Just back from an unforgettable, and wonderful, few days at Morecambe Poetry Festival.
When we arrived, we saw a DVD copy of the film Labyrinth in a charity shop, and bought it. It's not the best of films, but it is a heartfelt artistic statement by the great Jim Henson, and the purchase and film will now become part of our Morecambe memory. The next day, we explored an amazing bookshop and I found a volume of works by Jorge Luis Borges; a transcendental writer, with whom I feel an affinity, if not an infinity. The volume was by chance titled Labyrinths.
The festival was wondrous on many levels. I, and we, perhaps more Deborah, spoke to more people in the past 3 days than perhaps I have all year, though this is perhaps a slight exaggeration. My leather coat was perhaps more social than I. The extraordinary Rowan McCabe gave an amazing performance, it is a great regret I had to leave his set early. Alistair McGowan was unexpectedly great. I bought a copy of his book and I, in a strangely awestruck aura, spoke to him about piano playing and handed him a couple of CDs. Pam Ayres and Lemn Sissay were wonderous. Donna Ashworth somewhat preachy, hugely superficial. We saw about 40% of the acts, which is the best we could manage on a fully packed, optimally scheduled weekend. There is only so much poetry that can be absorbed at once, but everything unseen or unheard is regretful...
...was regretful.
What we didn't see was unrememberable; and unforgettable, like the labyrinthine bookshop, filled with seen and unseen corners. It featured taxidermy and strange items poised on the mountains of books. The shop itself was a deep and convoluted maze, the semblance of order an emergent property as reflected in the mind of the curious genius of the owner. The place was an alphabet within an alphabet; a labyrinth of words, of ideas, of art, and for us, of memories.
