The Wonderful Wizard of Oz - Self-Redemption and Art

The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz

Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Flying Monkeys Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

A few days ago I attended an art and writing workshop at Broadacre House in Newcastle run by Launchpad.  The subject of the workshop was stigma.  The day was very good.  Lovely people.  Lovely conversation.  And we all enjoyed ourselves.  After some exercises to get our creative brains working we were told to write something about stigma with a view to creating a piece of art related to the subject by the end of the four hour session.



We were given a whole twenty minutes to write.  Later in the day our writings were taken and typed up.  I wish I'd proof read the typing on the day.  There are mistakes in it.  That's a shame because all of our writing and art from the day is going on public display in two locations through mental health week.  I may have to go along on the first day with Tippex and a pen!

Twenty minutes.  I spent the first five of these minutes boiling a kettle and making a much needed mug of spiced tea.  So fifteen minutes.  Here's the result.  I finished before the fifteen minutes were up too!

Self Redeeemed

Don't speak to me and I won't speak to you.

Won't mention it, imply it, talk it out.

It's a private thing you say, too much for you.

“Why don't I just stop?” you say.

“Stop being autistic, difficult, so bloody selfish.

Snap out of depression you ungrateful bastard.

And if you mention a personality disorder again?”

But I didn't mention it. You did.

And yet, the biggest stigma was in my own head.

Autism? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

Not shut in. Not melting in the street.

Not much anyway.

Not some mono-focussing idiot savant,

The local Rain Main equivalent,

Or as socially inept as a Sheldon.

BPD? No way. Can't be true. I'm not one of them.

It's just wrong, like all the other diagnoses were wrong.

I'm not like that.

And they only ever said I was because of the cuts.

It's bull. Stupid psychiatrists.

BPD? Nonsense. Just like the rest.

I'm not bipolar, schizoid, schizotypal, schizophrenic. Or any of them.

Yeah, I received stigma. Internalised it. Just another reason for self hate, calling myself a monster.

Couldn't accept the truths because I was raised proud, raised pure, raise to not be disordered.

No ASD or BPD. No Ds at all. Or they'll see me for what I am and hate me just like I deserve.

Freedom is worth fighting for.

Coming back to what I thought false myths and accepting the facts. Facing down the myths I believed and rejecting them.

And now?

ASD, BPD – and my queerness, my irreligion. So what? Inside I will broach no stigma.

I will stand. Out and proud. Out. Public. Self-accepting. Self-believing. Under no illusions.

No. Less illusions. There are still stories I tell.

Lies I kid myself with. Lies of the old monster kind.

Lies. Stories.

Can't write. Can't sing again. Can't hope.

Lies. Stories.

And they will fall too.

Now is the time to live. Free. Self-redeemed.

No matter what they say.

And they do say.

But less than I ever believed they would.

I believed they would damn me.

Because I stigmatised myself more than the so-called society ever could.

I am out and proud.

Free and self-redeemed.

Then it was time to do some art.  I can panic at art.  Panic at paint.  To be given paper or canvas and some paint and be told to create something is a thing of dread for me.  And yet.  I made something.  We all did.  Each piece arising from the honesty of our own situations and experiences.

The words in the red sections represent words that have spoken to me.  The words in that strange looking face are questions I've asked and stories I've told myself.  The words round that face are positivity.  In the midst of all the rest I am determined that those words are part of my truth.

It's not an artistic masterpiece.  But it's mine.  And I'm proud to have done something without guidance, without help, and without having a meltdown.  That's a joy for me.  Seeing the work and hearing the words of the other people in the workshop was also a joy.

As for that exercise to get our brains loosened up.  We were given a sentence to free write from.  As it turned out we were given just enough time for me to fill a page.  What we came up with was great, each person happening to go in a completely different direction.  Here's my direction.

Reluctantly, he handed over the key.

She looked at him in horror.
"C sharp major? You've got to be kidding me.  I can't play that."
"Well that's going to be a problem, isn't it missy?  I've paid for you to play and you're going to play.  Don't think I won't report you if you play it wrong."

Life as a music slave was not the worst way to survive in the new world.  At least there was food.  At least there was the transfixing joy of playing from your own soul when you weren't working.  Kate wondered.  Was this difficult, angry customer really a music expert from the old world?  Or was he just being harsh out of cruelty?

