Christian had invited a dear friend, Linda Shorten. She was so beautiful and such a kind person. Her hair was long cascading waves the color of amber. She was easy to be with. I dressed modestly, hair tied back with a large straw hat, as did Linda for I had learned to respect other cultures after some of our other adventures. The four of us made a great team, which is so helpful when on sea adventures in close quarters. David and I loved being on the sea. I often took my place up at the bow watching the water as we glided along with the wind. David helped with the tiller, as Christian changed the sails.
The water was clear as blue crystal and we would often moor off the coast to have a swim. We dove off the boat into its refreshing coolness. It felt like silk caressing my body as I dove deeper twirling like a dolphin. My blonde hair was moving around in the water like a mermaid within the sparkling lights. All my life I sought to be one with the water, graced by its wonder. Last year I was inspired to write a piece of prose seeking to capture the essence of this experience where silence touches my soul in the watery sunlight.
BREATH OF LIFE
As the waves approach the shore
I breathe inwards and enter within the crystal waters below
It washes away the tensions held deep within my heart
I dive deeper and deeper into the sparkling lights As the waves encourage my return
I breathe outwards to be touched by the sunlight
Again and again I breathe rhythmically to the movement
Below and above
As the Beauty of my Spirit is revealed Once again touched by the Breath of Life
© Ginger Gilmour
One evening we sailed into a small sheltered harbor only reachable by boat. It seemed lost from normal time and tourism. Ladies in simple Turkish dresses approached us in little wooden rowboats captained by their son or husband. The bay seemed asleep as we entered between the cliffs that hid its presence. So it was like magic when they appeared out of the blue.
There were lots of them. How did they know we were coming? Within moments, they surrounded our boat waving scarves with starched embroidered flowers on the edges, speaking in their mother tongue, hoping for a sale. Their skin dark, cracked from the sun but their eyes glistened. At first, we could only see mushroomed shaped rocks near the shore and a small-pebbled beach. So where was their village? Then we noticed there was one café store that sat just back up on the slope, indicating that there was life beyond.
After dropping our anchor, we prepared to go ashore. There were curious mushroom shaped rocks about six foot high, worn by the winter storms in the distance marking our way. They were like monoliths emerging from the water. We got closer, stirring our little zodiac between them. We noticed that upon the top of each was an ancient coffin. Each coffin had carvings and was made of a different stone than that of the mushroom. They seemed melted together, joined perhaps from the calcification of the seawater over time, set into the cliffs above the water's edge and scattered around the village. I wondered and still wonder how this came about. It was a curious mixture-a mausoleum honoring the dead and the villagers who were alive.
In the morning, we wandered around the village, which lay hidden from view behind the monoliths. Life was in full swing as we followed the smell of bread baking. There was a woman sitting on the ground next to an open fire between two of these tombs. She had a metal plate placed upon the embers of the fire and was cooking bread very similar to Naan from India. They were larger and she kindly sold some to us once she realized what our hand gestures meant.
After breakfast, we set off again upon our adventures in the uncharted waters. (For that is what it felt like when out at sea.) It was just the sky, the sea and the boat. Christian often looked like the Christ silhouetted against the sails as he took them down. The clanking sound of the anchor rising from the water, clicking of the metal ropes in the wind and the flapping of the sails became familiar sounds close to my heart.
Further down the coast, we dropped anchor in a quiet corner of Ekincik Bay. It was a desolate place and its land covered with green pine forests. We moored there for the night. Christian planned for us to visit Kaunos the next day, which was not far away. He wanted it to be a day of Ancient discovery of the power of the Roman Empire, but we had to wait like little excited school children.
As the afternoon temperature cooled, Linda and I sat on deck preparing vegetables to accompany dinner. The sun was setting, reflecting its golden colors intermingling with the greens and blues of the still waters, when suddenly, one after another came a swarm of wasps. Christian shouted, "Quick! Get below!" We gathered our preparations just in time to find safety behind the doors of the cabin. Apparently, this was a usual occurrence at that time of the year, especially when there is the smell of food.
That evening we took sanctuary in the kitchen until dark. Christian cooked a wonderful dinner and we ate by lantern light, played cards to the Eagles, the Beatles, the Stones and many others. David had brought along his summer compilation, which he was extremely good at making each year. Summers in Lindos would not be the same without it. We slept as if babies until Christian tiptoed into our cabin. Whispering, he nudged David to come with him, holding his finger over his mouth, "Shhh! Come quickly." David did what he said putting on his jeans and followed quietly. A boat had dropped anchor rather close to our boat. It was still dark, but the sun was showing a wee glimmer upon the horizon. It was too close for comfort and gossip had it that pirates still roamed the seas in that region. I peeked out the little window shivering, worried.
The lads made small talk while raising the anchor. The pirates were not pirates but rather part of a cooperative of villagers who would take people from their sailboats around the corner to Kaunos. We still found it a bit suspicious as it was rather early so we set sail for our next destination rather sprightly. We dropped anchor again, closer to the ancient site where all the tour boats moored along a wide and white sand beach. We made our way in our own little powered zodiac up through the narrow silted delta, slowly, mouths wide open, as the wonder of this ancient place appeared.
