing our creativity, or being unkind to ourselves in other ways. By trying to “cure” these very real things, I suppose they are being suppressed; which means they’re not likely to just “go away”: at least not forever. And sometimes they burst out of the closet they get crammed into, all of a sudden and all at once.

My middle name is Yana. I always tell people it’s an acronym for “You-Are-Not-Alone”. Thoreau once said “the great mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation” and I think he’s right. Some people just hide it better than others—and others are oblivious. I think creative people have the desire to tell our myths, for our own sakes, if for nobody else’s. Maybe that’s how we’ll get through them, like characters living through some story—even a horror story like I have lately written—not out of an interest in such things, but because they are born of things too real in this mythic metaphor to be expressed otherwise.

For myself, I do not put stock in suppressive forms of “therapy” and also I feel that it isn’t very easy to somehow work through one’s issues merely by talking about them. At least that can’t be our only expression. Also, I find society is afraid—that is why they suppress “mentally ill” people, so it makes them feel “safer” and life is predictable for them. That is likely why some folk feel embarrassed about how they feel and that they sometimes haven’t wanted even to tell their friends, as one doesn’t know the reaction. I tell you it is our genuineness as people that is causing us to go through the things we do. Because we know our self and our inner creative world is speaking to us. We don’t feel the ways we do for no reason. We cannot hide such things—I will not live an unlived life or worry about what others say; I cannot live a life of quiet desperation, when I can still speak or yell.

I’ve done a good deal of “experimental living” in my life, which has included living without money for 18 months (on purpose), pretending to be a homeless person and dressing in rags in a major city to feel what it was like, and lots of other things to make me understand society. One time, years ago, I was riding the underground railway and there was a woman sitting opposite me. She was holding a rose. You could see her struggling, trying to keep herself from crying in public. I was with a roommate. I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I started crying so everybody in the train was staring at me. My roommate said, “What’s wrong?” I said, “That lady wants to cry so badly but she’s afraid to do so on here—and if she won’t cry, by god I’ll cry for her.” She started crying then. “I’m so proud of you,” I said.

Yesterday I was sitting disconsolate on a bench thinking about giving up and this young woman came up and sat with me and I told her about my life. She genuinely wanted to listen and be kind and helpful to me, even though we’d never met. I guess that gave me some hope: that some stranger actually cared about my life and fate. She asked me why I keep going, as I feel so bad. “I don’t know,” I told her, “I think it’s because I have stories to tell—about my life and what it’s meant to me—the horrors and the beautiful things. It’s all me really. It would be terrible if nobody heard that; so I go on so they can hear it and so that I may tell them.”

Save the Snails

TODAY WAS MY FIRST snail-saving of the year—it is very wet outside and I, gardener though I was for years, adore snails. So I save them. When they are on the wet pavements trying to slush along to the streets, I pick them up and point them in the direction of the bushes and greenery. I once saved at least 60 or 70 in one night! This time it was more like 20 at the most, but who's counting? Not me. I'm just glad to be of service to such creatures. As I've said recently, I'm only a part of the whole of nature—everybody is, but they just don't realise it.

When in Cornwall, I had seen the tiniest snail I ever saw: you almost had to have a magnifier just to see it—and it was on the wall, slowly slurping away, just like in Jeremy Fisher's book, in his house all slippy-sloppy. But the variety of snails in that region are different from the ones I so rarely encounter here: they had a tougher, more colourful shell, and they were often quite minute, and sometimes much bigger than the ones I've seen here.

I also in Cornwall saw the first ever fox: it was the biggest fox I've ever seen, and it had a very long tail, as long as its body; which, along with the tail, stretched all the way across the breadth of the roadway, which I admit is very narrow in Cornwall. That road was so quiet—but never as quiet as that fox, which bounded across that road with a single touch on the ground: from one hedgerow to the other, just like that.

When I first went out today, it had been heavily raining and the smell of the pine trees all wet with the rain was simply the most amazing fragrance I'd smelled in a long time. I like a good rain shower: it brings out the snails—and me too.

Going Out

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO in 1913, John Muir wrote in his journal the following: "I only went out for a walk, and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in." 

When I first read this statement, I was excited—but found the return at sundown a disappointment: I recall when I, in a similar mood but perhaps with more adventure in my soul than in common hours, went outside and concluded that I would not go back in for at least a year. That's right: I actually decided not to enter a building for that length of time, and was never healthier or more robust of spirit than at that period of my life. 

Having phoned the world of lair-lurkers, I "called in well" and didn't look back nor return to that lifestyle till I'd gained what I'd wanted from the experience of non-dependence on human dwellings. 

One of the most amazing aspects of this way of life was truly being one with everything around me: the birds singing; the crickets and frogs chirping; sunrise and set; the same for the moon, with the many moods that accompany his waning and waxing. I was with the North Wind when she was angry; I felt becalmed when the sea settled and the clouds let the orange setting sun peep through for a few moments till it disappeared beneath the ocean. Everything that surrounded me—all of nature—I was but a part of and, moreover, it was a part of me. There's nothing like that feeling: it cannot be described nor bartered for anything better—for there is nothing better.

