5.03pm

"I am alone at the furthest periphery of existence.  Here the world expires and is still." (Haruki Murakami, Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World)

Home, home at last.  Yesterday, we filled a huge transit van with my worldly goods and drove the 300 miles south from St. Andrews to West Yorkshire, my mum and I squashed together like very large peas in a very small pod on the front seat.  All told it took us just under 7 hours, during which my feet swelled to the size of balloons and I faded in and out of sleep.  Somewhere between Cupar and the Border I had a short, infuriating argument with my dad over the currently ubiquitous subject of ID cards, in which he inevitably took the side of the government (arguing its the only way we can catch and identify drug-dealers, illegal immigrants and other assorted criminals...I can see a hundred problems with this, but never mind...), and I took the opposite. Thus I conclude my decision to boycott the ID card system for as long as possible will not go down well with my dear father. 

The last week in St. Andrews was whirlwind-ish and exhausting, but wonderful too.  Esther and I managed to squeeze our visit to Rosslyn Chapel into the only sunny day, arriving back into St. Andrews at 8.30pm (trains, bridges and many delays having made the very simple journey from Edinburgh long and complicated) and dashing out an hour later to light fires, chant chants and dance dances on West Sands with some PaganSoc denizens in (late) honour of the Moon.  The fire caught quite easily, and although the odd dreamy couple wandered by we were relatively alone down there (afterall, tis a very long beach).  At midnight we circled by passing around objects representing the four elements and meditating on them, followed by an offering cauldron filled with water...mostly it was private moments and silences (except for the occasional yell/yelp/chant).  We followed it up with fire scrying, and I wandered away alone... down towards the sea.  The tide was at its lowest point, about half a mile out; the moonlight made a shallow lake of the water left behind, like a glaze on the sand.  I said my piece (and yelled a little too), made an offering to the enduring spirit of the place and then meandered back to find everyone laid out dreaming, or drumming, or shaking rattles, or chanting softly.  Dusk came upon us around 10pm and the sky in the East was full of shadow and star; it had those translucent tones, blue with all the light bleached out of it and the occasional cloud marking a darker contrast.  We fed our fire sage sticks and wood chunks, and sat around talking about the various ways we'd arrived there; how we'd come to Paganism in its many hues, how we'd absorbed its spirit into our lives.  Then a little about Paganism and politics.  Or was that on Saturday at the Scottish Pagan Federation Conference? Och, I forget!   Anyway, it was 2am when we parted our seperate ways, some of us perhaps forever.  It was very beautiful and I was dreamily delighted at our last ritual gathering... didn't even mind the late night. 

The next day we were thoroughly defeated by the might that is the extended Lord of the Rings trilogy...in fact, we only made it through the first two installments before exhaustion and the promise of a 6.30am rising time sent us off to bed.  I'm still yearning for The Return of the King though...and it only re-proved to me that a) Peter Jackson has a special kind of genius, b) I'm a sucker for epic battles of good vs. evil.

The conference on Saturday.  Early morning.  The three T's: taxi, train and trek through Edinburgh.  Registeration.  Poring over the programme and lamenting the many interesting talks/discussions/workshops on at the same time.  Finally I settled on a discussion on Pagans and the G8, a fascinating chat hosted by members of the Dragon Environmental Network (subtitled as a "heady mix of Paganism and environmentalism"...sounded good to me ) and a talk on Magic and Psychology hosted by the meditative Elen Williams, one time president of the Pagan Federation UK and practising psychologist.  The two keynote speakers were Cassandra Latham, a eccentric village witch registered as such with the Inland Revenue and practising the old ways in Cornwall, who gave a talk on the ups and downs of being a professional WiseWoman (!) and Stuart McHardy from Edinburgh University, who gave a lecture on Scottish Goddesses in the landscape (which had be both fascinated and incredulous).  But, as always, the outstanding highlight was dear Claire playing her Clarsarch harp and singing in the evening; I admit there were tears... my last night with many of the people there for some time...graduating from St. Andrews...moving from Scotland...it all just overwhelmed me.

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Currently Reading Telling of Stars, A By Caitlin Sweet see related

1.58pm 

 "Roots crawl through the forest floor like a virulent skin disease." (Haruki Murakami, Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World)

Am currently *loving* the above Murakami. Can't beat skin disease similes of this quality.   It offers such a tasty amalgamation of styles and genres - sci-fi, fantasy, crime fiction (the American "hard-boiled" stuff, as the title suggests).  Such an unusual package.    And I now have the time to read it...whenever I like... for however long... Huzzah!

This is my pledge: a summer of dedicated reading.