She decided to risk finding out, risk playing in a way she knew her rendition of the piece would be perfect.  Kate liked playing Bach, even with difficult intervals.  But even the master himself would never have chosen a key with seven sharps.  Kate wondered what he would think if he knew his music was being played by slaves on another world, what kind of sonata or cantata that knowledge would inspire.

She decided.  The risk was worth it.  Even if discovered the punishment wouldn't be much worse than that for playing badly.  The thought of being separated from her precious piano for a day, a week, longer, was almost unbearable.

Kate looked at the man.  He was sweating in anticipation of hearing.  He looked more a fool than a musician.

C sharp major.  No thanks.  Kate knew she would be playing the Goldberg Variations in C.  Just a semitone out.  And no sharps.  He wouldn't notice would he?

She placed her fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and began her performance.

The Saint Of Oz - Thomas, Apostle of Doubt

The Surprise Doubting Saint Of Oz

Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Tin Man Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Field Of Poppies Of Oz

Saint Thomas, Apostle of Doubt

John 20:29

Jesus said to him, Thomas, because you have seen me, you have believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.

Matthew 13:16

Blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear.

I did not expect to meet an apostle on the road to the Emerald City. Yet he was there. We walked and talked. A secret passage behind the gods of a shrine in India had led him to Oz.

From grey half-born light

Thomas approached. His face worn

of anxious wrinkles.

Seeing me, he smiled.

Held out his hands in welcome. Said

“Come, Wander with me.”

He showed stark wisdom.

Taught the virtue inherent

In my doubt wrecked life.

Thomas, the despised.

Through a thousand stern sermons

Stoned for his thinking.

But Jesus blessed him

Just as much as men of faith

Who fail to question.

Pronounced salvation

On evidence and emptiness.

Valued the contrasts.

I learned to lose guilt.

Let go the religious critic.

Accept my well-lived way.

Then he turned to leave,

His weight held by trusted staff.

He did not look back.

Consider this: What if the sermons are wrong? What if Jesus was congratulating Thomas for wanting evidence? What if he was pronouncing that faith has to be intelligent and can't be based on nothing – not even a well loved book or its social acceptability.

What if Jesus said, “Well done. You've tested to see whether something is true rather than turning your brain off and being a dumb slave to a Gospel message.”

What if the blessing he gave to those with that unseeing faith arose from his toleration and acceptance of all?

What if he said, “Your faith is a bit silly but I walk the way of love so bless you anyway?”

What if Jesus doesn't want anyone to take statements, especially religious ones at face value?

What if he wants us to test everything in the book about him? Through science. Through history. Through the evidence of our own lives. Through plain common sense.

What if he wants us to let go of everything in our lives, religious or otherwise, that doesn't make sense?

What if Jesus wasn't bearing with the weakness of Thomas but the weakness of his other followers?

I too taught that Thomas was a doubter. I preached it.

But he is not a doubter. He's a questioner. And questioning faith, assumptions, the media, politics, motives, our own souls, and the whole of life is a good thing.

Plato said that the unexamined life is not worth living.

What if Jesus pointed to Thomas and said, “Look, here is an example of the examined life. Follow this example.”

What if the churches got it all wrong? What if the New Testament writers got it all backwards too in the very worship of Jesus rather than the greater light he pointed to?

These are just questions. Do with them what you will.

Embrace me. Condemn my heresy.

I don't mind.

But will you walk with me on the yellow brick road of the examined life and on a road where evidence leads to the risk of rejecting many things we would love to believe in?

I took the risks. Life is now harder. Far less certain. But it is more worthwhile.

Following The Yellow Brick Road - An Art Project

Welcome, welcome.

I am the wizard.  I am the witch.  I am Dorothy too.  Welcome to my world, to my crazy meandering yellow brick road through a land not unlike the land of Oz.

I should explain.

Some of you will have found this page by chance.  Some through links I'll have placed on social media.  And some of you, all being well, will have taken a piece of paper from a box in an exhibition and typed in a web address.  Hey presto, through the hokum of magic you are all here.

This page and those that follow arose from an art project undertaken at the Recovery College Collective in Newcastle, an amazing place for people attempting to recover from all kinds of different mental health problem.  I am one of those in recovery.

The idea was simple.  Take a box.  Take a fairy tale.  Transform the box into that tale, or at least into a version of the tale that reflects the teller's life and journey and message.

