Et In Arcadia Ego

I've an awful lot to say about this weekend; how mum and Friend 3 visited on Saturday, how mum and I blitzed the house and went to Highgate cemetary. And how Friend 3, Calypso and then stayed up until stupid o'clock watching Doctor Who. But it didn't matter, because it was only a weekend so I could catch up sleep on Monday. Neither did waking up at 9 AM, and meeting mum in Camden, then Friend 3 in Oxford Circus, and walking all day until 6 in the PM, because they'd be gone in the evening, I could grab an early night, and catch up sleep on Monday. Maybe one day I'll blog all that. I doubt it, as I'm always too drained after fun weekends with visitors to write it all down.

I resisted the urge to go to bed too early, and distracted myself with origami and The Sea Wolves - although I was drooping and didn't really enjoy either,

So when Bevenita tootled in and chirruped something about going to a fire show, then driving to Stonehenge for the solstice, I almost certainly meant to say no.



Part 1: To start with...

I don't know what's come over me recently. I'm just very bored of being me. I'm sick of Victorians, sick of violent movies and the classification system - sick of movies full stop - bored of drawing and writing and creating in general. It's left a black hole in my life quite difficult to fill. But this might explain why a combo of some of my least favourite things, like being away from London and ghastly late nights, suddenly seemed like a good idea.

No, let's go further back. Calypso and I were hooping one night in the garden, when Bevenita and Pluto chanced to return. I surrendered my hoop to her, hung up fairy lights on the washing lines, found outdoor speakers, produced chocolate and hey presto - we had a party! I also found a big metal bucket of water when Pluto produced his fire poi. I shouldn't have worried: he is excellent, and the show he put on was beautiful. Bevenita is a very watcheable hooper because of her infectious enthusiasm. Pluto, on the other hand, has this sombre meditative quality to his performance. Whoosh! I was reminded of it when reading through "The Lost Gods of England", a book detailing everything we can reconstruct of England's pre-Christian religion from information inadvertantly transmitted by Roman and Christian authors. Very little is known of the Midsummer celebration, except that there is one, and that it was a fire festival. Suddenly, I wanted my own coven, and my own solstice ritual decorated with fire performers.
So this came very close to my imagining, and despite my exhaution could not turn it down. I tried to nap on the Tube. Bevenita had no idea how we were going to get to Stonehenge ("Do you know where it is?"), but according to her, when she wants things like this, things tend to just turn out OK.

Part 2: Fire meet

The fire meet was in a park in Vauxhall. About ten of us, with various fun toys and a bucket of paraffin. I recognised some from other circus-y events I'd been to. I sat to one side, wielding a bottle of water just in case (and carefully making sure it wasn't the bottle of water which actually contained gin. That wouldn't be good.)

The first performer was obviously more of a beginner than the others, but had a go with fire nontheless. The back of her jacket caught, briefly, but all was well. Two of them used "snake poi" - instead of attatching a chain to a small burning ball, wick is a huge, thick tail. The patterns look a bit like flags, flame-flags. The fire was yellow and bright blue. Another used a staff, burning at both ends. Bevenita DJed throughout this, and I particularly enjoyed the use of the Animatrix soundtrack. She performed almost last, with her fire-hoop. It was only the second time she had used it, and it is heavier than her normal hoop, but I was still very impressed. The sense of danger and daring to it all made it all the more exciting, and I confess to basically watching with my mouth open.

Halfway through, we were interrupted by a police van which rolled up onto the grass. A cop got out and told us he could smell cannabis, and asked us if we were smoking drugs. We said no. He accepted this, explaining that it was a pretty dodgy area hence the patrols, and then got back into the van. It was a very, very bizzare occurrence. What sort of policeman takes the group of teens at their word when they claim to be drug free? And DOESN'T object to the fact they are obviously playing with paraffin in a public area?

We attracted a passer by, who was on his way home, and was an ex-spinner. We invited him to join us, and in fire-free moments he did some pretty impressive tricks with the glow-poi. It was a nice coincidence, as he offered the use of his toilet in his nearby house, thus saving me from the misery of a bush. He has Boris Johnson's signature in his upstairs loo.

I played with the hoop as everyone packed up - I'm not quite up to performing yet, with or without petrol. I can spin it on my hands a fair few ways, keep it going around my middle while walking, dancing, jumping or doing the splits and get it from above my head to my midriff; and if the music is sufficiently loud, I even manage to get a sort of groove going. I still don't have grace or rhythm to ever be very good at it - I think ultimately, Poi will be for me, as it calls for standing still - but it's still enjoyable. I think the difference between me and them is that they're having fun, and accidentally creating beauty; whereas creating beauty is my end goal, and along the way am having a bit of a laugh. But I could be wrong.

