Bliss!

 

Revision can lead to cabin fever and The Teenager wanted to go out for a drive and a walk somewhere.

I drove him to Everdon Stubbs where I knew there was a rope swing.

The woods were astonishingly beautiful.

I thought the bluebells would have gone over but they hadn’t quite and it was quite a magical place. A cuckoo was calling. We saw rabbits and squirrels, and later views towards Daventry of open fields.

There was a low swing, empty and waiting for us. The Teenager had a go first, and then it was my turn.

There is nothing more wonderful than swinging gently, suspended over the ground. There was birdsong and bluebells in every direction. It was perfect…until…

The Teenager started to push me.

Suddenly, I’m whizzing through the trees hollowing like Tarzan … which is fine until…the swing begins to go in a great circle. This is fine too, until… the swing is pushed very hard once again and I’m now swooping close to the trunk of the tree from whose branch the swing has been tied. I realise that I’m on a dangerous trajectory… there is a near miss of the mighty tree trunk… and I realise that another push is all it would take for me to hit it.

I shout to The Teenager not to push me. I shout that if he does push again that I will crash into the tree trunk. I shout warning after warning.

I forget that I am with a teenager.

As the swing passes him by, he pushes me even harder than before.

The swing obeys the laws of physics, and the meaner laws of fate, and swirls and swings me around so that I curl high up into the air before being smashed, defencelessly, sideways on, straight into the tree trunk.

 

I discover to my cost that tree trunks do not yield when something swings into them. I discover that bark is like a giant form of sandpaper and that clothes are no defence against it. I discover that I’m made of softer stuff than a tree.

I am knocked from the swing and dragged through the earth like a human plough.

Shaken, I stagger to my feet.

Later, when I asked the Teenager why he'd still pushed me after I'd shouted out to him not to; and warned him about the imminent danger, he said...

‘Oh, I thought it was just banter!’

And I’m left wondering why he couldn’t see and guess the outcome of the trajectory he had set me on… how he couldn’t see how dangerous the last circuit was…and I’m also left wondering as to what ever had happened to his common sense and his imagination if he couldn’t predict the outcome…especially when his own self-preservation, and pain threshold is always set at a default setting of maximum!

And why did he not heed my warning shouts.

(sigh)

‘It was funny though,’ he says later, as I checked on bruised fingers, and turned down socks to discover how little skin was left on my ankle bone. ‘It was really funny.’

I can feel tinkling bruises already deepening their hues all down my right hand side. The bones in my wrist are stiffening… I haven’t yet dared to inspect the damage properly…probably because my head has been too jarred for me to think straight.

But I did get back on the swing again, despite the bruises, the fingers that would no longer bend, the concussion, the blood stains, and the dirt covered trousers, and the…er..pain!

And it was lovely once again to be suspended in the air again…to see the bluebells… and the robin…and to swirl freely though the air…and to enjoy the fragrance of the flowers… and to swirl over that strangely disturbed mound of soft earth where once a teenager had stood!

 

 

 

Bliss!

Henrietta the VIII

 

Scientists do thought experiments and reveal the wonders of the universe. I was wondering if the same could be applied to history. England glories in the colourful character of Henry VIII. His portrait standing astride hands on hips is synonymous for many with the image of manly power, wealth and authority. So here is my historical thought experiment. What would we have thought of this monarch in this painting if he had not been Henry but Henrietta?

We would of course be seeing Henrietta first not as a human being but as a woman, with all the negative and critical baggage that that brings with it.

I guess the portrait would be reviled for starters. Imagine people standing before a portrait of Henrietta. Gone would be any allusions to a colossus striding the world proclaiming his power and authority in its place would be simple, bloated, ugly Henrietta.

What would we see?

We’d see a fat, bloated, obese woman. We’d see her tiny, mean-looking eyes. We’d see the fat, blubbery cheeks that spoke of self-indulgence and gluttony. We’d see the mean closed mouth. (We’ll assume that she wouldn’t have had the moustache and beard.) We’d judge her by our terrible scales that weigh up her feminine beauty and we’d find her scoring a big fat zero. I doubt that many would choose to look upon her portrait for long. We would mock the woman who covered her bloated body with outlandish gowns, rich furs and jewels. We would laugh at her ra ra skirt and snigger over her wearing a mini skirt at her age! Her sagging Nora Batty tights would give us delightful hoots… we’ll spare her the indignities of commenting upon her cod piece .

