Genius; A Saviour?

Genius: The Challenge to Political Correctness. Opening Our Eyes.

The Composer Alma Deutscher

A man of genius…is a spring in which there is always more behind than flows from it.’  James Froude.

In this day of ‘all must have prizes, and ‘all are equal born’ genius sits uncomfortably; a challenge to everything that the democracy of equality seeks to foster, in education, in law, in ‘human rights’ and in appropriate ‘tolerance’. Part revered, part resented genius has led the human cavalcade in science, in art and music. Yet it remains a kind of orphan of thinking, capricious, unpredictable and therefore without a general or deeper significance. The gift is believed a matter of luck.

For me genius is the single phenomenon that throws a vivid lens on the fallacies in understanding. More than half the world believes in reincarnation, and past life memory, (when dug out from the deeply buried) the gradual ascent through trials and vicissitudes of spiritual advancement. Karma is seen as a deeper democracy, the correction to unequal birth by sampling the smorgasbord of different circumstances, until exhausted by the imprisonment in matter the soul ascends to Elysium. Whatever that might be.

My recent virtual encounter with the extraordinary child that is Alma Deutscher has refocused attention on this whole question.

As an introduction this interview on Zeitgeist  gives a portrait of not only the truth of the quotation from Froude (above) but should be followed by taking the time to watch this ten year old’s opera ‘Cinderella’. Not merely for the music and its orchestration, but the intuitive sense of drama, character, humour and the mind-blowing naturalness of the composer in a shift and bare feet wandering about the stage playing both violin and piano when judged necessary, and generally making sure the performance goes as it should. This is a maestro who knows exactly who she is.

Both Act One and Two are available here

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-IzTR8qdVLs

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UsptSA4X9os

This composer has absorbed the idioms of Mozart, Schubert, fragments of Brahms, moments of Beethoven and Bach and, like any new linguist, shapes familiar language to express new ideas. I am sure there will be the destructive critic who will dismiss her work as past its sell-by date ( too melodic, too structured in the past forms- rondos, variations, quartets etc) but perhaps her message lies beyond music altogether. Perhaps she has come to force us to confront the legacy of genius and what it contributes to memory. It remains intact, and those endowed with access to it are a mirror about the nature of reality itself.

Alma Deutscher2

Perhaps genius is the artesian well through which a field, the pressure of consciousness comes to the surface. To refresh our access to the universal memory of which we are, each, a part and far from equal in our access to it.

When I wrote Involution- An Odyssey I included what I knew would raise hackles, the supposition that not only the spiritual Bodhisattva ( who returns voluntarily to raise our collective game) but that the gifted genius arrives with his/her gifts intact. Memory. I went further and leapt for an idea that the gifted genius returns to the world in which that gift is recognised, and fostered. Here is the relevant passage from Canto the Ninth.

In the words of the serpent DNA

If I am the waxen plate,
A palimpsest of lives…
Impressed by narratives I’m told
To match the soul with parentage—

The hybrid of arriving past
I assign to future—
My homespun stripes speak dialects,
Kinship written on calling cards
Each according to their scripture…
The child is father to the man, each ensures
The safeguards to their hungers…
The correction of residual crimes…
The denial of appetites outgrown…
The shaping of their talents
Offers incense to the brazier burning
On the altar of mankind.

Each soul is one immortal whole
(Its energy vibration)
Particulate in its liberty
To choose what has been chosen:
The dynasties within the arts,
The families treading Shakespeare’s boards,
Cremona’s lines of luthiers,
The homing pigeons returning home
To exhaust their passions…

(Ardour is not infectious
Nor art sufficiently paid
To fake a false conviction.
The soul, passionate intrinsically,
Burns steady and sustained)

Precocious early limber child
Seeks guided incarnation;
Leopold Mozart, so reviled,
(As Commendatore immortalized)
Without both his virtues and his vices
(Esteeming the gift but shaving its glitter)
Would Amadeus, born instead to a putz-mädchen,
Have survived? Or offered man a note?
Or too many, in desperation?