The aim: to reduce the huuuuuuuuuuge backlog of tomes I've accrued over the last 4 book-saturated years, during which bookpiles have proliferated widely out of control and about 150 fiction/50 non-fiction have been stacked in anticipation. (Due perhaps in no small way to the complicity of Esther, Nic and Jo, my bibliophilic comrades-in-arms...) At the moment I'm reading nearly 18 months behind my buying (); this summer I'm going to cut it to 12 months. Tis a promise to myself.  I estimate this means I have to read at least 50 books between June and October 10th (my start date for York). Ooooooh I *tremble* at such a delightful prospect.

The painful part: to wade through the 1000 or so of read books in our attic at home and decide which half (at *least* half) to sell on Ebay...otherwise I fear my parent's house may collapse under the strain. I already took the vital step of selling three old duplicate copies of C.S. Lewis on Ebay (£4 for the lot).  I'll only keep things of literary value that I'll probably re-read (or at least enjoy stroking nostaligically)...out will go all the old David Eddings/fluff fantasy and the historical romances (except a select few ).

Just to add to the travail, Esther, Emma and I celebrated the end of finals by a) having cheap Mexican lunch and lots of aforementioned frozen margheritas and cocktails, and b) by going to Ottackers and buying books.  Only three.  Roy Porter's Enlightenment: Britain and the Creation of the Modern World (which I read most of during a second year modern history module...so it hardly counts as part of the book pile), Jude Morgan's Passion (which sounds quite cheesy, but is in fact a "stunningly well-researched, multi-stranded epic of quality" according to the Guardian Review and fictionalises the lives of the some female Romantic writers during the French Revolution/Napoleonic Wars), and finally, but most excitingly, Ian McDonald's River of Gods. Yum.  Esther picked up a copy of Baudelaire's Flowers of Evil and the new biography of Leonardo Di-Vinci (NOT in connection to any Dan Brown novel...*grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr*) both of which are going on my reading list too.

Anyway, enough of this wanton book-jabber.

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Tis unbelievable that I'm leaving St. Andrews in less than a week.   I remember my first day here so clearly...the long 6 hour drive up in a white transit van (I can't travel light), the first glimpse of the town as we came down the coastal road, the dawning realisation that my hall was far, far away from civilisation, the carpet stuck down with brown tape in my bedroom, the long haulage of boxes and boxes of stuff, huge PC and suitcases up 4 flights of stairs. *sighs*  My mum, full of fake cheer, saying goodbye (and then crying on the stairs), my dad, anxious and over-protective, instilling me with a mortal fear of intruders and lecturing me on the possiblity of drukenly choking on my own irresponsible vomit (this fear has never left me; hence, I've never gotten paralytically drunk at university). Och.  That first evening... making tentative friends... walking down to the Student's Union and standing for two hours, sipping a drink and gathering my nerve.  All 4 years ago now.

You think you'll never cope alone.  Especially during your first attempt at laundry...or your first personal crisis.  My first girlfriend cheated on me, then broke up with me, all within three days of my arrival in St. Andrews (she went to Glasgow).  That hurt.  I'd discovered my sexuality with her in my first year of 6th form, and we'd been together 18 months.  Far away from home, no friends or family to confide in, turning in desperation to the then anonymous girl in the room next door. Just shows how little you know about people until absence tests you. 

But I got by, and every year I've gotten more and more independent, until the very thought of moving back home permanently is nightmarish.  That breakup with Deb spurred me into a trip to the LGBT in Fresher's Week, where I met Esther and Nic...which in turn led me to the Pagan Society, where I've met nearly all my closest friends from over the years.   University had been an amazingly liberating experience for me...coming from a conservative Christian background...being thrust into a vibrant atmosphere...discovering liberalism, activism, environmentalism...learning more about my Paganism, meeting and being with Esther...exploring new aspects of academia.  All these things have been worth the effort and the strain of studying, striving to acheive.  I could get richly sentimental about the whole experience.  Proto-nostagia is erasing any dismal aspect. 

I'm experiencing all the sensations of a seperated lover: all I want to do is talk back over our first meeting...all our first-things...pick it apart at leisure.  

But there is hardly time...the last RockSoc tonight, my last Moon ritual with PaganSoc tomorrow night, as well as a trip to Rosslyn Chapel in the day; extended Lord of the Rings marathon on Friday (all three extended edition films, lots of beverage, lots of takeaway ), the Scottish Pagan Federation conference all day Saturday...and then my parents are here on Sunday!

Ochle, ochle, ochle.

Currently Reading Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World By Haruki Murakami see related

6.39pm

Exams are over. 

All is well. 

Exhausted and slightly drunken (frozen margheritas and a cocktail involving baileys and crumbled chocolate chip cookies....mmmmmm). Yummy.

Carnivale. White Zinfandel. Sleep.  And more sleep. (<--my current agenda)

I can hardly believe I'll be a graduate in under a months time.

Och.

And that will be all. Good night.