A simple idea.  But I'm not great at practical arts.  I can't draw and I'm not ever going to be the world's foremost expert at making things or at producing visual wonderments.  I'm neither going to create the reality or the sham of an Emerald City.  I'm also not great at fairy tales.  I spent weeks trying to decide which one fitted my life the best.  Difficult when I didn't grow up among such tales.  I grew up with Asimov, Bradbury, and lots of other sci-fi and fantasy writers.  I didn't spend my time with Grimm or Anderson or the other workers of fairy stories.  Eventually I decided in a moment of jest that I could focus on The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and all the ways I looked outside for answers that could only be found inside.

The box is made.  The box is, or will be, presented at an exhibition alongside boxes made by other participants in the course.  There may be dancing too.

I realised early on that I am far better at building with words than with crafting materials.  So I began to write.  The pages that follow are the result of my writing about different parts of my journey along the yellow brick road towards some kind of freedom in myself.

I hope you find some enjoyment in it all.  Or some challenge.

Come, walk with me on the Yellow Brick Road.  Let's go and see the Wizard together and see what he can do for us.  Let the journey begin.  We'll be following the movie closer than the book.

Before you start the journey I'd like to invite you to take a look, or another look, at the decorated box.  You can find descriptions and photos of box underneath this link.




Each chapter can be found by clicking on the title.  Each chapter will contain a link back to this page, to the previous chapter and the following chapter.

Contents

Kansas.  Before The Cyclone

The Cyclone

The Wicked Witch

The Scarecrow

The Cowardly Lion

The Tin Man

Saint Thomas, Apostle of Doubt

The Field Of Poppies

The Emerald City

The Flying Monkeys

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

The Tin Man Of Oz - How Too Much Heart Brings Disorder

The Tin Man Of Oz

This page is part of a project arising from a course at ReCoCo.

Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Saint Of Oz

Well here's something I'm having to deal with.  At this point it's not a medically re-diagnosed certainty.  At this point it's only a high probability.  It's not something I want.  On the contrary, I don't want it in the slightest.  I wish it not to be true.  The Wizard can wave his wand and it can be taken away from me.

But life doesn't work like that.  Dealing with this isn't about magic wands.  It's not about some miracle tablet provided by a psychiatrist.  It's not even about a dietary change or making a simple lifestyle change.  Dealing with this is going to be a lot of hard work.

So here it is.  Here's a truth about me.  The shrinks told me about this many years ago but I didn't listen.  On balance, not listening was a fair tactic because the shrinks often got it wrong.  They got this one right though.  Unfortunately.

And now, only now, am I looking at it honestly, accepting it, and asking the question, "What can I do about it?"

I wrote these words a week ago in a spare few minutes during a day with the autistic theatre company.  They began in haiku syllable form but by the end my fives and sevens were more sixes and eights.

It's not that I don't have a heart.  It's that I have what feels like too much of one.  And I've never learned to deal with that.  Innate emotional sensitivity combined with my childhood.

This is the result.  This is my confession.

Between love and hate,
Despair and terror chain me
On the borderline.

Each moment.  Tick.  Tock.
Tick.  Hold me close.  This second.
Tock.  Just walk away.

They told me the truth.
And I, misunderstanding,
Refused to listen.

Couldn't be bound by
Words. Just diagnostic labels
And accusations.

Forced to look again:
Six tests, expert testimonies.
I have BPD.

Crying on the edge.
Stuck between black neurosis and
Darker psychoses.

In voices, visions,
Infernal cyanide thoughts.
Abandonment screams.

In hard word and deed
I believe you'll stay, you'll go.
Cling.  Push you away.

There's hope.  Not CBT,
But DBT for BPD,
Tackling my anguish.

A slow, bright mountain;
A difficult salvation,
Healing to strive for.

I'll do this.  No choices.
Can't go on the way I am.
Not quite knowing me.

I have BPD.
No, that's not a death sentence.
It's a new beginning.

The Scarecrow of Oz - Or The Validation And Acceptance Of The Child

The Scarecrow Of Oz

This page is part of a course taken at The Recovery College
Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Wicked Witch Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

I always knew I had a brain. Sometimes this led to arrogance. A feeling of smug superiority that my intellect was amazing.

Sometimes. But I knew it was wasted too.

They taught me at school to waste my brain. They taught me that my academic abilities were a burden to others. Over and over they told me not to shine. To be only quite clever.

They held me back. I was forced to push myself beyond the boundaries they set me. They didn't appreciate that. And if I happened to make an error in that wide wonder space beyond they slapped me back with full force.