Part 3: The Journey (midnight-3 AM)
Bevenita's optimism was not misplaced; it turned out that A had two friends, D and P, who had brought a van and they would be driving to Stonehenge. It was midnight now, and the plain was 2 and a half hours away. I had met A and C last week, and liked them very much. A had spidery-dreadlocks, both were dressed like hippies and I think the whole bus was very, very vegan. They were both the right combination of serious and chilled-out. Before we set sail, we
popped to a corner shop, but in the beginning of definite trend, a no one had any cash. We jointly met the card limit - I contributed a boxs of weetoes and a packet of biscuits.

D, P and A sat up front - with A taking the first bash at driving. S also had a license, but had never driven a van before, so A decided he should at least get us out of London. So S, C and I piled into the back. It was a construction-man van (complete with ladders on the roof) so there was plenty of room for three. They voted me the cushion, on top of a pair of raised boxes just behind the driver's cab, and they used the assortment of bags and coats and it was altogether rather cosy.

The only real problem was the lack of windows, but this was in a way better: Bevenita gets motion sickness, and I get distracted. I sorely needed these two hours to sleep. I tried rigging my torch up on the broken roof lights using my sonic screwdriver to see by, but Bevenita worried I might electricute myself and suggested we just have it dark. At which point C made her jump. Luckily, he had an abundance of light-up poi and successfuly hung one up. It threw an eerie green-blue over the back, but it was a nice, diffused light compared to the harsh torch, and we were three of the happiest wannabie illegal immegrants.

I curled up with my coats and bags on top of the boxes, and tried to sleep. C and Bevenita were having that sort of Serious, Honest Late Night Discussion which tends to happen with people you don't know too well. It seemed bad taste to get involved in it, and when they moved on to swapping drug anecdotes I didn't have anything to add. The van was incredibly loud, and we could hardly hear the loud trance being played in the front.

One of the more entertaining events was our Blue Peter Answers The Call of Nature moment for Bevenita. We found an empty water-bottle and cut the top off as a recepticle. Meanwhile, C and I played shadow puppets on the back of the cab against the blue moon thrown by the screwdriver. C did a pretty good E.T. We then resealed the bottle with a plastic bag and an elastic band, and found somewhere to stand it up.

We stopped at a way-station after an hour, ironically soon after Bevenita had perfected the bottle trick. Everyone ambled around, buying coffees, browsing. C had been in Peru for the last year, so had missed the Twilight thing entirely. We discussed Stieg Larsson, and how his partner of 20 years isn't making anything off his books because they never married. There were an awful lot of top-shelf novels too, Torture Temptress and the rest.

It cold outside, even though I had had the foresight to wear hundreds of layers, and was only going to get worse. Luckily, WH Smith was selling rather natty double packs of fleece blankets. To pay C back for my cereal, I also sponsored his Boost bars. Outside, A produced a very special strawberry muffin. I made sure it was hash free, but it turned out that by "special" they meant vegan, organic and sugar-free.

Bevenita had had gin by this point, and the van's owner was very much asleep, so A drove again. It got incredibly cold, and I was greatful for the fleeces but they seemed very thin. Nevertheless, I slept on this lap - C meditated.

Part 4: Arrival (3AM-4AM)

I woke up in time to feel the van waddle up over the kerb and onto grass, and at last we were let out, to choruses of "We in Eng-ar-land, ya?". Being an illegal immigrant must be horrible, and in another chancy moment, it seemed like the door might not open. It was freezing outside, but I was totally swaddled in blankets. While everyone else got ready, I tried stargazing, but didn't recognise any of the summer constellations. We did find a planet, though, which I guessed was Jupiter because from my limited experience it seemed more or less the right height, size, direction and definitely wasn't Venus.

We were in a field-turned-car park. It was a full-scale operation, with Disneyland style numbered car-rows, and plenty of helpful stewards. We were in section 18. The artistes debated whether or not, and how, they would smuggle fire poi into the cordoned off area. Finally, they decided to take their most simple pair, and my water bottle became the paraffin recepticle. I didn't volunteer it, because my cold-sore (though I'm starting to wonder if that's what it is) demands I have my own bottle to drink from, but when they remembered it I didn't wholly mind either.

It took a few false starts to get going, and we were about a mile off from the stones themselves. It was still dark, although as we walked the first bright blues started streaking to the east and those 3AM birds started singing. Sillhouetted against that sky were a few statuesque cows, and distant hills with burning beacons.

