To: K-list
Recieved: 1999/01/27 13:19
Subject: [K-list] Fw: AVALON ARTICULATES 5
From: Raymond J Wand
On 1999/01/27 13:19, Raymond J Wand posted thus to the K-list:
Anyone interested in Glastonbury?
For the true romantics ..................
Love and hugs,
Raymond
----- Original Message -----
From: <infoATnospamisleofavalon.co.uk>
To: <infoATnospamisleofavalon.co.uk>
Sent: 27 January 1999 20:04
Subject: AVALON ARTICULATES 5
>
>
>A periodic gift of insights from Glastonbury
>written by Avalonians for folks like you
>
>from the Isle of Avalon island of websites at
>http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk
>
>---------------------------------------------------------
>
>AA is sent free to all
>web-pilgrims visiting
>the Isle of Avalon island of websites
>and the Glastonbury Archive
>from Glastonbury, SW England
><http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk>
>and leaving their name on our list!
>
>It's for friends of Glastonbury too
>and anyone with an interest in
>the kind of things that go on here!
>
>Each week we send out an article (or two)
>from one of Glastonbury's writers.
>Sometimes illuminating or informative
>sometimes entertaining or educational
>sometimes just a really good read.
>
>To subscribe, unsubscribe or communicate
>see the notes at the end.
>
>You might want to print out this e-zine.
>----------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>Welcome to the fifth sending of Avalon Articulates!
>
>Here's wishing you a rollicking last year of the century!
>
>Many apologies for the late delivery of this issue! We have had technical
>problems! AA is now back online!
>
>Whoosh! At last, the twentieth century, with its strange mixture of
>brilliance and nightmares, is coming to a close! Regardless of all the
>metaphysical prognoses and speculations flying around at present, and
>perhaps helped by the likely technology-glitches connected with the
>Millennium Bug, though independent of them, the passing of the date-change
>is likely to impact deeply on ordinary people's psyches and bring a
>significant shift of viewpoint. It will no longer be a question of
>perpetuating the past and maintaining normality at any cost. It's time to
>think longer-term, and wider-scope. Whether we like it or not, we're faced
>with the future!
>
>In the last issue of AA, we had an erudite contribution from Stanley
>Messenger, a lively and awake gentleman in his eighties. To complement
>this, the article in this issue is from a lady in her eighties with an
>equal life-pedigree to Stanley's - Joyce Collin-Smith. She doesn't live in
>Glastonbury, though she was visiting it before I was born in mid-century,
>and her heart is like that of an old Glastafari.
>
>She came to stay with us at Christmas. She was determined to climb
>Glastonbury Tor on Christmas Day - and believe me, each step up was a
>matter of effort for her - and her well leaned-on walking stick! Her body
>is not serving her to the same degree as her bright heart and mind.
>Needless to say, we were beaten back two-thirds of the way up by gales and
>lashing rain, which was even challenging for the younger fortysomethings
>amongst us!
>
>Joyce has given us her book 'Call No Man Master' to publish on the
>Glastonbury Archive, and the article here is chapter one. It tells of her
>early years as a young spiritual seeker in the 1920s. One thing I have
>learned from this book is that, while we might think our interests and
>activities are new and different from anything which has been seen before,
>we're actually deluding ourselves!
>
>In her book, she tells of her involvement with Gurdjieff's followers, with
>the Maharishi when he first came West, with Pak Subuh (founder of Subud)
>and other notable characters. From her long experience, she has concluded
>a life-lesson summed up in the title of the book: *call no man master*.
>That perhaps includes ascended varietes and gods and ETs too, of all
>descriptions.
>
>Joyce Collin-Smith's re-published book 'Call No Man Master' is now fully
>ready and available in various forms in the Glastonbury Archive at
>
>http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk/archive.html
>
>We're in charge!
>
>Palden Jenkins
>editor, AvalonArticulates
>
>---------------------------------------------------------
>
>Latest developments on
>the Isle of Avalon island of websites
>
>
>The Glastonbury Guide to the Millennium is also growing chapter by chapter,
>at
>
>http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk/millennium.html
>
>It is an adaptation of a book which didn't get published for the
>Millennium. Random House called it the most interesting Millennium book
>they had seen, but....