CHAPTER 31
LOST IN TIME
AT KAUNOS
So there it was, the adventure Christian had planned for us to experience, the ancient seaport of Kaunos. Today, it is a magnificent ancient example of a day gone by of when the Romans conquered that part of Turkey. One's imagination could easily return to Troy and the Trojan horse despite that this was not the place. It was truly breathtaking and is an incredible experience of the passage of history as one wanders from one site to the other. Kaunos was once an important seaport and is a mixture of Greek, Roman and Byzantine ruins dating back to the 10th century BC. It had two ports originally, but due to the silting of the delta and the ports by the Hellenistic period, Kaunos had long lost its important function as a trade port. Further on, in the 15th century, it was totally abandoned due to a malaria epidemic and Turkish raiders. Then a severe earthquake totally devastated it and buried the city under sand and dense vegetation. Forgotten until an English archeologist (Hoskyn) discovered a tablet during a dig in the area in 1842. His discovery brought Kaunos back into the public eye.(1) There are still remains of the Acropolis from which one can get a feeling of the city's size and original greatness. The vista took my breath away while we sat on the top row of the huge amphitheater, which was on the slope, just below the Acropolis. It is one of the largest that I have ever visited. Being 75 meters in diameter and could hold 5000 spectators in its day. I remember looking up at the top where David was standing like Colossus, his long hair blowing in the wind, his bronzed body revealed above his blue jeans, as he had taken off his T-shirt.
There were so many other sites. No wonder Christian wanted for us to spend the whole day there. The palestra once had a Roman bath of such proportions that it spoke of the opulence of the time. It was eventually dismantled and a church was built with the fragments as Kuanos was Christianized. Eventually that too collapsed and was replaced by a Byzanti
ne Basilica, which still stands along with the most beautiful mosaic floors. I was inspired by their intricate designs made visible through the delicate work of the archeologists.
They had excavated six temples by the time we were there. Six rock tombs with two Ionian pillars, a triangular pediment, an architrave with toothed friezes, and a criterions shaped like palm leaves; including many pedestals which most probably were adorned with bronze sculptures of Roman noblemen. There was a huge wall surrounding parts of the city including the Agora Fountain. How all of this was hidden for centuries amazed me. The sheer immensity was staggering and all due to the ingenuity of the Roman times that allowed the city to prosper.
Compared to the little coastal village with the coffins scattered around in close proximity to daily life, Kuanos was different. It is surrounded by ancient necropolis, because the ancient Greeks and Romans always buried their deceased at considerable distance from their homes. Further, beyond the archeological site of Kaunos, there are also tens of niche tombs hewn from the rock. It is said that the ashes of the deceased were put in urns and then placed in a niche. This was the most common practice amongst the people unlike the rich who had more adorned tombs as mentioned above. Many of which have stood the test of time. This custom makes me wonder about the history of the other village.
So our journey had reached its height and it was time for us to return to Lindos. Our sail back home was with the wind, which is my favorite way. Running with the wind, the boat glides as though lifted from the surface of the water and just the Shh-ish Shh-ish of the boat greeting the waves is heard. Often, we were graced to be escorted by a pod of dolphins, which lifted our spirits as we headed home to be reunited with our Alice. Love, Love!
CHAPTER 32
TAX EXILE
SILENT BEAUTY DISAPPEARS BEHIND THE WALL
1979
It was around March-April, David came home and said that we had to do a tax exile year. English tax laws were such that this would be the only way to get out of our mess. With our income bracket and the possible income tax liability from the Warburg affair, we had no other choice. The word Exile made us tremble. The thought of not being able to return to our home without David for a year was weird. It brought an understanding and more compassion for my mother. It reminded me of the times Ron, my stepfather, had gone on isolated duty in Libya with the Coast Guard for one year. It reminded me of when he went again to Alaska for one year. The tension in the family was not something I wanted to relive. We had to go with David.
Overnight, we found ourselves packing and leaving the country A.S.A.P. We went back to Lindos, as our house was nearly ready to live in until other plans materialized for where the Floyd would continue to record. I interviewed several ladies to be our nanny for our year away. Sue Turner entered the fold. Eventually, we would re-locate in a home near Super Bear Studio in Berre-les-Alpes, France, where the creating of The Wall would further manifest.
In addition, we asked our dear friend Christian Mouzon to come as family support while David was working. We had grown very close during our time in Turkey and we thought he would be a perfect addition to our team. He was French and as only David spoke French, he would be a great asset to us at home. The process was swift as I recall. By the time we settled in Lindos, to my surprise, I began having not only morning sickness but also afternoon sickness. I was pregnant with our second child.
Our home in France was a lovely ground level French stone structure amongst a forest of pine trees. It was hot, but we were graced with a swimming pool to cool us down from the summer heat. Alice and I often played on our rubber rafts in the late afternoon sun splashing about like little kids. I was getting rather pregnant and often sought refuge in the shade.
Some afternoons we would have rain showers. Waiting for the rainbows, Alice and I could be found in our bikinis, lying in the garden at the back of the house in the rain, arms out. I told Alice that the rainwater in the mountains was good for our hair and our skin so we would lie there happily getting soaked. We would giggle and laugh together. Sometimes she would put her ear upon my growing tummy and speak to her next brother or sister with loving words.