At the top of the first slope, I risked the portaloos and we went through the first security barrier. They cheerfully checked us all for drugs and knives, and I think they mistook C's
long, carved, plastic glow-poi for some sort of interesting toy. Once we were through, it was a long trek across a field - an exodus of people walking in both directions - the sky getting bluer all the time. I had resisted texting Calypso for most of the evening: there's no schadenfreude-free way to explain that, while you are stuck at home, I am on my way to the solstice at Stonehenge. But now seemed appropriate, and we ended up chatting. She sounded very tired and told me a bit about her day. As I described it to her, the distant monument area now looked very much like movie-representations of Roswell - lots of huge bright lights, security guards and people milling around.

At the end of the field, we passed security barrier 2. This time, they discovered C's penknife - which he had forgotten to leave in the van - but they had a free-of-charge luggage area where he could leave it.

We passed a few food stands; nasty things like at fairgrounds. Over to our right was a huge statue - it looked a bit like a demon or monster. And then I saw the stones, dark grey against dark blue. We hung around a bit for Bevenita's friends and then plunged ahead. There were people everywhere - it was actually pretty unpleasant - and a lot of noise. Bevenita's friend seemed to be heading somewhere, but i was impatient
A said his tradition was to walk around the stones 3 times desoil (that's clockwise to people who use modern non-New-Age English), and a friend's tradition is as good as any in absence of my own. We tried this, but it was really too jam-packed to move. All the low stones were colonised by cheering hippies dancing to the drumming or watching and waiting. The center of the circle was solid. We could just about get through the outside, managed one circuit and then gave up. We met up to the north of the stones, which we had designated base-camp.

It was becoming rapidly lighter, and C and A decided it was time to whip out the fire poi. I followed them behind the crowd to prepare the kit which we then wrapped up in a blanket. We went back into outer band of people and found a suitably large space, getting the permission of bystanders who eagerly prepared cameras. Health and safety gremlins would have hated it, but having already seen him perform in Vauxhall he clearly knew what he was doing. So even though there was barely any space, it felt very safe and I'd have happily watched him poi in a wardrobe.

It was an absolutely magical minute, attracting the admiration of the entire area. Security shut us down very, very quickly (it's hard to miss the man with the fire, especially if everyone is watching him), but it was another one of those weird time-touching moments, because here was that fire celebration I had imagined.

As it became brighter, I went for a wander. Lots of people were in front, face on to the sun; the centre was still packed, and many were behind the monument waiting to see the sun come up between them. I spent about 10 minutes standing in every concieveable location - on rocks, behind them, on all corners, just to get a feel for the different views, and gave up on the idea of a "good spot". We were ultimately off to the side, able to see the stones and the hills and sun: perfect. The angle from which you would paint a trad watercolour.

Just before sunrise, the hill was crowded (youtube)

Ignoring the fact I'd spent all night in a gloomy van, London is packed with buildings so in contrast the green was overwhelming. Much like the dream-sequences in Brazil; the sky was huge, and absolutely beautiful. As the sky paled, we could see mist and yellow light on 360 deg of sage green hills. All Wind and Wuthering. The cloud cover was, on some level, pretty poor for the sunrise - I think everyone was waiting for a huge sizzling ball to hop over the horizon - but watching the clouds go purple and red was a treat. About seven minutes after it must have risen, it peeped out between two flat bands of cloud and a cheer went up across the camp.

Part 6: Sunrise (5AM)
For the first time, I noticed spontaneous religiosity going on instead of drunken revelling. The drumming picked up, and I saw people meditating, or doing yogic style exercises or devotions. For my part, I was thinking about spinning. There's the Wiccan concept of the "Wheel of the Year", and the Tarot "Wheel of Fortune", describing how all creatures live in natural, ancient cycles - and here we were, in loops and bands around England's sacred stone circle, repeating rituals repeated for generations, just as the return of day is always repeated - and the Sun rises because the Earth is turning on its axis, and in turn turning around the +Sun - two big space-hoops - with us celebrating by spinning around and around. Spinning and spinning and spinning, wheels within wheels. I love DIY spirituality.

There was much hugging strangers, and C smudged me with a Peruvian holy tree which smelt to Bevenita like sandalwood. I abandoned my coat in favour of a hoop, which was momentarily freezing but I soon warmed up. I ached everywhere, but it's easy to ignore something like that when you've just SEEN THE SUN RISE AT STONEHENGE FOR THE SOLSTICE. Between us and the horizon was an outlying rock, where people were taking it in turns to have photos. After they got bored, I nabbed it and our two poi professionals stood up there silhouetted against the dawn. That photo is of A.

As soon as the sun was up, the crowds evaporated, which was a shame for them because the afterparty was actually far nicer. We spotted some trouble near the stones, with the stewards wrestling someone to the ground and dragging them off, and it was the only real problem we saw all night. There were lots of people sleeping, and just hanging around in a bohemian manner. We made friends with three yoga-stretchers, and I drummed with one of them. Another explained
"Wherever you are, whoever you are, you are always right". I ignored the temptation to mention Hitler - I understood what he was trying to say. Not everyone was "feeling it" - a particularly angry, drugged-up girl missed the sunrise shouting at her friends down the phone. We offered her and her group cookies.