>
>We've launched a trial programme on Glastonbury net radio! This is the
>work of Stephen Clarke and Sue Palmer of Glastonbury who, in earlier years,
>were involved in Gog Theatre and the Court of Miracles in Glastonbury.
>These two are interesting people, with a lot to share. They're building up
>a series of downloadable radio programmes which will emerge soon.
>
>We've had a few teething troubles and technical hitches with Internet
>radio. Listen to the programme and tell us how well it worked - it's a
>test programme! To hear this Internet radio programme, you'll need to
>download a RealAudio plug-in, which will process Internet signals into
>sound - it costs nothing. The sound streams down direct to your computer
>and (at least on some computers) you can listen to the program while
>cruising the web or twiddling your keyboards. Details and click-throughs
>to the RealAudio site will be found on the Glastonbury net radio page, on
>the Isle of Avalon website.
>
>Which is at
>
>http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk
>
>
>----------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>CALL NO MAN MASTER
>by Joyce Collin-Smith
>
>downloadable at
>http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk/joyce.html
>
>Chapter One
>
>
>
>Childhood was haunted by an urgent thing forgotten.
>
>Starting up from bed in the old North Oxford House, or a window sill corner
>behind long velour curtains where I used to hide myself, I would wrack my
>brains, anxious not to fail some illusive task or duty. Had I omitted to
>run an errand? Carry a message? Complete my homework? Wanting always to
>please, to do the right thing, not to incur the frowns of mother or
>nursemaids or schoolmistresses, I would feel my heart thumping with
>continual anxiety. The world was forever an alien place, in which I sought
>eternally to find an acceptable mode of behaviour.
>
>I was well into my teens before it occurred to me that I might conceivably
>be trying to recall some obligation or undertaking left over from 'another
>time round', a different life altogether. The orderly household allowed no
>time for strange or unconventional knowledge. I had not heard of
>esotericism. Reincarnation would not have been admitted as a possibility in
>the Christian, church-every-Sunday-morning family I was born into. But
>eventually the thought arose spontaneously: "I have been around a long
>time. I've lived a lot of lives. This is one
>of a series. What I have forgotten is something that I learned before, and
>must recall at all costs, otherwise some task, some purpose, can't be
>accomplished. In a confused and earnest manner, the thin and nervous
>child attempted to find again what later seemed best defined as a Way."
>
>My father was Editor of the 'Oxford Times'. We came from a long line of
>journalists. Grandfather had worked at Fleet Street, and both great
>grandfathers on that side were newspaper men, colleagues in the press
>gallery of the House of Commons with Charles Dickens. Words flowed through
>me easily, and were soon formulated into vivid imaginings of other worlds
>and ways, while myths, legends and fairy tales were my intellectual
>food. It was clear that everything had another meaning. Nothing was quite
>what it seemed, and everyday life was only a reflection, a kind of mirror
>image of reality. I seemed to be always trying to turn around, to see the
>positive of which life in the day to day world was only the negative, to
>hear the sound of which ordinary voices and noises were the continually
>reverberating echo.
>
>Retreating into dreams I sought reality in some depth of the mind and heart
>which, beyond reach of reason and logic and the words of school teachers, I
>seemed in some sense to know. Here only was a kind of safety from the
>invasion of foreign presence, onerous tasks, uncongenial surroundings.
>Though loved and cared for normally by a busy, efficient, committee meeting
>and socializing mother, a kind and gentle, nervously correct father and the
>household staff that was customary in those far off days, I withdrew more
>and more into the realms of privacy and fantasy.
>
>Tending to ailments, skeleton thinness, excessive shyness and nervousness,
>I must have been a tiresome, difficult child. My exuberant and confident
>younger sister was a much more responsive daughter of the house.
>Increasingly I slipped into solitude. Fearing rebuffs or incomprehension if
>I voiced my thoughts, I busied myself with private activities. In a corner
>of the nursery, the schoolroom, the bedroom I would be occupied in painting
>pictures, drawing, or making something out of plasticine, a modelling clay
>for children. I would be writing a story, composing a poem or telling
>myself a long, imaginary narrative. I was comforted in the making and the
>doing. It brought results, while children's games or adult teaching left me
>with a sense of pointlessness and meaninglessness.