They slapped me so much that I accepted their ways. I did only what was necessary to pass the exams they set. Nothing more. Because I knew they didn't want more. Most of them anyway.

As an adult I've been frustrated by this. Once you've intentionally switched much of your brain off and done your best to kill it it's very difficult to switch it on again. I still haven't succeeded and it's painful that my brain cannot do the things that it can do.

I think this was one of the factors in developing mental health problems as a child. It was a part of my crushing, my annihilation at the hands of the world. Just one part of having to be someone else and reject me.  How's that for an over-dramatic paragraph?!

You're right of course.  It is.  Yet it looks more and more like I have a disorder that comes about often through a combination of having a biologically based emotional sensitivity with growing up in an invalidating environment.  It wasn't that I had bad parents.  There was just invalidation based around that innate sensitivity, around my academic ability, around gender and probably around much more.  My parents did their best of course.  They weren't abusing me or anything like that.  Nevertheless the invalidation was there and it contributed to problems I now have and certain problems that I'm only just accepting I have.  More of that in a later post.

My functional brain – that just so happened to function well in the particular direction that can pass exams and sail through IQ tests – became dysfunctional.

The message here is not just to let clever children be clever to their full potential.  IQ and academia aren't the points here.  They don't make you into a superior person except in the world of IQ and academia, which we all know isn't the be all and end all of life.  Recently I've been working on a project with some learning disabled adults.  Great people.  Who just happen to have learning disabilities of various kinds.  The message here relates to them just as much as it might relate to me.

It's to let children be their own wondrous selves to their full potential. To encourage them in selfness.

The Bible says to “raise up a child in the way they should go.” Christians and Bible translations have so often got this wrong. They try to force a way upon the child – that the child should be a Christian too. That's the opposite of what the proverb says. The Hebrew is more concerned with “raise up a child in accordance with the pattern of their own character and attributes.”

That is, whoever the child is, encourage them – as long as love governs the encouragement and the child's actions.

It's not forcing our own hopes and aspirations on our children.

It's not imposing a religion or a dogma or a way of being and saying that they are doomed outside that imposition.

It's not telling a very, very clever child to be only a little above average.

It's not telling a child who may not have such academic ability or who can't ace IQ tests that they are anything less than wonderful for not passing every exam.

It's embracing the child when they dream, when they develop interests, when they turn out to be autistic or neurodivergent in other ways.

It's not pushing the child into dreams, failed or otherwise, that belong only to their parents or guardians.

It's loving the child for the child. Not for who you want the child to be.

It's asking a child who they are.  And being excited when they tell you and show you, for their sake.

That's a path to a healthier brain, to happier children and adults.

That's a path I could never grant myself – let alone anyone else for I too was a hell believer and thought that outside of my own path there was only damnation.

And then, turning from the sky wizard of lightning flashes and spectacular show, I met the Oz wizard within. The ordinary person. Just me.

I said, “I have a brain. It's damaged in too many ways. Each week I want to hurt myself. Each month I fall apart. Each year I plan my suicide. Each day I want to give up. O wizard, grant me a new brain.”

The wizard spoke.

“You have the power to grant yourself a new brain. Though you may take a dozen helpful medications and see a thousand tremendous therapists, in the end only you can do it.”

The wizard spoke.

“Heal yourself. At your core you are already healed. Let that knowledge permeate your consciousness.”

Four years have passed.

I am still healing. Still finding out what my brain could be. Still learning each day and falling often. Still taking those medications.  I have a long way to go and yes, if a therapist can help I'll happily accept their intervention.

Looking to the sky god or the earth god for healing and succour is easier. But it's passing the buck and doesn't really wash away the brokenness.

Accepting the responsibility to heal yourself is far more difficult. It's a treacherous mountain route with loose rocks on every corner and more monsters and faeries than we could have possibly imagined.

It's the hard road. But it's the better road.

I choose to walk it.

Will you walk the yellow brick road of self healing with me?

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

The Magic Art of The Great Humbug

This page is still to be written please choose another

Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

Final Words

Text

The Field of Poppies Of Oz

The Field Of Poppies Of Oz

Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Saint Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Emerald City Of Oz

The Field of Poppies

I want to sleep. Forever.

I want to lie down. Never wake again.

I want to take a blade to my skin, swallow the packets of pills by my bed.

I want to stand on a ledge, a cliff top, or look down at the river from Redheugh Bridge.

I want to jump. Fall. End.

