RITE OF PASSAGE.
When I was small, before my father died, I believed in fairies. But only when I was
in Hastings. Because in Hastings the air was different. The musty damp smell of
the lavender house staircase switched on my inner vision. My sense of smell was
linked to the old fish and rotting ropes of the beach old town fishing boats. And
this smell produced magic in my mind.
My inner peace heard bells and music in the fresh air, the
gorse bushes on the east hill whispered with the voices of the bogyman and his
victims. And I would pretend I didn’t hear them then suddenly turn and point,
to let them know that I did know they were there all along. And all the stories
told and picture books I looked at blew more oxygen into the fire of my
imagination where skeletons danced, ghosts hooted, and fairies lived in small
communities in the holes of trees and danced in the dappled light of Fairlight
woods and we had an understanding.
These other beings were my company, my background, my inner music,
I spent my time dreaming safely, composing music in my mind where they became even
That is the mind of a child free of humiliation and fear.
And despite the perceived surface meanness and frugality of living my fathers rules our inner world was rich and abundant.