I can only say that this encounter ( for which I have to thank Margo’s blog for setting my nose on the track via Amira the extraordinary singer) has revived me from a near bottomless despair. Alma refuses to be Mozart, but it is possible she once was. Given his tragic life and more tragic death I would like to think she has come to finish what he never could. In her own way.

Cover designed by the composer

It begs many questions about everything but I don’t intend to ask those today, just to glory in the confirmation that the collective nature of consciousness might continue its appeal. We are therefore not entirely beyond hope. One child can rescue us. That was the essence of Yeshua, was it not?

4 THOUGHTS ON “GENIUS- THE SAVIOUR?”

  1. Pingback: Genius- The Saviour? | philippareesEdit
  2. Philippa this is a post to be savoured; I will listen when time permits. For the moment to say that this is ‘good’ that there is more behind the spring in you, even when in despair.

    The words of the serpent DNA, are very powerful.

    Strangely, I’m putting up a post tomorrow : An excerpt from The Diary of Anne Frank … again, from the soul of a child …

    Liked by 1 person

    • It is a pleasure to offer you an overwhelming gift. Just listening to, and watching her restores faith in the innate capacity of humanity, and its possible purpose. From here the Universe might have had man ‘in mind’. Not often does one have reason to think that!

      Liked by 2 people

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Symphonic Prose? Bah! Humbug!

‘Symphonic Prose? Bah! Humbug!

For the few faithful followers this post is a culmination of the few recent, and will not surprise you. For anybody new it might be a good place to make an entrance.

[ Quick Head’s Up, just on the off chance anybody is thinking of buying the ‘Humbug’ Involution-An Odyssey is selling in the print first edition at Amazon.co.uk for £5.54. (OH DEAR AMAZON has restored their profit- As you were…)

 

I am Refusing the Reputation
I am Refusing the Reputation                    (Image Courtesy Wikimedia Commons)

This tired Author does not intend to use a slasher, but a pair of sharp clippers to make a hole in the hedge. She is mostly tired of hiding behind ‘Be Nice’. Never been much good at nice. ‘Nice is for rice-pudding and nothing else- not even the weather’ her Oxford trained English teacher said. And she has never forgotten that. Her door is always open, her table capacious; tea is served in bone china mugs, but never set upon a saucer. Many things have contributed to this considered decision. Mostly the need to write, and amuse herself since camouflage and rabbits in hats get nowhere.

Let me clear the ground before this start-again re-build. Not that there is much to clear since she has a virgin field of indifference on which to stake out new foundations. It will be a spare glass structure, easily assembled, transparent, reflecting light.

A Catalogue of Failure (why a criminal prosecution is now the only course.)

The Book’s author innocently undertook what was believed to be the responsibility of representing her demanding client. This was in spite of all impediments ( no alibi’s, no rational reasons, outrageous and conspicuous non-conformity.) First  she attempted to forge progress by polite deference to the accepted norms of web conduct. Don’t sell; Engage. She did make every effort; writing biographical material, hopefully of interest about a different South Africa from the one so reviled; she illustrated it with the African Quilt, several family portraits of pain pricked labour ( and the mastery of photographing, cutting and scanning). She offered interviews,interviewed, wrote guest posts and reposted things of congruent interest. About as useful as suggesting you might ‘like’ this rather lovely and irrelevant image. You might, but so what. For all we know it might contain a call to jihad, and that elegant script describes the charms of the 72 virgins in the manner of fifty shades…

Courtesy Wikimedia Commons
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

She read many blogs and left ‘remember me?’ comments, and has enjoyed new friends and a small and dedicated following of half a dozen other writers, whose company comforts, with each exposure of their friendly photographs. They wave to each other weekly, but have no time for a quick coffee in Starbucks. She took detours, reviewing at length and her reviews are quoted on the backs of other people’s books. Instead of waving the allegedly ‘difficult’, ‘demanding’ two books she offered short stories at Narrative here and here. Soon a commissioned audio reading of one of Narrative’s ‘Top Five Stories of the Year’ will be on their site, and nobody will have the 40 minutes to spare to listen to a story about the Platteland in the fifties. .

