FINDING PEACE

Looking back on my life I can see certain crossroads that led to the person I am today. And one such crossroad began on a lovely Sunday afternoon in the early 1980s when I lived in Norfolk.
We’d just moved to the area, and at that time I was an unthinking person, living the material life. However, I often took the family out for a Sunday drive. It wasn’t planned, and we just decided to go where the mood took us.

At about four o’clock we decided it was time to eat.

I stopped the car on the outskirts of a village. We got out and decided to explore and find a café. However, it soon became clear that we were being affected by this place. I think both Yvonne and I noticed it at the same time.
A feeling of absolute peace settled upon us, and I can honestly say I was uplifted in mood. But more than this, it was the first time in my life that I had experienced a spiritual connection. I suddenly felt a deep belonging, and the whole thing was surreal.

As we advanced into the village we began to see Catholic imagery.

This surprised me, and as we neared the centre, quiet religious music was playing. We noticed a hospice, and a ruin in the centre of an open space. And it was at this point we realized it must be an important Catholic shrine.
It was, infact, a place I’d never before heard of called Walsingham, site of one of the earliest visitations of the Virgin Mary, and place of Catholic pilgrimage. And for the first time in my life, I realized there was more to existence than the material world.

© Anthony North, September 2007

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Fiction Xtra – WHATSISNAME – A tale of inconsequence

Some people are so ordinary it is impossible to write about them. They are such non-entities that at times it seems their entire life is pointless, and certainly not worth highlighting in a story. One such person was a distant friend of mine called – what was it?
Let’s call him Whatsisname …
… read more …

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THE QUEST

I left school when I was 15. Since then I haven’t undergone any formal education at all, and have never gained an academic qualification in anything. Neither have I ever read a ‘how to’ writing book, or attended a writing class.
For many years I was quite happy with my lack of education. I could read, write, do sums, and a good memory meant I remembered a lot of ‘facts’ from school. This, along with common sense, seemed to get me through life quite adequately.

It all changed when I came down with CFS.

I belonged to the ‘school’ that thought too much education was not required for normal life. I had managed to hold down jobs, advance in a career, hold a conversation on most subjects, and was generally considered ‘intelligent.’
Becoming ill with CFS, and the experiences that followed it, caused me to change this view. And this was based on a realization that, if no one could tell me what was wrong with me, I should find out why.

For this I needed knowledge, and that meant self-education.

Suddenly I found myself, at the age of 27, devouring books of all kinds in an attempt to educate myself. And the more I delved into learning, the more I realized that much of our knowledge was a con.
Basically, knowledge, today, is based on specialization, but the more I studied these specializations, the more I realized that it was just one type of knowledge. Modern learning had little to do with ‘holism’, or seeing things as a whole.
I suppose it began a quest. And I’m on it still.

© Anthony North, September 2007

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FATE OR WHAT?

When I was about 10 years old I walked into a shop one day and the lady behind the counter asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Without thinking, I replied: ‘A writer, a soldier and a Dad.’
Now, I hadn’t really thought about any of these prior to this statement. Yet it was a fact that, as life panned out, I became, to a certain extent, all three. Is it possible that we can instinctively know our future at such a young age?

We could put it down to fate.

But I don’t like this word. It suggests that there is no free will, and whatever you do in life, it is inevitable how it will go. It makes me ask: what is the point of it all if we’re slaved to the inevitability of life?
I could take an existentialist view and argue it was my choice to do these things. But even here, it doesn’t work. Things happened later in life that led me in these directions, and cannot be related to the statement I made as a kid.

In this sense it’s a social thing.

We can claim to make choices, and be satisfied that they are our own. But the reality is we are categorized by our society and culture. Whatever choices we make are based on events in society, and interpretations of how society sees us.
But we can stack the odds in our favour; we can follow a certain path out of the multiple paths that open up to us. But I think we do this unconsciously. Deep inside, there is a real ‘you’ who know better than ‘you’ what you want out of life.
I think the real ‘me’ was active early, making me say things such as ‘a writer, a soldier and a Dad.’

© Anthony North, September 2007

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FINDING A PLACE

Okay, you’re 20 years old and full of life. You actually live in one of the most beautiful, serene places on the planet, but that’s boring. You’ve already gone off to the big city in search of adventure, but that was a dead end.
That was how I felt at 20. I had to get away. I remembered an ex-girlfriend – a forces kid, staying in the area – and she spoke of an interesting life. So I made the decision. I, Tony North, was going to join the Royal Air Force.

I’d seen all the films.

It seemed such an exciting life. See the world, and all that. So off I went, to York, my local city, to find the Careers Information Office, where I knew you had to go to join up.
Now, I know York quite well. I’d been there a lot. But it is such an ancient city that, although small, it is a rabbit warren of tiny streets. So could I find the place? Afraid not. I searched high and low, asked plenty of people, but to no avail. So what was I going to do? How was I going to realize my dream?