I pray I will hold these things in my heart till the last, and not lose sight of the beautiful horizon and its colours and sounds and odours. That's the sort of prayer you can only live, and which contains less "please" than "thank you."

Thank you.

Christine de Pizan: Temperance Winding Her Clock, et al.

HERE ARE PIECES from another new favourite artist I just discovered by the name of Christine de Pizan. She was both a writer and an artist and an illuminated manuscripter: a woman well ahead of her time. I adore her depictions, that are unlike anything I've seen from the period. They have a real human warmth to them, as well as a mystical, otherworldly quality, both of which I deeply appreciate.

Experimental Living

Some years ago I often engaged in what I call "experimental living"; this is the sort of thing Thoreau did when he built his little cabin on Walden pond. I did any number of interesting things, even years before I knew Thoreau existed.

One of the first things I did was just get rid of everything. Only own what I could carry on my back or in my hands. I somehow wish I could do this today—I feel over-burdened by Stuff. Then I got on a plane and went to other countries and places and saw lots of things and met all kinds of interesting people and in all ways improved my time.

Eventually I decided to try some interesting experiments, such as living without money, which I accomplished for a whole year and a half. It was simply amazing, and amazingly simple. Of course one must be in fair health and spirits to undertake such an idea. But if you are, I recommend trying it, depending on where you are in the world. I got my food in interesting ways, such as foraging seasonally and (most of all) taking perfectly good food out of trashcans and dumpsters, especially behind whole-foods stores and bakeries. Yum!

Other things I did was live in a tent or in "kips". The word kip is a Scots English word and it means a place to sleep, usually for one night. During my travels in Scotland (for example) I stayed in: a chambered cairn; abandoned churches; ancient buildings that exist as kept-up displays to any who hike out and find them; bothies (another Scottish word: it means stone houses in the middle of nowhere where you could spend the night—sadly many of them have since been deliberately vandalised and destroyed); and by permission in buildings such as barns and peat sheds (places where cut pieces of turf (peat) were kept—this wonderful-smelling stuff is burnt as fuel in Scotland to this day).

Another experiment I did was not to go inside a building. This lasted the better part of a year and was incredibly interesting and freeing in a way. I lived mostly on the outskirts of villages and on beaches where possible, and for a bit on an island all by myself. Much of this coincided with the not using money time. During this time I had only a very scratched-up CD as a mirror and it really didn't work too well. And I had only to bathe in the ocean or in rivers and streams. It's simply amazing what such waters do for the skin and hair! If you want wild, thick hair, try washing it without any sort of soap in salt water—or even fresh flowing water from a mountain stream, which contains all sorts of minerals. After such experiences, I was truly disgusted to bathe in treated chlorinated water—much less to drink it!

Imagine spending winter in a north-western island chain off the coast of Europe. It was probably the most amazing winter I ever had. And the chimney in the place I was staying was no good, so I went without heat all winter. To keep warm, I went walking all day long. I have never been so healthy in all my life than that winter. I did not get even slightly ill—not even once—and I slept better than I ever have in my life. Now, living in overly-expensive ratty buildings, I can barely sleep, waste most of my income, and have to contend with uncouth neighbors who would likely do better in some sort of institution where they could have an eye kept on them. What a weird way to live! Human "society" in the western world is quite simply bizarre. Having lived other ways, I cannot understand it. I find it now unfortunate that, like Thoreau, I somehow "had" to return to it, even though it likes me not, nor I it.

I wish I had pictures to share with you, but they are all in my soul; they keep my heart warmed and I am glad for them.

Creature Confrontations

THIS is from a medieval manuscript, and seems to represent some sort of rodent or other creature-type climbing up out of its masonry home in the ground to confront a visiting, rather large snail. I love snails and have often been seen 'saving' them, which usually entails picking them up and pointing them in another direction, so they don't head towards a busy roadway or where people might step on them. I even once witnessed a 'snail moot': a meeting of a group of snails, all facing inwards towards each other as if communing, which I'm sure they were. All different age groups were represented too. Amazing.

A remarkable little joust is going on betwixt what appears to be a miniature poodle astride a hare, and a shocked-looking bunny on back of a human-headed orange snail. Taking bets as to who wins this one. Folk in the middle-ages had a love of cartoon marginalia.

And speaking of bunnies...here's a snail-bunny eating a wee berry from a vine!

`

To the sound of a dulcimer, these furry-headed folk dance with their human friends along a golden-leafed branch. Watch out for the monk to the right! I suspect that may be a club in his hands; or maybe he's keeping time...but I'd keep an eye out just in case.

A New Beginning~

HERE I AM. Starting a new blog about some of my experiences of life; and also many of the things that inspire me. And a bit of my own artistic world expressions. Another New Beginning in Life. I've started all sorts of new things in recent months, including working on a script and character designs for a graphic novel series, and working on game-related material. Also I've acquired some really nice art pens of different colours, and hope to work on a zine too. And I'd like to start a non-profit venture that is designed to promote all of the above as well as to help collaboration with others on same. So, like the hobbit Fatty Bolger from The Fellowship of the Ring book, I have not been idle.