Dreams: Exploring Uncharted Depths of Consciousness

 

In my latest book. Dreams: Exploring Uncharted Depths of Consciousness, (Mandrake of Oxford, 978-1-906958-98-5), I chart how dreams and dreaming provide a medium with which to connect with the universe of wider consciousness. The information gained through collecting and interpreting dreams provides the dreamer with greater self knowledge in preparation for life’s inevitable and unexpected events. I developed the text through continually asking the question: where does creativity come from? What makes one person able to write, paint or compose music or at least, become a very creative entrepreneur, while other persons write themselves off as unimaginative?

Throughout my research, I encountered the works of other writers, most notably Bruno Bettelheim’s The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (Penguin: London, 1991). What struck me most was the close connection between the archetypal imagery that appears in dreams and the stock characters that appear in fairy tales, giants, princesses and so on. In its present form, I see the book as a self-help manual, aimed at everyone who desires a more prosperous, meaningful and happier life. All the reader needs to do is what every healthy person does every night of their lives – sleep - and record whatever dream material received upon waking. Ultimately, my book is about being human, about getting and staying in touch with the more subtle aspects of one’s personal qualities. I do hope the reader gains much by engaging with it.

https://mandrake.uk.net/mary-phelan/

Dreams: Exploring Uncharted Depths of Consciousness, available from Amazon. 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=9781906958985&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss

The Secret Garden

 

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett has never been my favourite fable. I could never understand why two children living in one house were kept apart. Possibly, they might have exerted undue influence upon one another. Or why said children were forbidden to enter the walled-about, cultivated patch outside of the house. Somebody, it seems, took ill and died there. Yes, but surely….etc.? Half a century on from my first reading of the book, I can see clearly what Ms Hodgson Burnett has done, that is, taken a number of standard storytelling elements and jigged them into a heady, Gothic-lite parable on the healing power of nature.

Take one, orphaned young heroine – tick – remove her to remote big house – tick – headed by distant, choleric Uncle – tick – and run by Mrs Medlock, a taciturn Mrs Fairfax cum Mrs Grose-type housekeeper – tick – and add mysterious voice crying in the night – tick, tick, tick – and seal off a patch of nearby real estate from humanity – tick – and the author could not fail to create a bestseller. But maybe I am being cruel? Ms Hodgson Burnett’s master stroke is no doubt the creation of Dickon, relative of housemaid Martha and gardener’s boy, a curious cross between a nature spirit and a horticultural wizard. Dickon becomes Mary’s best friend and the author hints, her lover.

That Mary’s inamorato is Dickon and not her finely-bred cousin Colin could be the result of Ms Hodgson Burnett’s early 20th-century burgeoning social awareness? Or maybe the Victorian mania for marrying first cousins had grown thin? Or maybe, by 1911, no one could imagine the level-headed Mary falling for a spoilt upper-class twit, no matter how much he heals, in the course of the narrative. Getting the kid from his bath chair to the begonia borders is one matter, but holy matrimony – nah! The action of the latest film version of The Secret Garden (Marc Munden, 2020) has been pitched forward to 1947. Fine. But the garden has been transformed from a clutch of honest vegetable patches and sweet-pea canes to a CGI-generated, fantasy forest – not so good for a fable grounded in realism. Whatever, it’s half-term, so enjoy.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHNOXDiD9Vk

White (company) Magic

 

I have written about the White Company before and I do so again, with gusto. In summary, I just cannot get over the sheer civilization of that brand, the order of its stores and concessions, the quality of its merchandise, the harmony of the tones and graceful lines of its bedding accessories and clothing. The White Company goods are not all white, of course, but occupy every shade on the monochrome register, from purest daylight to the grey of charcoal, twilight, and darkest night. And beige and champagne and mushroom, to the tones of darker earth. Indeed, stepping into a White Company store or concession is rather like, I imagine, being on the set of one of those glamorous, glorious 1930’s Hollywood movies, with Fred or Ginger about to begin tap-tapping about one of the bedroom showcases – white tie and tails, indeed! But it is the White Company CEOs who should take a bow, being ever at the helm of a brand that recognizes the need for calm in this ever-frenetic world. The WhiteCompany brand caters to the human appetite for harmonious surroundings, and comfortable yet stylish night attire and leisure wear as a relaxing downtime foil to the multi-coloured cacophony of the daytime world. On that note, I finish – but I have no doubt that I will return to this subject.