Currently Reading Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: A Novel (Vintage International) By HARUKI MURAKAMI see related

4.07pm

Ochle.  I'm warm.  I smell of grass, and the outdoors, and wet rock, and the moss on rocks, and old churches, and druid wells.   Tis all because we (the hardy denizens of PaganSoc) spent the day at Dunino Den.  Just so you get the flavour of the place...here it is:

*happy sighs*

We caught a bus just before lunch and waded through thousands of bluebells to get there about 12 noon.  Whereupon we explored, sat, explored more, climbed trees, climbed rocks, clambered into small holes in the rock face, paddled, ate a picnic, were pestered by Murphy the local, and utterly adorable, golden retriever, were covered in wet dog-water by Murphy, ate more, left fairy offerings, visited the old church on the site, left harmonious messages in the visitor book and went on a woodland walk.  Hence, I smell of all things outdoor-sy.  And it was wonderful, especially in the middle of revision week, when I'm up to my eyes in texts and criticism and notes.   Just what the Pagan ordered.

And here commenceth a photo-blog of the whole joyous occasion:

The PaganSoc Posse (left-right: (top) Alexis, Rachel, Elizabeth, Esther, Oliver, Laila, Julie, (bottom) Clare and Emma).  Those of you who read Nic_C's journal will recognise some of them...we're just unstoppable. Every event should have Pagans.

Clare mastered the tree with expert ease, like the aerobics/yoga/pole dancing instructor that she is.

But Julie soon became stuck....

The Famous Five ?

Nooooooo tis Elizabeth, Emma, Oliver, Esther and Murphy the Dog investigating the rockface.

Emma and Oliver decide Murphy *must* be theirs. Unfortunately, they were thwarted by Murphy's own adventurous spirit: he disappeared as soon as we left the Den. (He belongs to the farmhouse alongside.) 

The posse gather by the offering tree just before the trek back.  Aren't we pretty Pagans?

True love reigns.  Esther and I indulge in pre-homecoming huggles.

*more happy sighs*

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And now to sibling incest, back-street abortions and woodland murders in Helen Dunmore's A Spell of Winter, my hard-hitting contemporary novel of the day.   Oh, just before I do sign-off, Est and I went to see Kinsey last night (yep, our little provincial cinema really *is* that far behind the times), and thoroughly enjoyed it.  It's interesting to see how many people are still discomforted by still shots of vaginas and penises. And Liam Neeson is a dear man. 

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Musique:  Claire Hewitt: Duanag (Little Songs) - happy to say this a friend's CD.  Harps and lullabies.  Yummable.

Currently Reading A Spell of Winter: A Novel By Helen Dunmore see related

2.40pm

I'm taking a very short break between revision topics (I just finished a re-read of Jeanette Winterson's Sexing the Cherry and am decidedly worn out), to offer up a few links.

First, of all, a couple of recommendations from the Pagan Blogosphere: over the last few weeks I've grown into a hard and fast fan of both Jason Pitzl-Water's The Wildhunt Blog  and Chas Clifton's Letter from Hardscrabble Creek.  Both are erudite and aware bloggers, heavily involved in their respective Pagan communities, and while The Wildhunt offers a conclusive Pagan "news-watch", Hardscrabble Creek is an intro the life of Pagan academic. Joyful.   Lots of interesting links from them both, and much fun to be had.

And while we're on the subject of Pagan wonders...please put your hands together for:

Yes, its The Pomegranate: The International Journal of Pagan Studies, otherwise known as the first scholarly journal on Neo-Paganism and related topics. Jenny Blain, Ronald Hutton, Michael and the aforementioned Chas Clifton are all on the board of editors and the breadth of articles is impressive.  My first copy came in the post this morning, so huzzah! (And I believe you can still order samples of it from the publishing company...so, get free Pagan scholarship today! )

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Also, the Guardian had some great comment in it today: George Monbiot (my favourite columnist? tis  possible) on David Bellamy's spurious claims on climate change (grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...) and Richard Drayton on Britain and America's less than shiny record from WWII (bringing much needed clarity after another year's unabashed VE day celebrations). 

Oh, and its always nice to know that international arts critics agree with you: Jonathan Jones evidently read my blog before he wrote his review of Kingdom of Heaven: What the Middle Ages did for us (although sadly he didn't consult me on the title for his article...if he had it wouldn't have been so condescending...grrrrrrrrrrr...)

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And thats just about all I have time for... On to Zadie Smith's White Teeth, that gargantuan opus of ethnicity and genetics (although more funny than that makes it sound ).... Don't think I'll manage to read the entirety of this one again though. Some selective revising is in order.

Musique: Just the sound of birds and the zoom of traffic, since Esther is sleeping after journeying to Stirling and back all before 12 noon.  (Her assignments are in... research proposal is in... all is well.)

Currently Reading White Teeth: A Novel By ZADIE SMITH see related