The morning was divided between hooping and exploring. I was strictly too tired to do any sort of activity, certainly too tired to "perform" - I could keep it going around my middle, but didn't want to move much more than necessary. But the practice did me good, and I can now on demand get the hoop up and down down from my waist to my hips. At other times, I just lay on the grass or stones and cloudgazed.

We attracted the attention of a rather nice looney, who was selling yellow felt wizard hats, a program listing all the summer festivals and caramel cakes. He taught us "Contact Improvisation", the bizzarest dance you have ever seen. You start by "feeling" the earth under your feet, and then you bumble around with your whole body a bit like on a deck in a storm, and trying to be aware of all your limbs. In large groups - he was showing C and S also - touching or dodging other people is part of the idea. Several times, I got lifted up. There are two basic movements. "1" is "rooted", when someone brushes or pushes you and you do not give way - or "0", where you go with their movement and flow wherever they direct you. There's probably some beautiful life truth in there somewhere. It was daft, but also enjoyable and not half as grope-y as it sounds.

When the other two were distracted, he invited me to an August festival of workshops, in which he teaches shaman skills. He explained how everything is connected, "like fractals" - dancing, and words, and music - and how he often percieves words as dance moves. "Everything is the same". While we spoke, I had another bash at poi - I can remember a few tricks. Ugly, but practice makes perfect. Earlier in the week, I recieved some fantastic instructions and I can't wait to get practicing with my sister's pair.

It was now clear enough to get close to the stones. There was a nub of people still solid in the center, dancing and drumming away. But there was easily enough room to walk around three times, desoil. I don't know what A's spiritual motivation was (if I had to guess, it'd be something like considering the past, the previous year, and resolutions to come as you walked), but it gave you a marvellous sense of space and location. The colours were beautiful and clean everywhere now; very fresh. I also closely inspected the stones themselves. They didn't give off any "vibes" as it were, but they were still awe-inspiring. Very large.

Hippies! Everywhar!

While hooping and walking around, I got glommed by someone who asked me to come perform for his friends. I did my apologetic best, and they were very nice. Like everyone else I'd spoken to, they lived fairly close in the area. I met up with my gang again in the stones, and we joined in the dancing. There was drumming, and a girl with an Aztec flute. Bevenita had managed to clear room to hoop-dance there, and at times, there was room for me to whirl a bit too although I often just hopped ineffectually from foot to foot. I'd been going since 9AM the previous morning, with only sparse uncomfortable sleep, and as much as I'd like to have boundless, Doctorish enthusiasm I do flag very quickly when tired. But at least the depression gremlins didn't get me, as they are wont to do. Now there was space, I climbed some of the emptier central stones, and watched the sun through some of the arches - yes, that would be a perfect angle to watch the rise from if you could be bothered to stand there for long enough, which I never could, and were lucky not to have people cramming your view.


I also had a look round for the Pandorica entrance. Despite the way my brain functions, and the huge impression that episode had made on me, I spent surprisingly little time thinking about DW. I think it's potentially the best episode so far. Other top contenders are Eleventh Hour, Amy's Choice (but that does have problems that might have irritated me if not for my Valeyard enthusiasm beating all complaints into the dust) and depending on my mood, maybe Vincent). And if the second half works (and I have perfect faith it will - when your setup is so daring and excellent, I don't think you can muff it up), possibly among the best ever. Calypso informed me earlier it had really been filmed there, but the atmosphere was a bit too bohemian to worry about television.

I hooped up on the rock, but by this point when I moved my feet the backs of my ankles cracked so it was all rather half-hearted. We did have one last epic dance, though, with everyone going at once. The police were clearing people out at 8, and it was now quarter to. We returned to the camp, and A took us to the other side of the stones to escape being forcably moved. Some of his friends had a singing circle, and I mumbled happily along to the more repetitive hippy anthems (something about love coming from love, and flowing like the river into the sea...). While there, it finally became hot enough to remove all the layers. Which seemed rather like the sun saying "well, you guys wanted me here..." Journos caught a snap of me on that rock, soon before we left, looking sleepy.

It was a nice end to a lovely few hours. There was just enough time to get a closer look at the statue, which turned out to be a huge iron man with his hands raised, surrounded by pictures of the summer constellations I had so spectacularly failed to identify earlier on. We had lunch in the car park while waiting for all six of our group to return. Bevenita drove, with D and C as her wingmen. Despite never having driven a van before, C claims he didn't fear for his life once. It just seemed as bumpy as normal to me, and I slept almost the whole way back to Hammersmith. Getting home from there was unecessarily nasty (cash problems + an hour-late bus, which was then very crowded.) Bevenita and I invited a chap from the bus home so we could Google directions for him. He was nice, for the ten minutes he stopped for a drink.

