Jim found a deep and dark rabbit hole to fall down...

  It has to be one the most confusing rabbit holes anybody has fallen down. How did a man who, in his young days, espoused Marxism and became a champion of the underdog and a supporter of Civil Rights in the USA of the 1960's become the leader of a cult which imploded into the mass suicide of 918 people in 1978?

The answer lay deep inside Jim. Born in poor circumstances in Crete, Indiana in 1931 throughout his childhood there was 'something' about Jim. He hung out with the local kids, but when play ended there was no going to  a friends house for supper, no sleep-overs at friends because Jim had no friends. The other kids were wary of Jim, he would conduct funerals for roadkill animals, sit on his own and read the Bible. Not the sort of kid you invited round.

This rejection gave Jim an empathy with the repressed in America, particularly African-Americans, he understood.

The rabbit hole began to form when, as an avowed communist, he was invited by a Methodist superintendent, to join the church. Jim saw the power the church had over people and, before long, had formed his own ministry to gain followers and further his beliefs. 'Peoples Temple Christian Church Full Gospel' was born.

In the late 1960's Jim became an aggressive pursuer of civil rights, he aided the racial integration of restaurants, businesses, theatres, even a police department.

Jim grew inside, he could chase away the rejections of his childhood by freeing others from rejection.

The  'Peoples Temple' grew and grew, having at it's peak over 5000 members, and so did Jim's need to control it and everyone in it, Jim began to see himself as the 'Peoples Temple' incarnate.

He moved the base of the Temple from state to state, met with such as Walter Mondale and Rosalynn Carter, and received accolades from them. How dangerous this would become.

His early rejections led him not, as you would expect, to enjoy acceptance. Instead, paranoia mixed with his growing Messianic complex led him to reject such approval.

The Peoples Temple, as time passed, became a cult. Jim also rejected the Christian faith he had earlier espoused in favour of his earlier socialism....you can hear him here, full on Jim, the anger, the frustration, the references to his childhood and the growing paranoia, his rejection of the Bible and his own Messianism pour out of him in this audio of a Temple meeting,  Jim Jones preaches...

Eventually Jim moved the Temple to Guyana, where, he determined, the socialist utopia would come to be.

The result, as we know, was disaster.

Jeff Guinn explains how Jim came to find and then fall down a big rabbit hole that confused him as much as it enchanted others and led to the Jonestown endtime in this balanced, meticulously researched and calmly written book.

As usual scribble down the ISBN 9781476763828  and take it to your local bookshop, mine has it in stock;)

Another rabbit hole soon..

Lizzie finds a rabbit hole...

The 'cult of celebrity' and it's attendant inanity are familiar to all and often cited as a modern malaise.

The ancient Greeks are, by definition, anything but modern yet they had a Goddess of fame, her name was Pheme, the Roman version was Fama, see where this is going?

Both were Goddesses of rumour.

In the 'Aeneid' Virgil describes her as a 'swift, birdlike monster with as many eyes, lips, tongues, and ears as feathers, traveling on the ground but with her head in the clouds.'

Ovid in his 'Metamorphoses', describes Fama as living at the center of the world, where earth, sea, and sky meet. From there she can see and hear everything that goes on in the world. She lives in a house atop a tall peak, it has no doors but instead has a thousand windows.

If you found favour with her, notability followed. Fall foul of her and rumours would spread, she is often portrayed with her trumpet, blowing good or bad, depends on how she felt about you.

So, no more disapproving 'sucking-a-sour-lemon' faces please when you see the celeb mags by the checkout at the supermarket. The ancients were at it too.

Which brings me to the book to go down the rabbit hole with.

Pheme seems to have looked over the shoulder of Lizzie Siddal.

Lizzie was born into a working class London family in 1829, her upbringing was uneventful and by the age of 20 she was working as a milliners apprentice when the artist Walter Deverell met her and invited her to model for him. He was a friend of the Pre-Raphaelites and introduced them to her.

The rabbit hole was being dug.

Through this introduction she met leading light of the Pre-Raphaelites Dante Gabriel Rosetti. An ill-starred relationship was born.