Playing Hard to ‘Get’- Not Clever.

It seems she has seen the light. Detours may be pleasant but we all need to get to the point. The mistake she made was to plead guilty. She pleaded guilty to the charge of ‘demanding’, and tried to obscure the charge by waving other flags, serving lighter dishes of passing distraction. In the hope of building up appetites for something meatier.

Look ma, I can be frivolous, I can souffle a satire, puree a pastiche: You think I can’t tell a joke? Watch me. Involution tells a lot of jokes, but who would believe a rare and recent reader who reads it at the gym and snorts audibly ( she ‘gets’ it- it IS frivolous) or a generous reviewer, Ashen Venema, who said ‘ I find myself laughing out loud at the wit and humour breaking through’. It has been labelled ‘demanding’ and people all say ‘no thanks’ to demanding. An unfair allegation when there are much worse crimes it has committed.

She tried so hard not to ‘sell’ and thereby passed over the only thing that might engage- the substance of ‘Involution’. It is easy peasy to read, but just uses a new idiom. Do you refuse to visit France because you don’t speak French? You master enough, find the loo, order from a Carte Blanche, and enjoy the markets. Since nobody has been privy to what it is about almost nobody has opened it. Why should they? It has been given a forbidding title which was due to listening to another ‘ Knowledgeable Authority’ saying ‘With Non-fiction you must say what it is on the tin’. She stupidly listened to him and changed the original ‘Come Full Circle’ (King Lear- a suitable mentor for a geriatric- and equally the essential message and invitation to the work)- to Involution –An Odyssey Reconciling Science to God. Can you imagine an unknown scientist, an unknown poet, persuading anyone to take a punt on that? Instead it was once coming along like this…

First Idea Abandoned.
First Idea Abandoned.

That image is W.H.M.Turner and a ship in a storm ( that is what Mankind is) and the book wrote an inscription to thank him for showing the transition from representation towards modern abstraction. Turner was en route to quantum theory by dissolving the image in light. Soul is ever correcting Reason’s omissions.

May I hang a new and glittering prize?
I’ll call a midget trumpet to our joust…
Is Turner not a name to turn up light?
His palette drenched in light and naked else;
Steam, steel and galleons in its spray all melt…
A painter poet with a brush dissolved
In liquid light his citadels emerge,
Carthage or the Ship of Ulysses
Loom from the mists of London’s grey
Evanescent vapours, sodden skies…
A waking dream? Or is it bloodbath day?
His guillotine, the sun, still deeper draws
Unblinking worlds into its drowning eye.

There, was that so difficult? ( You would rather read the endnote about his ‘umble background, his diminutive stature and his illegitimate children? It’s there if you think it will make any difference to understanding his importance? That is ordinary prose for you.)

Listening to Authorities, obeying orders and conventions, has achieved precisely niente. The academic fraternity don’t take it seriously ( who writes science in ‘symphonic prose’ Per-lease! Can’t be serious) and the non academics assume it is not for them. She seems to have achieved the appellation of a dinosaur, who imagines that people might want to read ‘literature’! She never called it that, nor thought of it that way, but was firmly pinioned by a friend who said ‘Stop writing for immortality. You are the only thing that survives’.

I don’t know whether he considered that if we all survive (immortally) then a book suggesting we have collectively shaped the world into which we are reborn (and knowing that might give an incentive  to shape it differently) might have some lasting value? Before ending up next time round as refugees in tents on the Syrian border?