And then I blogged...

Videos and photos will doubtless be appearing more as the week goes on. Of what's already up,
C and I are three minutes into this. He is looking spectacular. I am in red, and looking bedraggled. A news video sums up what went on. Any new pictures will be at this link.

...and here I am. Catching up sleep on Monday.

This is a long one, so digressions are marked in red, and the red becomes brighter the more irrelevant the digression becomes. If you're only interested in What Happened, stick to the black.

Yesterday, I art-ed all morning and posted my swaps. I suffered a fashion disaster, by attempting a high-up pony, and ended up looked uncomfortably like the 90s had come to stay. In retrospect, this was to be the tone of the day. We had lunch, and had plans to go out shopping in Central for a new card holder for my ATCs. But all the reasonable tube lines were down, so we decided to travel west instead – heading to Gunnersbury Park museum, a restored regency mansion. I left my pocketwatch at home.

We (that is, Calypso and I. Should probably start qualifying pronouns now in case they get wobbly) took a bus to Acton, and I bought a new rucksack at the museum. It was £5 reduced from £13, and really nice quality – lots of pockets. My old one was shedding plastic flakes every time I used it. From there, we walked down to Gunnersbury – where the sun god lives. It’s a walk I’ve done three times, and each time been shocked by the heat. The light beats down the only routes. Luckily, I’d come prepared with a hat and water, but it was still a relief to arrive at the park and crash under the trees.

I tried getting into a habit of going to the park across the road, but it is too unpleasant. Too many people using it for sports, and the moment you sit down you get covered in some of the nastiest insects I have ever seen. This had few insects, and satisfying shade. We watched clouds, complete with quirky Indie accents; then we did a cloud oracle. I'm interested in divination at present, and the way it reveals not so much the future as the subconscious. I saw instructions for making a "random oracle" - a bag of any old items, from which one is drawn and interpreted - and the idea amused me: it takes divination as reading meaning into nonsense to its natural conclusion. Earlier this week, we used a page of Stylist featuring This Season's 20 Must Have Products. After crashing for a time, we went into the museum – where a a pissed-off attendant told us they were soon closing. The front room was notable for a Auton-gentleman with a cravat, and a book on Edwardian Murders.

I ambled on to work out the extent of the museum, as we'd run out of time to explore it fully. Down a short corridor and to the left was the cart room - reminding me of the Folk Museum. But I was totally distracted by the windows, three of them down one wall, and the design of the door, and in general the room's shape and situation. Because it reminded me strongly of Mortimer's childhood - we can call it home. Although it never was, not really. That house had always had these characteristically tall, shuttered windows, and I'd been sure they were in period - but was too certain they were there to change them. I went into the next room, and this didn't feel so familiar, but with some trepidation I peered between the shutters and experienced the most horrible sensation - because I had known what the view must be like, because I've seen the view from that window before. I moved into the third room of the corridor. And this was unpleasant because, but for the orientation (this room was on the front of the house, not the back), it could have been his father's study - the original owner of my confusingly engraved pocket watch. Fireplace and all.

Now, every time I go to old houses I think about him, and maybe find the odd artifact of a design I like - but never anything like this. I felt like he was walking over my grave - or I over his.

If you haven't been keeping up, he was the roleplay character who never really went away. I don't want to focus on this too much, partly because I'll go on for hours, and partly because it gets into the Nature Of Creation. Nevertheless, because I "stayed in contact" with him, I've always been interested by what he is to me and vice versa.

How much of ourselves do we put into characters? Consciously, I wrote him as alien to myself. But now I wonder if my subconscious didn't write him with more care. Many of his defects and qualities, I can now identify with personally - and in some ways, my life has begun to mimick his history. What is this? Was it indeed the subconscious, and those qualities of mine I accidentally gave him have affected my life as it did his? There are some things about myself which I could not have known age 13 - an example would be our characteristic melancholia on consuming alchohol. Is it habit - I spent a lot of time "playing" him, something like three years at least. You can't spend that amount of time thinking in a certain manner without it brushing off. And maybe, then, things like his reaction to alchohol subconsciously informed mine. Is he the name I give to certain aspects of my personality, like a stage persona or a pen name - or a dark side, to disassociate my more unpleasant/unwanted characteristics by blaming them, or at least attributing them, to Someone Else. Or is he my ideal form? And certainly, at times I would like to be a gentleman (but is that habit, as mentioned above?)