Some days I would go with David to Super Bear. There were very special walks down the road from the studio. The air was always full of the scent of pine and mimosa. The branches hung down over the path laden with yellow fluffy flowers and the morning dew would wet my face as I parted them along the way. There was a moment during my first walk amongst this wonder of nature that I had such a fright. Bathed in its Beauty as I was, I parted the low-lying pine branches when unexpectedly the path abruptly stopped. There I was teetering on the edge of a deep ravine. I felt off balance with my pregnant tummy hanging out before me. Leaning against the rock face next to me, taking a moment to stand still, I regained my composure. To continue I had to walk carefully along a narrow path to the left. I felt like a mountain climber minding each step for fear of falling. It was majestic. Over the years, the winds created bonsais amongst the rocks below and across the cliffs on the other side. Eventually, I found a place to sit and bathed in the silence surrounded by this breathtaking beauty.
I meditated, chanting sounds of peace and love for my baby growing within. I felt I was in a Zen temple molded by nature hidden away from the ordinary passerby. When I could, I would visit my secret place where I found peace with Mother Nature. It seemed Heaven was upon Earth there and it nurtured my soul and my baby.
It was not so within the Walls of the studio. The contrast between the calm of nature's temple and the creative process amongst the band made it rather difficult to be there for long. As time went by, I especially found it painful to witness Rick losing his self under the pressure of Roger's growing domination. Since Animals, there started to be no room for Rick to express his innate qualities, nor David, but David persevered and found a way.
Others have written that Rick had nothing to offer, but I feel there was another contributing factor that created this difficulty within Rick. There was no room for his true soul to enter which I will explain later. What also made it difficult was the fact that he was often the punching bag. The camaraderie of the band's relationship was always boy tease boy, but for me this was getting to be too cruel. Rick buckled. It was heartbreaking to watch. Nevertheless, I feel there is another invisible aspect that turned off his creativity.
In writing this, I have discovered that Rick was inspired by Stockhausen, a German composer, who's known to be "One of the great visionaries of 20th-century music."(1) He was known for his groundbreaking work in electronic music, aleatory (controlled chance) in serial composition, and musical spatialization. I can see his influence in a lot of Rick's compositions and playing.
But as Roger's need to have his vision dominate, his inner turmoil increased, it did not make fertile ground for such music to grow, or for David's intuitive way to bring forth that silent flavor. The flavor, which both contributed to within the sound of Pink Floyd. Upon reflection and some research, I was unearthing an invisible aspect of this time, which I had never considered, buried under the Wall.
From an energetic and spiritual understanding, the force of such deep angst (ONLY I AM, THIS IS MINE) closed the doorway to the Beauty they had created in the past. Consequently, it was quite a task to create Harmony, a struggle to transform such negative emotions. It was often said that Roger was determined to get his way, often in sacrifice to the music. Out of desperation, the band became involved with transforming Roger's shadow instead. It was an uphill struggle. Things had to change and did eventually. However, it did leave its mark on all of us.
***
The reason why I wanted to bring this into the story of my journey with the Floyd is that in 2006, Blessed Father John, a Cathar Master from Spain, asked me to paint a piece of artwork. He felt that I was an artist that could paint the spiritual energy, which radiated in his work, which seeks to uplift humanity. He believed strongly that Art is a universal medium that can speak beyond borders, especially
, if it is born from an intention of Love and Beauty.
It had been my wish for years to do artwork for spiritual teachers, whose philosophy uplifted humanity in this way. The opportunity arrived on the wings of a messenger who was a dear friend, Hans Guenther. He said that Father John wanted to see me. I traveled several times to Spain to spend time with Father John so that I could capture his resonance. He believes strongly that there is a light within each of us, which can't be put out. He encourages each of us to know the God Light in our hearts.
During those meetings, I experienced the work of Stockhausen but I didn't know it. Father John was also a concert pianist famous in his motherland Russia. Today he not only is considered a prophet, but he also inspires musicians and singers who are on a spiritual path to open to the celestial sounds of the heavens. There is a group who work and study with him called "Consolomente." One night I went to one of their concerts in Spain. Throughout the evening, sounds that were familiar in many ways bathed me. What I heard was so similar to the Floyd, but more angelic. The notes seem to travel across the stage, from the instruments to the voices as though it was one continuous fluctuating sound and then back again. It traveled over the audience uniting us together in its Beauty.
After I went backstage, I complimented them for such uplifting and beautiful music and asked how they played the way they did. Where did they learn to be so at one, together in their music with the space, and then merge all of us in the audience? I had experienced this merging many times before at the Floyd gigs, especially at Earls Court. But this was even more special. I was fascinated. My inquiry kept going as more questions appeared bubbling from the elation of the evening. I have done that often before. Bubbled! Who inspired them finally came forth? They said Stockhausen and Father John. I had no idea who Stockhausen was then, but I do now. I was curious to find out more, but until today, I did not know of Rick's interest.
Memoirs of the Brightside of the Moon Page 15