© Kevin Corby Bowyer 2024
Dancing while we may
What started the ball rolling?
The
story
about
my
wife
digging
up
an
old
shower
curtain
must
be
quite
well
known
by
now
–
and
how
it
inspired
the
tale
of
one
lonely
woman
pulling
the
remains
of
a
poor,
forgotten
soul
from
the
ground.
The
digger
became
Rose
Headlam. She’s the key, both the fount and the culmination of everything.
But, of course, it’s not as simple as that.
(Is that simple?)
We
tend
to
believe
we’re
more
enlightened
than
earlier
generations
or
that
we
know
better
than
other
cultures.
Our
values
are
t
he
right
ones.
We
can
pass
judgement,
secure
in
our
convictions.
They
are,
after
all,
based
on
proven
moral
values
and
scientific
certainties.
We’ve
developed
a
mindset
in
which
a
thing
either
is
or
is
not;
it’s
either
right
or
wrong.
For
example,
perched
on
our
pl
atform
of
received
wisdom,
we
determine
at
what
ripeness
of
years
a
person
might
marry
–
and
we
frown
on
earlier
ages
that
did
not
have
this
“correct”
view.
We
shake
our
heads at cultures that do not share our assessment: they’re misguided; we’ve learnt how things should be done.
This
polar
reckoning
permeates
our
lives.
True
or
false,
guilty
or
innocent,
the
living
and
the
dead,
the
light
and
the
dark,
the
up
and
the
down,
sleeping
or
waking,
good
taste/bad
taste…
Our
whole
existence
is
geared
to
binary
perception.
Time
is
linear.
It’s
an
immovable
notion
for
us,
an
illusion
thrown
up
by
our
conscious
perception
of
moving
through
it.
But
we
know
it’s
not
true.
Solid
objects
consist
almost
entirely
of
empty
space
–
but
we’re
not
aware
of
that.
Our
bodies
are
filters:
our
eyes
filter
out
light
we
cannot
see,
our
ears
filter
out
sounds
we
cannot
hear,
our
digestive
system
filters
out
food
we
cannot
use.
And
our
brains
filter
out
–
who
knows
what
in
the
stuff
that
surrounds
us?
As
for
science,
it
can
only
pronounce
judgement
on
what
can
be
measured,
deduced,
conjectured,
or
imagined.
What
about
the
rest?
What
about
everything
that
cannot
(or
cannot
yet)
be
deduced,
conjectured,
or
imagined?
The
universe
of
space
and
time
is
immeasurable.
We
sit
on
an
island
in
the
darkness,
our
knowledge
like
a
torch beam puncturing the overwhelming unknown. Little creatures we are. Certainty is the new ignorance.
What has this to do with my writing?
As
a
musician,
I
often
sought
to
challenge,
to
explore
the
unfamiliar,
the
neglected,
the
forgotten.
I
didn’t
set
out
in
my
writing
with
the
intention
of
presenting
a
similar
face,
but
I
see
now
that
it
is
there
(of
course
it
is;
how
could
it
not
be?).
The
seed
is
present
from
the
start
–
the
compulsion
to
achieve
the
impossible.
That’s
Rose;
she
has
it
in
her
soul,
as
I
have
it
in
mine.
But
it
doesn’t
stop
there.
The
novel
sequence
throws
up
human
relationships
that
convention
tells
us
are
beyond
the
norm.
A
few,
we
might
automatically
deem
abusive.
Are
all
to
be
frowned
on,
or
might
some
turn
out
to
be
wholly
benign?
I
make
no
judgements
on
the
reader’s
behalf
but
allow
my
characters
to
speak for themselves. Inevitably, the opposites also appear in my books – bonds that appear happy but turn sour.
On
the
face
of
it,
Dancing
while
we
may
traces
a
pastoral
story
spread
over
generations.
Kate
Swithenbank
(Kate
Regan)
is
a
central
figure,
but
her
ancestors,
descendants,
friends
and
acquaintances
all
play
their
part.
One
reader
suggested it’s a “witchy take on Poldark”. Hm. Thanks for that…
Running
beneath
the
whole
saga,
like
a
barely
perceived,
subterranean
passacaglia
bass,
is
the
elemental
spirit,
Reudh,
jumping
the
centuries
in
Kate’s
ancestral
line,
sheltering
in
chosen
individuals:
Willa,
Anne
White,
Kate
herself,
Rose
Headlam,
to
name
a
few.
Some
of
these
women
are
entirely
unaware
of
Reudh’s
presence;
others
perceive
it
only
gradually
with
the
passage
of
years.
Reudh
has
an
estranged
sister,
Kweid
(or
Maria),
of
whom
we
catch
occasional
glimpses.
Reudh
and
Kweid,
the
Red
and
the
White,
pitched
in
opposition
to
three
bitter
brothers
–
ancient, evil – sharing a single soul between them, one in three. Their hate is spread across eternity.
But
the
story
of
the
elementals
plays
out
in
a
space
far
above
Kate,
Rose,
and
the
rest.
The
reader
rarely
catches
more than an echo of it – except in those few instances when it erupts, bloody and merciless.
I reckon I’ve said enough. You should read now…
Kevin Corby Bowyer, Glasgow, January 17, 2024