Our Gull Friend....

 

The media is filled with such tales of greedy, grabby sea gulls, that it was a delightful surprise to find, on this day out, a gull as polite as any human trained in the art of table manners. He waited patiently while my friend and I dined on the cliff top at Birling Gap (Sussex), and then graciously and gracefully accepted the scraps that we cast at him, - truly, I believe that this Birling gull deserves to be lauded. Follow this link  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e6M3iFIr0NM    now

The Lady Vanishes

I have just taken this selfie while standing full square in front of a pair of mirrored doors. Weird thing is, I don’t appear in it. The answer is simple, of course, both doors are slightly open at about a 20-degree angles, so that the deflection of light does not capture my image. And it makes me wonder about the plethora of internet images of time-travelers, ghosts, etc, appearing and vanishing suddenly while crossing roads or romping in playgrounds, wherever. While I do not disbelieve in such phenomena, I would encourage experts to take a closer look at how these “weird or what” images are constructed.

Cool as mint.......

The dog days are upon us once again; those sleepy, sticky afternoons in August where nothing is happening and the world seems to be in waiting. What better way to blow a breath of fresh air through your life – and your rooms – than with a lovely blend of scented oils? Just now, I am channeling Wilko’s fresh basil and garden mint combination, expertly diffused by this clear glass and silver outfit. The scent, fresh and tangy, cuts a cool note in hot interiors, and without the use of those annoying fans. The spray bottle (100 ml) retails at £2.50, while the diffuser kit (100 ml) costs £5.

Shere delight in the Surrey hills.......

If you do not fancy a summer excursion to an olde English village so idyllic and so rarefied, that their ducks are granted special status, and numerous heritage-standard cottages and gardens that, added together, boast more flowers and plants than reside in all of Kew, then do not go near the delightful little village of Shere. Nestling sleepily in a hollow of the Surrey hills, Shere is the atmospheric spot in which to enjoy afternoon tea, followed by working off those calories on one of the many walks around the town. You can simply wander about, visit the twelfth-century church or go on a country walk to the Silent Pool, site of a legend connected with King John. Of course, it helps to have a car, though buses do travel that way from Guildford. And just up the road, enjoy the stunning view from the elevated Newlands Corner. All in all, a great day out….but if you don’t like that sort of thing…?

Wonderful Winkworth Arboretum

If you live in Surrey and are seeking a pleasant country interlude, this summer, you may find Winkworth Arboretum to your taste. Located on Hascombe Road, not far from the town of Godalming, the arboretum is actually a hillside nature reserve that encompasses a large pond, various meadows and a number of woods, including Magnolia Wood, Bluebell Wood and Holly Wood – ah! - what’s not to love? Like all reserves, the arboretum is laid out in a number of walks, for instance, “Taste of Winkworth”, 1.6 km approx, and “Challenging” walk, 3.6 km approx. Because of the present extraordinary circumstances, access to facilities are limited, but there is a tea room and bathroom, and normally, a natural play area and boat house. Dogs on lead are welcome, but hard ball games, bicycles, scooters and “garden toys” are not permitted. Entrance is by timed ticket, so you will have to phone or email in advance (01483 208477) winkwortharboretum@nationaltrust.org.uk But the wait is well worth it, believe me.

The Blaze-ing truth....!

ET, move over; your day is done – pack away that eternally pointing finger and beating heart. Now is the time for aliens to get real. Those of you into little green men or grey men or whatever the skin tone, this is your week. Just tune into Blaze Channel Freeview at 9 pm, and you will turn bug-eyed with delight at this fest of lights in the sky, political intrigue, men in black and civilian accounts of alien abduction: egad, post-Roswell hubris doesn’t get better than this! And it’s on ALL this week (29 June to 3 July). Truly, it’s enough to make one want to rocket off to Mars and say “hi” to the universe. Remember, the truth is out there…...