And finally… This weekend Jo Robinson drew attention to the piracy of her books, and we found that Amazon was selling the print copy of Involution below the price Amazon has to pay for it. We have invited any prevaricating reader to jump for a book that costs less than it did to print (keep it in mint condition and sell it when all copies have been sold on EBay) (see at the top for quick link before Amazon realises!) .And there we were hoping that a modest bump in sales in December was due to Christmas and presents and proper readers, instead of a minor siding on its journey to the Oxfam shop.

Finally, finally, we were enlightened. Engaged by an extract taken from Roz Morris’s book on ‘plotting a novel’ in which she drew attention to the tendency of fiction authors to fail to see the plot potential of their characters hiding ‘in full view’. Well that did it. The principal character of this Author’s life, The Book, the authoritarian maiden aunt, who never let up on forced labour, and ignored the black ringed eyes, will now take centre stage. We, the Author and I intend to put ‘her’ on trial since she has deceived us for half a century, kept a slave in an attic, and needs to answer a few questions. The Author has now escaped her curfews, and intends to bring charges. The Book may have given amusing self-deprecating speeches blaming the Author for her crimes, pulled faces at the audiences and stuck out her tongue at Darwin; she can now do some proper work and face Prosecution.

She can come ‘out’ and take the stand. I shall be working for the Prosecution and I will call the Author as Chief Witness since she has a lot of incriminating evidence. Any volunteers for the Jury should express an interest. No qualifications are required, not even reading ‘The Book’.

 

CNN and the USA hear about Involution- New Release

At Risk of Repetition but For all new and welcome Visitors to this Book Blog Site Today’s NEWS  

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Author Philippa Rees Releases ‘Involution – An Odyssey’, An Epic Work That Redefines Reality And Reconciles God And Science – http://ow.ly/Hel0U

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Before Wilber, Laszlo, Tolle and Sheldrake, there was ‘Involution’. Rees’ epic work reunites mind with matter, intellect with consciousness and man with God. It ultimately redefines reality.

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[Somerset UK, January 13, 2015]  Author Philippa Rees has announced the US release of ‘Involution – An Odyssey’. In the traditions of Homer, Dante, and Milton, author Philippa Rees has created a modern-day masterpiece; a work that covers the entire spectrum of consciousness and experience. It is a work that ultimately reconciles God and science.

To communicate her message, she developed a form of ‘symphonic prose’ that bypasses the brain, speaks directly to the heart and creates an experience – one that is beyond a mere reading experience. One cannot understand a symphony by reading the sheet music. One cannot understand the taste of cake by reading a recipe. Direct experience conveys direct knowledge that lies beyond mere words.

In this sense, ‘Involution’ is an entirely unique work, Continue reading “CNN and the USA hear about Involution- New Release”

2014 Reviewed-Current Consciousness of the Prevaricating Author.

The Year Passed (2014) Reporting Back to Myself.

In this hiatus between Christmas and New Year I must refine almost everything. Take stock of stony failures, acknowledge some small shoots of promise that need staking and decide upon the reality of any ambitions. I have been a lifelong writer, but an ‘author’ for 1/74th of my life. Net result is I have more WIP than there will be time to finish, publish, and wave about. Too busy being mother for far too long, and probably missed the sell by date on almost everything, particularly in discovering what I might be of value to others.

What takes priority? Life? Remembering to notice the new? Returning with a dodgy wrist to rescue what little remains of cello playing? Drive my patient husband occasionally to see a view? Or slog on with the dubious business of keeping up with the literary Joneses, doomed, I fear, to certain failure.

The Works in Progress? None shout ‘best seller’ or Amazon Rankings, yet they whisper some merits when I attend to their claims.

I genuinely share this reflection for clarity in myself and advice from any who care to offer it. I mean that, I welcome any detour!