The point is: take away our expectations of Kingship in this portrait and substitute simple Henrietta and you get the truth about the person that once stood there. You’ll see a self-indulgent, unkind person with dark small eyes and trumped up self-importance, a creature that looks like a bloated maggot.

Perhaps this is the message that the painter was trying to achieve. The artist shows us what was once behind this monarch and perhaps what he turned his back on in the elaborately painted background. We have the beauty of the Celtic knot work… the rich historical heritage of the land. He has shown us the splendours of the architecture in the carvings behind him which have echoes of broken monasteries and of looted wealth. He depicts a verdant land with the full greenery behind Henry, showing the once over-abundant richness of the country. The artist then gives us all the trappings of kingship in the clothing of the monarch topped off with the flamboyant Tudor hat. Perhaps it is in the carpet that the artist tries to show us what this king has really achieved, and what lies under the shadow of his legacy; we are given the carpet’s patterned leaves which are brown and faded. Perhaps the artist was suggesting that England has been worn thin under his dominating rule.

We can set Henrietta aside now and truly see Henry for what he was.

All the painter’s skill goes into the painting exquisite detail showing us an abundance of wealth and riches…and then the artist turns his attention to the king’s face and what do we get? We get the bland, contourless features of Henry. An empty, pale face devoid of all that makes us human; a face devoid of animation. There is no twinkle in the eye, no smile that says I’ve achieved all this for my people. No deeply etched lines that speak of worried and well considered thought. Instead there is blankness and emptiness: a face upon which nothing is written. Why? Why is there this emptiness, this blandness? Why has the artist painted the king this way? Is it because what the artist knew of his model was too horrific to depict in paint?

Was it easier to depict a maggot than a monster? A maggot that grew fat on the riches of his Kingdom? Was the painter depicting all men of power and their corruption in this painting as a warning for our times too?

A strange Form of Life by Bonnie 'Prince' Billy

.

a strange form of life
kicking through windows
rolling on yards
heading in loved ones' triggering eyes
a strange one
and a hard way to come into a cabin
into the weather
into a path
walking together
a hard one
and the softest lips ever
25 years of waiting to kiss them
smiling and waiting
to bend down and kiss twice
the softest lips
in a dark little room
across the nation
you found myself racing
forgetting the strange and the hard
and the soft kiss
in the dark room
and a strange form of life
kicking through windows
rolling on yards
heading in loved ones' triggering eyes
a strange one

Robert Mirabel The Dance

All My Tears by Julie Miller

 

When I go don't cry for me
In my fathers arms I'll be
The wounds this world left on my soul
Will all be healed and I'll be whole

Sun and moon will be replaced
With the light of Jesus' face
And I will not be ashamed
For my saviour knows my name

It don't matter where you bury me
I'll be home and I'll be free
It don't matter where I lay
All my tears be washed away

Gold and silver blind the eye
Temporary riches lie
Come and eat from heaven's store
Come and drink and thirst no more

So weep not for me my friend
When my time below does end
For my life belongs to him
Who will raise the dead again


(Sorry, the original link to Julie Miller's version no longer works, but I've found this instead)

Merge, a Vessel, a Harbour By Great Lake Swimmers

 

 

Merge, A Vessel, A Harbour
A perfect union
Of gift and reception
Each an eye
On the same face

Loss and gain
Fly into the mouth of the ground
Six feet under
Thanks to some failure
Fly into the mouth of the ground
Six feet under

One for the night
One for the dark
Taste each other
For a moment, then goodbye
Hold her eyes
Share the same air
Oh lay it down
Oh lay it bare

I'm speechless
Naked as a fiery sunset
You turn, not fleeting
Destroyed not complete
A perfect cacophony
Rising like vapour
Solid and liquid
Awkward and trapping
Stolen but paid for

Legs and knees and ankles and toes
When it burns an old enemy knows
Legs and knees and ankles and toes
When it burns an old enemy flows

Gathered and strewn
From this altitude
To some other moon
Wearing false armour
And useless shields
Failed to exist

Crying out and into the streets
They are always prepared for the cries
Prepared for the worst
Crying out loud at the untold
They are transfixed but not transformed

Stop accommodating echoes
Into these hard-pressed streets
Into these well-travelled streets
Into these hard-pressed streets

Mrs Brontosaurus

 

There is a lovely hum in the room, children are spelling out to each other the words that they need, three children are busy with their RM maths on the computer, and one child is reading their reading book to me. There is a lovely atmosphere in the room. It has to be too good to be true.