>
>Later I wandered around the parks and colleges alone, drifting into
>churches and university halls and chapels, gradually coming to worship
>learning. Touching the leather bound volumes in old libraries, lifting them
>down
>and poring over them whenever permitted by college librarians in those more
>easy-going days, I looked for something, anything, that might give me a
>signposted set of directions, a map, a series of clues, a pattern
>of living that I could easily follow. Somewhere there must be records that
>would tell me of others like myself.
>
>But for years the only companion was my half-remembered counterpart - an
>imaginary brother.
>
>I didn't meet Rodney Collin, Ouspensky's pupil and associate, and author of
>'The Theory Of Celestial Influence', 'The Theory Of Eternal Life', etc.,
>until I was already in my thirties. I was married by then to his brother
>Derry. Rodney was abroad, in Mexico, and came to see us long after I had
>become his sister-in-law. So it was a cart-before-the-horse situation, for
>I had almost forgotten the childhood dreams. When I exclaimed "You are my
>brother!" with amazement and delight as I looked into the familiar face so
>much like my own, it was a long time after even that late meeting.
>
>We were sitting on top of the Pyramid of the Sun at Toetihuacan in Mexico
>when realisation hit me.
>
>"Very likely", he answered amiably, his blue eyes, my own blue eyes
>meeting, wrinkled against the brilliant midday sunlight, our widebrimmed
>straw hats tilted to the backs of our heads, our so similar countenances,
>our tall, thin, narrow-shouldered frames so alike we might indeed have been
>related by blood and not by marriage.
>
>"One day you'll write all this down," he told me after many months in the
>strange, 7,000 feet above sea level air of the Valley of Mexico, where the
>altitude and the strong clear light and the philosophically orientated
>household made joyous sense at last. "One day you'll stop all this novel
>writing and write something more important." My 'Locusts and Wild Honey'
>and other books were best-sellers at the time and the dreams
>and fantasies of childhood had found their outlet in this convoluted form.
>"One day you'll write of the miraculous." I had been reading Ouspensky's
>'In Search of the Miraculous' at night instead of sleeping, for the days
>were so full of action and eager words. "In your own way you'll give a
>pointer or two to those who will come after."
>
>I am now in my last chapter of life. I've talked, lectured, written, filled
>my years with a helter-skelter gallop against time. I am nearing seventy
>[This was written around 1985]. 'One day' must be now. My memory is so long
>and clear that I sometimes wonder if perhaps, under hypnosis for instance,
>I might have almost total recall.
>
>I know what it was like to be a baby in a pram lined with white leather
>which smelled of summer warmth, and above me a green silk canopy hung with
>fringe to give me shade. I recollect the first experience of causation. If
>you bumped your legs up and down the pram shook and the fringe danced. If
>you lay still it didn't move. It was a different and more interesting type
>of cause and effect than every baby's instinctive knowledge that crying
>brings attention, voices, arms, comfort. This was simply doing something
>for it's own sake, realising one had power to make things happen. I lay
>thinking about it, still too young to sit up unaided or utter a word.
>Perhaps I was five or six months old. My 'brother' appeared in my
>imagination when I was two and a half. Mother was expecting a second child.
>I had been told this, and that she had to go away for a few days to fetch
it.
>
>Already I knew of a boy, so like my own self that he seemed my other half.
>I awaited his arrival with acceptance and confidence. They took me to the
>nursing home and showed me a newborn baby in a cot, among a row of cots in
>a long room.
>
>"This is your little sister," they said. "A dear little girl." Confusion
>filled me. "No. I want my brother." "A sister, darling, not a brother."
>
>The next cot held a boychild with family round admiring and referring to
>the small scrap as "he". I moved across, looked through the bars with
>puzzlement and demanded that we have this one instead. I knew that babies
>grow. Though not as I imagined, this must be the expected one. The sound of
>adult laughter resounded everywhere as I was gently pulled away.
