A long walk back home after missing the last bus
which took me past fields and puddles
and gave me a chance to ruminate, when watching cows...
Some Thoughts on Creativity...
An average 7000 words a day (about 16 pages, plus illustrations) is very prolific - but what is the point if it never sees an agent or a publisher, and is doomed to malinger, sulking, at the back of a drawer somewhere?
It was however an exercise of some use, to enable me to 'pop my cork' as it were, and get the first book out of the way, so that I could start writing again. It followed a very long fallow period spent raising children, since I had started the original in 1969 as an animated cartoon storyboard. For that effort I had invented a new language: 'Twog y gar tad li etas, Boppin?' meaning, "Why do you look at the stars, Boppin?"
It had it's own vocabulary (of about 150 words), grammar, and syntax, and was probably inspired by Tolkein, Latin, French and Spanish, with a little alliteration, some onomatopoeia (is that how you spell it? - words that sound like the meaning you are trying to convey?) - I know Suzzie is going to tell me not to be lazy and to look it up in the dictionary if it bothers me, so I shall - and the result is, unsure of whether it's e or o before the i, I find it is both!
I think this should perhaps have gone under to nitpic(k) or not to nitpic(k), but to resume - it was a very long time ago, when I still remembered smatterings of those languages from my schooldays.
Having lain dormant after my first attempt, I started again after 14 or 15 years, which sounds a bit like a Jupiter cycle to me - creative, expansive, beneficent, the time taken for one of the larger planets in our system to go past a constellation that is forming a line with the earth and the sun for a while - the horizontal pendulum effect. There are logical attributes to these influences, but I don't propose to go into it here.
The point is that these creative cycles seem to be about 14 years apart, starting whe I was 7 or 8, when the planet Jupiter would have progresed to form a perfect (60 degree) sextile relationship with my native planet Mercury, in it's own 8th House, in Gemini, conjunct with my natal Sun at zero Cancer (summer solstice) and natal Mars (Gemini) and Uranus (Cancer). That says a lot to me, and possibly to other astrologers - and explains why I have periods of extremely prolific creative output every 14 years or so. I might add that these cycles started long before I was able to interpret them astrologically.
Like gestation and delivery, I think it is the nearest one can get to childbirth, and without anaesthetic. (Which reminds me there is some brandy under the sink, hiding from my family, that has been there over long now, at least a month. I fear it may go off if I don't invite it to stay a little longer)
I feel that the muse comes as she will, and we have presumably all felt that loosening of the mental tongue, the ability to tell a joke, or to tell a tale; and perhaps, like practitioners of any other craft, have found that the daily practice enables the application to soar when that influence is present. Writing only when the mood takes us, is like playing a violin only when we wish to hear music; we are liable to be disappointed with the results. Whereas, developing technical expertise enables the fluency to express effectively when an idea comes to mind.
My 14 year cycles are broken down into half and quarter cycles, which correspond to the seasons of the year, so that every three and a half years I have a bout of creative energy based in different areas of output. It may be music; it may be sculpture; it may be poetry; it may be art; it may bv a combination, or something completely different.
In the interim periods the fire, or strength in my life is used to support others - family, friends, whoever; but the doors of perception are not closed. As in breathing, we have to exhale before we can inhale, and inhale before we can exhale. The birth of an age, of a human being, of an idea, or the germination of a seed, are the coalescence of gathered influences that we slowly attract whilst we are ruminating on the mysteries of this life.
To give you an example; Yesterday I missed the bus home. I walked and hitched, intercepted the bus after about ten miles and two lifts, at the time when I had given up all idea of doing so, but was utterly convinced that I should get a ride soon. The bus terminated two miles from where I live at about 7pm. On walking the last two miles, I noticed the soil slippage down the sides of the quaintly named Wearyall hill, where from ancient times pilgrims would trudge up to visit the Holy Thorn tree, said to have grown from a staff inserted there by Joseph of Arimathea on his post-Passion wanderings.
The ground had been so churned up by tractor wheels, delivering hay to the wintering cattle on the lower slopes, that the creeping mud had spilt onto the footpath and into the road, making walking difficult. Having paused for a while by the gate, I decided, since it was quite dark by now, and there were no pedestrians about, to sing to the young steers. I laughed at myself, wondering if, at my age, I was still trying to attract the attention of Jupiter in the form of a bull.
The bull's Spirit is strong around Glastonbury. Jupiter appeared as a bull and impregnated a nymph called Io, in order to cure Juno of her jealousy. I don't remember the rest of the myth, but Palo's Bull, Io, was once a resident at the original Greenlands Farm, where there was always a welcome for those wishing to try a more healthy and rural lifestyle.
The farm was owned by Alison Collyer, who was punitively fined for her kindness by the Council, causing her to have to sell up, to the Paddington Farm Trust, and to move into a council property in the town. She lost her livelihood, and lost her land, for attempting to pursue a vision based on Christian love and Charity, yet is still a loveable, well known and a well respected local character.
Palo devoted his life to caring for Io, the bull, who recently died and had to be humanely helped to join his namesake in the skies, after he fell into a ditch fairly recently. This may seem a little disconnected, but what I'm trying to say is, everything links to everything. I sang to the bulls in the field, and their ears rotated towards me. They stopped their munching, and stood perfectly still, as I delivered a selection of songs from light opera to folk, and finally to some spontaneously improvised song tailored to include the notes that appeared to bring forth the most response.
I know this sounds totally crazy, but I believe that the animals also appreciate a quality of life, where the scent of sweet hay, the song of birds and other creatures, the lee of the wind, the river Brue running by, all lift their spirits; and they stoically put up with the deeply churned mud, the constant traffic, the segregation from their mothers and gender opposites,in much the same way that we do in our peculiar school system.
Who is to say that their quality of life is far inferior to our own, artificial as it is in the 21st century? To appreciate the nature, to be in touch with the source of life, to have no concern for yesterday and tomorrow, this seems to me to be a very enlightened existence - and the sole shadow upon this idyll, is the thought of winter quarters, BSE infected cattlefeed, and slaughter. Perhaps our captive lives have a lot in common...
Copyright Jane Johnson 2000
The music playing is 'Remembrance' Copyright 2000 Jane Johnson