at the end of the day 28 woden

My local Borders often serves me well. My latest find is Bernard Cornwell’s most recent book The Burning Land now on sale at half the published price. It’s a bargain. It’s more than a bargain. It has that special touch about it which brings the story to life.

It’s an historical novel set in proto Englaland as King Alfred is growing old and the Danes are trying their luck in Mercia and in Wessex. The battle scenes are excellent. The first person narrative and dialogue thoroughly convincing. The paganism up front.

I had never read Bernard Cornwell before though I knew his name and something of his reputation. I shall go in search of his previously published Saxon stories.

francis cameron, oxford, 28 october 2009

this morning

tuesday 27 october 2009

I am reading Andrew Marr’s latest The Making of Modern Britain. It’s about our country in the years from the death of Queen Victoria in 1901 to the end of the European war in 1945. It’s neatly divided into four chapters, which almost define themselves : 1901 to 1914; the Great War; 1918 to 1939; the War (cont’d).

My readings of Andrew Marr overlap with the writing of my own story. I am very much aware of influences on my formative years and how devastating was the impact of my fieldwork on the island called Aoba in the early 1970s and the burning necessity to engage with Anthropology as a consequence. It remains clear to me that many of the premises of my boyhood’s education were utterly and completely false. The Country and the Empire were simply not as they were presented to me in the late 1930s. We were fed the pap of false illusion.

The penalty I pay for this epiphany is to find myself out of step with the illusions still sprinkled on us from on high. Notice is taken only of events which it is convenient to notice. The lessons of history remain unlearnt, apparently because they are not being taught.

I had two uncles and a father-in-law who fought in the trenches on the Western Front while a generation was lost. What a terrible waste. And sometimes it seem too obvious that the mores of the 19th century still have too much influence in the wrong sort of quarters.

The sins of the fathers are visited upon their children even unto the third and fourth generations.

francis cameron, oxford

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

stranger in a strange land

I’ve read this book at least twice before. I decided I’d like to read it again. I’m glad I did.

Robert Anson Heinlein began to write this story back in the 1950s. When he finished, in 1960, it was something like 220,000 words long. Too long for his publisher and too forward-looking in some of its ideas. It had to be cut down before it could appear in print. It took several months for this to be done. When it did come out, in 1961, it contained 160,087 words. That is the version that went into circulation. The original version came out in 1991. In the meantime Heinlein had died and the USA copyright law had been changed. His widow, Virginia, saw to it that his original dream came true.

My first impression, on this reading, is how funny the book is. Lots of subtle digs at the silly way some of us live. Lots of lighthearted jokes at the expense of ‘rules of conduct’ which make life worse rather than better. This is how a wise visitor from another planet might see us. Come to think of it, it’s the way some of us raise an eyebrow at conventions that needlessly cause problems for those raised on the idea that there is only one monolithic truth and any deviation – even the slightest – is to be highlighted condemned and ostracised.

I was lucky enough to live in Sydney, Australia, during the 1970s. That was a time of relaxation. Portnoy’s Complaint raised a storm. Then the right people said the book was OK. The storm subsided. That kind of censorship quietly evaporated. Hair went on stage in downtown Sydney. The entire cast was naked at the end of the first half and, no, the police did not close down the show. An out-of-the-way beach began to attract nudists. (That’s really the most enjoyable swimsuit there is.) A case went to court. The magistrate ruled there was no obscenity. The once lonely beach became quite crowded at weekends. Despite what the churchmen said, many young people discovered a freedom and ecstatic joy in their love life which they shared, and shared rightly, as often and as widely as the opportunity offered. It was like an extended summer of love.

But it couldn’t last. The black fear of an eternity roasting in hell gradually swamped the scintillating brightness of love and freedom. The urge to control – and the majority desire to be told what to do and what not to do – gradually tightened the bonds that had been loosened. Alas! we being it on ourselves. We allow it to happen.

francis cameron, oxford, 10 august 2009