It’s going to be all right. This story that has been going from frying pan to fire has a happy outcome in the end. I feel the need to tell you that because from here on in it gets darker and the oh no what’s next can be exhausting. So remember as we dive and the air becomes stifled and the pressure builds that there is a lowest point, and when we get there we’ll turn around and start coming up for air. We will survive. On his website he says he ran a clinic at the address of my farm; just a line in his bio that gives the lie of something simple and complete. To fury, upset, anger and outrage I cleared the farm while he waited in the safety of his north London flat. When everyone was gone, their lives uprooted, the commune dismantled, my car smashed, the effigy of me hanging by the neck broken into pieces and thrown onto the forest floor he returned and set up home in the bedroom down the hall. I thought he was my saviour. He was charismatic, he exploded with energy, he was sort of handsome, he played the trumpet when he wasn’t cracking eggs and blowing smoke. He was certain. He had an answer for everything. Shamanism is flashy, impressive, a mystery to which he liked to hold the keys, a gatekeeper, master of the arts. It was exciting. It felt as if the old life was cleared away and something new begun; new people, new language, drumming replaced by jazz solos. No more pagan ceremonies, now the altars had south American iconography, Mayan symbols, the incense changed from sage to copal. Eggs were bought by the tray. Even as I write this I can feel him listening. That’s the strength of it, truth doesn’t matter, if he really can hear me or not. He believed completely in his power and so did we, the support crew, the entourage, the floozies and flouncies, the set up that kept him in place and us looking only at him and not at each other. I have lived in these worlds between worlds and I know the rules and the no rules. Anything is possible. But I write this anyway because I know he cannot touch me. He is a fly buzzing in a jar. A boy from Kent who needed to feel better about himself. A magician who failed to read the small print. So we set up Centro Maya in the studio in the garden and the people came.
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I'm fascinated by the mind of someone who follows charlatans and lives blissfully unaware that they are in a cult. I say this with no judgement, just fascination and empathy. I've always said my bullshit detector is on high alert 24/7, but I'm not sure that's the best approach either.
So many thoughts on this, and also curious to know more!