I want to find a blessed, welcome relief from the fight.

I want to find freedom from the way my brain, my mind rebels against all that could be called happiness or contentment.

I want to scream as the old panic rises up again.

I want to give in to the darkness.

I want to let go, succumb to the poppy field and smile beatifically as the witch of mental illness laughs at her victory.

Today. Now.

I want to die.

I don't want to be told it will all be okay.

I don't want to be given a hand to rescue me. Not this time.

I want to die. Please. Oh God, please. Why not?

I want to step off that edge. Enough is enough. Surely it's enough. Haven't I struggled for long enough? I'm forty-six now. So many years of fighting, fighting. Each day. Often each hour.

Isn't it time for me to die? That's what I want.

Death, take me.

But death refuses.

I claim my heart again, my brain, my courage. I claim the possibilities of smiles. Of love. Of change.

I claim my future and proclaim that it will be better than my past.

I want to die. I choose life.

I want fresh rain. And I believe it will come.

This world has not finished with me. And I have not finished with this world.

There will be no suicide today, no fresh wound from the blade's invitation.

Somehow I will survive.

Somehow I will triumph.

The Cowardly Lion of Oz - Learning The Courage To Be Yourself

The Cowardly Lion Of Oz

This post is part of the results of a course taken at The Recovery College
Click Here For the Introduction And Contents Page

Contents

Click Here For the Previous Chapter

The Scarecrow Of Oz

Click Here For the Following Chapter

The Tin Man Of Oz

The Cowardly Lion

Bravado living:

Put 'em up. Put 'em up. You

Stay away from me.

I couldn't let people get too close.

They might have discovered me. Ripped of the masks I wore and found a creature I believed deformed, despicable. I couldn't bear that they might learn that my exterior manner of the mild mannered preacher, the smiles and a way with words that led some to wish I was ordained, hid a soul whose pain could not be alleviated through the platitudes and fine words of the Jesus he preached.

I couldn't let them get too close.

They might have forced me to discover myself.

They might have forced me to face all that I feared about myself. All that I had been taught to loathe.

So, apart from a rare few, I kept them away. I preached peace, a sound mind. And self harmed three times to get myself through the service. I spoke of God's love. And spent my days hiding the hate I thrust upon myself.

As a preacher I looked to the wizard in the sky to transform me. From sinful creature to child of light. From a man of unclean thoughts to one whose whole life was wrapped up in God.

It was only when I began to look away from the sky wizard that the transformation began.

Jesus said the kingdom of God is within, Christ is within, the very core of life and being is within.

I looked within.

The wizard waited there.

Hidden. Buried. Cast into the deepest oubliette. A forgotten prisoner.

I looked harder. Heard her screams and released her.

She said to me, “I do not grant you courage. You have it already. It took courage to look within for strength and answers. You, child of god-light, you are courage.”

I accepted her word.

I accepted the woman I already was.

I accepted what I'd been told for years, that I am autistic.

I accepted that I am a creative.

I accepted spiritual possibilities and in so doing walked away from the faith path that had been my meaning.

Every day is astonishingly difficult. Autism and my mental health conditions combine. Every day they present me with an almost impenetrable barrier. Every single day.

I am tempted to faint. Tempted to give up the yellow brick road to my own promised land, the emerald city where all dreams are possible and where life, love, and fullness of being are celebrated and experienced.

Sometimes I succumb to temptation. In despair I weep.

Healing and anointed wisdom are not grasped in a day. Perhaps that would be too easy. Perhaps we need to learn through failure and struggle just how beautiful we are.

And I forget. Often I forget. Though the goddess within spoke “You are courage,” I forget.

Often I still live in fear. And sometimes I give in to it.

Often I live in anxiety and panic too. That's part of the nature of mental health conditions that I still bear.

One day I will be the restored lion. I will cease to say “Put 'em up.” Instead I will say to all, “You are welcome in this place. Come, let's celebrate our inner god kingdoms together. Come, I am willing to give you space to discover your own inner god and the passion that will lead you to your fullest life.”

One day this cowardly lion will roar so loud that the world will see her, rejoice, and learn to roar too. One day this cowardly lion will show others that there is a water of life that will slay all the wicked witches we needlessly carry.

Is this bravery? Or is this revelry in ecstasy?

It doesn't matter.

Come, walk the yellow brick road of inner courage with me.

Look inside to the darkness and the light. Accept it all. Especially that which you call shadow.