I decided to phone them up.

Exiting the phone box, I felt good. I’d used my initiative. They’d like that. And armed with the information, I found it easily.
For a time, I hovered outside, just like a jump jet. Was this what I really wanted? Of course it was. I needed the adventure. So I took a deep breath and walked inside.
The sergeant behind the desk looked an interesting fellow and I was sure we were to get on. He offered a wry smile. Said: ‘Are you the fella who just rang to ask where we are?’
Great. He’d appreciated my initiative. ‘Yes,’ I said, beaming.
He leaned forward. Grinned. ‘You’re not wanting to be a navigator then.’
Oh well. The initiative would come, I was sure.

© Anthony North, September 2007

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THE NAME’S BOND

The Name’s Bond – James Bond.
That’s what I used to say. After all, I was just a little kid. The bond movies had just begun to appear, and I was that man. Every day was an adventure as I tried to save the world from the bad guys.
I’d find bad guys everywhere, and with my spud gun I was invincible, finding them in gardens, on the streets, all over the place. But I was never appreciated. Usually I was just told off as people removed potato pellets from their clothes.
That’s the thing with secret agents. In the real world they’re never thanked.

But why did James Bond become so successful?

That was a question I asked myself many years later, when I’d begun to write. What was it about bond that made him rise above all the other fictional heroes? Was it his sense of Britishness, or his daring-do?
It was learning a bit about Ian Fleming, and later reading Carl Jung that the answer came to me. And it begins with the ‘archetype’.

Bond gets under your skin and jumps into the mind.

This is because he is the archetypal ‘stranger’ – a mythological being in the modern world, appearing to vanquish evil, and then disappearing just as swiftly. It is a story as old as mankind, and it seems we are wired by culture to be attracted to such ancient stories the most.
This, I discovered, was one of the central tools of the successful storyteller. It was not enough to communicate through words. You also had to tamper with the mind by placing ancient symbols that filter into the deep unconscious.
Fleming, and the later film makers, understood this, too. Bond was the stranger entangled in a battle between good and evil. That evil was SPECTRE, with all its supernatural connotations. And Blofeld, the arch villain?
Just look at the pictures of infamous occultist Aleister Crowley when he was older, and you’ll see Blofeld staring back.
Why, they even gave him a familiar with his pussycat.

© Anthony North, September 2007

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BORN TO BE WILD

Was I born to be wild? I don’t know. Are we born to be anything? Or is what we do decided by the experiences we have, the choices we make? I don’t know, but I certainly went towards the wild side in my teenage years.
Maybe that’s why, when I became lead guitarist in a local rock band, we usually opened each gig with – you’ve guessed it – Steppenwolf’s Born to Be Wild. And I think we communicated with our audience, even though the next number was usually Led Zep’s Communication Breakdown.

Loons and things

Looking back at those years, I always offer a smile. We weren’t a famous band – just a group of local lads trying to make it big, but never getting further than school or village hall.
I tended to look the part, my hair over a foot long and backcombed, my clothes the latest velvets and tie-dyed t-shirts, my shoes, huge platforms from which I quite often fell off. Ah, what we do for fashion still.

Tunes and noise

I couldn’t afford my dream guitar, a Gibson Les Paul, so I was satisfied with my copy. And boy, did I torture those strings. With a hundred watt stack behind me, my instrumentals were always improvised and loud.
It seemed to have the required effect with the audience. They made me feel I was almost as good as Page or Hendrix. But many years later, I suppose it was put in perspective, when a member of that audience said, in middle age:
‘You were certainly enthusiastic.’
Nothing about my musical ability then?
Oh well.
Sigh.

© Anthony North, September 2007

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THE MOMENT

They say life can change in a moment, and I think I’m lucky to have experienced a truly life changing one. It was the moment when I turned into a writer. Well, actually, it took years of practice to become one, but you know what I mean.
It was about six months after I’d come down with CFS. I was in the RAF at the time, and when the symptoms refused to go away, I was diagnosed with a ‘mild anxiety state’ and shipped off to hospital for ‘relaxation therapy.’

It wasn’t a cure, but it did make me very relaxed.

Many weeks later, I left hospital and caught a train back to base. However, an hour into the journey, the train broke down. An announcement said it would be two hours before we were moving again.
Me, being perfectly relaxed, sat back to enjoy the view, but soon the other occupants of the carriage caught my attention. To a man, and woman, they were becoming increasingly agitated.

It was like Jekyll turning to Hyde.

Believe me, this is no exaggeration. I saw a whole carriage of people go through various emotions and states which could only be described as mildly neurotic. And what had caused this display? These poor people were going to be late.
The implications for my life didn’t dawn on me at that moment, but it crept in slowly. The simple fact was, I could only see this because for a while I’d been taken out of society.