Small Successes

The past year has seen some successes. Involution was reviewed in four print Journals, articles (on its seeming insanity) commissioned in two others. Yucatan almost got a prize (I think- nobody really confirmed it) and two short stories were Stories of the Week in Narrative and one among the Five Best of the year. Another was shortlisted for the Rubery prize. None of that has made the slightest difference either to sales or building confidence. Only readers do that.

We, authors, are told that winning things matters. Does it? Piled high and stamped with badges in W.H. Smith or B&N maybe, but mentioned on Facebook or Twitter merely irritates! And embarrasses. Even adding comments stating more of the obvious now becomes more difficult, and who asks to be ‘liked’?

Smaller Successes.

Mastered WordPress, learned to be merely adequate at editing graphics, written some reviews that have given pleasure and assisted others, written five guest posts, and been interviewed on specialist audio shows four times. All pleasurable, made a few loyal friends, enjoyed feeling less alone in the corridors behind the Bull Ring’s real stage where performances need capes and swords, speed and deft footwork.Bullfight Wikimedia commons

Large Failures.

Mostly in the arena of giving hope precedence over experience; paying for short cuts and assistance, taking workshops, buying software and believing I will (one day) use it. Mostly ceasing to write anything new ( until pushed into NaNoWriMo at the eleventh hour) and parched for want of creativity; and watching the last remaining life ooze away without sufficient attention to glory or the sun rising.

 

Some Impulses Arising. ( Not Exactly Resolutions because I know my recoil from any imperatives- even self induced!)

 

The First has to do with FOCUS, and Making the Rock and the Hard Place comfortable and making life easier for my followers on the matter of reflection.

This Blog (Careless Talk https://involution-odyssey.com/blogscribe/) will get less careless. More reflective, perhaps a kind of Philosophy of Ordinary Life. Not evangelical, but related to why I write what I do, who for, and what may be of value in more general contexts. I have had a very interesting life, and I have scarcely touched upon it in books ( A ladybird has this moment crawled upon my keyboard and settled briefly on the Ctrl key- see?) Lots like that! Motherhood to the power of twice (2 x 2) taught me much about getting it wrong. Belief in academic dispassion showed the ugliest qualities in people far from dispassionate about the ownership of ideas! I can tell those stories and with some disparagement I hope.

My other site’s (http://philipparees.wordpress.com/) blogs will be for others, good ideas, reblogs, guest posts, interviews, things of interest, a few poems, and unfettered impulses to share with friends. It will also carry reviews ( the one contribution I can make to the struggling self-published but only as gifted, never requested because again compulsion renders me impotent, verbally and emotionally!)

I will map across as appropriate! Apropos of this new kitchen cupboard where stores will be more ordered, if you are a ‘follower’ please subscribe so that I can gift you with stories, pre-publication offers, (and persuade a publisher I might be worth a punt on books I can’t manage on my own). You will never be plagued or inundated or asked for anything! Of an alleged 787 followers I have but 13 subscribers. That’s my fault in asking for ‘Friendship’ – an onerous demand from a stranger. I have changed that and much else on the welcome mat.

Clearer Intentions for 2015 On Publishing and Creativity

I intend to publish perhaps ten short stories that reveal the indefinable differences between Old and New World Characters, ways of being. I hope to put both Yucatan and Involution out in audio books, and rewrite Acer- the mythical fantasy I wrote for NaNoWriMo. I am also seeking a publisher for another hybrid book- a fictionalised biography. I might set up some kind of recording booth at home since recording can only be managed for an hour at a time, (after a lifetime of smoking the voice gets manly which can be advantageous, the breath in short supply- definitely the opposite.) Now the ladybird bids me cease and sits upon a finger-tip.(‘Your house is on fire, Your children are gone’)

Injunction Take Ctrl.
Injunction Take Ctrl.

 

I wish each and all a very happy New Year.

 

 

 

 

The Clamour of the Daimon- Motherhood

The Clamour of the Daimon- On Being a Mother

(Quilting Daughters)

Russian Fish Pie for supper!
Russian Fish Pie for supper!

