The Dark Mountain Blog

Stories Made of Rivers

We have created every living thing from water.
– The Koran, Chapter Al-Anbiya, Verse Number 30

The view from the Hot Springs Motel, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

The view from the Hot Springs Motel, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

1. Civilisation

The first story I was told about rivers can be summed up like this: there is direct line from the Sumerian Ziggurat of Ur to the Chrysler Building. I was around nine.

2. Civilisation II

Rivers allowed us to grow food, store it, build houses, libraries, museums, cities and empires. I was maybe ten when I heard this one.

3. Cells

In sixth grade, the story shifted from history to science when we memorised that our hearts and brains were 73% water. I have always seen fresh water as precious, magical. I used to believe that water could think. If my brain was mainly water, why not?

Every single living and non-living, visible and non-visible object around us – our computer screens, the retinas in our eyeballs, the dust in the air – all of these rely on fresh water. Our body is a walking river. Water flows from us. The liquid inside us will out eventually.

4. Cycles

In middle school, we were taught about the water cycle: river to rain to snow to mountain glacier to melting ice, back to river. We coloured in those diagrams and added those arrows diligently. But we were not told that this cycle was one of the many ways the earth breathes in and out. Nor were we told that bathing in the River Ganges frees the bather from sin, the outward cleanliness symbolising inner purification. This waterway is fed by the glaciers in the Himalayas, the Mountains of the Gods, and feeds the Indian plains as if descended from the heavens.

5. Hygiene

The fact that we as humans spend nine months growing in water also passed us by at school. The giggles of embarrassment in Hygiene class drowned out any information about babies rolling around in their water-filled pods.

6. Secrets

Water’s ability to seemingly clean itself, to rejuvenate, to flow and keep flowing no mater what we throw at it is a strange sort of illusion. If you fell a forest, the trail of destruction is there for people to see. But water is different, it keeps the secret for you.

7. Flow

Many rivers – despite their dams, their drying out, their dead fish, their pollution – are still flowing. Sometimes they run yellow or orange or green. Some may look crystal clear but are carrying thousands, if not millions of particles of arsenic, cadmium, phosphorus, nitrogen, mercury and lead. Two hundred and twenty-six million pounds of toxic chemicals are dumped in American rivers every year. Of this, 1.5 million pounds are carcinogens, 626,000 pounds are chemicals linked to developmental disorders and 354,000 pounds are associated with reproductive problems. Some rivers, such as the 1,900-mile long Rio Grande, are drying up and disappearing altogether, but many, in a heartbreaking display of trying to do the right thing, just keep flowing.

The Clark Fork River, Missoula, Montana

The Clark Fork River, Missoula, Montana

8. Float

When I lived in Western Montana, ‘floating’ was what you did on hot days. You’d drive to the Blackfoot or the Clark Fork with a spare inner tube strapped to the roof of your car or in the bed of your pickup. You’d throw it into the river, stick a hat on your head (that searing Montana sun), lean back into your rubber doughnut and let the river take you. We were lucky in Montana: 40% of its rivers are deemed ‘good’ by the Environmental Protection Agency as compared with, for instance, 21% in the coastal plains around the Gulf of Mexico. You know things are bad when the best bill of health is one in which you are more sick than healthy.

The Hot Springs Motel, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

The Hot Springs Motel, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

9. White Sulphur Springs

Here’s another story. A more recent one, which isn’t taught in schools because it is about me and a guy I once met near a river:

It is a damp December morning in 2016 and I am driving through a starlit, pinky dawn from Missoula to the town of White Sulphur Springs (population 1,000). The morning light has crested above the distant mountains as I roll down Main Street. The town is a mixture of boarded-up storefronts and some new, thriving businesses. There is a real estate office, a cinema, a pizza place, a few gas stations, a couple of bars, and, off the main street, a library. And then there is the unfussy Hot Springs Spa Motel with its pools of sulphurous, health-enhancing spring water. It was while soaking in one of these springs a few months ago that I heard a man with an Australian accent talking about the mine. My ears immediately perked up. I bumped into him later that day in a bar down the road from the motel and we started up a conversation. We were two out-of-towners waiting for our drinks.

I Googled him that night only to discover that he is Bruce Hooper, one of the directors of Tintina Resources – a Canadian and Australian mining company which is behind the proposed copper mine in White Sulphur Springs. I find out that he also worked for BP and Rio Tinto – companies behind some of the worst ecological disasters of the past few years. Tintina are dying to get their hands on the world’s largest lode of copper which is buried 13 miles from Sheep Creek, a major trout-spawning tributary of the Smith River. The Smith is one of the last great untouched rivers, and it pays its keep: about $4.5 million a year is made from floaters who travel its 60-mile limestone canyon between the Little and Big Belt Mountains. But none of this matters in this story.

Tintina’s project is called Black Butte, after the black butte which sits atop the deposit of pure copper. It has been on the table for several years, and Tintina are waiting for the green light. Judging by who holds the power these days, it’s probably not long until the trucks start rumbling and the ground is ripped open. The copper will make the company millions, and the River, well, it’s a river. It will keep flowing no matter what shit they dump in it.

The Mint Bar, Main Street, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

The Mint Bar, Main Street, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

10. The Tour

I book myself into a tour of the proposed Black Butte copper mine in White Sulphur Springs. I ask about the tailings – the toxic water that is the result of blasting the copper-laden rock from the earth – and am told that they’ve got a ‘great idea’ for that. The guy leading the tour speaks in a soothing homespun way which does the opposite of reassure me. Doesn’t he know what mines do? All his metaphors for the violence of this proposed mine are couched in Pinterest-style baking terms. The rocks left over from the excavations will be pulverised to the consistency of ‘icing sugar’ and will be blended with the chemical-laden water until it is a sort of paste. They’ll be made into ‘cakes’ and will be shoved back into the holes in the ground. ‘Cheesecloth’ is involved. No-one will ever know the land was ever mined. According to my tour guide, this story has a really happy ending, like a Martha Stewart cake recipe: everyone gets a piece of it.

The Black Butte, Montana

The Black Butte, Montana

11. West

In 1872, when miners were flocking to Montana to stake their claims, a law was passed which allowed them to dig up what they wanted, inject whatever chemicals they needed to separate mineral from rock, gold from stone, copper from its vein, and walk away without cleaning up the waste. There are thousands of abandoned mines all over the state. Exactly a hundred years later, the Clean Water Act was created. The 1872 act is older but often supercedes the Clean Water Act.

It is difficult for people outside of the American West to grasp the enormity of the reclamation problem. Scott Fields, an environmental health writer, admits there is plenty of controversy around abandoned mines: how many, how lethal, how best to clean them up. But according to him, experts can agree on at least a few major points: ‘the scope of the impacts of abandoned mines isn’t well understood, the damage that untended mines cause is increasing, and adequate funds aren’t available to address even the largest, most harmful mine sites. And although scientists are developing new methods to treat abandoned mines, the field of mine remediation is still in its infancy.’

12. Place

There are two main types of mining: placer and hard rock mining. Placer mining is all about water. The word comes from the Spanish, placer, meaning a shoal or alluvial deposit. It has also given us place and plaza. Gold is the place, roads are paved with it in our imaginations, it is central to our way of thinking, our economy, our myths, our histories. It centres and grounds us.

13. Twin Creek

This is a more recent story. This one has a happy ending:

It is the end of April and Paul Parson is driving me to Twin Creek, 20 miles west of Missoula. Paul is a restoration coordinator for the river conservation group Trout Unlimited. In his late thirties or early forties, Paul has an easy, relaxed manner and speaks quietly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully – something I have come to associate with this part of the world.

Steering his truck with his knees, he looks over at me and asks if his driving makes me nervous. ‘Not at all,’ I say, trying to be nonchalant.

We turn off the I-90 onto Nine Mile Road. This landscape is the stuff of screensavers and calendars. Mountains in the distance, wooden fences and photogenic barns slanting at attractive angles. It was once ranching land but is no longer.

Paul is talking to me about mining. He sees it from the other side, from the side of the rivers that have had just about everything poured and leached into them and left for dead. ‘Private mining claims often follow rivers as you need a lot of water to mine. And mines just decimate them. Rivers can heal themselves if you give them a leg up and plant the right things near them and get their meanders right, but…’ he shrugs, leaving me to finish that thought.

This is what Paul does all day: he reclaims, remakes, and designs rivers, although he dislikes the term ‘designing’ when it comes to what he does – too pretentious.

Paul Parson and members of Trout Unlimited, Twin Creek, Montana

Paul Parson and members of Trout Unlimited, Twin Creek, Montana

14. Replanting

Paul and I park a short walk from Twin Creek and meet up with two of his co-workers, Dave and Rob. Paul says we can kill two birds with one stone by doing some planting – he is too humble to call it rewilding – and checking out how Twin Creek, one of Trout Unlimited’s latest reclamation projects, is coming along. To an outsider, the stream looks perfect – too perfect. Small waterfalls of aesthetically piled rocks appear at intervals. Each stone, dip, and curve of the creek has been ‘designed’. It is alarming how this near-perfection in nature looks unnatural. I watch the three men walk along the stream. If you didn’t know them, it would be clear to you that they were not out for a hike. They run their fingers through the grasses and shrubs they planted from seed: willow and hawthorn and rose. They touch the trunks of the three cottonwoods they left in place which have seeded others nearby naturally, as well as the conifers which they planted as saplings. They poke at the mushrooms and squat to examine some scat: elk and bear and goose, full of seeds. It’s all looking good.

‘We know what a healthy stream looks like,’ Paul says, ‘it’s in our mind’s eye’. They stop and listen to the sound of the water and talk of the meander. Like artists or physicians, they call upon all their senses to review their work. Certain plants are thriving more than others. For the first time in a long time, the creek meets up with the Nine Mile River and will soon be able to support trout. This is a success story.

‘Native trout are really sensitive to climate change,’ Paul says. ‘They can’t survive in warm water. They are an ice age fish. Ex-mining water is the worst for them. It’s often standing water, doesn’t flow, gets warm as a result, and the flows that were created from the digging go in straight lines and this causes a lot of sediment. Trout are very sensitive to sediment.’

Standing water at Mattie V Creek, Montana

Standing water at Mattie V Creek, Montana

15. Soup

Paul wants to show me what a creek looks like before he and his team have done their work, so I have something to compare Twin Creek to. We head to the Mattie V Creek, named, I believe, after Mattie Hixson who married a Montana man in the 1920s. Mattie died in 1985 at the age of 83 and her namesake creek has been sitting stagnant and polluted for a long time. Paul took Mattie’s great grandsons fishing to show them what a good stream looks like and said, ‘This could be on your property’. They got totally behind the clean-up. It is a horribly ugly spot. The still water is split-pea green. It buries the trees half way up their trunks. Hills of sludge have been piled into grassless tors around the site. It is unnervingly quiet and claustrophobic. We don’t stay long.

16. Desire

We are lulled into thinking that because these sacred waterways – and every river is sacred – are constantly flowing, they possess what we desire more than anything: eternal life and an ever-changing nature that gives the impression of permanence. They are everything we want to be. But even rivers can die.

17. Reclamation

The first known use of the word ‘reclaim’ is in the 13th-century anonymously penned poem Cursor Mundi, whose title in English means ‘Runner of the World’. Its 30,000 verses were written by a cleric in the North of England as a way of tracing history and religion up to his lifetime. In the Cursor Mundi, to ‘reclaim’ is to ‘call back a hawk’. In the 14th century the word was used to mean ‘to reduce to obedience’. And today the word retains that sense of control in its definition ‘to bring land under cultivation’. But now among ecologists, rewilders, and environmentalists, to ‘reclaim’ land is to return it to a pristine Eden-like state. But just how far back do we go in reclaiming a river or a tract of land? Does one try to ecologically wind the clock back to pre-ice age times? Or to one of the interglacial ages? If so, which one? They are all very different with their own unique flora and fauna. Does one go back to 1492 when Columbus set foot on American soil, which is what some American rewilders used to think. Others, however, believe that 1778 is more desirable – the year Captain Cook landed in Hawaii. Whereas for some the foundation of Yellowstone Park in 1872 is the ecological baseline to which we should be aiming in our reclamation projects. And for the more dedicated contemporary rewilders, we should be looking to our Stone Age ancestors, to the hunter-gatherers, for the most ecologically healthy baseline. The debates are ongoing. But we all seem to think we need to look back in order to move forward.