Is it supernatural? Well, if we're going to be scientific about this, we should at least consider the silly options too. I do feel my brain and body shift, and my tone and mannerisms change - and this is no a conscious act. I'm not the only person to exhibit this sort of behavior: the Otherkin, for example, believe they are animals trapped in human form, and that they can feel, say, a tail and experience a shift between their human and "true" selves. There are even the Otakukin who, closer to what I am experiencing, believe they have the souls of certain Anime characters. Or people with past lives - I imagine, if you took me to a past life specialist this would be their explaination, and in my research on the topic they have used similar language to me. Certain groups might also suggest demonic posession.

I've more sympathy with the Otherkin than the past life folk, and I mention them because it's clear that a certain combo of imagination and (perhaps) discomfort with the real world regularly produces the effects I am describing. And because there is a fatal lack of rigour and scepticism in the New Age community, the phenomenon has never been properly studied. At present, I have got around to thinking that we are the same person, same starting stats, who have experienced different lives. In particular, he never had friends - while I have had marvellous ones in abundance; maybe also a caring, interested family. Perhaps because of all this, he has a fatal lack of empathy, whereas I have rather too much. But this conclusion will doubtless change again, as it always has.

This story, written predominantly when I was 13/14 and packed with youthful flaws, constantly amazes me with its accuracy - often when I least expect it. Some of the most vivid events of M's life are scattered and blurry, and often make no damn sense even though they are narratively the most important scenes to get straight. This was recently explained to me in a movie violence textbook, by a criminal psychologist talking about murder. Apparently, serial killers pre-plan in detail and keep souveneers because the sensation of killing doesn't last, and memory is instantly fallible afterwards. This explains a lot. And indeed, he very closely matches wikipedia's description of sociopath - he gets a 30/40 score (at least) on the Hare Psychopathy Checklist (He doesn't have a Grandiose Sense of Self Worth, and only appears to be Emotionally Shallow. I can't comment on his early life, and can't work out what Revocation of Conditional Release means.) The book on psychopathy offers a very familiar conclusion:

Cleckley describes the psychopathic person as outwardly a perfect mimic of a normally functioning person, able to mask or disguise the fundamental lack of internal personality structure, an internal chaos that results in repeatedly purposeful destructive behavior, often more self-destructive than destructive to others. Despite the seemingly sincere, intelligent, even charming external presentation, internally the psychopathic person does not have the ability to experience genuine emotions.

And I could go on; apparently, psychopaths have a particularly intense stare (and I have letters from the game attesting to this). Often, psychopaths are so convincing that solid evidence of their deceptions cannot convince others of anything but their innocence - he's actually experienced this on more than one occasion, and it's always been amusing. One of the most interesting things I have discovered is how far my experiences of his life are skewed by how he sees himself. At the time, I was playing him as a romantic hero. With perspective, I'm now realising how far he plays himself as a romantic hero. And sometimes, other people's behavior makes me think yes, the behavior of the minor characters is realistic. Add into that accidentally accurate details of London's layout, including the instinctive understanding that the south bank was scummy and warehouse-ridden; burning down Newgate Gaol and later discovering it had indeed been burned down historically, in almost the same year; knowing how to wield a regency gun before being instructed; little jolts like these make me think there is more to this than fancy.

Anyway, believe what you like. To my mind, there is not much separating something happening, and one's total belief that something is happening. It doesn't hurt anyone, so far as I can tell, and
perhaps it's even helping by keeping me keener to be good.

It's entirely possible I've picked all these things up by osmosis; but this was different, weird. Few films and books concentrate on the actual layout of houses in enough detail. Surely. It's also possible that once I noticed a few synchronicities, my mind was actively hunting for more - and obviously found them.

When the museum closed, I dragged Calypso around the house to have a closer look at that fateful view. Because climax of the tale occurs on the lawn at the back, so it was easy to find the right window. And there was arguably nothing more important than sitting uncomfortably in the long dining room at the back, glancing by chance through those windows – and catching sight of ghosts on the lawn – than dashing through the double shutters, walking over the stone terrace, down the grassy slope and finding the worst thing in the world at the bottom – because I've done this walk before, first in my imagination, and then again every time I've revised a script or story draft, I'm as familiar with it in my mind as the daily commute. So inevitably, I set off in the right direction and felt heavy and liberated all at once, queasy and released – like white sunlight would overwhelm my mind – and ran. I could have been anyone or anywhere: two parts of time which should never have touched.

