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SATURDAY, NOV. 9: OXFORD STREET AND THE FESTIVAL I decide to show Cheyenne the kicky side of London -- Oxford Street in Soho. Oxford Street is like Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood, only more so. London is the spiritual home of techno music and this street appears to be an outward manifestation of this droning, throbbing sound. The beat, beat, beat blares from doorways as we walk the street. Cheyenne’s eyes light up at one shop after another. She buys pants that fit low on the hips, fit baggy, then flair to a cuff that drags on the ground. Dozens of dangly things hang down. “What are those for?” I ask. “Just fashion, Dad ... cool huh?” A young man with multiple face piercings and a body responding to some unheard beat, twirls an overhead sign that says, “Body Piercings.“ The chrome in his face glints in the sunlight. Cheyenne has been lobbying for body piercings for two years. I say no. Tara has finally given in to a belly-button piercing. My wife announces she will also get her own navel pierced. While the girls shop, I remain outside most of the stores watching the human parade. Not even Melrose can match this. In addition to occasional tourists from America, there are edgy people from all over the world. I catch fragments of a dozen languages. Goths, punks, junkies. Old ladies with shopping bags look like they live in the neighborhood. A skinny woman about 70 years of age sports frizzy cadmium-yellow hair and tosses a crimson-feather boa from side to side as she sashays through the throngs. She shops the store selling “rave wear,” which so fascinates Cheyenne. We return to the apartment, dress for the festival. On the way to the Horticultural Halls, I have the cabby stop at Thomas Cook travel agency. We’ve been going back and forth about where we’ll spend the next 10 days. The original plan was Scotland, but Barcelona became a strong contender (none of us have been there). I’m not attached to the decision, so insist Tara and Cheyenne choose. Scotland won out and we need to make a reservation for an apartment and a hotel near London Heathrow Airport on the evening before we leave for home. The travel agent is no help. He can’t put together anything in Edinburgh and he wants us to pay $330 for one night in a hotel near the airport with three twin beds jammed into a tiny room. This is what I’ve come to accept from travel agents in general, and is why I usually book everything myself on the web. We walk out. Our Healing Arts Festival workshop is on “Soul Blueprints.” I’ve taken key sessions from our two day seminar and we’ll share as much as we can in a four hour session from 5:30 to 9:30 PM. The fee is $50, nearly double yesterday’s fee. So the audience is smaller. When we end up going overtime, festival staff enter the room and want Tara to immediately wind up her session. She’s in the middle of a meditation and does what she can to cut it short. But it’s a tense situation. I try to fend them off, while they insist on bringing up the lights and ending the workshop. |
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Tara and Chey in Black Cab, London. |
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SUNDAY, NOV. 10: I awaken early and go off for coffee at a nearby Internet Café. After writing friends who have left messages and updates, I search the web for apartment offerings in Edinburgh. Five sound ideal, so I send e-mails. With such short notice, I wonder about availabilities. Yet Mother Scotland has a magical way of taking care of us. On the positive side, who in their right mind vacations in Edinburgh this cold and rainy time of year? There should be plenty of apartments available. About noon, I meet Tara and Cheyenne in Coffee Republic. A large sign on the wall proclaims, “COFFEE. IT’S AN EYE OPENER, BRAIN ACTIVATOR, ENERGY GIVER, IDEA STIMULATOR. BE REVIVED.” By comparison to American verbiage, UK signage is often a bit convoluted. As an example, in this same shop, there is a sign that says, “SORRY, TODAY’S FRESH SOUP IS FINISHED. Tomorrow’s Soup Is Carrot & Parmesan.” To me, that sounds as if the soup isn’t just gone, but has maybe ... EXPIRED! We eat brunch at the Texas Lone Star Café. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being ribs in Ft. Worth, Texas, my brunch ribs rate a 3. But I’m not complaining ... just comparing. Our waitress is from Melbourne and wants to talk. We draw Australians to us as if by magnetic attraction. They love Americans and are so outwardly full of life, you’re quickly exchanging all kinds of personal information. Suzi is traveling on a two-year visa and working in London, which allows her to quickly pay off her house down under. The money is three to one in value she says. In two years she’ll make six years money. By the time we leave the restaurant, Suzi feels like an old friend. Today, at the festival, beginning at 4 PM, we conduct a four-hour “Ultimate Past-Life Regression Workshop.” The fee of 50 ($84) seems high to me, but everything in England is high by comparison to California. To my surprise, the workshop is nearly sold out and there is no space for anyone to lay down during the altered-state sessions. The participants are highly receptive to the ideas, but too many have trouble receiving impressions. I do a talk on how to be a better receiver, but it’s difficult for many to go with the flow and trust their impressions. This is probably the biggest difference between working with a British and an American audience. During the bathroom break, Cheyenne handles the CD sales table while Tara and I are confronted by human pain. A man has contracted Parkinson’s Disease and wants me to provide guidance. A woman is under psychic attack in her home. “Using your ‘Spiritual Protection from Psychic Attack’ CD is the only way I can sleep,” she says. “Get out of the house,” I say. “I can’t. I can never get away.” “You’re here now. Don’t go back,” I say. She wants me to get involved and help. “I’m leaving London tomorrow,” I say. “There’s no one in England that can help,” she says. A woman who claims she has come all the way from Malaysia to see us, cuts into the conversation. Another woman, a transplanted Australian, says how much she is enjoying tonight’s workshop. She is full of enthusiasm and her high energy is contagious. Workshop complete, as we’re leaving the building, a shy-appearing young man gives me a very old, thin silver penny. He said he was directed by spirit to give it to me. Before I can ask him more, he disappears. The small silver coin is inside a tiny zip lock bag. When I get back to the apartment, I tell Tara about the gift. But when I take the bag from my coat pocket to show her, it’s empty. I turn the coat inside out and upside down. No penny. We end the evening at the Internet Café. Three responses have come in from apartment owners. I book what appears to be a beautiful flat in the center of the city. The living room windows look out on Edinburgh Castle. (www.aboutscotland.com/edin/rentals.html/ Address: 32 Castle Terrace) While we’re away, our friend, Richard Christian Matheson, is taking care of our dog at his house. RC has written to say all is well and Showtime cable network has accepted his “Paradise” script for an ongoing series. As writer, creator, and one of the producers, he may have to move up to Canada where the show will be filmed. I’m excited for him, but we’ll sure miss him in Malibu. What a relief to have the festival workshops complete. We’ve been traveling and, more often than not, conducting seminars/workshops since the first week of September. It’s been intense and at times stressful. I’m just realizing I don’t have to go out on stage for several months. As much as I love my work, the thought of a break from seminars makes my heart happy. I’m anxious to get back to writing. Click HERE for the continuation |
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