>
>"That one! That one!" I shouted in impotent bewilderment and dismay. Though
>rarely smacked, my illogical screaming and stamping brought stern commands
>for quiet and a sudden sharp and unexpected slap
>which reduced me to wailing and eventually to silence. Planted firmly on an
>upright chair and told to behave myself, I wouldn't look at the babies, or
>go, when told, to Mother in her pink bedjacket reclining among pillows. She
>held out her arms and called me. I looked obstinately at the floor, my
>small feet dangling, my tears still running. Now suddenly the world was an
>empty place.
>
>Creative imagination has always intrigued me. From a young age I could
>visualize, see faces, hear voices, make people, places and situations in my
>mind. They were as real as my everyday surroundings, and there were times
>in young childhood when I had difficulty in distinguishing between the two
>modes of experience and was accused of lying. Lacking the brother in the
>nursery, the 'remembered one' as a playmate, I set about recreating him in
>my mind.
>
>Slowly he grew tall. Though his face was never entirely clear to me, I knew
>'the shape he cut in space.' That was how I defined it to myself. Gradually
>he became older than I, tall, thin, long-faced, narrow-shouldered, quick
>and gentle, full of comprehension of all my difficulties. I held long
>conversations with him in my mind, asking him questions, getting
>mumbo-jumbo answers that were no more than soothing comfortable sounds. It
>was like the talking of frogs in ponds in the hot African nights that I
>experienced later on - or the Raudive tapes, which have the same illusive
>quality of meaning something that is for some reason not entirely
>intelligible. I would talk, and listen inwardly, and be at peace.
>
>Only once, in early schoolgirl days, did I hear actual words. My brother
>appeared to me as though agitated and distressed, walking up and down a
>room with rapid strides and crying "It breaks my heart. I am heartbroken".
>He seemed about sixteen or seventeen. Unfortunately I never checked with
>Rodney Collin whether he had any recollection of some incident that tallied
>with this event - whether it was true telepathy. It might have been.
>
>Normally his presence was like a reassuring extension of myself, and by my
>teens I had quite ceased to invent stories of his eventual coming. For
>years the place on the wide window sill where the curtains concealed me and
>I commanded a view of the garden gate and path, had been my refuge and my
>private hermitage. Hearing the creak of the iron gate, I would close my
>eyes, pretending, pretending furiously, that the footsteps on the driveway
>were those of the tall thin boy. My parents would greet him with delight.
>"Here is your long lost brother!" they would call, in the dramatic manner
>of characters in fairy tales. But the postman, milkman, the neighbours, my
>mother's friends and my father's colleagues called once too often and the
>childhood game wore out.
>
>One day I 'thought him up' for the last time. I was a young reporter on the
>'Reading Standard', shortly before the outbreak of the war. In a spare hour
>I had wandered into the Forbury Gardens, where the ruined, ivy-clad granite
>walls of the Abbey are a home to rooks and jackdaws. The medieval round,
>"Summer is i'cummin in" was written here, and the facsimile of the original
>MS was under glass on a stand in the central clearing. Poring over it I
>could hear the sound in the ears of my imagination, those subtle strata of
>the mind which give shape and colour and sound and taste and scent to
>objects that are not present at the time in reality. I perceived the monks
>chanting, smiling, rubicund, enjoying a little light relief from their more
>earnest offices.
>
>"He would like this", I thought suddenly, and was at once filled with such
>a desolation of longing for the tall, thin young man, now visualised as
>being fully adult and unattainable in this life, that tears suddenly poured
>down my cheeks and fell in droplets on the glass-topped pedestal housing
>the ancient musical score with its barely decipherable words.
>
>The ivy rustled in the wind as the great black birds moved in and out about
>their inscrutable business. For a few minutes the world seemed again a
>dreadfully lonely place in which to live. Then I made some sort of decision
>to be done with all that, to put away childish things and try to be more at
>home, of necessity, among my fellow human beings on this earth.
>
>
>© Copyright Joyce Collin-Smith 1998
>----------------------------------------------------------------
>
>
>NEWS FROM GLASTONBURY
>
>This was written at winter solstice!