The Very Tasty Cheese and Onion Pasty

The reason that I have never printed a recipe here before is because, like Grace Dent, I believe that food has one purpose: to be eaten – and my repertoire is very narrow. From that footing, I expound the virtues of my very tasty cheese and onion pasty. The following recipe is guaranteed to feed one, hungry human - a symphony of crumbly pastry, semi-sweet onion and tangy cheese. Take five fistfuls of Sainsbury’s bread flour (green bag) and three fistfuls of self-raising flour (blue bag) and mix in a bowl with enough fat (marg, butter or lard) rubbed in to create a breadcrumb-like texture. When done, mix with water until you have a firm mixture that pulls clean from the side of the bowl. The resulting pastry should roll out to an 8-inch diameter round (about the size of a side plate), on a floured surface. Meanwhile, fry a quarter of a diced onion lightly in oil. While the onion is frying, grate a hunk of cheese (Cheddar? Lancashire? ) into a bowl. Individual taste comes into play here. I like a good dollop of cheese, and two fistfuls supply sufficient filling - but you can grate more or less. Spread a layer of the cooked onion onto the pastry, but not to the edges. Place the grated cheese on top and close the margin of uncovered pastry over the mound of filling, to create an attractive pasty. Place the results on a floured baking tin and put into the oven. This size of pasty requires about 20 minutes at 200c to brown and crisp the pastry. At this stage, I find a volcanic lava of cheese bubbling and sizzling from the molten interior, onto the surface – and it renders the pasty all the tastier for that! Serve with a green salad or roast a mix of tomatoes and peppers alongside of it. Since my picture editing skills match my culinary experiese, it will take a little longer to “cook” the image of my very tasty cheese and onion pasty into an eyeful fit for human consumption. In the meantime, take on board the ingredients.

Telstar....the reason I didn't go into music.....

A few days ago, Ben Beaumont-Thomas, Laura Snapes and Alexis Petridis of The Guardian saw fit to publish “The 100 Greatest UK No 1” hit songs. I thumbed through it eagerly, pleased to see that my favourite instrumental of all time appeared at no – 86? Well, what’s a few digits between friends, and just think of all of bazillion releases that didn’t make it to that top 100? Friend, I tell you now that Telstar (Tornadoes, 1962) is the reason that I ruled out forever, even the notion of becoming a musician. How I thrilled to listen to that opening buzz sounding off of the radio, followed by that yearning paragraph, heavy with the ambition of would-be space travellers, those layers upon layers of luscious chords building up to something magical happening elsewhere, out there, the music of the spheres, indeed! But as I grew up, I discovered the truth, that there was Telstar and all of the others, that, to use the words of the above writers, “nothing had sounded like it before or has since”. So, at the grand old age of – six, I renounced forever the idea of a career in music. But X number of years later, Telstar is as aspirational and heart-stirring as ever and to anyone planning to go explore the cosmos, it might yet become the anthem... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4B7ypA1fSwU

In a land of myth and a time of magic.....

“I’ve had some troubled nights,” said the inscrutable Morgana – or maybe she meant “knights”? Whatever, no sooner do I mention “Sir Lancelot” (see my previous post “The Lady of Shalott”) than I discover that the Pick channel is showing repeats of the BBC TV series from just over one decade ago (2008-2012), the wonderful and magical Merlin. Incidentally, this is a timely appearance since The Time Tunnel has just ceased its run – sob, sigh – on the Horror channel. But no matter! The Merlin in question is not the pointy-hatted, white bearded cliché of popular imagination, but a delectable young Colin Morgan, hiding in plain sight in a land, Camelot, to be exact, where the practice of magic is forbidden. Working as stable boy-cum-servant to a handsome, adolescent Prince Arthur (Bradley James), the young Merlin plies his craft in secret to bring about good health, freedom and justice to all. This duo are paralleled by the dark and unfathomable Morgana (Katie McGrath) and sweet-as-honey Guinevere, (Angel Coulby). With knights and maidens, lashings of sword-and-sorcery action, a talking dragon (voiced by John Hurt) and other magical creatures, and for a touch of class, Richard Wilson as court physician Gaius, what’s not to love? Showing weeknights on Pick channel, between 8 and 9 pm...