The rigid class constraints of the time led Rosetti to repeatedly promise to marry Lizzie and repeatedly he broke it off. She, in return used frequent bouts of ill-health to blackmail him to the altar before it was too late. The same ill-health also introduced Lizzie to laudanum, to which she became addicted.

A love/hate relationship ensued as Rossetti painted and drew Lizzie to the point of obsession. Their love for each other was never in doubt but it was as if they competed for who loved the other the most.

They finally arrived at the altar in 1860. Sadness and the rabbit hole followed.

Lizzie's first child was stillborn, the grief that followed sharpened her addiction to laudanum, she died of an overdose aged 32 in 1862.

Rossetti was consumed with grief and Lizzie was buried with a journal containing Rossetti's poetry nestling in her hair.

By 1869 Rossetti was in the grip of booze and chloral hydrate, the attendant paranoia convinced him he was going blind and could no longer paint. Writing poetry would be his salvation. He became obsessed with the poems buried with Lizzie. He applied for, and received, permission to have Lizzie exhumed.

The exhumation took place at night, Rossetti was not present but his agent, Charles Augustus Howell, was. He retrieved the journal and told Rossetti that Lizzies hair had grown after her death and filled the coffin. Rossetti published the poems but the poor response depressed him and he fell into a miasma of chloral hydrate and whisky. He died a recluse in 1882.

Lizzie fell deep down the rabbit hole and found Rossetti, who then found his own rabbit hole.

Their story, the epitome of the tragedy that love sometimes becomes, is best told by Lucinda Hawksley, nip to your local bookshop with this ISBN 9780233002583 for a copy of a beautifully produced hardback  which is full of romance, intrigue, tragedy and, as you look at the cover, and think "Yeah, I know that picture!" look for Pheme, she might be watching you!

Another rabbit hole soon....

Donald went down a rabbit hole...

The worst rabbit hole to fall down is one you create yourself. Donald Crowhurst dug his own.

 

Born in then British India in 1932 of British parents Donald, as a result of his mum's wish for a daughter, was raised as a girl until the age of seven.

Back in the UK he left school before the usual age and, after bouncing around, became an RAF pilot in 1953, that didn't last, the London Gazette recorded his commission being 'terminated' in 1954, no reason given. He moved on to the Army but got busted again.

At a loose end Donald moved to the English South-West trying to turn his habitual inventing/tinkering into business. Debts grew as he tried to support wife and four children.

The Sunday Times made Donald's eyes boggle in 1968 when he saw the announcement of a big cash prize for the winnner of 'The Golden Globe' a solo non-stop round the world yacht race..because Donald was now a weekend sailor.

Time was short, Donald took on a financial sponsor, a publicist and a boat builder. The rabbit hole was looming.

Ever the romantic optimist Donald mortgaged everything he could and laboured over the design of his tri-maran 'Teignmouth Electron' whilst his ex-tabloid journalist publicist wove stories of this brave adventurer.

Unseen by him clouds of concern were gathering. Experienced sailors doubted both his sailing ability and the design of his tri-maran.  These doubts were confirmed when sea-trials went horribly wrong and the deadline was looming.

Donald left Teignmouth in an under-equipped, under-trialled boat just hours before the deadline on 31st October 1968.

Wise heads wore frowns as he became a speck on the ocean.

Communications were by radio only. Donald reported his position only sporadically.  He was doing well. Some wise heads still wore frowns. The weeks and months passed, the better his position became the deeper the frowns.

Donald reported his position on 29th June 1969, he was in the lead or close to it as he raced up the South Atlantic on the way home.

Silence.

Ten days later the Royal Mail Vessel RMV Picardy found the 'Teignmouth Electron' adrift. No Donald.

On board were log books and a journal which showed that Donald had, from the get-go, fallen into the doldrums in the South  Atlantic, had made land for repairs, thereby disqualifying himself and spent months sailing in circles whilst falsifying his position until the other competitors returned to the South Atlantic where he would join in again for the home run.

Those long days, weeks and months of solitary life in the middle of the ocean with only his thoughts and guilt for company led to writing journals which both fascinate and disturb as you read. Are they the journals of a man sliding into insanity or of a man finding a wisdom which escapes the rest of us? I have read and re-read them, still not sure.