Look inside and in the core of your being I promise you this:

You too are courage.

Days of Gratitude - Creativity, Charity, Cafes, Carousels, Coaches. And Darkness.

Five more days.  They were good days.  I spent them in Manchester staying with an awesome person, the creator of my soft toy Blob Thing.  She's a very busy person these days, excelling in her passion and slowly working her way towards her dream.  I believe that she will achieve that dream.  She has found her niche and it's a place where that great passion is combined with a talent and definite flair and I believe that she is going to affect the lives of lots of people in a very positive way as she continues to walk this path.  Autistic children will benefit massively and so will their parents/guardians and those around them.  They already do benefit massively but this is only the beginning.  One of my joys over the past sixteen months since meeting her has been to watch the way she has run down this path with such total enthusiasm and to watch the way that she has begun to create something pretty damn marvellous.  When I met her this thing did not exist anywhere but her head.  And now it does.  And there is much more in her head to become a physical reality at time progresses.  I am looking forward to watching it happen.

Five more days.  Since Amanda is so busy I now have to occupy myself quite a bit when I'm there.  I am finding ways to occupy myself and know that there is never a cause for me to be bored either when reading and writing at her house or when I go out - walking, visiting a town, writing in the library, or finding new places and people.

This visit was no exception and below you will find a few things I am excited about.  And a cafe that I'll be returning to.  It even has convenient plug sockets for a laptop.  Southport has also given me a writing prompt for a story that is churning in my head right now.  At some point it will come to rest and I'll know the broad outline of the tale.  But that's not something for now.  I'll just tell you it involves palmistry and an impossible fortune becoming possible.

Something else.  I am typing this at the Literary and Philosophical Society Library.  I joined today.  Yes, I am now officially a member.  I plan to spend lots of time here writing and reading.  Perhaps there will be people to meet too and it will become the source of more surprises in my life.  I hope so.

16^th December


Grateful to have found amazing places and things while having to spend hours in Manchester city centre without a plan.

Here:

A brilliant free creative space in Afflecks. With a possibility something similar might happen one day in Newcastle.

The awesome art cafe.

Some great street art.

So many pictures to choose from.

17^th December

Grateful for a great day with Amanda in Southport.

Chips, ice cream, charity shops, a carousel, and tea. Our kind of day.

And it was the first time I have ever seen the sea it Southport. On every other visit it was miles away.

18^th December

Grateful for darkness and light.  The not-church church I attended in Manchester was based on the theme of darkness.  I liked the people there.  I don't think it would be "my" place but I did like them and I liked the honesty and openness that was greater than that seen in most church churches.

And grateful for the women's toilets here in Nexus Art Cafe.

Yep, a gratitude post about a toilet.

19^th December

Grateful to spend most of the day with Amanda.

We caught the bus to Leigh for charity shops and to visit a very good cafe there.

A screen in the cafe displays slideshows of someone's photos. As I was paying I noticed the photos at that moment were of Newcastle.

20^th December

Grateful to have achieved the front seat on the coach back from Manchester.

Grateful for an easy journey.

And grateful for roast chicken. Because I am still a corpse eating monster.

Newcastle Upon Tyne - Pictures From Market Street To The Quayside, 4th November 2016

I told in my last post of how I had not succeeded in my challenge to photograph a gorilla in a tutu.  That's a sentence to confuse any chance readers who clicked on a link based on the title.

I had left an appointment at Broadacre House - a place where almost everything seems to happen - and needed to reach Tesco in Gateshead to buy a specific pizza.  I'd decided to walk a route which would take me past the maximum number of Snowdogs.  A Snowdog obsession was gradually developing.  They've become like Pokemon for me.  Gotta catch 'em all!  Or at least see them all and take pictures.

I hadn't quite given up on the gorilla idea that day and hoped to see one somewhere.  I decided that there might be one in an art gallery and since there was an exhibition on at the Abject Gallery I paid a visit.  There was no gorilla.  The paintings were good - and if the exhibition was still on I'd recommend seeing it.  I like Abject.  Both its galleries.  Most people in the city probably don't know that these galleries exist.  They are located in Bamburgh House, directly opposite Broadacre House on Market Street.  Even if you don't like art then you should go, because Abject is situated on the ninth floor and the views across the city are excellent.