Paul Parson of Trout Unlimited, planting native seeds, Montana

Paul Parson of Trout Unlimited, planting native seeds, Montana

18. Illusion

In 1963 the National Park Service published the Leopold Report, named after the zoologist and conservationist A. Starker Leopold. Starker was the son of Aldo Leopold, one of the founders of the land conservation movement in the United States, whose book A Sand County Almanac contains a chapter on Ecological Conscience in which he put forth the idea that ‘conservation is a state of harmony between man and land’. But the authors of the Leopold Report were already aware of the problems and the conflicts in reclamation. They wrote: ‘restoring the primitive scene is not done easily nor can it be done completely … a reasonable illusion of primitive America could be recreated, using the utmost in skill, judgment, and ecologic sensitivity.’ Even in 1963 there was the awareness that wilderness could only exist in America as a ‘reasonable illusion’.

The rivers Paul Parsons reclaims are not wild rivers, they are illusions of wild rivers. Just because a river flows does not mean it is not dead. We can and we should reclaim as much of the earth as we can even if it means dreaming ourselves back to a time very few people can remember, before history was written and stories were on paper. I would much rather wander through the reasonable illusion of Twin Creek than the toxic reality of the Mattie V. For now, and probably for the rest of our time on earth, humans will have to come to terms with the reasonable illusion of wilderness, because the real thing is disappearing fast. The story goes that we can call back the hawk, although we know in our hearts it is too far away to hear our cries.

Joanna Pocock is an Irish-Canadian writer living in London via Montana. Her writing has appeared in The Nation, Orion Magazine, The Tahoma Literary Review, The Los Angeles Times, Distinctly Montana, Litro, Mslexia and 3:AM. She is currently writing a series of linked essays on extreme relationships between humans and their environments.

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Dark Mountain: Issue 12 – Coda

DM12_PPC_1Two weeks ago, we launched this year’s autumn special issue of Dark Mountain. SANCTUM is a themed issue which takes as its focus ‘the sacred’.

Here on the blog, we’ve been introducing different aspects of the book – and in the final post in this series, editors Dougald Hine and Steve Wheeler reflect on the early responses to the book.

Detail from incipit to Kedernath, Drury Brennan

Detail from incipit to Kedernath, Drury Brennan

DH: In a talk given almost forty years ago, the novelist Alan Garner explains that he never looks through the printed object of a finished book. There is one brief moment, when it arrives from his publisher, before it goes onto the shelf unread: ‘I do open the book, but only far enough to see the international copyright symbol. Then, at last, I know that the book has been written, and I rejoice and emotionally collapse at the same time.’

That passage came back to me, in a wistful moment, reflecting on the experience of writing for, editing, publishing and promoting this latest Dark Mountain book. The way we work, any member of the editorial team will find themselves, at times, shouldering a stack of different roles. It was ever thus, no doubt, for those foolish enough to run a small journal with big ideas – the editors of the little magazines of the early 20th century may be remembered as modernist poets, but their editorials are full of prosaic appeals for funds.

Anyway, as we reach the end of this series introducing our twelfth book, before I rejoice and collapse, it seems worth reflecting on a few of the unusual aspects of this book – and the response which it has so far generated – before I give the final word to Steve Wheeler, my co-editor, whose idea it was in the first place to devote an issue to ‘the sacred’.

The first thing to say about the response is that it has been huge. In the two weeks following its publication, the number of orders and subscriptions coming in has been more than twice what we’ve seen for previous special issues. Much of that interest seems to have been generated by Thomas Keyes’ introduction the artwork and Sylvia Linsteadt’s reflections on creating the marginalia that runs through the book.

We’ve also had a small number of regular readers who reacted against this particular issue – and while I’d guess that there were those who found an issue dedicated to poems and poetics (Autumn 2016) or craft and technology (Autumn 2015) didn’t light their fire the way they look to Dark Mountain to do, I doubt that those themes generated reactions of the same intensity. Having lived with this book intensely, through the months of its making, I’ve found much to think about among those reactions.

One point that seems worth underlining is that the departures we made in this book do not represent the new direction of Dark Mountain, but the adventure of this particular special issue. We began publishing two issues a year in 2014 and soon realised that this called for something other than a doubling of the volume of the familiar anthologies, with their range of essays, poetry, art, stories and conversations. So we hit upon the rhythm by which each autumn, one or more editors strikes out in a direction with a special issue whose form and content can vary widely, while each spring we return to the heart of our work with a book that belongs recognisably within a continuous line stretching back to Issue 1, which Paul and I edited in the spring of 2010. The hope is that this rhythm allows us to stay alive and adventurous, to surprise our readers and ourselves, without losing hold of what matters to people about our books.

This year’s special issue was a larger-format, full-colour book, made up of long-form non-fiction, of various flavours, woven around with a set of artistic collaborations and a fictional commentary from a 3000-year-old prophetess. The only thing I can tell you about next year’s special issue is that it is unlikely to be any of the above. Meanwhile, in April, we will be back with a book whose format and mix of content will feel familiar to many.

For me, personally, this issue was a return to the editor’s chair for the first time since 2014. Paul and I edited five issues of Dark Mountain together, joined by a growing team of fellow editors. Then I stepped down, in order to cope with the less visible parts of the running of the project which had become my responsibility – and with Issue 6, Steve Wheeler took my place on the editorial team. When that issue arrived, it was a strange sensation to open the book and read it from cover to cover, rather than already knowing its contents inside out.

Six books later, Steve and I finally got the chance to work together, and we took on the challenge of this book with a determination to stretch the boundaries of Dark Mountain as wide as possible – not as a model for what future special issues ought to be, but to open up a space that would allow their editors to be as adventurous as Paul and I envisaged in our earliest conversations about starting a journal.

The work on this book began as I was reaching the end of two years as leader of artistic development for Riksteatern, Sweden’s touring national theatre. That role gave me plenty of chance to reflect on what ‘artistic development’ actually means. How does an artwork – especially one as collaborative as a piece of theatre – come into being and come alive? What conditions and processes make that possible? As Steve and I hatched the plan for SANCTUM, and began conversations with Thomas and Sylvia about the collaborations they went on to develop as lead artist and ‘marginalian’, I realised that this was the first time I’d experienced the making of a Dark Mountain book as an artistic project, rather than an editorial project.

To make a book about ‘the sacred’ is to get tangled up with the history of religion – and among the responses came the suggestion that a project which started with a manifesto called Uncivilisation had no business with religion, except to attack it. If you’ve read this book, you’ll know that the voices it contains come mostly from the edges and, where they do relate to institutionalised religion, this relationship tends to be complex. You won’t find much proselytising in these pages. But a couple of things seem worth saying, all the same.

For one thing, the first issue of Dark Mountain led off with an article by an Archdruid and featured contributions from a Hindu clergyman and a Quaker activist, so there’s clearly something about this project which has drawn the engagement of people grounded within various religious traditions from the start.

Beyond this, it’s worth recalling what Paul and I actually wrote in the manifesto. About ‘the myth of civilisation’, we said:

It has led the human race to achieve what it has achieved; and has led the planet into the age of ecocide. The two are intimately linked. We believe they must be decoupled if anything is to remain.

This is stark language, but it is not a call for an attack on a thing called civilisation – it’s a call to challenge the story we tell about the existence of such a thing. It urges a process of decoupling, disentangling the things which that story insists on linking together. Four years on, writing the FAQs for this website, we underlined that we did not have in mind ‘a call to destroy civilisation’. And while there’s always been room within the Dark Mountain conversation for ‘anti-civ’ thinkers like Derrick Jensen and John Zerzan, our first issue also contained Ran Prieur’s essay, ‘Beyond Civilised and Primitive’, with its emphasis on the power and the limitations of such binary thinking. This project has always had more of the trickster about it – as Steve observes, in his essay for the current book, ‘we are not here to take sides.’ And it is in that spirit that we made this venture among the ruins and the relics of the many different ways in which humans have made sense of the sacred.

But if this is part of the territory in which Dark Mountain travels, it is only one of many parts – and with the end of this series, the focus moves on. Other themes will come to the fore on the blog in the weeks and months ahead. And, in the background, we’ll be working on our new online publication.

We are not quite finished with the theme of Issue 12, however. When the new site launches, it will include a one-off online edition with new writing to complement the work published in SANCTUM. We look forward to making a couple of announcements in the near future about an event in Cambridge in the spring – and a further development of the artistic collaboration around this book! And meanwhile, we warmly invite you to join Steve, Thomas and several of the book’s contributors for an afternoon of workshops followed by an evening launch at Dartington Hall, Devon on Saturday 9th December.

At which point, all that remains for me is to hand over to Steve, whose idea it was to do this book in the first place…

*   *   *

SW: It seems a long time ago that I first suggested a themed anthology on the subject of ‘the sacred’. It felt like something we’d been circling around for a long time, but always been just a little too coy to address directly. We would use some of the language of the sacred in describing our relationship to nature or art; we would employ some of the ‘religious tech’ of ritual and incantation in festivals and performances; and, in pieces like Paul Kingsnorth’s ‘In the Black Chamber’ or Dougald’s conversation with David Abram on animism and the sensuous, perspectives were discussed that, if not overtly spiritual, had nevertheless stepped a long way out into the world of metaphysics.

But there still seemed a certain reticence in taking this aspect of the human experience seriously. Perhaps through an awareness that plenty of our colleagues, friends and potential readers were resolutely rationalist, or a distaste of our own for the various flavours of superstition and idiocy that travel under the flag of religion, we tended to shy away from outright contact with ‘the sacred’. Yet the more I looked around, the more I noticed that the people involved in Dark Mountain were drawing their inspiration from something that operated outside the usual circle of rationalist ideology. There was no shared dogma or creed – indeed many would strenuously disavow any relationship to ‘the sacred’ or ‘the spiritual’ – yet there was a common grounding in something other to the mechanistic, pseudo-objective, Enlightenment version of reality. And the further we went in our creative and intellectual exploration of the issues concerning civilisation, the more we found ourselves back on this ground.

We have featured such voices and themes before, of course, and will do so again. But it seemed there was merit in looking directly at this theme – not to suggest a particular programme of belief, of course (could anything be less appropriate to the anarchic polyphony that is the Dark Mountain ‘voice’?), but to explore this area with tact, sincerity and an open mind. It quickly became clear to us that the singularity of the subject matter required a singular response – something that departed from our usual format, that exhibited a thematic and aesthetic unity appropriate to the subject matter and that sought to embody this feeling of otherness in its very being.

Creating this book has been a long, strange dance. It loomed ahead for years, slowly approaching like some distant mountain. The climb itself, over the past six months, was at times gruelling, at times exhilarating. And now we stand at the summit, having released the book into the wild only a few weeks ago, there is certainly a sense of accomplishment. I’m convinced that it is the most beautiful book we have yet published.

In many religions, the condensed intricacy of illuminations, icons or mandalas is itself symbolic – a sign of the energy that has been poured into a task for no purpose other than glorification of the divine. There is something of that feeling in this book – but, without a shared agreement on the nature, or existence, of ‘the divine’ amongst the contributors, that energy seems to lead us somewhere else – towards a sense of hope, perhaps, that something new and beautiful can still be kindled amongst the gathering shadows.

We brought the makers of this book together with a call that referenced the ‘devil’s door’, and it feels like a kind of portal; into thirteen very different takes on ‘the sacred’, but also into a new chapter of Dark Mountain publications. More mischievously, a part of me enjoys the idea of breaking the neat row of Dark Mountain anthologies on the bookshelf. As someone who is a little too attached to owning ‘the complete collection’ of books – gazing at them lined up on the bookshelf with a sense of satisfaction that is entirely out of place in an age when all the old certainties and securities of the material world are shifting – the complete collection of Dark Mountain books now begins to look a little like a graph of the last decade, tracking the increasing disruption and variance in the world as the books become increasingly wild and unruly in their shape, size and format.