The obvious theory is that he found himself in a state of mind which made walking off the back of the boat entirely reasonable.

The less obvious theory?  Donald once again put into port, hired a boat for the day, towed 'Teignmouth Electron' out to sea, set her adrift and returned to port to start a new life. I love that idea, Donald is now living on an island somewhere, happy with his new philosophy of life.

'Teignmouth Electron' was sold as salvage then sold and re-sold as a dive-boat. Eventually she was dragged onto a beach on Cayman Brac, where the remains still lie.

  This photo and a thoughtful blog entry by visitors to the remains is here...http://panexplore.com/teignmouthelectron/


The book is...'The Strange Last Voyage of Donald Crowhurst'  by Nicholas Tomalin and Ron Hall ISBN 9781473635364

Available at any bookshop worth it's floorspace, including Heffers in Cambridge;)

Donald Crowhurst will come to life again in October 2017 when a film based on the story, starring Colin Firth as Donald, is released. (I have a gut feeling it could be the film of the autumn season...be fun to see if I am right!)

Another rabbit hole soon....

Jack goes down the rabbit hole...

Alice went down the rabbit hole...so did Jack.

Peaches go with cream, fish go with chips, rocketry research goes with the occult.

Something catch your eye? Something about rockets and the occult? Really?

Yeah, really.

Time to go down the rabbit hole.

Jack Parsons was born in Pasadena, in 1914, and christened Marvel after his dad but after dad scooted town Marvel Jr's Ma started calling him John, which soon became Jack.

That's a shame because Jack's life had more of the Marvel comic in it than anything Jack.

Jack, as I will call him, grew up in a wealthy family living on Orange Grove, Pasadena, known also as Millionaires Row. Jack spent his pocket money on the sci-fi mags that were on every corner news-stand, Amazing Tales and other pulp wonders were his reading.

Jack and friend Ed Forman decided to use the undeveloped land at the end of Orange Grove to set off fireworks, including rockets.

Now we see the rabbit hole in the distance...

Jack loved the complexity of chemicals the rockets needed to shoot into the sky..equally complex was Jack and he fell down the rabbit hole.

In 1941 Marxism lost its lustre for Jack so he and wife Helen turned towards the Thelema movement founded by Alesteir Crowley, the self-proclaimed 'wickedest man in the world' Jack soon became Crowley's right hand man and started playing with lit candles to impress people.

And then...and then...the rabbit hole gets longer and darker.

Jack's full embrace of the occult and the obviously late nights it involved led to some shaky mornings at work. Jack fell foul of his employers and they dumped him.

Jack then dumped his wife Helen in favour of her younger sister, who then, in turn dumped Jack for none other than L. Ron Hubbard, (then still churning out science-fiction paid by the word, his idea of making money from a 'new religion' soon to be named Scientology was still in the future.)

Now Jack is spiralling down the rabbit hole, probably head first.

To lose the job you love at the cutting edge of rocketry research (Jack's work is still, grudgingly, recognised by NASA) because you are Alesteir Crowley's disciple is one head-twist, to then lose your partner to another man, who also rips you off financially, is another. (In a way I'm glad Jack never knew the man L. Ron Hubbard would become, too much salt in the wound there!)

Jack was not daunted, he experimented with rocketry and the occult with equal energy and obsession until one morning in 1952 when it went wrong.

Theories abound about how and why but what is true is that Jack was fatally injured in a massive explosion at his house/laboratory.

Jack co-founded the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, now part of NASA and known as JPL, for me 'JPL' stands for 'Jack Parsons Lives.'

So, the books! There are two biographies of Jack, I've read both, the beautiful thing is that one fills the gaps in the other so by reading both you get the full world of Jack.

George Pendle's  is authoritative and the full title "Strange Angel: The Otherworldly Life of Rocket Scientist John Whiteside Parsons" (ISBN 9780753820650) suggests the emphasis given to rocket science.

John Carter's "Sex and Rockets: The Occult World of Jack Parsons" (ISBN 9780922915972) has a different emphasis, as does the jacket,( not surprising given that it's published by the always intriguing Feral House ...not for the nervous!)

Scribble down those ISBN's and visit your local bookshop! My local has them both on the shelf...can you guess why;)

Another rabbit hole soon...