It is.

One chap sidles up to next to me.

‘Can I go next door to Mrs Brontosaurus’ classroom to get a pen?’ he asks.

(Mrs Brontosaurus is not the teacher next door’s real name, but it’s not far off, and I’m afraid it will have to do)

I’m puzzled. I can’t understand why he should need to go next door to get a handwriting pen. All the time I’m talking to him the child sitting on my right hand side continues to read her reading book.

‘Why do you need to go to Mrs Brontosaurus’ classroom?’ I ask.

The boy sighs with mild exasperation as if he is dealing with someone who is none too bright, ‘Well, if you expect me to do the work I need a handwriting pen!’ he explains simply so that even I will understand.

‘But don’t you have pens in here?’ I ask.

‘They are kept in Mrs Brontosaurus’ classroom,’ he explains with world weary wisdom.

‘Oh?’ I say. ‘So is that where you usually go when you need a pen?’ I ask.

‘Usually,’ he replies. ‘They are kept there.’

I’m thinking to myself that it is an odd arrangement. If it was my classroom I would have a supply to hand, but this is not my classroom.

With a sixth sense knowing I’m about to let myself in for trouble, I say, ‘Yes, all right. But could you get three pens, please.’

‘Three,’ he asks puzzled.

‘Well yes. If your pen has run out someone else’s is bound to run out soon too; and I don’t want to have to disturb Mrs Brontosaurus any more than we have to,’ I say though my logic seems lost on him.

The boy leaves, and I can now concentrate on the child who is still reading to me.

I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Brontosaurus but within a few moments I do.

She lumbers heavily into the classroom following behind the boy. She sees me sitting with the child who is reading but she ignores me and instead she speaks directly to the class.

‘Year 5 what’s all this about you needing handwriting pens?’ she asks them sharply.

The peaceful working atmosphere is instantly broken. The children have gone into detective mode. They are now policing the handwriting pens that are in hands and are glancing at fingers. They are looking for likely suspects and victims for the show that is about to start.

Mrs Brontosaurus goes on a long tedious tirade about handwriting pens effectively ruining the atmosphere and putting all the children on edge. I can see one girl has already burst into tears.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Mrs Brontosaurus as she turns to leave. I go to the side of the sobbing girl.

‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

‘They said’…sob…‘that I…shouldn’t’ …sob… ‘have written’ …sob… ‘on my hand… but I have to or I’ …sob…‘can’t remember.’

Mrs Brontosaurus notices me comforting the crying girl and shakes her head dismissively as if she is just a silly thing.

‘Take no notice,’ I say. ‘You’re not in trouble. There’s nothing wrong with writing on your hand. I do it all the time.’

I spend an age with her until somehow she begins to brighten.

‘Go and wipe your eyes,’ I say. ‘And take no notice of them. You’ve done nothing wrong.’

I go back to the child who has continued to read in my absence and has read another six pages all alone to herself; the boy who needed the handwriting pen is now looking miserably around the room; the children on the RM maths computers have lost their train of thought, the helpful spelling out of words atmosphere has gone, and has been replaced by an accusatory edgy atmosphere with everyone now watching everyone else; the girl returns and settles half-heartedly to her work, and I’m left wondering why Mrs Brontosaurus felt she had to use her lumbering weight in such a manner when the class was obviously with a supply teacher who hadn’t got the faintest idea where the handwriting pens were kept.

How much more helpful it would have been if she’d just said something like, ‘Handwriting pens? Oh, they are over there. Help yourself! Oh my goodness, you must be doing such a lot of writing to get through so many pens. Well done you!’

Castle Walls

 

We have new neighbours, I can hear them now. There are three dogs in the garden all barking. There is a golden retriever’s ladylike yap, a border collies’ tenor bark, and then there is the deep, dark, bass note reply from a St Bernard which is a … fearsomely loud woof!