In the same spirit, we’re looking to do something a bit different with the launch event for the book. There will be an afternoon workshop with myself and Thomas Keyes, Art Editor and lead artist for SANCTUM, whose work graces the front cover as well as in many places within. We’ll be discussing what it means to draw on sacred traditions while making art that speaks to the secular realities of our current global predicament.

Then the evening event, the launch proper, will take things a little further. Alongside readings from the book by some of its contributors, there will be live music from David Osbiston and Blythe Pepino, video from across the world, and some very special theatrical performances. It should be a memorable evening, and a perfect way to mark the completion of a long, strange journey.

Dougald Hine and Steve Wheeler are the editors of Dark Mountain: Issue 12 (SANCTUM).

DM12_PPC_1Join many of the editors and writers who worked on this issue of Dark Mountain for its official launch with an afternoon of workshops and an evening of wildness at Dartington Hall, Devon on Saturday 9 December – places are limited, so make sure to book your ticket.

You can order a copy of Issue 12 from our online shop for £18.99 – or for a special rate of  £9.99, if you take out a subscription to future issues of Dark Mountain.





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Dark Mountain: Issue 12 – Believing in Holidays

DM12_PPC_1Two weeks ago, we launched this year’s autumn special issue of Dark Mountain. SANCTUM is a themed issue which takes as its focus ‘the sacred’. Here on the blog, we’ve been introducing different aspects of the book – and today we continue that series with a conversation with one of the book’s contributors, Elizabeth Slade.

In her essay, ‘The God-Shaped Hole’, Elizabeth writes about her journey as a rationalist atheist, with a background in science communication and healthcare, who developed a suspicion that something important might have gone missing when people stopped going to church. Today on the blog, she talks to one of the book’s editors, Dougald Hine – but we start with an extract from the essay itself.

Detail from Incipit to 'The God-Shaped Hole', Thomas Keyes

Detail from Incipit to ‘The God-Shaped Hole’, Thomas Keyes

We sit on cushions in a circle, about 25 of us surrounding one lit candle. Each of us is invited to place a personal object in the middle. Some put jewellery, a hat, a piece of quartz. I stay still, very conscious of being in a minority: not wearing yoga pants, not barefoot, no piercings or tattoos. I’m wearing a top from Whistles, for fuck’s sake.

I feel the stiffening in my shoulders as a wave of discomfort passes over me. My cheeks flush with embarrassment – what would the me of just a few years ago have made of this situation?

Now, I’m able to notice the discomfort, let it go (mostly), or just be OK with noticing it. I know that through the discomfort the good stuff lies. I notice my desire to stay in a safe, practical, intellectual, rigid, mask-wearing state, and I gently try to put these elements down.

The work involves sharing meaningful personal stories with each other. Gazing into the eyes of strangers. Exploring political issues that we care deeply about and retelling them from different personal angles. We’re firmly in the emotional and out of the intellectual.

This is London, days after the Grenfell Tower fire. Everyone has a lot of pain.

And when the workshop is over, back in the circle around the candle and altar of objects, we all feel connected. It’s like our hearts are bigger than they were at the start. There is an undeniable connection between all people, all life. Afterwards, it occurs to me that this is the third role of the sacred: between the sky of possibility and the ground of being held, to encourage the felt knowledge of connection.

When big events come, a hunger for connection breaks the surface of our current way of living. I remember the 7/7 bombings in London back in 2005, long before I had any interest in the sacred. That sunny day, after news of what happened spread, everyone left work early to slowly make their way home and it was inarguably apparent that we’d all go to the pub. I look at something I wrote back then: ‘In earlier days (or in America), people would have gathered their families together and prayed. In London, we got our mates together and drank.’ It was a kind of communion, I guess.

Last November, on the day we learnt that Donald Trump was going to be president, my minister opened the church for the evening. About fifteen of us sat in candlelight and shared how we felt, and a violinist played exactly the right music, and we wept. Brits, Americans, people in their twenties and their eighties, all feeling the need to be together.

On days like that, people recognise the need to be close to others, to gather together while they’re hurting or scared, for their emotions to be held in the right way, whether oiled by beer, or by candlelight and violin and the work of an experienced minister. It feels like a very basic human thing, so I assume we had the words for it long before the language of church.

* * *

DH: What you’re saying in the piece is that, until the last fifty or sixty years, in our part of the world, it was very normal that lots of people were part of a local church. That was part of the fabric of society, and it went away pretty quickly. And maybe we haven’t got the measure of some of what was lost, things that aren’t necessarily to do with your big cosmic beliefs about the Universe, but about some basic human needs. You draw on your own experiences with new kinds of non-religious gathering spaces like Sunday Assembly, as well as your local Unitarian church, where the minister is an atheist who used to be a scientist at MIT – but you’re also looking at it from the perspective of the work you’ve done with public health?

ES: Absolutely. So some of the work that I’ve done has been around the limitations of the health care system. You know, if you’ve broken a leg or something, it’s really well geared-up to treat you. But doctors have known for a long time that so much of what makes us healthy happens outside of biomedical health. It’s more to do with how we live – and that’s so much more than just, take more exercise, stop smoking, don’t eat as many doughnuts! We can live in ways that create health and that has a lot to do with how we live in our communities and the sense of purpose that we have in our lives. All those things that are not well provided for either by the state or the market. And right now, we can’t see what we’re missing, because there’s been this sort of generational gap there. There’s not a lot of common language to talk about these aspects of our lives.

DH: You’ve been thinking about the role of serving a community that might have been played once upon a time by somebody who wore a strange collar and stood up in front of a building full of people on a Sunday morning. And it’s not necessarily a desire to herd everybody back into churches that you’re talking about, but a sense that there is a role there that we need in other ways and haven’t necessarily got good at recovering?

ES: Yeah, definitely. And the language does get in the way and I’m really conscious that I use a lot of church-based language which to a lot of people is either alien or meaningless. But yes, there is a kind of role of ministry. I don’t think there’s an appetite in our culture to have someone who stands up in front and has all the answers – I think there’s something a bit repulsive about that idea – but we can be equipped to support each other, to be each other’s ministers and spiritual guides and help each other through life. And people are doing that, but it’s not yet a role that’s really valued in our culture. It’s not really something that’s seen. So you know, back when I went into the church for the first time, I didn’t feel: oh, I really need some kind of counsel from a minister. I didn’t really know what it was I wanted, I just had a sense of a gap, but it feels like it would be a hugely valuable thing if it was like, oh, I need a bit of guidance – I need to go and speak to someone who is in one of these community leadership roles with certain skills and knowledge. It would be good if we had some understanding, some way of talking about this, as a culture.

DH: It strikes me there are skills that in other times and places would have been regarded as something that you spent twenty years of your life learning how to do, before you were let loose as somebody could practice, where now we think you can go on a few weekend courses and get a certificate that allows you to sell your services – and that’s true whether we’re talking about some of the things that go under the name of ‘hosting’ and ‘facilitation’ these days, or whether we talk about some of the more New Age spiritual services that are on offer. So I wonder, without simply copying and pasting from the way things have been done in the past or in other cultures, how do we home in on a less flimsy way of dealing with these parts of being human?

ES: Thinking about the health care example, there’s been a lot of discussion in the last few years, reminding nurses and doctors alike, ‘Oh, we should be caring and compassionate.’ And you know a lot of people go into those roles because they are caring and compassionate – but actually, if the culture of the organisation loses its way and focuses on the hard clinical outcomes and the costs and all of that stuff and forgets ‘Oh, we’re here to be caring and compassionate’, then you have to remind people to do it. And so, in this sort of new, post-church spiritual world, there’s a sense of there not being much of an appetite for dogma. You don’t really want to say, ‘Oh yes, we all believe this, we all believe the same thing and these are the rules.’ But there is a danger of exploitation, people using powerful tools and techniques from the world of the sacred for their own gain, or just using them clumsily.

DH: We’ve been talking about how removed our culture has become from the experience of what you’re saying the church, at its best, used to provide. But there’s also a rediscovery going on in lots of places of what you might call the technology of the sacred – ritual, the mountaintop experience, the things that take you to those wild beautiful moments of meaning – which is often drawing on knowledge and practice that has existed within religious or spiritual cultural traditions. Maybe it’s tempting for us, as these things are being rediscovered, to focus on these ecstatic experiences?

ES: Yeah and you can see why, because it feels like that’s where the action’s happening. It’s exciting to be part of a ritual where you enter a different world for a little while and you know that the people around you are also entering that different world, that different mind-set, for a little while. And all of that stuff is hugely valuable – and still I think it’s a very tiny slice of the whole picture and actually the value is much more in the slow, gentle, day-to-day engagement with the sacred. Which can’t be these euphoric experiences, you know. You can’t have Christmas every day.

DH: You can’t live on a mountaintop. You go there to spend four days in retreat and have a powerful experience, but you still come back, hopefully to somewhere more sheltered.

ES: If the thing that you’re looking for is the euphoric experience and you’re looking to find it in a way that fits your everyday life in a sustainable way, I don’t believe that’s possible. So it’s more about accepting the slow and gentle, day-to-day, and having the things in your life that make that sustainable. Rather than just like, oh, if I can just get through to Christmas, then I can get through all of this difficult stuff that I know I’ve got on, but you know, just around the next corner, I’ll be OK. A lot of our culture at the moment is – oh, get through to your next holiday, get through to the weekend. You know, wait till you get home and you can have a glass of wine. And yeah, I guess I was totally in that pattern of living, pre-church, and I’m not entirely not within that pattern of living now, I guess! But I totally see that those bits of cultural infrastructure that you can bring into your day-to-day, just help us cope with this brilliance of being human so much better. Because it feels like we’re missing a lot of the sort of struts and supports that would really help us, I guess, stay level.

DH: Where I’m sitting, it’s also about coping with – or just not cutting ourselves off from – some of the darkness of what it means to be living at this moment. Living with the paradox that our ways of life are tangled up with processes that we’ve set in motion that are making it hard to imagine that we’ll be able to go on living like this – you know, it’s hard to imagine that this is going to be made sustainable. And at the same time, as you describe it, there’s a lot within even the privileged, successful version of that way of life which is not worthy of being sustained. Because living for the weekend, living for the next holiday, that doesn’t seem much like making a good job of being a culture.

ES: Exactly, it’s just deferring, isn’t it? It’s like, we don’t believe in heaven anymore, but we do believe in holidays.

Elizabeth Slade accidentally became an expert in spiritual infrastructure for the non-religious. From a career improving the way health systems work, she now wants to do the same for the spiritual health of communities. She lives in London and after 15 years is still trying to work out how her bumpkin soul can thrive there.

Dougald Hine is co-founder of the Dark Mountain Project and one of the editors of Issue 12.


You’ll find more where this came from in our latest book.

You can order a copy of Issue 12 from our online shop for £18.99 – or for a special rate of  £9.99, if you take out a subscription to future issues of Dark Mountain.





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Dark Mountain: Issue 12 – Twelve Pieces

DM12_PPC_1As we celebrate the launch of Dark Mountain: Issue 12 (SANCTUM), now available from our online shop, we’ve asked the team behind this issue to introduce different aspects of the work that went into its making.

Following Thomas Keyes on the story of the artwork and Sylvia V. Linsteadt on the marginalia that runs through the book, today Dougald Hine introduces the twelve major pieces that form the spine of the book.


If your copy of our twelfth book has already landed, then you’ll know that we’ve shaken up the form of Dark Mountain in a whole lot of ways. Not least, where a typical issue would contain forty or more pieces ranging from short poems to longer essays or stories, this time around we have built the book around twelve longer texts – and having introduced the other elements of this issue, it seems like time to tell you a little more about these.

The book opens with Sara Jolena Wolcott standing at a bus stop in Queens, waiting for the Q100 to Rikers Island jail, on her first day as a trainee prison chaplain. In the darkness of the jail, where women are held in uncertainty, awaiting trial, Sara takes us behind the story of climate change as ‘the unintended consequences of the brilliance and ingenuity of white folks’, into the histories of race and displacement, the theft of land and the theft of bodies and the roots of ecocide in the Christianity of empire. It’s a story of her own family, the land she grew up on and the stories no-one ever told her about that land. And it’s a search for the grounds on which healing might begin.

