Flattery

It's been a while since vanity really tripped me up.

Maybe it's not just vanity. My default answer to someone asking me for a favour is 'Yes,' unless I remember to take time to think about it and see why it may not be OK. A thing sounds like a good idea so I just don't think... but by heck, don't I ever respond to flattery without even realising what a ninny I am being.

Anyway, a lady I know vaguely from the Pagan scene contacted me. She is/was one of the Avalonian priestesses, and while I have lots of time for followers of the Western Mysteries, the Women's Temple in Avalon does collect a reasonable number of aspiring delusionals. This lady however is a well known non-delusional stalwart of the scene, and she told me that she was doing a sea ritual, and a very good mutual friend had told her that I do a beautiful rendition of the old folk song, The Grey Selkie, and could I come and sing it at the Pagan Federation Open Ritual?

So actually, it was just plain old vanity. I said 'Yes.' But as time went on, I remembered something...and it was made very clear to me by a chum who is marvellous in many ways, but very direct. 'This is all very well,' she said, 'But you can't sing a note, can you?'

And she had a point.

I didn't want to do it. Sometimes the idea of walking into a room full of people is just too much for me. I know it will be OK, but still don't want to be in any place difficult to get away from. One of the reasons I don't want to attend LARPs is that, while woods and fields give me a great sense of escape, I can't face a situation in which someone might see me suffer a PTSD attack, and if anything is going to trigger that, it'll be me trapped, facing some bloke with a sword. There's no getting away from the Foe Factor. I can't ignore it, and the results might be neither fun nor fair for others.*

So anyway there is that...and the much lighter fact that my voice has all the timbre of a broken air conditioning unit. Naturally, I had forgotten this minor detail.

I went to the dentist yesterday afternoon, which gave me good reason to cry off the yodel. And I brought poetry too, much better than anything I could ever sing; so armed with excellent excuses I made my way to Conway Hall, where dedicated people were creating a little sea-bed altar on the floor out of teal and green and blue fabrics, oyster shells, pearls, goddess statues, blue candles... and including little plushy seals on cushions for rocks. Bees had been included among the seals for no better reason than that everybody likes bees.

The lady said little and put no pressure on me, though she looked at me somewhat glassily. After all, she had asked me to do one thing, just one thing...
'I've brought a poem too, ' she said, and it was obvious it mattered very much to her, the poem straight from her heart. So too many poems, singing needed. I decided to bite on the bullet.

It worked really well! I was rescued by the acoustics, helpful surrounding influences, and an easily pleased audience. My direct friend, who has made a jolly packet working in the music industry since the 70s came to watch in amusement at my pickle, and ended up enjoying the whole ceremony, which for sure was profound and gentle.

Afterwards we sat together sharing prosecco in plastic cups. 'I had no idea you had a competent singing voice,' she said to me. I laughed and was honest about the bits I had missed, and she said very nice things indeed, extra nice, considering she never humours anybody. So OK, flattery got me into a mess. But some genuine compliment turned up as well.

Also, I enjoyed it in a way I haven't really enjoyed company beyond friends for quite a while. It's a challenge, singing in front of strangers when you know you just don't have the goods. But I am glad to have done it. Had to leave early after all was done, because the whole thing is still quite hard for me, and I just had to get away, but there's no denying I had a good time.

* Why has this all come into my head now? I guess it's because one of the few things I miss about LARP is singing around the campfire. There are some seriously quality voices among my LARPing friends.

A Damsel with a Dulcimer

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora....

instead of Abora he said Deborah. His little joke.

He is not dead yet. He's in the hospice and right outside is a garden he can walk in full of birds and flowers.

He is still so sharp, sang the above and demanded to know of me what poem it came from, and who wrote it. When I confessed I didn't know, he laughed, saying 'You footle around pretending to be some kind of aesthete....'

I pointed out that he was pronouncing 'aesthete' incorrectly. He said he was just testing me.
I mentioned that the Lake poets were perfectly capable of getting it wrong:

'I measured it from side to side,
Tis two feet long and three feet wide...'

But that wasn't getting me out of the jam of not knowing my Coleridge. I told him I knew he didn't care that much, that Chaucer was his favourite, and reminded him of the time he recited so beautifully, back at the Black Horse in the old Talking Stick Days:

Ma dame ye ben of Al Beaute ſhryne
As fer As cercled is the mapamonde
For As the cristall glorious ye ſhyne
And lyke Ruby ben your chekys rounde
Therwyth ye ben ſo mery and ſo iocunde
That At A Reuell whan that I ſe you dance
It is an oynement vnto my wounde
Thoght ye to me ne do no daliance.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful A tyne
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde
Your ſemy voys that ye ſo ſmall out twyne
Makyth my thoght in ioy And blys habounde
So curtayſly I go wyth love bounde
That to my ſelf I ſey in my penaunce
Suffyſeth me to loue you Rosemounde
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love Am walwed And I wounde
For whych ful ofte I of my ſelf devyne
That I Am trew Tristam the ſecunde
My love may not refreyde nor affound
I brenne Ay in an Amorouſe pleſaunce
Do what you lyſt I wyl your thral be founde
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliance

Or even:

Madame, you are a shrine of all beauty,
As far encircling as the map of the world.
For you shine as the glorious crystal,
And your round cheeks are like Ruby.
Therewith you are so merry and so jocund,
That at a revel when that I see you dance;
It is an ointment unto my wound,
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.

For though I weep a basin of tears,
Yet may that woe not confound my heart.
Your seemly voice that you so delicately bring forth,
Make my thoughts, in joy and bliss, abound.
So courteously I go, with love bound
That, to myself, I say in my penance,
"Suffer me to love you Rosemounde;
Though you, to me, do no dalliance".

Never was pike so imbued in galantine
As I in love, am imbued and wounded.
For which I very oft, of myself, deign
That I am true Tristam the Second.
My love may not be cooled nor sunk,
I burn in an amourous pleasance.
Do what you like, I bid you find your thrall
Though you, to me, do no dalliance.


Enough. The time has come to get very drunk.