looking at the threshold

Ten leaves, alone in the bedroom throughout, couple of candles. After fifteen minutes or so I began to feel as part of the plant swirling around in my mouth, which was full of saliva; it’s not true to say that I was at one with it, because I never lost touch with where I was or the world around me. Despite these odd feelings, and the fact that I seemed to have an absurd amount of saliva in my mouth, I didn’t want to swallow it or spit out the now well chewed leaf. Looking at my watch, I saw that twenty minutes had gone by, so I swallowed the spit and took out the cud and sat back.

Again I was aware of who and where I was; I heard F go and make herself a cup of tea; heard the children playing outside. I felt a pull, almost physical, to the left, the children’s voices, then to the right, toward the door, which led out of the room to where F. was making her cup of tea. I linked into this stage from the earlier swirling one in the company of a kindly young woman with a Lancashire accent.

And now there was a kindly face, who I later realised was a lot like Korky the Kat. I was in a path in the town where I’d lived as a small child, by some garages and waste ground, a place where we played. There were other images and impressions, all of them connected with that early childhood: cartoon or comic-like but not real, rather they were my childhood imaginations, based no doubt on the comics and cartoons that I loved. I began to feel a tug at my face now and was being shown an orange light, and wanted to investigate; I was willing myself towards it, but became more acutely aware of the children outside, the sounds of F in the kitchen, and now the man in the flat upstairs cheering on a football match. I opened my eyes. Five minutes only had passed.

I really enjoyed a mouthful of still fairly chilled white wine – and made a mental note that cold lager, which I don’t normally like, (perhaps in the Mexican way, with lime), would make the perfect post chewing mouthwash. I went back through to the sitting room and noticed how light and springy my steps felt.

Three other mental notes: late at night will be much better than the early evening; the whole thing was familiar, nothing too strange. And it’s apparent why this plant is Las Hojas de la Pastora: there was an almost intangible feminine presence throughout the experience. Graves’ The White Goddess is one of my favourite books, and I have a feeling that it was Herself, in the form of a good natured Manchester lass.

Robert Graves, incidentally, would have loved this plant.