‘Sometimes the still heart of things has to spin us a tale to draw us back in,’ murmurs Steve Wheeler in the opening lines of ‘The Fire in the Cave’. This is a spiralling story about mythic thinking that winds around continents and millennia. ‘The stories our ancestors left us are not solutions or explanations. They speak a language of dreams, pointing in silence to a cave we half-recognise, where ancient animals step out from the walls, lit by a light from a source we cannot see.’

The next piece, ‘Between Home and Hell’, opens with a troubled winter solstice, a gathering at which a collective yearning ‘to feel connected to something old and real’ falls against the brokenness of the culture in which we are living. From this starting point, James Nowak takes us into the history of the ‘corpse door’, a phenomenon known from Icelandic poetry and found in the architecture of old buildings across the Nordic countries. These physical thresholds provide a glimpse of what it might mean to be part of a culture that takes seriously the relationship between the living and the dead.

In ‘Roots and Branches’, Pelin Turgut describes leaving Turkey after the repression of the protests to save Gezi Park and the coup that saw friends and colleagues imprisoned. Struggling to root herself in London, she finds herself drawn to the city’s trees, and realises that she is not alone: ‘I found other exiles adrift in the many parks I got to know: a Palestinian man shaking mulberries off a tree with a stick; an eastern European grandmother snipping elder flowers; a Syrian family collecting damsons for jam.’ Together with a friend, she starts work on a film in which they seek out ‘The People Who Speak to Trees’, and through this journey she slowly finds a way of being at home in the country where she is now living.

Rob Percival’s work takes him to farms – and at the opening of ‘Pig Rhythm’, he is on his knees, face to face with a hog. A grotesque disregard for the rhythms of life runs through the practice of industrial farming and, with it, a blindness to the roles that other animals have played in shaping our own species. Telling stories of ‘man the hunter’, we miss the reality that our species spent much of its existence as prey. Our ancestors learned the sense of rhythm from imitation of the animals around them, dancing their movements and finding their shapes in the stars, and it is here that Percival traces the deep roots of the human sense of the sacred.

‘Ancient and modern societies were alike in at least one respect: disability happened, whether from birth or over the course of life.’ In ‘Cripples and Crooked Paths’, Craig ‘VI’ Slee reflects on the experience of being defined by difference and the long history of connections between the Otherness of physical disability and the Otherworld. His words are infused with a fierce defiance and the inrush of ecstatic inspiration that comes at strange moments, as time falls away among ruins on a Cumbrian hillside, or after hours of staring at the blank page. ‘Nowadays you would have been fine,’ he hears the myth of progress whisper. ‘To which I reply I am fine. I am crippled, and I am nowadays.’

Sayalay Anuttara was twenty-five when she entered the monastery of Pa Auk Tawya in Burma. For the next five years her life revolved around training in meditation which she has now taken with her into the world. It is a discipline that leads her to a suspicion towards talk of ‘the sacred’: ‘To be honest, I find the whole side of spirituality that says “this is a mystery, it is beyond our understanding” quite deeply annoying.’ In ‘The Bottom Line’, she discusses money (her previous training was as an economist) and the environment from the point of view of a Buddhist practice that is sceptical of received wisdom and committed to direct investigation.

Over recent centuries, writes John Michael Greer, the main religion of the West has been the worship of Man: ‘Like many another deity, He was born in a cave, slew fabulous beasts in His youth, and thereafter set out in pursuit of His divine destiny among the stars.’ In ‘Confronting the Cthulhucene’, Greer draws on the dark fantasies of H.P. Lovecraft to contemplate a future in which people will still be around, but the deity Man will be dead.

Michelle Ryan encounters the reality of her own death when the weather turns against her and her companions on a Himalayan pass. Having spent half a lifetime studying Sanskrit and Vedic philosophy and teaching yoga, she has finally made the journey to India which an early marriage and the responsibilities of parenthood prevented her from making in the 1970s. In ‘Kedarnath’, she tells the story of that journey and how it changed her.

‘Don’t think just because your dreads have finally grown out, you don’t pay taxes, you have all the dope you want and you grow miles of one big ugly kind of onion, of droopy giant mediocre-tasting carrots, or you’ve canned up a hundred jars of garlicky giant baseball tomatoes and turned piles of ball-and-chain cabbages into tons of kraut, that now you’re farming.’ Martín Prechtel’s ‘The Marriage Contract with the Wild’ is a call to reawaken a relationship which he tells us is common to indigenous cultures around the world – the kinship between humanity and wild nature which came about through the domestication of plants. We have forgotten how to honour this agreement, Prechtel writes, and the consequences are all around us.

Liz Slade is an atheist, trained in science communication and working with public health, who has come to the conclusion that a lot of babies were thrown out with the bathwater when we stopped going to church. ‘The God-Shaped Hole’ is the story of her experiences exploring new ways of building community among the ruins of traditional religion.

Finally, in the last of these twelve pieces, Dougald Hine traces the ways in which the sacred went underground during recent centuries and how this shaped the modern idea of the artist. In the words of the Dark Mountain manifesto, ‘Religion, that bag of myths and mysteries, birthplace of the theatre, was straightened out into a framework of universal laws and moral account-keeping.’ This essay is about where the myth and mystery went – and what this might tell us about the roles that art can play now, in the end-times of modernity, under the shadow of climate change.

And at that point, the voice in the margins sweeps in to claim the final pages of the book, as Sylvia V. Linsteadt and Rima Staines conjure their vision of the Sybil of Cumae, and this issue of Dark Mountain comes to a close.

SANCTUM Book Launch
9th December

To mark the release of our twelfth bookwe will be holding a day of workshops, followed by an evening of music, moving images and performance, at the beautiful Dartington Estate in Devon on 9th December.

Afternoon workshops will be led by two Issue 12 editors, writer Steve Wheeler and artist Thomas Keyes, exploring the connections between art, ecology and spirituality. Later we will gather outside for a guided candlelit walk of strange encounters, unlikely inhabitants and moments of shadowed beauty. Finally we will be hosting an evening of shared food, drink and entertainment in the Upper Gatehouse, featuring readings from Issue 12, short talks from some of its contributors, live music and art, and moving images. To find out more about this event, and to book a place, see the ticket page here.


You can order a copy of Issue 12 from our online shop for £18.99 – or for a special rate of  £9.99, if you take out a subscription to future issues of Dark Mountain.


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Dark Mountain: Issue 12 – The Snake in the Margins

DM12_PPC_1As we celebrate the launch of SANCTUM, the twelfth Dark Mountain book (now available from our online shop), we’ve asked the writers and artists involved to introduce different aspects of this special issue.

Today, Sylvia V. Linsteadt explains how she and Rima Staines summoned the voice of the Sibyl of Cumae to inhabit the margins of the book’s twelve essays, and then to claim the final word. As the book’s ‘Marginalians’, they created a mythic narrative that weaves the book’s individual pieces into a larger whole.

Words: Sylvia V. Linsteadt, Image: Rima Staines

Words: Sylvia V. Linsteadt, Image: Rima Staines

To be honest, I was a little bit afraid. If you were to have glanced in my studio window while I was at work on the marginalia for SANCTUM (as generally only chipmunks, spotted towhees, quail and my neighbour’s dog Siri are wont to do), you would have seen me bent over my notebook, wearing a dry summer crown of mugwort and yarrow. Boundaries, you know, must be kept. Yarrow is good for that; so the witches teach. Swa wiccan taeca∂. So the witches taught in the old lore of Europe. Yarrow to stanch blood. Yarrow to sweat out a fever. Yarrow for protection against what is unseen. I’d decided this was a good idea, since I was writing in the voice of the Sibyl of Cumae who walked the underworld and prophesied among the dead as well as the oak leaves of a tree outside her cave.

I’ve learned the hard way that opening your mind wide for the mythic material of story-making to fall in isn’t always a safe undertaking, psychologically speaking. That it’s good to make a ritual approach each morning at the writing desk. To listen for the sound of threads growing thin in the mind, and stop short of any breaking. To always remember that the words and stories come from elsewhere, and to give back when it’s done. Given that the Sibyl of Cumae was the guardian of a prophetic serpent cavern which led to the underworld, I thought a yarrow crown while I wrote would, at least, not do any harm besides convince my brother (who lives nearby) and my elderly neighbour (who lives upstairs) that I’m every bit as odd as they already lovingly believed, and at best, might serve as a bit of a buffer.

'The Sibyl of Cumae' by Elihu Vedder, bringing the Sibyilline Books to the last king of Rome

‘The Sibyl of Cumae’ by Elihu Vedder, bringing the Sibyilline Books to the last king of Rome

When Dougald and Steve first approached me about being the Marginalian for SANCTUM, and also writing the book’s thirteenth essay (a kind of lunar counterpart to the solar twelve, they described it, a feminine balance to the masculine structure of the essay), I wasn’t at all sure what to do, but I knew I had to do it, because I’d been obsessed for months with pre-Hellenic Greek cosmologies and the preponderance of serpents, women with serpents, earth-serpents, prophetic caverns, Titans, priestesses and ancient female power I found there. Somehow, the margins of this book about nature and the sacred seemed an excellent place to set them loose.

I knew that the marginalia couldn’t, and shouldn’t, be in my voice. Why should anybody who happened to pick up Sanctum be subjected to my personal opinions cluttering the margins of each of the twelve essays? I thought to myself. No, it seemed the only way to do it was to become another voice. Not Sylvia Linsteadt, but a different, fictional self. (After all, aren’t all of our characters somehow, in the end, facets of ourselves? Perhaps it was only a facet of myself I was a little afraid of, in writing the voice of the Sibyl; and yet, and yet . . . There is always something more than this too, isn’t there? Something else speaking, when we listen.)

The word ‘marginalia’ immediately called to my mind images of medieval illuminated manuscripts whose margins had been doodled in by daydreaming monks. Such scribblings and illustrations bring a book to life in a way that the careful lettering and central text, no matter how beautiful, never quite do. While the text may carry the central intellectual message of the book, the marginalia reveals its life as an object in a pair of human hands, processed by a human mind and heart. Of course, marginalia in the traditional sense have almost always been written by men upon other men’s pages. So the idea of slipping a subversive, serpentine, sensuously embodied female voice into the margins of a book, any book, seemed a thrilling and fecund idea indeed.

'Aeneas and the Sibyl in the Underworld' by Arnold Houbraken, 1660-1719

‘Aeneas and the Sibyl in the Underworld’ by Arnold Houbraken (1660-1719)

The Sibyl of Cumae. A woman in a cave who spoke to the dead; a snake-seer; a woman of the old ways, of a time before rampant patriarchy. I’d been to Italy in the spring, very near Naples and Cumae, where she (or the long lineage of seers who held the title) was said to have lived. I visited an old Asklepion dream-temple in a hilltop village, where it was said the priestesses spoke to snakes in order to help their patients interpret their dreams and find healing through them, and that these snakes were buried in urns when they died, which were then mortared into the walls. I wondered how long before the coming of the Greeks the indigenous women of Italy had interacted ritually with snakes, and holy caves, and dreams. I wondered if the Sibyl of Cumae, who, as Virgil wrote, was visited by Aeneas on his journey to settle Latium and begin the lineage that would spawn Rome, was a fragment of a much more ancient and indigenous Italic heritage. I imagined my way into her voice in order to find out; not because fiction as a rule is a very good way to discover the truth about the prehistoric past, but because it opens new doorways in the mind that reason and research alone cannot.

Virgil wrote about her; Ovid wrote about her; T.S. Eliot too. Michelangelo painted her, and a dozen others. Always she was written or bodied by men, her voice given to her by their own words. I wanted to give her a female voice for once, and try to let her tell her own story as I imagined it from a female perspective, to set her free in the margins and see what happened. And it seemed suitable that she might dwell in the pages of a book. After all, according to Ovid, and later Petronius, she was an old woman for thousands of years, eventually ageing to little more than a wisp of voice due to a curse laid on her by Apollo (because she wouldn’t sleep with him). Presumably, a wisp of voice might fit anywhere– in an ampulla, where she was indeed stuck for many centuries, or in a book . . .

