Dawkins 2009 greatest show on earth

I needed a change of air. For too long I had been immersed in the complexities of the 4th century. I needed a change of scene, an undemanding landscape. I had a few days to spare before the turning of the Equinox. I went in search of a book to read. A book on some subject not one of mine own. I found it in the front window of Borders in Oxford. The new, brand new, Dawkins. On display with a red sticker on each cover. Half Price. This week only. Resist I could not. The Greatest Show On Earth is there for the beholding.

In the gently undisturbed atmosphere of the Oxford Union Society’s Library – this is still the Long Vacation - I sat down to read. Disappointed? No, not a single jot or tittle! Dawkins writes with the consummate ease of one knowing his subject so well, the words flow effortlessly in crystal clear exposition. There is humour here too. ‘For reasons I won’t go into now, it is of the essence of sexual reproduction that you shouldn’t fertilize yourself.’ And tender beauty. ‘A meadow full of flowers is nature’s Times Square, nature’s Piccadilly Circus. A slow-motion neon sign, it changes from week to week as different flowers come into season, carefully prompted by cues from, for example, the changing length of days to synchronize with others of their own species. This floral extravaganza, splashed across the green canvas of a meadow .. .. ’ And there’s more of the same. From the hand of a scientist!

I learned so much from these 450 pages. At times it was slow reading and I won’t pretend it was realised without persistence. Doubtless there are passages which remain but partly absorbed but that doesn’t prevent me from recommending this publication to my friends, especially my Pagan friends. They will appreciate how and why the procession of the seasons is as it is, how life is as it is, how the world around us is constantly changing day by day, how we and our kin have come to be what we are.

© francis cameron

oxford, 19 september 2009

picking up cues

one thing leads to another

I was reading the only just published Richard Dawkins [1] because I wanted something different to read [2] because each book on the display had a bright red sticker ‘Half Price’ [3] because Dawkins might give me more insight to use when I’m incommoded by creationists on my way to the bus stop.

I’d not realised how much some of his remarks would make me laugh out loud. There’s Darwin, in 1838, reading Malthus On Population ‘for amusement’. And from Dawkins : “When you mate a male with a female, you expect to get a son or daughter, not a hermaphrodite” ; and a plangent reminder “For reasons I won’t go into, it is of the essence of sexual reproduction that you shouldn’t fertilize yourself.”

Finally, a pointer to an essay by Alfred Russel Wallace (whom I rather care for) : ‘On the tendency of varieties to depart indefinitely from the original type’. I stopped short. This was relevant to a problem which had been haunting me for the past couple of weeks. How come there are so many varieties of Wicca when it’s been going for so little time? I looked up the original Wallace article. It was in a book printed in 1870. The electronic catalogue showed me, in less than a minute, there was a copy in the stack of our library. I engaged the attention of our newly arrived Graduate Assistant. No more than three minutes later, the volume was handed to me. Though the essay was first published in 1858, it had a full explanation applicable to the current Wiccan situation : as each new coven or individual passes on experience to the next generation, the material passed on is slightly different from the material the coven or individual received from its parent. Brilliant.

Bonus. The Wallace collection of essays includes ‘The Philosophy of Birds’ Nests’. Now there’s a thought to distract attention from the news of the day.

francis cameron

© oxford, 16 september 2009

ten years on

A Day for Doreen

at London’s Conway Hall

on Sunday 13 September 2009

History passed before our eyes, came centre stage and spoke to us. Marian Green bringing to life with her eloquence days spent with Doreen on the Sussex Hills. Maxine Sanders sitting quite still, a stillness which grew as she spoke until the stillness in that spellbound hall was so tangible you could touch it. Mary Rands, on her 70th birthday, with a tiny hint of mischief and a sparkle in her eye. Janet, playful and supple as a ballerina, speaking of great wonders with assured conviction.

And at the end of the day there was Doreen herself – on the big screen. Captivating.

These are the women of the witchcraft generation, the weavers of magic who still dominate and inspire as does the Goddess with her consort the Horned God.

The men too played their part. Ronald Hutton leading in with the keynote address disguising erudition with beguiling fluency. Brian Botham and John Belham-Payne carrying the day forward from step to step. The past the present and times yet to come. Gavin. And Fred. Steadfast.

When I think back it suddenly strikes me. There was no sense of them and us. We all took part as is the custom of the Craft. And in the moments of transition there were the meetings again of friends from near and far.

Every ticket had been sold. In advance.

Next year, in the same place, on the 19th of September, there is A Day for Gerald. Now is the time to make plans.

© francis cameron

oxford, 15 september 2009

9th month, '9' years

in september

It’s the first of september in the year 2009. This day, ten years ago, I came back from my little room between Sabrina and the Forest. It had been a wild adventure. An ephemeral objective. Always hovering. But never in the same place for long enough to be achieved. It was a short-lived episode. Three months short of three inconsequential years. There’s little enough to recall. The little local branch library where I read the best-sellers to find out how they ticked. On alternate Wednesdays the Junior Room housed the Dean Writers’ Circle where I found I could write poetry as well as imaginative prose. There was even an erotic ghost story for a Halloween Party in an old haunted house deep in the Forest. There was more. But the curtain came firmly down long before the first interval.

Today the news bulletins are full of September 1st, 1939. My brother and I were on holiday with Auntie Lilla and Uncle Harry in Caerphilly. Return to school was too far away to encroach on consciousness. September 1st. It must have been a Friday. Then came Sunday. 11 o’clock on the morning of the 3rd. We two, we blessed two. (Ugh! Why must you do this?) We sat in the dining room and listened to the wireless. It was the voice of Neville Chamberlain, our Prime Minister, the Man from Munich. Not now did he speak of peace in our time. Now he spoke of an ultimatum to which no reply had been received. We were at war with Germany. Somewhere an air raid siren sounded. The BBC went off the air. Temporarily. It was a false alarm.

1947 – and I was ready to respond to my call-up papers. My army paybook had its first entry on September 5th.

1949. September – and my time of grandeur et servitude militaire is ended and on the day of my demobilisation I had held that fateful conversation with myself. I would not return to the Royal Academy of Music. Realistically, for once, I did not see myself practising the piano for six hours a day to achieve my objective of being a world-class concert pianist. It was time to do something else. I did. I prepared to go up to Oxford.

’59. I had achieved one of my boyhood ambitions. I was a cathedral organist. That was the job though the title had changed. I was Master of Music at Westminster Cathedral. Bricks without straw .. .. But on the day my appointment was noticed on the Court Page of The Times, Tommy Armstrong rang me from the RAM. I was invited to join his professional staff. The money was pitiable. The prestige enormous. I did well by the RAM. And the RAM did well by me.

’69. September. I am nearing the end of my first year as Assistant Director of the New South Wales State Conservatorium of Music, in Sydney.

’79. September. Time to start packing my bags, ready to fly away.

2009, September 1st. The years ending in 9 often mark a turning point in my life.

I sum the numerals of my birth date. 5 + 1 + 2 + 1 + 9 + 2 + 7 = 2 + 7 = 9.

The incipit of the 9th month of a ‘9’ year.

quo vadis amice meus

The curfew tolls .. .. not yet .. .. not yet.

© francis cameron, oxford, 1 september 2009