Previously, I would have been one of them.

I had had a unique glimpse of a ‘madness’ lying just below the surface of society. Of course, it wasn’t the only thing on my ‘journey’ to becoming a writer, but I suppose it put experiences past, and yet to come, into perspective.
It had given me a basis for a quest to understand human nature and society. And once realized, it drove me on to understand … and it drives me still.

© Anthony North, August 2007

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TOWN AND COUNTRY

Okay, folks, today’s post features my wife, Yvonne. Please don’t take the image the wrong way – all will be explained shortly . Yvonne comes from Birmingham, the UK’s second city, whereas I hail from a small country town in rural Yorkshire.
Obviously, our mind-sets were therefore slightly different – she, a modern city girl and me – well, I did escape a lot. And it is a constant joy to recall the time Yvonne first visited my home town.

The market rules

Looking resplendent with her perfect blonde hair, modern but elegant clothes, and more than the odd plunging neckline, the first meeting with my father – already retired and a countryman through and through – came to a delightful phase when he asked if she’d like to see the market.
In city-speak ‘the market’ means lots of clothes stalls where bargains are to be had, so you can imagine her puzzlement upon turning the corner to see dozens of enclosures containing mooing and bleating cows and sheep.

Walk with the animals

To a stunned Yvonne, the sight of a bull trying to jump an enclosure to become friends with a number of cows was then crowned by my father waving his walking stick in the air and declaring: ‘come on, get up there.’
A further highlight was obviously when my father suggested she went to see the pigs. Politely, she said yes – although it took rather a long time to clean her high heels after walking through a level carpeting of …
… well, I’ll let you picture it yourself.
Over the following decades we have been together, our various upbringings have led to a virtual see-saw of living first in the country and then in the city, but in maturity I’m pleased to inform you that we both decided the countryside would win.
Yet it is an important fact that our present location is in easy commuting distance of two cities – and a large number of markets to which she can identify.

© Anthony North, August 2007

The Point Of It All - A slightly dark tale of modern life.

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OPTIMISTICALLY SPEAKING

I’m one of those people you hate. You know, full of optimism. The world is delightful, and nothing can get me down. I’ve heard people like me talking to others, and I’ve thought: ‘what a …’
Well, we won’t go into that.

But nothing, good reader, is how it seems.

I was optimistic as a kid. Not inside, you understand, but how I reacted to life. I suppose today I’d have been classed as hyper-active and put on drugs. In earlier times, I’d have had the ‘Devil in me.’
I was the kid who would see a high gate … with spikes on top … in the snow … as a challenge. As I hung there, a spike through my hand, I said: ‘Ouch.’
I was the kid that nothing could touch. Hence, I wasn’t looking that Christmas Eve morning when I went tumbling into the electric fire.

Optimism is such trouble

Two years and nine surgical operations later, my optimism – my indestructibility – was still there. It wasn’t inside, but it WAS on the surface, where it counts. And as adolescence came and went, the optimism transferred to the opposite sex.
Sometimes I was successful, at other times not.

You mean I wasn’t a babe-magnet?

That’s the trouble with optimism. It’s a good outlook to have, but it causes misjudgements and calamities.
I realized this eventually, and decided optimism must be tempered with pessimism. It is not a depressing outlook to have, but a means of survival.
Nowadays I live by a simple mantra: plan for the worst and hope for the best. I do this because I’ve realized life must be a balance or it’s a bitch. And with this outlook, most of the surprises are good ones.

© Anthony North, August 2007

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DO IT YOURSELF

I’m the world’s greatest do it yourself expert. Whenever someone wants me to do something technical, I say: ‘Do it yourself.’
It’s nothing to do with being lazy, or anything like that. It’s just that, whilst the brain seems to work adequately, it cannot transmit to the hands. It once took me two hours to work out how to open the bonnet (hood) of a car.
Flat packs remain flat in my hands; paint always ends up upside down. But the other day, I think I crowned by brilliant abilities as a handyman.

It was one of those days

It began when my wife called me into the kitchen to peruse a tap that just wouldn’t turn off. Water poured, splashing the surrounding area. I said: ‘Oh dear, my dearest darling, you seem to be having a spot of trouble.’
(Yea, right)
Now, this was the first house I had had with a new combination water boiler under the stairs. Immediately I bent down to the stop cock under the sink to turn the water off. A little old, a little rusty, it just wouldn’t turn. So out came the hammer …

Emergency measures

Numerous bangs later, water splashing all about me, it was time for the phone.
Plumber came. Perused the problem. Went under the stairs. Water off.
‘It moved,’ he said, a smirk on his face.
Don’t you just hate it when that happens.

© Anthony North, August 2007

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