'Apollo and the Cumean Sibyl' by Giovanni Domenico Cerrini (17th century)

‘Apollo and the Cumean Sibyl’ by Giovanni Domenico Cerrini (17th century)

This act of setting the Sibyl free in the margins, so to speak, also did something interesting to the book as a whole. It transformed it into an oddly fantastical object that was no longer only a collection of essays. A Sibyl snakes in green text throughout the edges, offering her fiercely feminine commentary on the words gathered there. Her reflections culminate in a story of the present and the future, which involves the very book in which she has settled her green and weedy words. What’s more, it is the inimitable Rima Staines whose artwork accompanies the Sibyl’s words throughout the margins, and onward to the very end where it comes together in three of Rima’s most powerful, darkly feminine paintings, done on deer parchment prepared by the book’s art editor Thomas Keyes.

As regular readers of Dark Mountain may know, Rima and I created the novel Tatterdemalion together, working in a rather back-to-front manner. My words were written to illustrate a collection of her paintings, spanning many years of her work, rather than the other way around. This project was equally unusual, though smaller in scale. In this case, I wrote the words first and gave them to Rima to transmute into images with her pen and brush, but the manner in which we did it was still from the outside in, from the edges toward the center, both of us excavating primordial wellsprings where female serpent-deities dwelt, both of us exploring the cultural margins of a kind of dark feminine spirituality, as well as the literal book margins, trying to blur the boundaries between object and living text.

Rima Staines

Rima Staines

This book is about the concept of the sacred as it relates to our understanding of and interactions with the environment, the natural world, the living wild land, the whole Earth. Writing in the Sibyl’s voice as a way to think through the ideas put forth in SANCTUM, exploring her perspective and her story at the text’s edge, allowed the conversation happening within the book and between the essays to widen, to become stranger, to take a step beyond reason and into the realm of the imaginal. This is one of the things that fiction (and storytelling, and myth) can do for us. It activates the deep well of mystery that dwells at the mind’s root. It stirs up the Dreaming, and ultimately orients us back into the living world.

I hope that the Sibyl’s words offer something of this kind through SANCTUM. They certainly did for me in the writing of them. And I hope that you too may use this book, as she does, to divine what stirs in the darkness of your own heart, and in the darkness of our planetary future.

In the cave they are painting serpents on the walls in black and red and gold.

In the cave the last mother of the old world nurses her son of stone.

In the cave the first mother of the next world nurses her son of blood.

Sylvia V. Linsteadt lives in the bishop pine forest on a peninsula called Point Reyes, which has at various times been an island in the Pacific, but which is currently attached to North America along a volatile fault line called the San Andreas. She is a writer of ecological and mythic fictions, author of the novel Tatterdemalion (Unbound, Spring 2017) with artist Rima Staines, and an animal tracker. Her work currently finds itself knee-deep in the mythologies of a pre-Hellenic Mediterranean world, and seems to be continuously full of snakes, sibyls and caves.


You’ll find more where this came from in our latest book.

You can order a copy of Issue 12 from our online shop for £18.99 – or for a special rate of  £9.99, if you take out a subscription to future issues of Dark Mountain.



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Dark Mountain: Issue 12 – Letters with Style

DM12_PPC_1This week sees the publication of our third themed book, Dark Mountain: Issue 12 (SANCTUM), available now from our online shop. As with every issue of Dark Mountain, it contains a multitude of voices, words and images, gathered in this case around the theme of ‘the sacred’.

On Monday, the editors of this issue introduced the theme – today, it is the turn of art editor and lead artist Thomas Keyes to explain the unique collaboration which has brought letters and images to life in this issue.


The artwork for this book mostly started as roe deer running around the Scottish Highlands until they met with traffic or a gun. These creatures were then processed into parchment which has gradually accumulated over the last few years, the speed at which one person can make parchment being greater than the speed at which he can make use of it. Along with a large pile of parchment came an eclectic collection of chemicals, minerals, plants and lichens, in an ever-expanding attempt to find ways to use the parchment well. At some point, this became a conscious attempt to create insular illuminations using the techniques and materials developed by Celtic monks over a thousand years ago. My experiments ticked along for a couple of years, the illuminations getting more and more complex, the details finer, the lines tighter – but still missing a crucial element. No sacred book.

Thomas Keyes stretches deerskin for the parchment on which the artwork for Issue 12 will be created.

Thomas Keyes stretches deerskin for the parchment on which the artwork for Issue 12 will be created.

An art form like this needs its environment to thrive: there has to be something to aim at. Although there would be something great about actually copying an insular manuscript, this would be further away from the experience of the original Celtic scribes than taking on contemporary literature. The books they made work because those scribes were excited by the texts on which they were working and those texts do not have the same effect on me.

When Dark Mountain decided to take a look at the sacred I was interested. When the title was decided I got excited. Before I started working with parchment and insular illuminations, I was a graffiti writer, and there are certain letters which just work, so even before you get to the meaning, SANCTUM is a great word. There are letters here which have been at the forefront of graffiti culture, in the greatest tags: from style kings like SEEN, SKEME and KASE2 at the peak of 1980s New York graffiti, to today’s ASTEK, CAN TWO and TOTEM. The insular scribes also worked with some of these letters in great depth: QUONIAM, IN PRINCIPIO and INITIUM are among the most highly developed combinations in their culture.

You might think that this would make the job of designing the title easy: simply pluck these pre-existing letters from their contexts and rearrange them into the word SANCTUM. Except that neither tradition allows for such borrowing. To start with, it’s against the rules: in graffiti, it’s called ‘biting style’, and the rapid development of insular art tells us that a similar taboo was operating back then. Besides, it doesn’t work. Both graffiti and insular illumination rely on flow: the relationship between the letters, and of the word to the space it sits within. To write a word is to guide letters down a path in sequence. For the word to have meaning, all that is necessary is that you put one letter in front of the other, like drunken footsteps; as long as they go generally in the right direction, the meaning can be deciphered. To get flow is to work at a different level entirely: like water trickling down a gentle but complex incline, each line must come from its letter source, pick the optimal route and stop where it is no longer encouraged forward, coalescing in fine balance. No one starts out good at graffiti and not many become great. The secret, if there is one, is to write the same word thousands of times until it flows.

The insular artists understood flow and sought it out, both subconsciously, like a graffiti writer, through relentless practice of their writing styles, and more scientifically through geometry, deliberately constructing their art on strict mathematical principles in order to maximise flow and obtain balance.

The artistic plan for this book is all about flow and balance. The call-out for artists was pretty specific to this end – and the response was much more varied than I had anticipated. I learned about new levels of flow and balance as the plan emerged, like a jigsaw with no picture on the box, fitting together each new piece as it arrived. The artists who completed the task have a wide range of skills and styles: some create highly technically detailed work; others explore dark emotional undercurrents or focus on the materials themselves. All the work had to be created actual size, with no technological manipulation, so what you see in the book is exactly what the artists made.

"This book required the best part of twenty skins and took me into situations that can’t have troubled many since the monastic age."

“This book took me into situations that can’t have troubled many since the monastic age.”

One common thread is the respect we share for the parchment itself. It has a presence – and you can tell when people get it. Even on the cleanest sheet there are the traces of a living creature, the lightest imprint of veins or the grain of the skin. It has a depth which no other material can match. Built up in layers of translucent collagen, its opacity sits below the surface, like a shallow pool. The art seems to lift off it. This book required the best part of twenty skins and took me into situations that can’t have troubled many since the monastic age. Setting out all those skins is an operation in itself, just in terms of the surface area involved. You start by marking out the good bits; then, as they dwindle, there are judgements to make around stains and holes. Sooner or later, you are cannibalising other work to make up the quantity, getting to that tipping point which gives intensity to the best manuscripts, where the scrappy bits and unfinished details just go to show that everyone involved pushed themselves to the limits of their time and resources.

• • •

A folio from the Book of Kells.

The Book of Kells.

There’s a temptation to find a more obscure reference, a less daunting benchmark – but the Book of Kells won’t let me off like that. Created around AD 800, the work of its scribes is so close to perfection and so far ahead of anything else that it has an aura of magic, forcing anyone who treads near it to pay homage. Of course, there are mistakes – it’s not even finished – yet the accumulation of tiny errors is so small that, by the time you’ve found them, it’s too late; the spell has worked.

The Book has been playing this trick for centuries; that’s how it survived in the limelight for so long. Not hidden or buried, it’s been in the thick of it, surviving on style alone, as it passed through wars, famines, revolutions and Reformation. Even Cromwell’s general, Henry Jones, went out of his way to protect it, presenting this Catholic relic to Trinity College, Dublin where it remains today.

Its most telling encounter of recent centuries was the visit by Queen Victoria in 1849. She signed the flyleaf. In an era when history is roped off and kept behind glass, this seems incredible; yet once you think in terms of tags, you see how, even a thousand years after their deaths, those scribes were able to manipulate the head of the largest empire on Earth into behaving exactly as they wanted. It’s the kind of respect that style at this level should receive – and, of course, the signature leaf was later removed, setting the Book firmly above royalty.

• • •


Because graffiti is a living culture, we can see the effect of stylistic letters on the culture that fosters them. With what survives from the world of insular manuscripts, the task is more difficult. Ivan Illich saw the Book of Kells and the Lindisfarne Gospels as the last stand of a mind not yet fully enclosed by literacy; certainly, they are decorated to a degree which suggests that words alone could not be trusted to deliver the message.

As I write, this book is still emerging. I’ve still not seen it all – and I won’t be able to tell how it has worked until I read this in print myself. But the intent is clear and so is its place on the bookshelf. This is a book which stands at the other end of the arc of literature, embracing and at the same time questioning the primacy of the word. In a pleasingly geometric mirror image, we dip our toes from the land of words into the unknown beyond – just as the early Irish converts stepped from pagan orality into Christian book culture, bringing their style and geometry along to guide the way.

At each stage in the evolution of the use of letters, these seemingly simple symbols have thrown up a revolution that caught people off guard. With the journey from oral cultures into the historical era, book-based religions, vernacular literacy and education, letters have formed the culture that is destroying life as we know it. But if letters have been a way into this, perhaps they can also be a way through; for most of us, there is no other choice.


Thomas Keyes is an artist, forager and gardener. Specialising as a graffiti writer, parchmenter and manuscript illuminator with the intent of using each art form in its natural habitat with traditional techniques. He has been involved with the Dark Mountain Project for seven years, creating art on the edges and now in the middle, as art editor and lead artist for Issue 12.

DM12_PPC_1You’ll find more where this came from in our latest book.

You can order a copy of Issue 12 from our online shop for £18.99 – or for a special rate of  £9.99, if you take out a subscription to future issues of Dark Mountain.

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Dark Mountain: Issue 12 (SANCTUM)

We’re delighted to announce the publication of our third themed book, Dark Mountain: Issue 12 (SANCTUM), available today from our online shop. As with every issue of Dark Mountain, it contains a multitude of voices, words and images, gathered in this case around the theme of ‘the sacred’. Over the next three weeks, we’ll be introducing some of those voices and the unique artistic collaborations which have gone into this special issue.

We start with the editorial which opens the book, in which Dougald Hine and Steve Wheeler explain the choice of theme and the approach which they and their collaborators have taken.


At the Mouth of the Cave

What, if anything, is sacred?

‘Nothing should be sacred!’ comes the impatient answer from the enthusiasts for gene-splicing and geoengineering, the singularitarians eager to upload their consciousness into a disembodied digital eternity. To call anything sacred is to set it off-limits to improvement by the application of human ingenuity – to stand in the way of progress. And then these same enthusiasts write books called The God Species, or make declarations like ‘We are as gods and have to get good at it!’

Those of us who are not enamoured of these visions of techno-progress also end up invoking the old language of the sacred, as we try to articulate what goes missing when environmentalism talks in terms of ecosystem services. ‘In “nature” I see something divine,’ Paul Kingsnorth wrote, in an earlier issue of Dark Mountain, ‘and when I see it, it moves me to humility’.

