
Blog: Archives: 2012 2011 2010 2009 2008 2007 About/Contact	The Journey Through The Mythical Kingdoms Blondel was a man of twenty-three. Of rebellious youth, he’d spent the end of his teenage years as a member of the Brethren of Castalia, studying the ways of the East and the Western romantic poets, but he’d been lured out by a false love for a lusty girl who could never hope to mirror his innermost passions and turn them into gold. Gertrude was the name of the girl, she danced to the devilish beat of the artificial music of this age and disappeared into the night like a phantom. That hampered love was of the few that Blondel had experienced in his sheltered adult years, and he made the mistake of bestowing on it unknown profundity. The end of this short relationship was like a strike about the head from a meteor, but now he was out in the world, a world he had hardly ventured out into before, and there was no way back. Knowledge, of the innocent kind, for the young poet was something long-attained, the smile that often accosted his lips said so much itself. Personal passions flowed freely too, often giving Blondel a sweet happiness and serenity and even long periods of exultancy. He would write poetry, stories, and paint all day long, and walk in the park of evenings, but all about him were other things, relationships between friends, music and art too that aroused deep agitation, and as he continued gaining associates and went further and further out from his shelter into the wider world, the taste of it became more and more bitter and arousing, like a sweet scent descending to hell. This was a hedonistic age that Blondel, bearing in mind his years in his Castalia exile, couldn’t become settled in like others. The doubtful glances he observed in the faces of friends at gatherings, especially the ones who had vowed that they were in love, struck deep into his soul, affecting him terribly, and often their relationships and way of life seemed absurd. Blondel ignored these feelings for as long as he could, and continued to explore this strange new life that he’d been drawn out into by Gertrude with a wide-eyed awe. But he became more and more jaded. His passions slowly fell away, his taste for music and the arts became tainted, a divide appeared in his expression, in relationships that had been so fresh on his release back into the world, and his sweet dreams at night would slowly turn into unmemorable nightmares that would make his stomach ache in mornings. Blondel was in a terrible downward spiral, only tempered by the love of a few friends, some beautiful flourishes of new music that would fall into his hands by dint of some miracle, and the fading memories of the ways of the East and spiritual salvation. The second year of his Castalia escape went by with not as many memories as his first. Blondel’s dreams at the end of this two-year period retained almost none of the wonder of those that had sufficed to steady and inspire him in his first year. He was justifiably worried. But still there was no way back into the previous shelter. It had to come to a head. And it did so at a gathering in "The Mythical Kingdom”, where the bohemians, party kids, and hedonists of the time came out to celebrate the ways of modern alternative culture. Blondel had been to one such gathering before, and had been struck by its wildness, blinding colour and unhinged joy, or so it seemed, in the midst of an outside world that was becoming ever paler. Here he found himself reeling to African music. He found hints of the classical music he adored, the folk worlds that he had ardently and carefully explored were well represented, and not in the ways they were in the city where he lived at the time, where folk performances had long attained the air of museum showpieces, where people would stand and gape for hours on end at all-too-smart musicians and pretend to be moved by their prosaic celebrity utterances rather than dance like they once demanded. It was far from perfect of coarse, but more than all this, also at this Mythical Kingdom, Blondel stumbled upon a relationship which was the first one he could really call his own, an innocent relationship that didn’t repulse him at all with the horrors, with the desperate clamour of modern day life, but filled him afterwards with a wonder to go out and resurrect all the things he had loved over the years of his childhood and young adult life and make new beautiful things. It had remained a distant relationship, but for a year after Blondel let it softly revitalise him. Productivity had reached an end in the previous forlorn era, but he wasn’t worried. This was a new flower that seemed to grow in him and slowly pique all the other parts of his being as it went. Music had regained a good proportion of its magic, physical joys had begun to be taken again, the birds seemed to sing more audibly in the trees, the poetry of the East shone brighter, and the sunsets became beautiful again. One year on, The Mythical Kingdom beckoned once more, and Blondel set off with joy in his heart. The countryside was beautiful despite overcast weather, its lake shimmering and creating a path for the eyes to follow over to the big country mansion on which soft lights swayed. The woods that sat besides were lit like a fairytale, and all outlandish deeds took place in them like the spirits ordained. Blondel felt like he used to when suddenly, in the depressing depths of a school lesson as a child, he would be sent out into the world on some errand, and feel its colour and possibilities like never before. Music from all over the world was played with no pretensions to being “World Music”, collectives from Ghana, Cameroon and Spain spraying their flavours with unabashed festivity. Stalls flashed before the eyes, variegated, ramshackle inventions of modern outlandish entrepreneurs fed up with prosaic modern life enough to make us smile. An African witch brewed Sloe Gin and sold it for a dance. A cricket game went on with hilarious abandon, each player having to wear a false beard to prove his commitment to this wonderful new world. And why not? Festive invaders came from all over to share their unique magic, be it with a skipping rope or a poem, and, despite the presence of those very same looks amongst revellers that had so haunted Blondel for so long, looks that said that these people had found some darker reality than the one of unhindered love that this beguiled kingdom promised, in a reprise of the special relationship from the bygone year, the promise of a wonderful insight was delivered. And on the way out, after a walk around the magic woods, shimmering in light from the broken morning clouds, in a space where people had written their own paeans to the carnival on a mixture of card and paper cups, was a sign that read: “The Mythical Kingdom, like rebel manna, delivers miracles only to those that earnestly follow its path.” Blondel took a deep breath, remembered the smile that softly reached to lands beyond all pain and knowledge, fell to the floor, and in a kaleidescope of colour, was once more taken by the sweetest childhood dreams. © 2008 Neil Jones Story based on the Shambala Festivals ’07 & ’08 in lands unknown.
© Miwsig

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The Journey Through The Mythical Kingdoms

Blondel was a man of twenty-three. Of rebellious youth, he’d spent the end of his teenage years as a member of the Brethren of Castalia, studying the ways of the East and the Western romantic poets, but he’d been lured out by a false love for a lusty girl who could never hope to mirror his innermost passions and turn them into gold. Gertrude was the name of the girl, she danced to the devilish beat of the artificial music of this age and disappeared into the night like a phantom. That hampered love was of the few that Blondel had experienced in his sheltered adult years, and he made the mistake of bestowing on it unknown profundity. The end of this short relationship was like a strike about the head from a meteor, but now he was out in the world, a world he had hardly ventured out into before, and there was no way back.

