The Bottle Fairy: Sunrise Celebration 2012 Review
Now, celebrating Sunrise on Thursday afternoon, having ridden the rains and darkening clouds, the Bottle Fairy bimbled over fences and pens. And like a dumbledore busying (unnoticed and free,) she slipped through four check points (unseen is the key,) all on the back of a young journalist’s knee. Once they’d both passed into the first festie field, the Bottle Fairy flew up and whispered in his ear: “Mind not that it’s dark, mind not that you’re searched, remember the gratis of knowing mud doesn’t hurt.” Here was a mind, she thought to herself, that a Bottle Fairy must grow to see what we find.
On the first eve, the journo did find, floating in darkness behind unopen eyes, the beats of Hidden Orchestra weaving a play, making shapes plunder light from the weather-mashed night. Two drummers rhyme, hopping in from the wings, forming landscapes from fires, deep in his hearth; with a violin dancing, lancing landscapes with colour, peppering the beats with a vista of show. And beings pumped from the ground by tinkled tones, lending depth to the spectacle, free from the show. In the journo’s third-eye, the Bottle Fairy had shown, one can find homes in the darkest of darks and between he and the music, a new way was blown; the mud was the plateau where Sunrisers grow.
Much to her surprise as she bimbled through the air, floating passed Hedgerow and a Buddhafield’s breakfast, the Bottle Fairy was trapped, in a bell-jar for show. Chopin was pumped into the enclosing space; a world away from the dancing gait, as splintered minds swam on the doofs of Liquid Ross. The fairy was released, on the other side of the gates, but told she should leave, (as there’s no love for the mythical mates.) Meanwhile, the journo, now gliding through trans-festival territories, stepped back into the Ancient Future and found…
From the distant lands of Ecology, Cosmos and Consciousness flights, there landed some speakers in Sunrise’s delight (away from the frights of society’s gates, deep in the haven of satiated mates.) Andy Letcher, the external reality of the Bottle Fairy’s rates, took hold of the end time and wrapped it up right, no longer linearity but spiralled in time (lest we forget to make the most of our rhymes, before we give in to millenarian chimes.) MDMA, born in 1912, Ben Sessa explored the therapeutic delve, able to conjure empathy and memories; walking ways out of the darkest mud. ‘If only security,’ the Bottle Fairy thought, as she magicked back in through the interdimensional court, ‘could see themselves, as the archetypal cause, of all the neurosis in society’s laws.’ But she settled down, bottled her magic, and learnt from Andy Roberts, that LSD wasn’t tragic, but had been weaving through festivals, since Britain turned on; safe and secure in the free-minded seekers and not lost to the fear of society’s sneaks.
Each and every year, when Sunrise has risen, the opportunity for new living, fresh approaches, new ways, are mixed with Chai Wallahs, Spit n’ Sawdust, Eartheart, and that parting is a sorrowed start. There is created, in a Somerset land, a micro-universe that mirrors how society should be, with creativity and the environment playing central keys. And in amongst the muddy sludge, the joy of friends is not easily budged, as the beats and stomps, the words and the hope, play out to create the ultimate slice; the slice of giving, the breath of new living. And the journo did leave with his mind re-avowed and his body beaten tender, by the beautiful crowd.
Meanwhile, the Bottle Fairy fluttered from tent to tent, feeding on the fear that crawls out the mud, and every so often she’ll surf on the drizzle, ride on the downpour and fizzle and pop, until all of the people can think when they stop. And each of those tents, where the light source has dimmed, some never trimmed and the rest lest forgotten, she weaves in her magic and opens their doors; for unearthing neurosis is the Bottle Fairy’s first cause (whether they be in ego or society’s flaws.) Then towards the end as she hopped on a divot, security came over and… stepped on her. She writhed for a second, but was saved by the hope, that everywhere stood the most open-hearted throats; ready to take-up the Bottle Fairy’s second cause, to open the space and weave laughs out of lace.
Where ecstasy and forward-thinking are secured in pens, by jackets that are jobs, threatening photographers and trespassers with the paranoia of the watched – thank God for the energies that are mustered by Sunrise, a light through the bleak, a festival that vibes, all for the cause of our better lives.
All photography by Mark Falmouth