The Lady of Shalott

The longer this lockdown lasts, the more often my thoughts travel in the direction of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s famous narrative poem, The Lady of Shalott. I quote: “And moving thro' a mirror clear/ That hangs before her all the year,/ Shadows of the world appear./ There she sees the highway near/ Winding down to Camelot:” The poet may have written his narrative in 1842, but he seems to have exercised a curious prescience in the matter of social media. Because what else are our computer and television and telephone screens but highly technological mirrors presenting us with shadows and images of a world that we have been forced to withdraw from? And like the hapless subject, we are finding the lack of human contact more than a little irksome: "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott.” Our longing to interact once again with the physical world parallels her yearning for the ebullient Sir Lancelot, with his coal-black curls and silver bugle, as he rides purposefully through the purple night. Hopefully, when we do eventually emerge, pale and blinking, from our ivory towers, our fates will not be so devastating as the cursed, lady: “her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot./ For ere she reach'd upon the tide/ The first house by the water-side,/ Singing in her song she died,/ The Lady of Shalott.” Reader, take heart; it cannot be for much longer.

The Evening Star

From a blue sky tinged with western fire
The evening star looks down upon a pink-tinted Earth;
Fulgent, shimmering in the great beyond;
Proud over this hushy, dusky blanket of ground;
In vain do our house lights seek to rival her brilliance,
Feeble tinsel glints against the majesty of gold.
What secrets does she harbour? I wonder
As I gaze awe-struck at the glittering orb;
What ancient sagas has she beheld upon this,
Her companion planet? Slyly, she winks
Revealing only her fabulous light
And bids us dwellers upon Earth “good night”.

I read, therefore I am....

There was never a leader in any field of law, politics or business who did not improve him or herself by reading. Sure, Genghis Khan was illiterate at the outset of his career. Then, he invaded China – and found the natives reading and writing. Next thing, he had hired himself a personal tutor. Abraham Lincoln’s political career began after he ploughed through a pile of law books. HG Wells spurned his family's many attempts to turn him into a respectable shop assistant. Eventually, he won a scholarship to train as a teacher….and the rest is science fiction….I can’t stand it any longer, these television journalists showcasing their vast reading collections – I feel obliged to add my own version of bookcase chic – and cheek! So, get an eyeful of my collection of history, art, philosophy, psychology, mythology, literature, poetry, drama, fiction, biography, critical theory….books….

This, that and Schroedinger's Cat

On a winter's evening, many years ago, I happened to spot a delightful moggy lying upon the bonnet of a car, attracted no doubt, by the still-warm engine. So, I whipped out my camera and - snaaap! When the picture fell out of the developer's wallet - remember those? - I gawped in astonishment at the reflection of the beast in the bonnet of the car, the rendering of the amber patches in the dark fur and the feline features all spookily distorted - no, Marie Kondo, I have never considered throwing this one away. The more often I look at it, the more often Erwin Schroedinger's thought experiment springs to mind, that is, in the world of quantum physics, a body can be in two states at the one time, both alive and dead.
Just now, I reckon, we are all a bit Schroedinger just now, having retreated to an indoor world of video phone conversations, spring cleaning, pursuit of long-neglected hobbies, DVD dance marathons, rolling news bulletins, and waving and clapping off of balconies. The big question is, which world is the "real" one, the quieter domestic sphere or the ebullient life outside the domiciliary walls? When the present difficulties are over, which world will dissolve into vapidity, and which will stay stubbornly real - or perhaps there is no "reality", only an ever-present present, dictated by a raft of circumstances in combination with personal inclination? - and "miaow" to all of that. One thing is certain, given the age of the photo - 25+ years - this marvelous moggy is now ascended to cat heaven, where her glorious fur continues to draw aaaahs of pleasure from the denizens of the Above. Whatever, stay well, folks.....