As we reach for words that might encompass the vastness of the unravelling now underway, the great tide of loss that our kind has brought about – above all, the sixth mass extinction in the long life of our planet – it seems these are the words that come to hand. Whether taken up in a spirit of humility or of hubris, this is a language that speaks of ultimate things, of power, of loss and longing, of limits and of the limitless.

Given the territory in which Dark Mountain has wandered over the past eight years, it was perhaps inevitable that we would get around to devoting an issue to the theme of ‘the sacred’. We did so knowing that we could not keep a safe distance. This would not be a book ‘about’ the sacred, as though it were a topic to be taken up and examined at arm’s length. Rather, we had to risk bringing our own experience, our beliefs and doubts, to the work – and to ask this of those who worked with us to bring this book into being. As you follow us into these pages, the path will take you along the wild edges of belief, through the dream-space of myth and down the back alleys of history. A cave mouth stands open: enter it and you may find an entrance to the underworld, a philosopher’s allegory, or a woman who sits in meditation. The book itself becomes a space in which sanctuary is offered to parts of ourselves which we grew up learning to suppress.

Yet it was not without caution that we set out on the journey of this book. Within the Dark Mountain team, there were those for whom this theme awoke uncomfortable resonances, echoes of an architecture of power and control. It is not the job of a journal like this to be comfortable, but it matters to us that, among the voices gathered in these pages, you will find those who write as atheists or who view the language of the sacred with suspicion, alongside those who stand within particular traditions of belief.

No one here is out to win converts. The hour is late; there are more pressing tasks than trying to settle old quarrels. Whatever common ground we find, let us take it as a starting point.

• • •

The call for contributions to this book began with the story of ‘the devil’s door’, an architectural feature found on the north side of old churches in parts of England. Often bricked up in later centuries – and covered over with stories about its use that don’t quite make sense – it seems the original function of this door was to provide an alternative entrance for use on those occasions to which the priest was not invited. Early churches were generally built on sites already held to be sacred and old traditions die hard.

For us, the devil’s door came to stand for the strangeness of the past, the afterlife of supposedly obsolete beliefs and practices, the pragmatic compromises by which ground-level coexistence comes about, and the way that different stories can hinge on a shared experience that a particular patch of ground is somehow special.

Having opened that door, we found that many doors were opened to us in return, leading down corridors and tunnels of human experience and across all sorts of landscapes of the sacred. Even more than with the usual tide of submissions to Dark Mountain, we had the sense that people were sharing parts of their lives that mattered deeply, that were hard to put into words, and yet demanded to be written about.

The material we received far exceeded what this book itself could encompass – more about that, as this series continues – but we chose twelve proposals to be developed, and collaborated closely with the writers over the months that followed as they turned these proposals into the texts you are about to read.

Meanwhile, the architectural symbolism already suggested by the call became one of the themes that runs through the book, from the walls and fences of Sara Wolcott’s ‘From the Darkness’ to the temple at the heart of Michelle Ryan’s ‘Kedernath’ and James Nowak’s cautionary invocation of the ‘corpse doors’ found in old Icelandic texts and buildings. This, in turn, suggested the title of this issue: SANCTUM, a sacred space, a structure within which the sacred may be found.

• • •

Any issue of Dark Mountain is the work of many hands. In the case of this issue, we have broken with our usual practices in almost every part of the process, and this has demanded a particular commitment from contributors.

In place of the usual call for finished work, we asked for proposals, and our writers – some of them experienced, others published for the first time – then worked to a demanding schedule to turn what we had glimpsed in the brief summaries they sent us into sustained texts. While they got to work, our art editor Thomas Keyes was convening a team of collaborators who would bring letters and images to the book, drawing on the traditions of the graffiti team and the monastic scriptorium. We have given Thomas space to introduce their work for himself, but the huge collective effort which he and they have made deserves acknowledgement here.

And then, as you may already have noticed, we found that someone else had taken refuge in this SANCTUM: an unexpected voice which winds its way through the symmetry of our structure, breaking through into a thirteenth piece and claiming the final word. For summoning her, we thank our Marginalians, Sylvia V. Linsteadt and Rima Staines.

The result is a singular book which departs from the familiar forms of Dark Mountain in its contents, in the process by which it came about and, not least, in its design – for which we are grateful to our longstanding collaborator, Christian Brett of Bracketpress.

The journey here has been as inspiring and exhausting as any pilgrimage. We have been changed by the experience. As you follow in our paths, we hope that you in turn will find sanctuary, surprise and inspiration within these pages.

Image: Cover for SANCTUM by Thomas Keyes, the art editor and lead artist for this issue. In the next post in this series, Thomas will introduce the process by which the artwork for this book came about.


You’ll find more where this came from in our latest book.

You can order a copy of Issue 12 from our online shop for £18.99 – or for a special rate of  £9.99, if you take out a subscription to future issues of Dark Mountain.


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Inside the Doughnut

Book review:
Doughnut Economics: Seven Ways to Think Like a 21st-Century Economist 
(Random House, 2017)
by Kate Raworth

I doubt many people would have betted that this year’s hot new concept for a healthy economy would be that bad food staple, the doughnut. But with the publication of Kate Raworth’s book, it’s come to pass. The idea of the ‘doughnut’ is that there is (1) a lower social limit for human flourishing, beneath which welfare is limited by shortfalls in such things as food, education and housing, and (2) an outer ecological limit for human flourishing, beyond which welfare is limited by overshoot in such things as climate change, ocean acidification and nitrogen and phosphorous loading. These two limits constitute respectively the inner and outer rings of the ‘doughnut’, the sweet spot within which humanity must try to remain. I have to confess I’m not greatly moved by the metaphor, which doesn’t seem to go much beyond the truth that individually people can have too little, and collectively they can take too much. And too much of what – is there really a conceptual equivalence between taking too much water or fossil energy, and taking too much health, as Raworth’s ‘doughnut’ diagram (p.51) seems to imply? Whatever the case, she hangs a lot of sensible and lucid analysis off the concept in a genuinely thought-provoking, if for me ultimately unsatisfactory, book.

In the first part of the book Raworth dissects orthodox economic theory, showing how it frames the world in questionable but powerful and largely hidden ways that buttress right-wing, ‘free’ market politics, while silencing other modes of thinking. She places a lot of emphasis on the way that our stories and pictures condition how we see the world, and generally puts this to good use in deconstructing the ideology of mainstream economics – for example in the notorious ‘circular flow’ diagram of Paul Samuelson, founding father of modern economics, which depicted the economy as a kind of frictionless and endless flow of value through society, like water through a closed plumbing system. This ignores the open character of the energetic and biotic systems, with their sources and sinks, to which human economies are mere accessories. Doubtless Raworth’s view that we now need to tell different stories, and draw different pictures, resonates with the Dark Mountain Project.

Raworth characterises the old story of economics as one that unconditionally celebrates markets, business, finance and trade, deprecates the state and ignores households, commons, society, the earth and power. In the new story that she wants to tell, those elements that were ignored or deprecated in the old story are brought centre stage, and old elements like markets, finance and trade are put in service of wider human flourishing, rather than assumed to be unconditionally beneficial.

If that sounds obvious or trite, Raworth nevertheless does a good job of tracing the implications in some depth, using clear, jargon-free language aimed at the non-specialist, but without sacrificing an impressive level of subtlety. It’s refreshing that she talks about power, the systematic inequalities in human/human and human/non-human relationships, something that she rightly says is generally missing in mainstream economics. But unfortunately her description of it lacks depth, and doesn’t go much further than the observation that the wealthy get to shape the economy’s rules in their favour. OK, but who are the wealthy, and how were they able to accumulate their wealth? I get the sense that Raworth operates in a rarefied world of NGO and policymaker high-ups, whose inevitably bird’s-eye and reformist view of the world inflects her book’s gentle equity talk, its judicious commitment to levelling the playing field and its pervasive emphasis on ‘design’ as the solution to contemporary problems (her 21st century economics is, for example, “distributive by design” and “regenerative by design”).

The problem, however, is not that the present global political economy is badly ‘designed’. On the contrary, it’s extremely well designed, locking the majority of the world’s population into specific political relationships which have worked because they’ve convinced sufficient numbers of the relevant people that they have a stake in the status quo. But like every past political economy, the present one will only endure for so long, until a complex of internal and external factors forces radical change – not least in the identity of the ‘relevant people’ who are invested in the status quo. In the present global political economy, the consumers and business leaders of western Europe and North America have had disproportionate ‘relevance’. But it seems likely that in the political economies to come, their relevance will wane – and this will not be a process of ‘design’ but of messy conflict, violence, compromise, happenstance and political calculation.

For sure, the economic story that Raworth wants to tell is a good one to try to feed into this febrile mix. But I don’t think it’ll have much traction without a richer analysis of how politics and power happens. My feeling is that Raworth pulls her punches in analysing the mechanics of power because otherwise she would undermine the basic premise from which her book proceeds – that political problems get solved in smoothly reformist ways by designers thinking (or storytelling, or drawing) at a whole-system level. It’s an appealing view, perhaps especially to high-level policymakers. But I’m not sure it’s a very convincing one. Maybe there’s some truth in the notion that our stories create our realities. But it’s also true that we only find the stories we want to tell out of the realities messily created in the glacial grind of human history.

In recounting her alternative economic story, Raworth freely borrows from preceding heterodox economists like Herman Daly, Tim Jackson and Ha-Joon Chang. I’m not sure she adds a great deal to what they’ve already said. So I was a bit surprised to be told on page 44 that her key concept of ‘the doughnut’ is a “radically new compass for guiding humanity” derived from “cutting-edge Earth-system science”. There’s a danger here of the ‘radically new’ story succumbing to one of the pathologies of the old, and insisting over-stridently on its novelty and originality – this year’s must-have concept, rather than just another iteration in the long-established idea of sufficiency. Ah well, there’s nothing wrong with re-presenting old ideas anew if it freshens them up for another generation of readers. But Raworth says little that Herman Daly didn’t say, and say better (if a little more technically), in his 1977 classic Steady-State Economics. In that book, Daly distinguished between the three concepts of ‘service’ (human flourishing, the final benefit of economic activity), ‘throughput’ (the entropic physical flow of resources, particularly non-renewable resources) and ‘stock’ (all the things that are moved in the economy). Perhaps Raworth’s ‘doughnut’ concept is more memorable, but it’s less precise, and it doesn’t much help elucidate the point that some things deliver more service per stock than others.

The spirit of Daly nevertheless invests the later part Raworth’s book, where she lucidly examines questions of economic growth. Advocates for the ability of the contemporary global capitalist economy to generalise wealth while mitigating environmental impacts through technical innovation make much of the evidence for the ‘decoupling’ of economic growth from resource use in the ‘developed’ economies. A good deal of this decoupling turns out to be only relative – in other words, we’re using less resources than we used to in order to deliver a given amount of product (though not necessarily ‘service’ in Daly’s terms), but economic growth is such that we’re still using more resources overall. In some cases, there does appear to be a level of absolute decoupling, ie. a lower total amount of resource use. But Raworth usefully points out that what’s really needed is sufficient absolute decoupling – that is, enough absolute decoupling to bring throughputs back within the safe bounds of her doughnut, which some analysts suggest could, for example, amount to emissions reductions in the ‘developed countries’ of around 10% per annum – vastly greater than is currently being achieved. It seems likely that the ‘developed’ economies can only reduce their resource use at too high an absolute level to stay inside the doughnut. Meanwhile, the only working model available to ‘developing’ economies is to increase their absolute resource use. Raworth succinctly spells out the resulting paradox: “No country has ever ended human deprivation without a growing economy. And no country has ever ended ecological degradation with one”.