The child is father to the man, each ensures
The safeguards to their hungers…
The correction of residual crimes…
Denial of appetites outgrown…
The shaping of their talents
Offers incense to the brazier burning
On the altar of mankind.

(Involution-An Odyssey…)

Blogs are supposed to have a focus. Mine, seemingly wide-ranging, is all allied to the book, Involution. A Book about Everything that needed all my living to supply its vocabulary and much of that living was motherhood. In this, like all mothers, I had to feel my way, and thereby come to encounter my daimon’s determination to wrest control.

My last post focused on my mother, and on being a single daughter, an only child.

As a perceptive comment to that post noted, everything recorded presupposed the book recently published; the early and necessary independence, into which a whirlwind experience threw everything into the air, rearranging all the components of life and leaving little but a bloody minded opposition to coercion or conformity. In every way I had to start afresh. In relation to motherhood one central pinion anchored resolve, the perception of what failing her daimon had led to in my mother, bitter regret. My inopportune arrival blighted my mother’s life, neither her fault, nor mine; a fact nevertheless.

Being inopportune, always too early, has been a constant. This book was conceived forty five years ago, forty years too early for its acceptance.  A better acquaintance with my daimon probably needed the necessary dislocation provided by time’s brake. It and I had an argument to undergo first. James Hillman’s extraordinarily powerful book ‘The Soul’s Code’ has helped put it all into perspective. Character finds wider cracks through which to enter as we age. The daimon or occupying genius (the active element of Soul) in each of us struggles against the distractions of middle age and of parenthood. It snakes its way through impediments and often disappears, reduced to a few remembered dreams, the inexplicable impulse, or sudden blinding shafts of recognition.

Between the book’s early failure (with two small daughters in tow) and its recent incarnation more motherhood intervened. That also required the mastery of house building, mixing mortar, carpentry, drains and daily doing at its most basic. I had flown too close to the sun, melted my wings, and fallen, badly burnt: the discipline of motherhood would re-connect me to ordinary life. It was the re-education necessary to render the sun a softer and more benign presence threaded on quiet days, sliced and apportioned by welcome oblivious nights of exhausted sleep.

Stone Crop, dereliction and one cold tap
Stone Crop, dereliction and one cold tap

 

Father doing Time. One day a garden.
Father doing Time. One day a garden.

 

 

 

 

 

The re-education also introduced a new realm of experience that would prove to be necessary to extend my vocabulary into architecture, design, music, the hunger for time to read and on being servant to necessity. The last was probably the most important.

In talking about my mother, I reverted to memories, and she, now safely dead, would be unable to correct them or to argue and be unlikely to feel aggrieved.  I feel I can count on her sympathy. Not so with my still very alive daughters. They would be mortified to be identified, and they have daimons of their own, refusing to be pinned, so I must confine their existence to what they did for me.

That seems sufficient, because I intend to examine the effect of both my childhood and theirs on the conceiving of a book. It is creativity at its broadest that draws upon everything, emotional and psychological, academic and philosophical, each intricately facets of the same enquiry. Who am I? Why am I here? Why did I come through that portal (my mother) or give birth to that child?

What shall I do with all this experience before I depart?

My own mother’s tight-lipped stoicism, which made my very existence a burden, had led me to take a vow at about sixteen. If I ever had children they would know, because I would share with them, all things: anger, impulse, confusion, and impetuous affection. Words would not be withheld. I would never have them say, as I had, ‘I would rather you beat me than stay silent, why won’t you tell me where or in what I have failed?’

If I had children I would also have more than one; they would have each other: An insurance against my own shortcomings.

I struggled to unite my four daughters in what I believed was a single family. Therein lay my failure to understand that unity requires the consent of all, to each. Much later I had to accept that I had two families, severed by the father of the first, whose refusal to include the second split us, as though with an axe. The father of the second family accepted all, in an almost saintly indifference to distinctions between his and another man’s children.

