The market, during the time I traded there
selling healing crystals, gem-trees and minerals, was at street level next to
the canal and almost directly underneath a rail bridge. Take the tube to Camden
Town Station and it was 200 metres down the High Street on the left hand side
of a drag of shops flogging clothing of every description from leather jackets
to ripped fishnet stockings, basques and other tart apparel, smokers’ items including
soft drugs, videos, a coffee and cake outlet and last but not least a soft porn
gay outlet. On a June weekend of bright sunshine the street sparkled with a
kind of anything goes fun and filth atmosphere. On a dull rainy October it was
just dirty, lively and damp! One way or another, it wasn’t the kind of place
you could say was up its own arse like London’s nearby West End.
The market itself seemed effortlessly grimy
but within you could endlessly browse and usually find something unexpected.
Indeed, people from all over the world came to sell things they had easy access
to and thought worth giving a try. If the management liked it they might give
them a stall on a temporary basis. See how things went! The ambience in the
market was therefore eclectic and cosmopolitan in nationality and gear with
stalls selling jewellery of every description, food and drink from hot spicy
cider to goulash, hand-made metal and plastic ornaments, bric-a-brac crap of
infinite variety, fantastic wooden doorway imports from India turned into
tabletops, old 78s and vinyl records, fashionable trash clothing, hats and
boots of every variety from normal to kinky, all mixed in with a smattering of
shops in a kind of covered square whose leaseholders sold things no one can
remember but thought they and their crap were infinitely superior to everything
else.
First timers or those trying their luck for
two or three months had to queue early for the allocation of temporary stalls.
Maybe fifty up on offer to those favored. The rest were what you’d call
regulars. After being booted off the High Street as fly pitchers we soon found
ourselves queuing up for a temporary stall in the market. Management liked our
stuff. It was different and we were a bit older than usual. Easy to get along
with and no problem. They liked our attitude. Never complained when there were
times we never got on. Soon we were permanent. Didn’t have to queue anymore.
Laid up our stall bright, shiny, attractive and early, ready to trade around
eight. Not that people appeared before eleven to buy but there were sometimes
exceptions and we were always hot to take money. Management liked that too and
soon shifted us to a better site for our tables. Still as squalid as anywhere
else but then, at Camden, squalid counted for something, especially with our gem-trees
and crystals. All vibrant and sparkling in the filth. They kind of fed on each
other so to speak and everyone liked it! Above all our gear was different.
Nothing like it anywhere else on the market! And then there were the crystals
and the healing that came with them.
We were deeply New Age. Highly specialist
and only for those in the know!
That was then, a few years ago, and I’ll
return to it soon. Now, the once magnificent chaos, easy ambience, and plain
delicious squalor has gone along with the wandering drugs dealers. Apart from a
geriatric Rastafarian playing an out of key guitar on the nearby canal the
atmosphere’s flat as a pancake. The market alas went through a major building
development. Its owners, a bank, wanted more space for stalls and having no
land to spread sideways decided to build Up. The result was a complex
development containing a few shops on a great square of inward and outward
facing stalls at many levels. Many more stalls maybe but with them the
character of the market has fundamentally changed. Most of the Ground Floor
level outside near the Canal is occupied by stalls selling food, food, food with
a bit of jewellery here and there. Inside, Ground Floor level, it’s mostly
jewellery and ornaments. Many rigs selling the same kind of silver and
semi-precious type rings and earrings from Nepal. Upstairs it’s worse. Endless
rows of jewellery stalls, one after another, from the expensive dull and boring
to the plain cheap and cheerful that you’ve only seen seconds ago as you walk
round in a daze looking for something different. Sometimes, someone selling
Egyptian papyrus all bright with Pharoes or ornamental lighting made of god knows
what. Quite frankly it’s all much the same wherever you look.
Nothing wild and worth having. For that you
have to go to the market next door. The Stables are vast, wildly eclectic and
full of shops and stalls selling attractive and imaginative gear, handmade or otherwise,
imported or not, and with it a seemingly endless number of Chinese noodle-nosh
outlets near one of the entrances. Today the Stables are definitely worth
visiting, far more than Camden Lock Market. That said let me return to the
scene of past wisdom and cares. To stories of Crystal Healing and treasured
memories of old!