Time, then, for another story? Well yes, but what Raworth offers is mostly just a set of stories-in-the-plural of people doing various positive things. I don’t mean to belittle them. Many of them are genuinely inspiring and uplifting, such as the case of Malawian William Kamkwamba, whose home-made wind turbines brought power to his local community. But Raworth fails to put them into a systemic framework that turns them into a story, rather than simply a collection of stories – a story of how the systemic structuring of contemporary economies and polities can be systemically restructured into something better. And inasmuch as she does have a wider framework, it’s quite a problematic one – based on the notion of both the commons and the state as helpmates to human flourishing. Her text is sprinkled with references to things like ‘the knowledge commons’, ‘the collaborative commons’ and ‘the creative commons’, but this doesn’t amount to much more than a technical-sounding gloss to the notion that people sometimes share things. Well, sure they do. And sometimes they don’t. Raworth refers to the work of Elinor Ostrom, who looked carefully at various commons as defined collective usage agreements, but she doesn’t seem to have taken on board Ostrom’s point that commons sometimes work, sometimes don’t and are only sometimes (quite rarely) the best solution to resource husbandry questions. In Raworth’s treatment, there’s a slippage from commons as ‘defined collective usage agreement’ to commons as ‘free stuff, freely shared’. Take this passage:

The triumph of the commons is certainly evident in the digital commons, which are fast turning into one of the most dynamic arenas of the global economy. It is a transformation made possible, argues the economic analyst Jeremy Rifkin, by the ongoing convergence of networks for digital communications, renewable energy and 3D printing, creating what he has called ‘the collaborative commons’….Once the solar panels, computer networks and 3D printers are in place, the cost of producing one extra joule of energy, one extra download, one extra 3D printed component, is close to nothing, leading Rifkin to dub it ‘the zero-marginal-cost revolution’. The result is that a growing range of products and services can be produced abundantly, nearly for free, unleashing potential such as open-source design, free online education, and distributed manufacturing (pp.83-4)

One issue that goes unexamined here is the extent to which this highly technological commons, with its solar panels, computer networks and 3D printers, is sustainable in the light of the need for a sufficiently decoupled global economy discussed above. Another is that Raworth confuses the marginal costs of circulation, which indeed in the digital age have now sometimes diminished towards zero, and the costs of creative production, which aren’t necessarily much different than pre- ‘digital commons’ times. It takes as much hard thought and hard work to put together a good curriculum, a good political essay, a good poem or a good tractor design as it ever did. But once it’s put together, it can now be distributed almost costlessly around the world, potentially to an audience of billions. The zero-marginal-cost-revolution, if there is one, is a revolution of circulation, not production. No doubt it’s a fine thing, but it’s worth considering its major beneficiaries. Those who control the circulation are in a position to effortlessly siphon off wealth, whereas those who control the production aren’t – which is why Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg are a lot richer than any political essayist, poet or tractor designer, delivering a ‘collaborative commons’ based on privately owned, and possibly ‘enclosed’, means of circulation. Meanwhile, much of what really matters to people as physical, biological beings – such as staple foodstuffs and bulky construction materials – doesn’t enjoy zero marginal costs of circulation, and isn’t usually best produced via commons.

Perhaps Raworth’s wider point isn’t so much about commons in the technical sense of common-pool resource use agreements. Rather, it’s a plea to create economies geared to delivering collective human benefit and to abandon the discredited old notion that the pursuit of individual self-interest somehow delivers collective benefit through the magic of the market – a magic that, if it was ever operative, now seems to be wearing off, fooling only a diminishing band of neoliberal fundamentalists. Raworth isn’t the first person, surveying the global political economy, to think “No, not this”, but then to flounder at the question of “But, then what?”, and indeed she makes a better stab than most at answering that question. However, a more comprehensive analysis is needed of the way that economic and political power works and the complex functioning of the modern state. As it is, her prescriptions involve a rather hopeful, voluntaristic and top-down rhetoric that seems destined to go unfulfilled. Her over-emphasis on ‘design’ rather than politics discussed above is one example of this. Another is the need she identifies to “bring on the partner state” to support commons and local economic regeneration, without analysing why contemporary polities so rarely do this. It surely isn’t just a matter of them choosing the wrong story.

Maybe part of the problem is our fateful modern conviction that the stories we tell have to be upbeat and optimistic – a conviction Raworth endorses, insisting on the need to see a “glass-half-full” future (p.286). It strikes me that this may be more indicative of our problems than the solutions to them. If only we could lay aside the quintessentially capitalist trope of ‘optimism’ that sends us scurrying here and there after positive stories as a kind of pick ‘n’ mix while ignoring inconvenient negativities and acknowledge that we now face potentially insurmountable ‘wicked problems’ that need to be reckoned with rather than ‘solved’, it might be easier to harbour genuine hopes for the future. Raworth herself writes that history has repeatedly demonstrated an association between economic crisis and the rise of xenophobia, intolerance and fascism (p.277). Why insist on a glass-half-full view of the future in the light of this repeated fact? It’s surely preferable to present a sober and systematic unpicking of the mechanics of political power and economic provisioning that can clarify alternative endpoints, than to regale the reader with upbeat stories of how things may just turn out well. At its best, Raworth’s book does some good unpicking. But it still leaves us a long way from home.

Chris Smaje works a small mixed farm in Somerset and blogs at He’s written on environmental and agricultural issues for publications like The Land, Permaculture Magazine and Dark Mountain, and also in academic journals (Agroecology & Sustainable Food Systems; the Journal of Consumer Culture; the Journal for the Study of Religion, Nature and Culture). Trained in anthropology and social science, he previously worked at the Universities of Surrey and London.

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Living in the Borderlands

IMG_0716 (1)

We live in a small village between two Yorkshire towns. Once it was a pit village serving the local colliery up the road. On a wall in our backroom is an old black and white photograph from the early part of the twentieth century showing men from the village pushing wheelbarrows full of coal down the dirt road past the house where we now live. It is a place with history, a history that is constantly being remade. The colliery is now the National Coal Mining Museum and the village has become a place where locals pack the roads with their cars on their way to work in the towns and cities nearby. The village has become a place between other places, more prosperous in many ways but lacking a focus, a reason to be itself. It sits as a place between time, a borderland with a very strong sense of the past and an uncertain future, confused about and unable to define itself in the present moment. A place with plenty of stories but unable to tell the story of ‘now’. Racked with uncertain employment, resentful of those who are different, buying the Brexit myth in the hope that it will all feel better soon and a better story will emerge.

Most days I too drive the few miles to my workspace in the nearby town. Wakefield is also between places, sitting on the river Calder and next to the eastern ridge of the Pennine hills, a place between river and hill. A market town built on the wool trade, corn and coal coupled with its position as an inland port on a navigable river. Surrounded by ‘tusky’ (rhubarb) fields and sitting south of the much larger city of Leeds that dominates the region physically, socially and economically. The village and the town, both borderlands – places that sit between.

Our village also sits between two old woods; this land was part of the manor given to one of William the Conqueror’s earls in 1081 for his service in the Norman invasion of England, a brutal invasion that tore the land from the hands of the people who had lived and worked it for hundreds of years. Land packaged up as a gift for service, an asset to be traded. Wood and forest becoming something to make money from.

If you look closely, the woods also reveal the history shared with the village: old bell pits, lime kilns and coke ovens – past times, all grown over and becoming part of the woodscape, no longer needed by the men and women whose boots once trod the flagged stone paths and roadways that survive today, suddenly appearing then disappearing, broken by time and the growth of trees, bushes and turf.

These woods are also marginal spaces. They sit at the edge of the village, bordered by newer housing as the village reaches outwards. A wood left alone apart from the occasional groups of community volunteers who battle with the vast swathes of Himalayan balsam and maintain the paths, or the dog walkers and horse riders, the BMX riders, and the teenagers from the villages who come at night to drink beer and make fires to sit around. The woods are places to pass through, liminal spaces to enter and leave, full of a natural architecture very different from the village. This is a place for adventure if you have the imagination for it; truly a space between place and time.

Sometimes magic colours this wood. Whether it is the result of a nurturing microclimate, human hands, or a late cut of the meadow, a small patch of wildflowers blooms in the late October sun; deep blue cornflowers, common ragwort, oxeye daisies and groundsel defiantly flicking colour at the steel cold blue sky as if it is still midsummer. Other times of the year the dominant colour is creamy white on dark green as the wild garlic flecks the banks of the various becks running through the woods. In early spring the piercing white of common mouse-ear springs out of the verges of the paths, the tiny split leaves like mouse’s ears waving in the wind.

Walking in this wood summons stories; and those that want to be told arrive. The story of Little Red Riding Hood that my five-year-old granddaughter and my wife and I tell each other, acting it out using the paths and trees of our wood as the paths and trees that Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf and the huntsman walk on and hide behind. One wood becomes another in an instant, a playing out of a magic that stretches back to the first storytellers. The Hansel and Gretel story is another told in this wood; an old story full of dark and light, told at various stopping points in suitable parts of the wood with the older audiences I work with. It too becomes part of the wood and the wood becomes part of it, a connection that flexes and adapts and so changes each time it is told.

It is no accident that many stories happen in a dark wood or forest, especially stories from Northern Europe. Woods and forests are built into our mythic imaginations because they have been physically present in our lives and the lives of our ancestors for many hundreds of years. The stories lope through the woods, hungry for connection, a fire and a listener.

As I make my own loping way through the woods there is a flickering of sunlight through the darkness of the trees and their leaves; light to dark and back again. In much the same way light and dark flicker through the woods and forests of our stories and folklore; they are ambivalent places, places where living and dying, good and evil, are always present and you are never sure what to expect round the next corner or who might appear from behind the next tree. The wood is rarely a comfortable space.

This ambivalence, the darker side of the wood, was identified by the mythologist Joseph Campbell who mapped what has come to be called the Hero’s Journey. This is the single narrative or ‘monomyth’ that, he argued, underpins all stories in all traditions and cultures. The wood is a key part of this universal metaphor: the hero has to enter the ‘dark wood’ and suffer the trials and tests in order to achieve the elixir, grail or prize that she or he then must take back to the everyday world. This suffering is often compounded by the shapeshifters, tricksters and downright evil forces she or he encounters on the Journey. This light and dark, this ambiguity and uncertainty, is a space the hero must go through in order to reach a new understanding about her or himself and the world; the journey cannot be avoided. This is another kind of borderland; woods turned into places of confusion and paradox where change can be a positive experience but only sometimes, and always accompanied by pain and struggle. In these woods it is often hard to really know the difference between good and bad, light and dark.

We all have experience of the Hero’s Journey reflected in our own lives – some of us sadly never find a way out of the dark wood and ‘perish’ in our quest, eventually leading Eliot’s ‘lives of quiet desperation’ or raging in the darkness, lashing out at anything new or misunderstood. Make no mistake, this wood is a dangerous place. Things are often not what they seem; the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood pretends to be concerned for her but wants to eat her and her grandmother, the witch in Hansel and Gretel lives in a house made of sweetmeats and bread, she welcomes Little Brother and Little Sister with good food to eat but quickly imprisons Hansel, attempting to fatten him up to eat and setting his sister to skivvy for her. That which attracts us is not necessarily that which nurtures us. A bit like the fly agaric toadstools that appear in late summer around the birch trees in our wood; they look as if they have appeared out of the pages of a fairytale but contain poison in their hearts.

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The old stories are full of shapeshifters and trickster figures that appear as one thing, often human, but are something else entirely. Often these figures appear as positive influencers and helpers only to be revealed as dangerous and destructive. Sometimes it is the other way round and the apparently poor, the simple woodsman, the overworked step-daughter or the mysterious, initially threatening stranger turn out to be forces for good. This ambivalence extends to the trees themselves. The elder tree is a good example; in myth and folklore it is both feared and revered, sometimes driving out evil, sometimes causing sickness, dreams of death and indeed death itself. In contrast the oak, present in our own wood, is sacred. It is ‘the mother tree’, a nurturing tree; if you cut one down you do so at your peril. When times were hard acorns were eaten not just by animals but by people, dried, ground and turned into flour for baking.

Why all this uncertainty associated with woods? Walk in a wood at dusk or on days when the cloud presses in, compacting the light to darker, greyer shades, and you will see. At these times trees begin to look like human figures, their shapes twisted and convoluted. What hides in the shadows, in the undergrowth? Is that the movement of the wind or is it an animal moving towards me? The older, more primal parts of brain and neurology unpack thousands of years of genetic conditioning and spark up new, fearful thoughts.