Daughters Part One

My first marriage had yielded two daughters, so different from one another they initiated the most essential lesson

Your children are not your children
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

(Kahlil Gibran- The Prophet)

The first at ten months walked away, escaped any lap, shunned hugs and kisses, threw herself into deep water, climbed up dangerous heights. She needed nothing from me, except the freedom to be left alone and watched from a distant eye. She asked for very little, gave very little. As an ingénue mother I mistook this for precocious advanced development; hurrah for independence!  Her sister was the exact opposite, needing a great deal of affection, constant reassurances and encouragement. Honing maternal skills required flexible adjustments between these extremes, one impervious, one hypersensitive, one over confident, one with only tentative questions.

The second, faced with living on a building site developed obsessional cleaning instincts and domestic virtues that manifested before she was ten, binging home the bacon for Thursday night suppers on her bicycle after ‘cookery’. She created order where none seemed to exist. Her sister, immune to labour, simply disappeared into a caravan where she painted her nails and revised for examinations in which she was determine to excel, and if possible exceed. Her fierce competitive instincts were equal to anything, from scrabble to chemistry.  It took her no time to persuade her father that her academic record would be much assisted by boarding away, away from the cold tap and the portaloo amidst the nettles. He obliged with alacrity. My vow needed pruning. Neither was like me, nor sought what I understood.

The refuge from labour.
The refuge from labour.

With both the vow was inappropriate. That is the hell of motherhood, you only have one to sample from, and without siblings you start completely un-apprenticed, learning only from sometimes serious mistakes. My mother was not ‘typical’. No mother is. She had taught me by default; I had been peripheral to her life, my children would be central and know always that they were. Pendulums are never a reliable pointer, but the circularity of existence is invariably reduced to the swing between extremes.

My oldest daughters did not want to know anything about me, but I had set a course of candour (hatched from my childhood of silence) and took much too long to realise its penalties. I lost both of them; not immediately, but later, when all that candour backfired and I was so very clear as target. Their father stripped me of them utterly, knowing how central they had been in every aspect of creative life. He waited until late adolescence with all its insecurity and resentment made them vulnerable to persuasion.  His revenge was served very cold, and wrapped with foreign travel and few returns.

They left, one for university in Africa, the other for training college in Switzerland and never looked back. I had served my purpose, with all the tedium of schooling, housing, homework and transport. Holidays had been treats with him, in exotic surroundings like Costa Rica, Kalahari or Galapagos. Half of my family were always severed from the other half, by money and partisan affection. While the older two were camping on beaches, or on film locations the second family stayed home and played with the dog or tolerated a Yucca plant as perennial pricking wicket.

Overwhelmed by labour and literally putting a roof over heads I failed to see this divide widening. The experience which had set in train both my divorce from him and the book took many years to develop its consequences, to alienate my children from me and from each other. I had complimented myself on a successful and benign divorce, (he and his new wife stayed with us occasionally) but instead merely provided labour and education, enabling him and his wife to live well under canvas, or in remote places without available schools, until his daughters were old enough to leave me without proving an imposition.

Self deception took a long detour, through illusion and dogged determination, but even this provided its salutary lesson; that one daimon (mine to foster unity) is powerless against another that preferred disunity, and could exploit every argument to make its case. The devil has all the best tunes, for sure.

 

But I had been offered a second chance ( to be continued).

 

Network Review January 2014

Network Review Winter 2014
Continue reading “Network Review January 2014”

The Genesis and Embryology of a Rainbow

This post is taken from a recent article commissioned by the Watkins MBS Editor, and it explains both the experiences that led to the book and the reasons for writing it poetically. I provide a link to the whole article on Scribd which can be enlarged to full screen.(Click box at the bottom right corner)

Watkins MBS Magazine (November 5th 2013).

The Genesis and Embryology of a Rainbow

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