And I’m not overreacting, I’m truly not, because I’ve been looking for this house most
of my life and never expected to find it. Nobody should be confronted with exploring their mental landscape in the flesh. This house should not have been real, and I’m half convinced that it wasn’t – or my memories of M’s house shifted to match it. But I still have those sketches, and to keep things in perspective, there are as many discrepancies as accuracies: six big rooms instead of four; different front, different lobby. And mercifully, the lake was not where it should have been (it was about 20 degrees to the left, slightly too far back and had been bricked in – but it would have been the right shape)

And I feel it will change to accomodate the things I’ve learnt. Because, like the instances above where my mind is a black hole because his is, I’ve never really been satisfied with his description of the house – like working out where the servant’s quarters are, because M never cared to be aware of them. Using the Gunnersbury layout, I can correct such mistakes. The back of the house looked correct in its length, even though from the inside there should only have been 8 windows instead of about 12 meaning there must be an extra room (and now I think of it, there was always a salon/parlour, the location of which I was never sure of because it wasn’t very important. I mean, I can think of six ground floor rooms – but apart from the two important ones, never worked out where the other four definitely fitted.)

After that, the day just became increasingly weird. Nostalgia came bubbling up, like the curse it is. We explored the rest of the park and found the boating lake, the temple, the fantastic orangery. We found a building from 1969, covered in carved graffiti from people with older names, like Ken and Dennis. And spray graffiti reading “Its going to start somewhere”, which seemed apt. We took two busses back, and I came home, buzzing to write – and then spent a long, long, long time on sociology websites. There’s only so much excitement I can take in a day.

We are going back. With cameras. Today is the 17th of June, close to the day it ended, and now I am itching to get to my old diaries and see how close we came.

Somehow, writing squee-induced posts about how much fun I'm having doesn't satisfy me. I'm having a lot of fun, and seeing lots of cool things, but they don't inspire me to write in the same way as being intellectual and pretentious does.

So, in the absence of Arcadia blogs, I direct you to either:

CINECISM, where I talk about my first ever Playstation experience, and make an unexpected discovery about video game violence. Long and tangled.

OR to

MALCASSAIRO, where I put Doctor Who: The Lodger under the sonic microscope. Abrupt and geeky.

In this issue: trip to a jumble sale; digression about cosplay; Mad Hatters Teaparty; good samaritans

I went on a quest to a jumble sale this morning. It was free, and somewhere to go: up in zone 3 in Tottenham. I've got rather bored of chain second hand shopping of late. Fair does to charities wanting to do the best for their causes, but if things are costing more than a pound, then it really takes the fun out of bargain hunting. Oxfam Books, I'm looking at you. In trying to appeal to a mainstream, most of the daft crap I'd treasure doesn't even reach the shelves.

The playground had been overtaken by about thirty car-boots and casual tables. Nothing seemed higher than a fiver, and it was like rifling through an attic. An electronic elephant graveyard, with boxes of broken DVD players; clothes, bizzare clothes; ugly jewellery; bad books; 8-track tapes. I loved it. Nothing was intrinsically valuable, but the enjoyment of shopping like that is the hunt: everything must have been the object of ardent desire to somebody, somewhere. Like the string of badly broken garden lights, tangled into knots with a mouse, a playstation and an old wire game. Bet no one ever thought that would be wanted by anyone.

It took me about 10 minutes to get the garden lights free, for one man's plastic tat is another's Liberator ray gun.

I've been building one for about a month now. I've got a really nice, cheap torch of the right proportions for a handle. I've a collection of five juice bottles in my room, all a little too big or small. I've been going down Asda corridors doing little Avon impressions to see if they "feel right"; I've even found the perfect shape in the Asda basics shampoo and conditioner, but alas those bottles are white, not see-thru.

I've no idea whether I should try and get the garden lamp bulb working with a switch, or dismantle it and slot the torch in, but I'm very happy with my purchase. At £2, it's actually cheaper than the Taste The Difference Lemonade experiment cost, and there are four lamps giving me three failed test runs. I also picked up a nice utility belt, and some curly black wire to attach it.

I still don't know where I'm going with all this. Cosplay being the inheritor of shamanistic ritual imitation, the vague plan is to have a bash at Blake. But he has an awful lot of things I don't have: not so much a gender-swap as Rugged Mega-Manly Man Masculinty; not so much size, as Serious Heroic Presence. I've a funny feeling the Robin Hood In Space aesthetic would translate to me as a thigh-slappin' pantomime pirate.

Calypso thinks it'll still work. Her theory is something like "If You Are More Attractive Than The Person You Are Cosplaying As, It Doesn't Matter". And I supposie that's why I make such a damn fine Sixth Doctor: because Colin Baker really didn't look good in his costume, whereas I rock it. When standing in a line of other Doctor cosplayers, they may be more accurate - but I'm still the hottest person in the room and the only one not going through a mid-life crisis. So I win.