>
>Again, the rain has been bucketing down, and the flat 'moors' around
>Glastonbury, which once were water, have been flooding. Is Glastonbury
>trying to become an island again? One wonders.
>
>Here, most members of the alternative community tend to celebrate the
>winter solstice. Christmas and New Year constitute more of a fitting in
>with the prevailing society of Britain than an observance of a really
>heartfelt sacred occasion. Not that most British people notice much of the
>sacredness pervading this time.
>
>In northern latitudes, the seasonal alternation of light and dark is very
>marked. At winter solstice, the days are very short. There's a retreat of
>life-energy into the piles of dead leaves within our psyches, an
>opportunity to cogitate past and future and get over the last lot before
>the next lot starts.
>
>One of the hidden blessings of this is an opportunity to cultivate the
>light within. A small candle in a dark room makes a big difference, and
>the seed of light within, the pilot-light of the heart, which is due to
>gestate in the coming months and break out at springtime, needs coddling
>and tuning, to set it in good stead for the coming year-cycle.
>
>Near Glastonbury, just after summer solstice six months from now, we have
>Europe's biggest rock festival. The town gets flooded with people who
>charge down the motorways to converge on Glastonbury for a long weekend of
>music, theatre and outdoor madness, together with about 150,000 other
>people. To many, 'Glastonbury' means the festival (as you will find if you
>search for 'Glastonbury' on a search engine!), and they only find out later
>that there's a town by that name! With a life of its own. This pellmell
>maelstrom of energy in summer explains why, at winter solstice, Glastonbury
>folks hunker down for a quiet time!
>
>Hence, as you might notice, there's hardly any news of events in
>Glastonbury. Except that a baby was born next door, the day after
>Christmas, bless her. It's another one of those bright souls who have come
>along to shape the new world of the coming times. She's well and happy,
>and her Anglo-Dutch parents have that tired glow post-natal about them,
>straddled somewhere between angelic experiences and nappy (diaper)
changing!
>
>We have some unsung heroines in Glastonbury. Our local midwives. They do
>a lot of home-births, and they're open to all the funky childbirth methods
>and experiences local people have. They've even delivered babies in tents
>and tipis in the middle of the rock festival, without water or a means to
>get out. They work their socks off, and look quietly sad when they have to
>send someone away to hospital. Dedicated ladies, these. They deserve a
>medal for service to humanity. They deliver some very special souls.
>We're greatly blessed to have them here.
>
>Listen out for further news of Glastonbury Internet Radio. On the website,
>we're mustering better visitor information and some new Glastonbury
>experiences for uploading before the coming spring. We'll be posting a
>list of Glastonbury events which are worth catching a plane for. And there
>are some new pictures of Avalon on their way too.
>
>Tulki, my toddler son, has just come up the stairs to Mission Control,
>expleting "Daddy fix... fix engine. Downstair. Fix plee... Daddy!!!".
>Ah well, time to go! His steam engine needs looking at!
>
>With love from Barry, Heather, Sig, Karin and me
>
>Palden Jenkins
>webmaster of Avalon
>
>-----------------------------------------------------------------
>
>AVALON ARTICULATES is sent out by the Isle of Avalon island of websites for
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>To subscribe, e-mail {paldenATnospamglobalnet.co.uk} with *Subscribe Avalon
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>To unsubscribe, e-mail the same address with *Unsubscribe Avalon
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>To request back-copies, e-mail us with *AA Back-copies please* in the
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>Alternatively, go to the IoA site at {http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk} and
>sign on the mailing list.
>Your name and address will be used for nothing else, by nobody else.
>
>-----------------------------------------------------------------
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>Copyright notes. All material in this e-mail is copyright. It is free for
>you to read, print and circulate in small quantities in honest sharing and
>fair play, without moneymaking or advantage-taking. Please properly
>attribute all borrowed and quoted parts, and forward or post the whole of
>AA intact. Final copyright stays with the authors. Please let us know the
>URL if you post AA or material from it on a website, and please add a link
>to http://www.isleofavalon.co.uk. Thanks! Do enjoy!
>
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