Sadly, the neighbours have put up a very odd fence which now cuts them off the bottom half of their garden. They have attached their new fence (without asking permission) to the fences of their neighbours on either side. Our fences, however, were not quite in alignment, so their new fence, that will deny them access to half their garden, is in the shape of the pointed point of a trapezium. It’s such a shame as we wanted to get to know our new neighbours …well we wanted to get to know their dogs actually, and now we can’t.

When I now go into my garden now there is the disturbing threatening bark and growl of dogs as soon as they hear a sound or sense a movement. It is very unnerving. My garden is no longer a peaceful place to sit. No longer a peaceful haven.

The cats that sat around my pond swapping catty remarks have vanished; now  birds feel a little more confident about eating the bread crusts, and the fish are swimming closer to the surface in the pond.

I could sense that my neighbour’s blackberry bramble was already inching its way down their garden to claim a little bit more land. So barking dogs, and a rampant thorn bush; all they need now are castle walls and a moat, and then getting to know my new neighbours will be a cinch!

One of Nature's Horror Stories

I used to like caterpillars. I used to think they were remarkable creatures. I used to think they were somehow miraculous. I used to love their undulating way of walking on their Mexican wave legs. I used to like the feel of them on my hand and the softness of their touch. I used to like all of these things, and I had a lot of time for caterpillars… that is until they moved into my bedroom.

They arrived in a box, and like all good parcels, in a box that was too big to squeeze through the letter box.It had to be retrieved from the distant parcel depot on the outskirts of town. I can’t begin to imagine how horrific it must have been for them, to be tumbled around and around inside the box as I turned it this way and that, before it dawned on me what was inside.

Once home, I opened the box and discovered a small, plastic, lidded container containing four grubs and an even tiny skinnier grub. They were very still, and I thought I’d already achieved 100% mortality without even trying. The skinniest then moved and became the liveliest of them all. When they all started to move like pale, maggoty zombies I wished that they hadn’t. They looked absolutely revolting.

Within days they had doubled in size munching happily on the food medium at the bottom of the plastic container.

A couple more days, and they were caterpillars proper, with spiky punk hair and a caterpillarary way of moving.

And that was when the horror started.

No one had warned me that they were about to take their heads off!

It seems that caterpillars discard their heads… well the shell-like covering that was once covering their tiny caterpillar brains. Caterpillars simply shake their heads off and then continue on their way; leaving their discarded heads looking like unwanted tiny Hell’s Angels’ biker helmets on the ground. They are there still, littering the base of the pot.

Four of them cast aside their heads in this manner…ugh! The runt caterpillar which had earlier put all of its energy into moving and not eating, hadn’t reached the same stage and was lying instead in a near death pose at the base of the pot. It was no doubt completely traumatised after watching the antics of its siblings. I diagnosed it was probably suffering from post traumatic stress disorder, and shock after watching the macabre antics of its siblings.No wonder it was off its food. I guess it was thinking…Did you see what they just did! Did you see that! I don’t want to do that..ever!

The caterpillars grew bigger and the four big ones this time on mass crawled to the very top of the pot and shook themselves free of their second heads; but this time taking off a couple of hairy shoulder blades that were attached to them too. They left these second heads suspended on silk. These now dangle like unlit, dark, grotesque chandeliers above them. The skinny runt caterpillar needless to say is in a catatonic state. Can you imagine trying to eat with four cast off heads dangling above you. You can hear its thoughts… Nooooooo! This can’t be happening to me! ….Noooooooo!

I’m finding that I too can barely look into the pot to watch them. One of nature’s horror shows is taking place in my bedroom and I don’t want any part in it.

The smallest caterpillar is still unchanged and seems intent on remaining stylishly anorexic by the side of its fat siblings. All the caterpillars now resemble screws. Hairy screws! They hate to be touched by each other and make quick threatening movements should a sibling cross their path. I guess that’s because they’ve got sore heads. The literature that came with them proclaims confidently that they will become Painted Ladies in a couple of weeks’ time. I’ve researched them and discovered that as butterflies they will have a life span of only two weeks, but before they get to that stage they have to take their heads off twice more…ugh…like I say I used to like caterpillars but now!

Oh… I just can’t look!