That still leaves me in a bit of a spot, though. I'm easily more attractive than Colin Baker - but Gareth Thomas
is rather yummy in his own way, so here's a poll. If the internet thinks I'm hotter, than I will power ahead and buy tight trousers. If I lose my own poll on my own blog, then I'll go for one of the lady-characters (I don't know who this Soolin bird is - she hasn't turned up yet - but she would be instantly easier...)

So, there's the poll --------------> Vote! Vote now!

This may be academic, I don't know. I can't in good faith use a costume until I've got to the end, by which point I may no longer want to. And for now, I wouldn't pass up an opportunity to wear my fantastic coat.

As indeed I wasn't today, going to a Mad Hatter's Teaparty picnic purely as an excuse to legitimately wear all my outrageous gear at once. I took the bus back and established the route from Tottenham to London was one long retail strip with rubbish kebab shops on it. We had the angriest bus driver ever.

I stopped off at the Maughan library, for a little voluntary Latin and transform into my costume. Alas! No pictures, but I was wearing two different sorts of stripes (yellow and black + pink and white) plus the multicolour coat; a paisley cravat; the top hat complete with the Queen of Hearts, and I've developed a new style where I curl my hair over the brim of the hat and hold it there with the hatband. The result looks something between a mad powder wig and organic milinery. The tragic thing is, of course, that it didn't really feel like being in costume, as it's a combination I would have worn under most circumstances.

The picnic was in St James' Park, and consisted of caterpiller cake, cucumber sandwiches, mini mushrooms, and of course, tea marked "Drink Me". About 10 people ultimately attended - including Miss Liddell as Alice, Alzarius as the White Rabbit (he had pinched his mum's bathroom clock and attached it as a chain for a crazy huge pocket watch), and also Lady Gaga and the Black Corsair. Later, Ajax showed up. Time passed - from 4 until 9 - and for the whole time, the company kept up this appalling banter, somewhere between the language of the internet and Oscar Wilde dining room dialogue.

Perhaps it will turn out to be an expensive day after all? I got to play with the sonic screwdriver app on an iphone. It's a picture of a sonic screwdriver. You can make it move, and sounds work. That's about it - but it made me so very, very happy. It's a stupid reason to want one of the wretched things - especially because my poor mp3 player died earlier in the day, and my first thought was "Oh dear, that's a shame - but it has done three years good service, and one of those after being dunked in pineapple juice, so I can't complain". Not "I need an iphone as a replacement music player".

That would have been the end of the day's excitement, if not for some careless tourists and a little purple notebook at Westminster station. I like stationary, I like helping people, and I like being nosy - so I zeroed in on it very quickly and had a flick through. It contained very detailed plans of a holiday starting today in London, thenceforth to Paris, Frankfurt and Belsen - and had obviously just come from Korea because of the Korean hotel stationary, and had originated from Spain. Definitely an important notebook to return. For a moment, I thought their names might have been the two helpfully written in the back of the book. But I revised that estimate when I discovered a handy sheet of paper with the couple's full names, card numbers, expiry dates and security codes written on it. If not for that, I might have handed it into the station lost property box. But I always like returning things in person, as lost property boxes tend to be bottomless pits (especially if you're off in Central London and you can't remember where you dropped stuff), if there's enough information for me to do so - and I had enough information to bankrupt the pair of them then stalk them for the next month so yes, I had enough information. In a situation like that, you can only really trust yourself. I'm so glad it fell into the hands of someone absolutely morally unimpeachable...

...and I'm intrigued to discover how tricky being morally unimpeachable is when someone has handed their Mastercard, Visa and Paypal details to you. Even though I feel a sort of proxy fondness towards this pair, they are still pillocks.

Their hotel was on my route home - they had helpfully written down both the address of the apartment and the address of the check-in desk. I tried to make myself a little more presentable. By this point, I had long abandoned footware due to appalling blisters - because I made the mistake of buying ladyshoes and then trying to, y'know, walk in them. But I did my best to diminish the insanity of the Hatter costume, and arrived five minutes before the desk closed to discovered they had not yet arrived, so swapped details with the lady at the desk. I should really have left it with her, but that scrap of paper with the card information on really bothered me - besides, it was sort-of my responsibility by that point.

I worried for them a little bit on the way home - I mean, if you're on a journey that crazy you'd have lots of luggage, so why wouldn't they check in as soon as they arrived in London? I knew when that was as well...I wondered if their bizzare traveling was a once-in-a-lifetime megaholiday; or maybe they were rich folks on a run-of-the-mill jaunt, or perhaps international criminals?

I got a call from the hotel on exiting the Tube and arranged to drop it off the next day - she has a strange, hysterical voice. And quite a disappointing one too. I'm also a little crushed I won't be able to meet them; charity and voyeurism go hand in hand.

All in all, a busy, strange day.