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Of Trees and Time
Apr. 15th, 2015 07:56 amA few bits and pieces occurring, while I settle down to write consistently.
I am off to Glastonbury soon, and dread seeing the old thorn tree on Wearyall Hill, mutilated and destroyed by some waste of human DNA in 2010. A sapling was planted beside the old tree and that was destroyed as well, probably some mentally ill person who would have more reason to take meds if I ever caught them.
When I was a child, I had a dream; I lived in the branches of a tree while a little boy lived in the trunk of the same tree, and we were happy. Much later I lived in Street, the village about a mile outside of Glastonbury, and worked in the town. Every day I walked home across Wearyall Hill, thorn tree at one end, stile at another. There it was I had some immense spiritual and magical experiences; one entailed this sense of a huge figure down among the trees on one side, a strange fairy-like phenomenon, but hard to define beyond that, and by those words I hardly know what I mean. I didn't see it, but felt it calling me and suspected that if I went to meet it, I would either meet a real human with strange intentions, or end up as a bag lady wandering forever around the hill muttering her visions and living out of bins. So I walked on.
Perhaps if I had become that baglady, I could have protected the tree. Not because of it being sacred or anything like that, but because it was beautiful, perfect in itself, just a tree. We are killing just-a-trees all the time. And after all, why shouldn't a tree die? Everything dies. I'll die. Perhaps it would be nice if I do that whole hippy thing of having a tree planted on top of my body, but I can't bear the idea of it being cut down to make a table or make room for a supermarket. This is the thing about being cremated - one will at last be beyond the grasp of human fuckupability. Possibly.
Anyway, to Glastonbury we go; a friend suggested I plant memories where the tree was, a very good idea. It's meant to be a joyful weekend, and we shall make it so!
Still, memories clustered in last night; it was as though everything was very close and very big. I heard police sirens in the distance, people wandering by. Later a car parked in a driveway reminding me of how, when I was little, I would wait up all night for Dad to come home. This sounds maudlin, and some of it is, but not all. I wasn't sad, just hyper-aware, wondering if I should come down here and record it straight away when it was vital and real. But instead I slept, and today all that hyper-sensitivity to sound and memory is diminished.
There is a lot to do today, so I stop this here, despite other matters being on my mind. If I record them all, I will never get down to proper writing, which is going well enough for me to approach with cautious enthusiasm.
I am off to Glastonbury soon, and dread seeing the old thorn tree on Wearyall Hill, mutilated and destroyed by some waste of human DNA in 2010. A sapling was planted beside the old tree and that was destroyed as well, probably some mentally ill person who would have more reason to take meds if I ever caught them.
When I was a child, I had a dream; I lived in the branches of a tree while a little boy lived in the trunk of the same tree, and we were happy. Much later I lived in Street, the village about a mile outside of Glastonbury, and worked in the town. Every day I walked home across Wearyall Hill, thorn tree at one end, stile at another. There it was I had some immense spiritual and magical experiences; one entailed this sense of a huge figure down among the trees on one side, a strange fairy-like phenomenon, but hard to define beyond that, and by those words I hardly know what I mean. I didn't see it, but felt it calling me and suspected that if I went to meet it, I would either meet a real human with strange intentions, or end up as a bag lady wandering forever around the hill muttering her visions and living out of bins. So I walked on.
Perhaps if I had become that baglady, I could have protected the tree. Not because of it being sacred or anything like that, but because it was beautiful, perfect in itself, just a tree. We are killing just-a-trees all the time. And after all, why shouldn't a tree die? Everything dies. I'll die. Perhaps it would be nice if I do that whole hippy thing of having a tree planted on top of my body, but I can't bear the idea of it being cut down to make a table or make room for a supermarket. This is the thing about being cremated - one will at last be beyond the grasp of human fuckupability. Possibly.
Anyway, to Glastonbury we go; a friend suggested I plant memories where the tree was, a very good idea. It's meant to be a joyful weekend, and we shall make it so!
Still, memories clustered in last night; it was as though everything was very close and very big. I heard police sirens in the distance, people wandering by. Later a car parked in a driveway reminding me of how, when I was little, I would wait up all night for Dad to come home. This sounds maudlin, and some of it is, but not all. I wasn't sad, just hyper-aware, wondering if I should come down here and record it straight away when it was vital and real. But instead I slept, and today all that hyper-sensitivity to sound and memory is diminished.
There is a lot to do today, so I stop this here, despite other matters being on my mind. If I record them all, I will never get down to proper writing, which is going well enough for me to approach with cautious enthusiasm.
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