Sometimes, I peep at folks through Facebook and it’s like a marketplace where there are many conspicuous wannabe ladies of Avalon (with only one L; not the real French town with double L). Honestly, regardless of where they are or where they go to, they seem to be importing and exporting much the same. Also curious is that they don’t have an openly competitive attitude. Instead, they butter each other up with amiable gestures. I guess that’s what people now call sisterhood! It serves them, but it’s not true cooperation and it manifests as a variety of snobbery, in relation to everybody else. Deep down, maybe they know, or at least suspect that, actually, what they want is readily available to everyone. As long as they follow a certain modus operandi that keeps nowadays Glastonbury and the extended spiritual marketplace alive, if debauched as ever.
Of course, there are rarer elixirs, to be found in less congested locales that owe nothing to soggy apple crumble, sodding Malmesbury, congregations of greedy monks, mischievous abbots, cunning priestesses, conmen, carnivals, funfairs, cultural appropriation, and the commodification of lowercase spirituality. As a tip for the potentially talented, deeply creative, and truly original:
Go, go, and add to the rowdy crowd…, but don’t get lost in the mist, fog, or pouring rain. That’s not important and won’t make you special. Besides, damp weather is the worst for feeble bones. I can say this because I, once a probing young Portuguese, arrived in Glastonbury on the verge of the Millennium; childlike and open-minded. I also used to ride horses in Sintra since I was a kid. So, I fell on the malodourous mud times enough to learn to avoid it.