The Real Caped Crusaders....

"Only talent filled with humility is of real use to humanity"
is the April 2 quotation on my Brahma Kumaris perpetual calendar....ah, the wisdom of that man - and the number of years I have read that platitude (I have had the calendar for over ten years) and barely paused to think what it might mean. Well, there is a time for everything, they say, a season and a reason, and that time is now. The new hero is not a celebrity in a Boss suit nor a Balenciaga gown, nor gold watches, diamonds and pearls. He or she does not fly over cities by night nor scale tall buildings, busting drug cartels and stopping equally glamorous gangsters in their tracks - though the new hero does engage in shift work. He dresses for the part in visors and masks, gowns and gloves, halting the progress of the invisible - to us - enemy, and caring for the distressed. He works in a grocery outlet, stacking shelves and serving food and medicine to all comers. He keeps the communication wires buzzing and the power supplies humming. He drives buses, delivers post, unblocks drains, regulates traffic. One day, it will all revert to the old norm. but for now, I bask in the succession of the real caped - and masked - crusaders.

The Last Man

First published in 1826, and set in 2093, The Last Man by Mary Shelley is an unsettling account of a plague that descends upon earth and wipes out humanity. The novel charts the thoughts and experiences of narrator Lionel Verney, who is left alive when everyone else has died. Just hear this:
"We will fight the enemy to the last. Plague shall not find us a ready prey; we will dispute every inch of ground and, by methodical and inflexible laws, pile invincible barriers to the progress of our foe. Perhaps in no part of the world has she met with so systematic and determined an opposition. Perhaps no country is naturally so well protected against our invader; nor has nature been so well anywhere been assisted by the hand of man. We will not despair. We are neither cowards nor fatalists....remember that cleanliness, sobriety and even good humour and benevolence are our best medicine".
Guh! I wonder what Shelley meant by cleanliness - hand-washing? - and why does she imagine that plague is not of nature, but an unnatural outside force? Scarier still that she published her book almost one hundred years before the 1918 pandemic, and all of the others we had encountered since. However, in the world she created, health and social care did not exist. Whatever, it is a thrilling story, beautifully written and a pleasure to read, filled with rounded characters and cliff-hanging events all the way through. However, the puzzle remains: just why did the story never attain the popularity of Shelley’s earlier novel? In answering this, we have to consider the Victorian psyche. In Frankenstein, the Monster was an outcast from the beginning. Not fully human, a comfortable readership could seize upon the feelings of security that he engendered, a smug thank goodness that I am not like that. No wonder the Monster launched a thousand other similar stories and was ripe for the movie industry when it happened. But Lionel Verney is fully human. He is every man, anywhere, and the majority of readers possibly found it too unsettling to contemplate such an end to humanity. Nor is The Last Man anyway like a techno-thriller of today. There is no pro-activity by a mad scientist here, no dirty bomb, no stray gene. The plague simply descends and annihilates everyone - except Lionel Verney. Like I said - Guh!

A blast from the past through the Time Tunnel...

Ah, bless Horror channel for its revival of that gem from the 1960’s, The Time Tunnel. From the intriguing Saul Bass-type animation as the opening credits roll, to the hypnotic gyrating of that fabulous op-art tunnel, to the plausible control centre with its spinning mainframe cassettes – remember those? - to the crew of quasi-nuclear scientist operators, it strikes me how well this television series has stood the test of, well, time. Already, stars James Darren and Robert Colbert have been on board a sinking Titanic – though I could have told the set designers that the ship’s fourth funnel emitted no smoke – joined a US space flight to Mars, and convinced a remote community that the advent of a comet did not herald the end of the world – and Darren and Colbert have just landed in Japan on December 7, 1941! Here, I add how odd that a very US-definitive piece of programming should adapt a piece of Eastern bloc music, in this instance, the infectuous Sabre Dance by Aram Khachaturian – born in Armenia under Soviet rule – to synch with rolling credits, spinning tunnel, et al – but what’s a Commie or two between ad-breaks? Overall, a glorious trip to the past. I anticipate future episodes already.