As marginal, liminal spaces, forests and woods are also a place for ‘outlaws’; people who live physically and in thinking outside the law, the established way of doing things, the way of the village or town. In the tenth century these outlaws were men and women escaping the brutality of the Norman scorched-earth destruction of Anglo-Saxon communities, especially up here in Yorkshire, Lancashire and the North East. The forests and woods became their homes from which they hunted for food, cut wood for fires and harassed the invading occupation forces. Their resistance placed them outside Norman law. They became the rebels battling an arbitrary and corrupt law, fighting for a way of life that they felt was just and right. These people were the antecedents of the Robin Hood stories that began to appear in the ballads and stories of the fourteenth centuries, stories of the wood that are still walking with us today but that we seem to have lost connection to. It is a kind of collective amnesia that we have fallen into, creating a space that can be colonised by a different set of stories. Stories told by forces of a new ‘underworld’, stories meant to manipulate us, making us into fodder to be consumed as part of a post-industrial fable that creates separateness and individuality while apparently nurturing connectivity and identity through social media. We live in a time in which the ‘shapeshifters’ can and do flourish.

Our world is experiencing a dark wood that appears to stretch to the horizon and beyond. A dark wood in which there are no maps, because we have created a forest empty of the stories that connect us back to our deeper soul, to our natural ground, to our understanding that we are all connected. When we lose our stories we lose this common ground, that which holds us and grounds us in a sense of the whole. We fall into a kind of waking sleep, unable or unwilling to find the magic apple to revive us; rather we follow others to stagnant waterholes that provide no real quenching of our thirst. We see the results of this cycle in climate change, the pollution of large tracts of the land we have exploited for so long and in the impact on ourselves and our fragile sense of community and connection. We are in desperate need of the ‘outlaws’, the mavericks who can break out and populate this space in a different way to bring us back together.

And yet this wood is exactly where we need to be; we have to go to the borderlands, enter the liminal spaces.The changes we need to make won’t happen in the village, the place of comfort, certainty and belonging. We have to be in the wood.

An important part of this process is to look at this dark wood as the place in which we have to craft the stories that have been missing and missed for so long. As others have pointed out, it’s not necessarily that we need to create new stories. The stories we need have been with us for thousands of years, told by the storytellers to their audiences in tents, huts, round the fire, on the mountains, in family homes – anywhere people came together. In the flickering of the firelight, children dozing on parents’ laps, the storyteller would stamp her staff, clap her hands and start to speak. Her audience would lean forward to listen and the teller would weave the story that reflected the audience back to themselves casting new insight into the darkness and confusion of being human.

If ever there was a time for the storyteller to connect us with the old stories, it is now. We need to quieten down to listen. If we don’t, we will never find our way out of our current dark wood and in that vacuum the stories of the politicians, financial directors, nationalists, racists and bigots will be the only ones told. Remember, in the old stories sometimes people never get out of the dark wood to return home; they perish, often violently. We are on that path now. We can either choose to have more of the same or to have the courage to step into the wood and pick out the pathways shown by the light of these old stories; a light that shows us who we are and keeps the wolves at bay.

In an old story from Norway, a hero travels through the borderlands between village, town and forest. He comes to a split in the road from which there are three possible paths, each with a signpost. The sign for the first path reads ‘he who travels this road will return safely’, the sign for the second reads ‘he who travels this road may or may not return’ while the third and final signpost reads ‘he who travels this road will never return’. The hero takes the third path because it is the only path from which growth, development and change can come. We need to do the same. We can’t stay in the village, holding onto what we know, repeating the same destructive patterns. We need to step onto this different path and find a new way.

David Taylor is a poet, storyteller and coach working with people and organisations to help facilitate growth and development, with a particular focus on leadership. He is co-author of Alchemy in a Shoebox (for the Alchemist’s Foundation) and a collection of his own poems, Occupying My Ground (Pontefract Press). You can visit David’s website and blog at

Photographs by author

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Between 2015 and 2016 Nick Hunt spent six months walking the invisible pathways of four of Europe’s named winds – the Helm, the Bora, the Foehn and the Mistral – to discover how they affect landscapes, peoples and cultures. The following excerpt is from the introduction of his book about those journeys, Where the Wild Winds Are (Nicholas Brealey, 2017).


The wind almost blew me away for the first time in 1987, when the Great Storm hit the British Isles. I was six years old. It was on the mountainside of Ynys Enlli, the holy island off the coast of North Wales, where my mother took me every year to volunteer for the local trust and hear the seals sing at night. Now the storm had stranded us there, for the weekly boat was cancelled. There was no shop on the island, and food supplies were running low; one of my most vivid memories is of my mother, by the glow of a paraffin lamp, inexpertly skinning a rabbit the farmer had shot for stew. I remember hugging the cottage wall on trips to the outhouse in the yard, and my fear of slates zipping off the roof to brain me if I ventured far. But what I remember above all else is standing on the mountainside and the wind filling the coat I was wearing – many sizes too large for me – and my feet actually leaving the ground before my mother grabbed my legs and dragged me back to earth. We laughed about it afterwards. It became one of those stories. Could it have actually blown me away, across the foam-flecked Irish Sea? I’m not sure, but for years part of me secretly wished it had, and I imagined being borne through the sky to Ireland, France, America, Iceland, the Arctic Circle or any of the other wonderful places waiting in the world. I’d only travelled a foot off the ground. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help feeling slightly blessed.

Despite being moved by the wind in this way I did not grow up to be a glider pilot, a windsurfer, a paraglider or a wind turbine engineer. My attempts with kites mostly ended in dismal tangles of string. I did not become a meteorologist, one who understands weather as a science, as I’m sure this book will make only too clear. What I did become, however, was someone with an urge to travel, and especially to travel by walking, which allows you to follow paths not dictated by road or rail, paths not marked on any map, or to follow no path at all; to wander and to wonder as freely as your feet can take you. But every journey has a logic, even if it’s an invisible one. All travelling, I came to understand, is an act of following something: whether a coastline, an ancient migration, a trade route, a border or someone else’s footsteps. Scanning the travel section of a bookshop, it appeared that everything had been followed that it was possible to follow. There seemed to be no trails left that hadn’t been traversed.

And then one day I saw a map with paths I hadn’t seen before. It was a map of Europe transfigured by coloured lines, marauding arrows like troop advances that ploughed across borders, over land and sea, connecting regions and cultures that seemed quite separate in my mind: Latin with Slavic, continental with coastal, North African with southern European. These mysterious corridors had names every bit as tantalising as the Silk Road or the Camino de Santiago: the Mistral, the Tramontana, the Foehn, the Sirocco, the Bora. There was even one in the north of England, more brusquely named the Helm. The map showed the routes of local winds, which blow with tremendous force at specific times of year – normally at the transitions between seasons, such as when winter turns to spring – and, I was intrigued to discover, they were said to influence everything from architecture to psychology. The fact that these invisible powers had names, rather than simply compass directions that described where they were from, gave them a sense of majesty, even of personality. They sounded like characters I could meet. Those swooping, plunging arrows suggested routes I might follow, trails that had not been walked before. As soon as I saw that map I knew: I would follow the winds.
Map 1 Europe-1But where do winds come from, and where do they go? Can they be said to ‘go’ at all, in the sense that a walker goes, or a road, from one location to another? And if they can, what happens to them once they have got there?

What, in fact, is wind? Before asking that it is better to begin with a more fundamental question: what is air? Ashamed as I am to admit it, until I started this book I assumed – as I suspect many people do – that air isn’t really anything, that it doesn’t exist in the same way that earth or water does. I thought of it as an absence, a nothing waiting to be filled with something, so it was a revelation to learn that air is something in its own right.

Air is a gas, or a mixture of gases: mostly nitrogen and oxygen, with tiny amounts of carbon dioxide, argon and water vapour. Like every gas it is made of molecules, which are made of atoms. So air not only has substance, but weight – that was my next revelation – and the proper term for the weight of the air, its billions of molecules combined, is ‘atmospheric pressure’. Just as pressure at the bottom of the ocean is greater than at its surface, because of the volume of water above, atmospheric pressure is higher at low altitudes – because there is more weight pressing down – and lower at high altitudes, where the weight pressing down is less. Pressure is dependent on temperature: when the weather is warm air rises, creating areas of low pressure, and when the weather is cool it descends, with the opposite effect. When neighbouring ‘parcels’ of air find themselves at different pressures the atmosphere must equalise, so air is forced from high pressure areas to low pressure areas to balance things out. It is sucked rather than blown: that was my third revelation.

That is our culture’s answer, at least. Other cultures have answered differently, providing tales as twisting and varied as the winds themselves. The ancient Greeks gave wind its place at the very beginning of time: when the goddess Eurynome, mother of all things, emerged naked out of Chaos and separated the sea from the sky, her dancing set the air in motion and created the north wind, which became the serpent Ophion (appearing in a later incarnation as the god Boreas). Eurynome coupled with this flowing, sinuous snake of wind and afterwards, in the form of a dove, laid the universal egg from which all life hatched.

Wind and life: the two are connected at the deepest level of language. The words for ‘wind’, ‘breath’ and ‘spirit’ are the same in many tongues, including the Hebrew ruach and the Arabic ruh. The Greek word for wind, anemos, is the root of the Latin anima, ‘soul’, the force that animates, or gives life, to breathing creatures: animals. Another Latin word, spirare, which means ‘to breathe’ or ‘to blow’, is the source of ‘spirit’ as well as ‘respiration’. And to the Greeks, in the words of writer and translator Xan Fielding, ‘breezes used to be called zoogonoi, life-begetters, and psychotrophoi, soul-nurturers; and the mythical ancestors of the human race who were worshipped in Athens  . . . were wind-spirits as well as ancestors, breaths as well as souls.’


I wanted to follow these breaths, these souls, but where to begin? In ancient times an aspiring wind-walker might have consulted an aeromancer or, even better, an austromancer, the former being a weather diviner, the latter specifically a wind diviner (from the Latin auster, ‘south’, suggesting an emphasis on powerful southerlies). Wind was rendered visible in clouds of dust or seeds thrown in the air, the blown patterns of which were interpreted like language; in sacred groves Hellenic seers made predictions from the percussion created by gongs struck by wands swinging in the breeze. Such blasphemous divinations were condemned by later Christians, and the science, or magic, of aeromancy was excoriated by the medieval theologian Albert of Cologne; though he may have confused it with necromancy, a far more sinister hobby.

Today our forecasts might be shaped with the aid of satellite images and fantastically complex computer models, but the assumption is the same: that the invisible patterns of wind can be interpreted to understand the future. From an aesthetic point of view the results are beautiful; to look at an online weather map is to see an ever evolving world of gorgeous psychedelic design, a shifting spectrum of purples, greens, yellows, blues and oranges, punctuated by the jabbing blue triangles and red half-hemispheres of cold fronts and warm fronts. Wind becomes a topography of dizzying, concentric whorls: the contours of isotachs and isobars – which represent lines of equal wind speed and atmospheric pressure – and wind-barbs, directional lines which branch at five-knot increments, swirling through the atmosphere like clusters of musical notes. They have the appearance of runes, illegible to those without knowledge to read them. They are a kind of alphabet, as wind is a kind of voice.

Screenshot 2017-09-27 at 12.05.24Where the Wild Winds Are (Nicholas Brealey, 2017) tells the story of a series of walks following Europe’s wind-ways: the Helm, Britain’s only named wind, which howls over Cross Fell in the Northern Pennines; the Bora, which freezes the western Balkans and the Adriatic coast; the Foehn, which brings warmth and clear skies but also headaches, insomnia, anxiety and depression to communities in the Alpine valleys of Switzerland; and the Mistral, the Provencal ‘wind of madness’ that animated and tormented Vincent Van Gogh. 

The book is available to order online, or – much more preferably – to buy in all good bookshops.

Nick Hunt is a writer, walker, and editor of the Dark Mountain blog.

Snow blown by the Bora, Mount Mosor, Croatia, 2016 (photograph by author)
Map of Europe’s named winds by Rodney Paull, 2017
Anemographic Chart, or Map of the Winds, by Jan Janssonius, 1650

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