Names have been changed to safeguard
conflict and confidence, but not so the dilemmas revealed, their resolution and
their surprises. Here then the first.
BEAUTY AND THE PRIEST
My first sight of Father Aloysius, for that
is who I shall call him, was that of a middle aged though youthful looking cleric
who appeared at our stall early one Saturday, smiling I noted as he took in the
range of gem-trees we had on display. I said nothing but let him look,
hopefully appreciating the multiplicity of green leaves that sparkled in the
sunlight. My surmise proved correct as he seemingly nodded his head in approval.
My wife made them, I pointed out, adding that he was welcome to pick them up if
he wished.
He wasn’t sure he said quietly, worried
that he might break them. No problem I quickly reassured him, they were too
strong for that. Besides, I added with a firm look, he didn’t have to buy
anything.
He still wasn’t touching though, just looking,
so I wrote him and his collar off to pious poverty and let it go, but all the
same followed his glance over the table. After the trees the pendants, then
some of the minerals before he stopped at the crystals. “Quartz,” I
interjected, interrupting his thoughts with a bit of information! He could
definitely pick those up!
His hand hovered over a large dogtooth
double termination before moving on to a small piece of rose quartz. One with a
satiny feel, a special from Madagascar. That he picked up. Was it my
imagination or was he actually ‘feeling’ the thing? I said nothing. The man was
a priest for god’s sake. Had the biggest healer of all in his pocket. What
could he want with a piece of pink rock unless… I immediately put such thoughts
to one side. Talk healing with a priest? It was out of the question! Better
keep shtumm.
Over the next five minutes I watched his
eyes wander, our conversation confined to questions he asked about various
minerals. Me telling him what they were and where they came from. Before he
left he asked something strange. Did I believe that they did anything for
people?
Like
helped them relax or make them feel better I
suggested. Yes, that kind of thing he acknowledged.
Yes for
many people they did, I ventured, half expecting a
laugh or a swift put down. There were many types of crystals that did different
things. Had different kinds of healing properties. He again nodded, somewhat
neutrally I felt, then told me his name. He was new in the area… recently
transferred from a parish up north. I wished him best of luck settling in. New
places sometimes brought new problems along with them. His reply came swift and
earnest. New problems on top of old
he said unexpectedly, life wasn’t easy. I
smiled affably, not knowing what to make of his comment and soon he was gone.
The idea of a priest with problems stayed
in my head for a few days then vanished. Weeks later it was back, the good
father again in front of the stall! “How’s life?” I asked cheerily. His smile
seemed strange, almost forced. “Full of contradictions,” was all he managed to
say.
I felt apprehensive. Better not to ask any
questions. You never knew where it might lead. Besides, the man was a priest.
Probably doing confessionals. Heard just about everything and more. I said
nothing, just let him go on. Nodding quietly, taking it in bit by bit.
Surmising that he just wanted to talk. I wasn’t a kid myself. Heard plenty and
more in my time selling my crystals, from all kinds of people. Soon over the
weeks we had a real rapport going. Me listening more than anything else,
sharing his thoughts, offering a few of my own, building a picture of the man
and his troubles. I wasn’t getting sweet Jesus! Twenty years wearing the collar
and here was a man full of doubts. Son of
God? With all the trouble going on in the world who was sure about God anymore!
There were still plenty of questions he had to be honest...
Twenty years and now he was questioning
faith, and there was me finding it hard to take in! Meanwhile not a word about healing.
I mean, why spoil the party? No, there was more to it than that. In a way the
party was already spoilt but what to
do with it all? Who was I to try and change things? Help, maybe, but nothing
more. I sensed a real change in him. He was increasingly curious. Wanted to
know what I thought about crystals. Why I sold them. The kind of people who
bought them and why?
It’s easy for people out there to feel
cynical. There was me into crystals and healing. Making money out of it and all. And sure, I understood his dilemma,
only where did it put me? I wasn’t up
for being some kind of father confessor, hearing him out in a crazy reversal of
roles. I just didn’t like the idea. But then I suppose I’d come to look on him
as a friend, and who was I anyway to leave him flat in the world?