The things that matter....

It is the little things, they say, that make life worth living, words that carry great weight at a time when a speck of badly-behaving matter, so minute that only the most powerful electron microscopes can etc, etc, is causing worldwide chaos and ruin. Scaled up to our everyday lives, this same speck is providing store keepers and supermarket chains everywhere with a thorough evaluation of their stocks, a salutatory lesson in what really matters in our lives: soap, toilet roll, nappies, tissues, bread, milk, teabags, fresh produce, frozen produce, in fact, every type of produce. And still sitting pretty, amid the barren wasteland of empty shelves, are a myriad chocolate eggs and chocolate boxes, all packaged glamorously in anticipation of Easter, a lonely and heartbreaking sight. And seldom in a lifetime have the minutest of minor victories meant so much to so many people, like happening upon the last packet of chicken goujons in Aldi, and the third-last bar of Dove soap in Waitrose. I could go on and on, but I have made my point and to finish, I will say that it is a pleasure to hear shoppers telling the lady or gent seated at the checkout to “stay well” and actually mean it – egad! Maybe we are human, after all. Like I said, it is the little things that matter. On that note, I hope all you readers stay well etc, etc…..

Dear Dominic Cummings.....

...it has come to my notice that you are looking for "weirdos and misfits" to work on your team of advisers; well, I present the perfect candidate. 
She is too old to find a proper job, too young to die, too stupid - in spite of having two degrees - to be an academic and too lazy to do anything else. Like I said, the perfect candidate. Her proposal for a better society is nothing short of revolutionary, but since you need new ideas, here it is.  It is called simply, social inclusion and this is how it works: 
1. Everyone will live in a decent, affordable dwelling.
2. Everyone will have an incontrovertible right to food, fuel and clothing - no resorting to charities or food banks. 
3. Everyone will have access to decent healthcare - not just fertility treatment - but do read on. It gets weirder. 
4. Everyone will have access to education at every level, from nursery to PhD, with no so-called tuition fees involved or other financial penalties.
5. Everyone will have access to work or training, right through life.
6. No one will be made suffer because of being poor, disabled, lean, fat, bald, short, stupid, tall, black, white or foreign.
  Like I said, revolutionary. But you are looking for misfits, are you not?  So, how about it, Mr C ?  Send me that magic job contract forthwith and together, you and I will be a national tour de force, sincerely, etc. 
https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2020/feb/19/sabisky-row-dominic-cummings-criticised-over-designer-babies-post

Wake up and smell the coffee.....

Well, well, well – it or something like it had to happen sooner or later. I’m talking about the latest scandal to hit the arts’ world, name, the advertising by Tate Gallery for a “coffee curator”, a position paying a salary of £40k. My first reaction upon seeing the bylines was – wow! At last, recognition, fame and a measure of fortune for conceptual artists with the bottle to create installations out of coffee. Damien, your day is done. But….
On further investigation, I found out that Tate are hiring a non-painting/drawing/sculpting manager, complete with talented nose, with the ability to suss out the finest brands of coffee with which to serve the myriad visitors to the Tate group of galleries, throughout the year. The controversy arises over, it seems, the stark fact that curators at the galleries only get paid, on average, a mere £37, 775 per year. Why should a mere “head of coffee” earn so much more?
It is a question that no one has provided an articulate answer for and quite frankly, I don’t see why so many people get heated up over learning what other subjects are earning. As an art history graduate, I do not lack empathy with museum and gallery curators. But everyone has to live, butchers, bakers and coffee curators, et al. Taking bread from the mouths of one of these isn’t going to make the other guv better off. If anything, this “controversy” should raise questions about the current uneven system of income distribution, about our attitudes towards entitlement, production and consumption. Next time I go to see an exhibition in Tate, I will simply say: “Mine’s a latte….” https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-51310516