Knowledge, of the innocent kind, for the young poet was something long-attained, the smile that often accosted his lips said so much itself. Personal passions flowed freely too, often giving Blondel a sweet happiness and serenity and even long periods of exultancy. He would write poetry, stories, and paint all day long, and walk in the park of evenings, but all about him were other things, relationships between friends, music and art too that aroused deep agitation, and as he continued gaining associates and went further and further out from his shelter into the wider world, the taste of it became more and more bitter and arousing, like a sweet scent descending to hell. This was a hedonistic age that Blondel, bearing in mind his years in his Castalia exile, couldn’t become settled in like others. The doubtful glances he observed in the faces of friends at gatherings, especially the ones who had vowed that they were in love, struck deep into his soul, affecting him terribly, and often their relationships and way of life seemed absurd. Blondel ignored these feelings for as long as he could, and continued to explore this strange new life that he’d been drawn out into by Gertrude with a wide-eyed awe. But he became more and more jaded. His passions slowly fell away, his taste for music and the arts became tainted, a divide appeared in his expression, in relationships that had been so fresh on his release back into the world, and his sweet dreams at night would slowly turn into unmemorable nightmares that would make his stomach ache in mornings.

Blondel was in a terrible downward spiral, only tempered by the love of a few friends, some beautiful flourishes of new music that would fall into his hands by dint of some miracle, and the fading memories of the ways of the East and spiritual salvation. The second year of his Castalia escape went by with not as many memories as his first. Blondel’s dreams at the end of this two-year period retained almost none of the wonder of those that had sufficed to steady and inspire him in his first year. He was justifiably worried. But still there was no way back into the previous shelter. It had to come to a head. And it did so at a gathering in "The Mythical Kingdom”, where the bohemians, party kids, and hedonists of the time came out to celebrate the ways of modern alternative culture. Blondel had been to one such gathering before, and had been struck by its wildness, blinding colour and unhinged joy, or so it seemed, in the midst of an outside world that was becoming ever paler. Here he found himself reeling to African music. He found hints of the classical music he adored, the folk worlds that he had ardently and carefully explored were well represented, and not in the ways they were in the city where he lived at the time, where folk performances had long attained the air of museum showpieces, where people would stand and gape for hours on end at all-too-smart musicians and pretend to be moved by their prosaic celebrity utterances rather than dance like they once demanded. It was far from perfect of coarse, but more than all this, also at this Mythical Kingdom, Blondel stumbled upon a relationship which was the first one he could really call his own, an innocent relationship that didn’t repulse him at all with the horrors, with the desperate clamour of modern day life, but filled him afterwards with a wonder to go out and resurrect all the things he had loved over the years of his childhood and young adult life and make new beautiful things.

It had remained a distant relationship, but for a year after Blondel let it softly revitalise him. Productivity had reached an end in the previous forlorn era, but he wasn’t worried. This was a new flower that seemed to grow in him and slowly pique all the other parts of his being as it went. Music had regained a good proportion of its magic, physical joys had begun to be taken again, the birds seemed to sing more audibly in the trees, the poetry of the East shone brighter, and the sunsets became beautiful again. One year on, The Mythical Kingdom beckoned once more, and Blondel set off with joy in his heart.

The countryside was beautiful despite overcast weather, its lake shimmering and creating a path for the eyes to follow over to the big country mansion on which soft lights swayed. The woods that sat besides were lit like a fairytale, and all outlandish deeds took place in them like the spirits ordained. Blondel felt like he used to when suddenly, in the depressing depths of a school lesson as a child, he would be sent out into the world on some errand, and feel its colour and possibilities like never before. Music from all over the world was played with no pretensions to being “World Music”, collectives from Ghana, Cameroon and Spain spraying their flavours with unabashed festivity. Stalls flashed before the eyes, variegated, ramshackle inventions of modern outlandish entrepreneurs fed up with prosaic modern life enough to make us smile. An African witch brewed Sloe Gin and sold it for a dance. A cricket game went on with hilarious abandon, each player having to wear a false beard to prove his commitment to this wonderful new world. And why not? Festive invaders came from all over to share their unique magic, be it with a skipping rope or a poem, and, despite the presence of those very same looks amongst revellers that had so haunted Blondel for so long, looks that said that these people had found some darker reality than the one of unhindered love that this beguiled kingdom promised, in a reprise of the special relationship from the bygone year, the promise of a wonderful insight was delivered. And on the way out, after a walk around the magic woods, shimmering in light from the broken morning clouds, in a space where people had written their own paeans to the carnival on a mixture of card and paper cups, was a sign that read: “The Mythical Kingdom, like rebel manna, delivers miracles only to those that earnestly follow its path.” Blondel took a deep breath, remembered the smile that softly reached to lands beyond all pain and knowledge, fell to the floor, and in a kaleidescope of colour, was once more taken by the sweetest childhood dreams.