Over the weeks I gradually began talking
crystals. Giving him advice bit by bit and making him think. He was a man full
of doubts so how could I help… give him introspection, reduce his stress, assist
him expand his consciousness. After a
while I began mentioning certain minerals and crystals which I thought might
help. He didn’t have to go along with anything I said, I put it plain. Just
think about things.
My first suggestion was Kunzite, a highly
spiritual stone that radiated tranquility. Pink was possibly best. It helped
clear emotional debris such as resistance to new ideas while helping deal with
contradictions and personal pressure. More important than anything else though
it facilitated introspection. It would free his mind. Help him think. It was best
worn as a pendant but unfortunately I didn’t have any. I’d look into it if he
liked though it wouldn’t come cheap. Maybe twenty, thirty pounds or more but it
would definitely help.
Just as interesting though was Apophyllite,
clear crystals of which were readily available, many coming from India. It had
strong links with the spiritual realm and as a stone of truth - by initially reducing
anxiety and stress - promote introspection as a way of facilitating recognition
of his true self. It would help clear his mind of any doubt or just as possibly
guide him along a new path. Whatever the case it would certainly resolve his
confusion. He could keep a crystal of it in his pocket if he chose or keep a
group of them by his bedside.
Finally I suggested Ametrine, a transparent
crystal combining Amethyst and Citrine. Unfortunately I didn’t have any. It
came from Bolivia but I could obtain some if he wanted. It was a kind of New
Age Crystal. Acted fast and effectively in clearing tension and stress and had
powerful cleansing properties which would help give him focus and take control
of his life.
These I felt were the best kind of crystals
he could use. One at a time if he liked or some acting together. It was just a
suggestion. Nothing more. The choice was his. He didn’t have to try any if he
didn’t want to.
I knew he’d listened sympathetically and felt
he’d taken it in. It was a matter of feeling
as much as anything else. In time however my mood about it all changed. Weeks
went by and he never showed up. Maybe I’d somehow been wrong. I felt disappointed.
For him to disappear just like that! Weeks followed months and slowly, gradually,
he dropped out of my thoughts, though not entirely I supposed. Times were when I
looked up, half expecting to see him looming over the stall but it never happened.
Six months turned into a year then another till finally he just wasn’t there
anymore. That is till many years later! I was a lot older then and people I’d
never taken money from were long forgotten. Then a shock. One day he was suddenly
back. His face staring out at me front page on one of the tabloids. That same
uncertain smile below a big banner headline…
CRYSTAL HEALING CARDINAL DEFROCKED
I could hardly believe it as I read through
the story… The man’s early life as a priest, his rise to prominence, eventually becoming a Cardinal. There’d
even been talk of him reaching the highest level of all but for the discovery of
crystals tucked away in a drawer by a cleaner tidying his room in the Vatican.
It was a photo of Father Aloysius as I remembered him only altogether more aged,
with a strange smile playing on his lips. Around his neck hung a small cross
but then, as I more carefully took it all in, was definitely quite something else.
Something small, elongated and pink. I felt astonished. Memory came flooding
back. Holy Mary Mother of God, he was wearing a pendant of Kunzite!
I could hardly be anything but amazed. It
was like Jimmy Savile! He’d been doing his own thing all those years and no one
had noticed! Not even the Vatican police! As for myself and my role in it all I
was simply astounded. Clearly, in some way I hadn’t known or understood I’d
helped him resolve his dilemma! He’d abandoned Christianity for Crystals. But
for a chance discovery there could have been a crystal healing, even an atheist
Pope in the Vatican. A Pope into crystal healing instead of Jesus! Pope Apophyllite the First!
It just goes to show! I mean, you just
never know what’s going to happen in this world and the kinds of people you’ll meet.
Work on a market selling crystals and you might get caught up in changing the
destiny of mankind. Alternatively, have trouble parking your arse on a toilet
seat and you could find yourself designing flat pack furniture for Sir Alan,
begging his pardon, Lord Sugar!
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