I'd also recommend going round the corner to the galleries in the New Bridge Project and in Commercial Union House and in the building next to that too.  Newcastle has lots of little galleries that very often have interesting exhibitions that you'll love or hate.  Explore them - most of them are free entry so there's nothing to lose and much to gain.  I say that as a command to myself because I realise there are lots of galleries I've not visited yet - The Outsiders, System, Gallery North, and so on.  And if you get a chance to visit the Side Photographic Gallery then do.  That can be pretty awesome.

There wasn't a gorilla in abject.  There were paintings such as this, painted by a contemporary Chinese artist.  They were well painted but on this occasion weren't quite my kind of art.  That didn't matter.  I think it's good to see art and it's possible to find pleasure in it whether or not it matches your taste.

I left Abject and walked down the hill, in the general direction of Snowdogs.  As I descended I passed a couple of examples of art.  Some sticker art on a signpost.  And a piece of stencilling on the wall by the entrance to World Headquarters.

Down the hill some more.  I found this notice board containing all the useful news and information anyone would ever need in the city.  I wonder when these boards last contained information about anything.

And then into the tunnel near those boards.  It wasn't signposted.  At all.  I didn't have any idea what I would find at the other end but it seemed to be going in the right direction, seemingly under the city motorway that rips through our city.

I followed the tunnel.  It led to stairs and more stairs.  And then to a sign proclaiming that I was now in a multi-storey car park.  That wasn't the plan!  I thought about going back and finding a more normal route to the river.  But perhaps there would be another way out of the car park.  These steps couldn't be the only way.   So I stepped out of the stairwell into the light.  The view that greeted me was worth the stepping out.

I stood by the wall and looked down and for the first time in a long time I experienced a profound sense of vertigo accompanied by dizziness.  Far below me, immediately below me, was the city motorway.  And I had to step back.

I decided to climb to the top of the car park - or at least as close to the top as you can get.  And the view improved.  This is The Sage from a pleasing angle.  I spotted that the big graffiti wall behind the sage had changed since I last passed it a few months ago when that particular panel had been painted in tribute to David Bowie.

The tower is that of Holy Jesus Hospital.  I hadn't known there was a tower.  It was built in the mid-17th century, sometime during the Interregnum and thus predates the building of the actual hospital.

To continue with the views from the car park - of The Sage, Tyne Bridge, All Saints Church, and in front of them the main east coast railway line.

This is Manors railway station - not to be confused with Manors Metro station.  It's a quiet station.  Newcastle station serves 22,000 people a day.  Manors serves 6,500 people a year - that's 18 passengers a day.  I should go and visit the station one day. 

I couldn't stand in the car park all day.  Marvin the Paranoid Android was once asked what he was doing in a car park.  His response asked what else he would be doing in a car park except parking cars.  Marvin, with a brain the size of a planet, was wrong.  I had not parked a single car in that car park.  But maybe the car park at The Restaurant At The End Of The Universe didn't have quite the same views as a car park in central Newcastle.

I found a promising way out from the car park and passed under the railway to city road, close to the CastleGate which houses a big church that meets in what was the turbine hall for the generators that ran the electricity for Newcastle's tram system.  Heading down the steps I found myself here.

I also found myself near my first Snowdog of the day - but this is a Snowdog free post.  As you walk down towards the river a passageway on the right leads to this place.  It's another place that most people probably don't know exists.  Unless you're in the habit of looking up unknown parts of the city or you're in the habit of walking down passageways just to see what's at the other end it's unlikely you would know about this.  Fortunately I have both of those habits.

This anchor came from one of the ships from the Spanish Armada.

This green space is connected to Live Theatre.  Yes, theatre.  Newcastle doesn't just have a thriving group of art galleries - and enough artists to fill them with an ever changing set of exhibitions.  We have a thriving group of theatres too.  And we have writers.  Many writers.  It's really great to live in a place where the various creative arts are evident.  I'm only just beginning to discover them and I think the path of discovery is going to include some crazily exciting moments.

To close.  My one moment of sadness for the day so far - because not finding a gorilla in a tutu hadn't saddened me particularly.  At the back of the theatre was this skip.  And in the skip there were these two boxes.

My sadness?  That the boxes were too heavy for me to walk off with.  Perhaps I should have gone into the theatre and asked about them and then pleaded for someone to deliver them to me.  I'd have liked them.  Never mind.  Such sadness wasn't going to dampen the day.  There was more journeying to be done as I reached the river and headed for my destination:

Tesco in Gateshead.

Sometimes the journey really is more interesting than the destination.