Weekend ramblings
Aug. 16th, 2004 08:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smokingbootBusy, busy, busy!
Friday saw me spending the day in London with my mother.
She is way too thin. She made me coffee and within some, oooh, 30 seconds of me sitting next to her, pointed to the mole and demanded immediate removal. We agreed that I would get rid of the mole, if she would remember to eat. Deal done.
It was a good day. We did Mother/Daughter things, we talked for many hours, we went shopping and I even let her cut my hair, which delighted her. This is now going to be ruined by her phoning me every six minutes to see if I've had the mole removed. My November appointment isn't soon enough for her, and she has already phoned once yesterday and twice this morning, offering to pay for me to get it privately removed abroad 'where they take these things more seriously,' or even worse, ask my aunt(s) or even my father if they can pay for it. As if I couldn't pay for myself! As if I would ask my father for anything, ever! She's driving me seriously nuts. Anyone would think I needed an arm transplant. Enough. I want to keep my good humour from the weekend for as long as possible.
Late in the day I left to go to Splendid Sekhmet's house in Highgate for her birthday and the ritual. Now, Splendid Sekhmet's house has been her master project for these two years; Recently she has dedicated most of her resources to the garden, determined that it should be in a state of extreme loveliness for her birthday. It paid off beautifully. Decking here and electric lights there, a firepit up at the top among the trees, it was all very pretty indeed. The ritual went well, and typically of most successful rituals, there is very little to say about it. We ate chocolate cake (no strange thrice baked lentil affairs this time) and drank Moet&Chandon and all was well. My friend was happy with her birthday.
The next day, SS and I, accompanied by Dr_Sneaky and another chum (lj monicker talking dog/evilgood? Dunno) went on a tour of Highgate cemetary. It was just astonishing.
Et in Arcadia Ego, says the reaper, And in the garden am I. But the reverse also holds true: In Hades' kingdom trees revel, roots spiralling down the sides of vaults, ash and beech, sycamore and ivy entangled together, flourishing, abundant. The angel of death sits in their shade perhaps, waiting for the cool of the day, or walking alongside visitors under the green.
The guide, a passionate lover of the place, told us that his favourite time to visit Highgate was late november at twilight. I would like to see it then, for in summer's height I could barely feel any forlorness, only the overwhelming beauty of the place. Maybe in the crispness of winter the Highgate angel leaves footprints in the snow.
The tours are fantastic; a situation where even facts are fascinating, though the only story I'll recount here may have a shade of poetic licence to it, courtesy of the Victorian romance with love and death:
Lovers of the pre-raphaelite movement would know this lady as the model for Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting 'Beata Beatrix' and Millais' depiction of drowned Ophelia. She OD'd on laudanum, and her husband Dante wouldn't believe it - he sat by her side for six days determined that she was in a trance. When they finally buried her (in Highgate of course) he placed his poetry beside her.
Never trust the passions of a poet! Years passed and Rossetti, now convinced he was a better writer than painter, felt he should retrieve his poetry. And yet, how could they be exhumed without disturbing the beloved? Long he struggled with this dilemma. But in the end, he gave permission for the verses to be removed from his wife's side. He could not bear to be there himself, and when they brought his recovered poetry to him, they told him that despite death and time, Elizabeth's beauty was undiminished and her radiant hair had grown, its locks curling around the pages of his words...
We left on a high, and stopped at a delightful pub nearby for a jug of pimms. Pimms turned out to be the drink of the afternoon. It kept us going through Splendid Sekhmet's spirit of pre-party industry, for Saturday night was major party night, and the garden needed to be lit, mainly with citronella candles in order to deter huge mutant midges from the pond.
That pond is strange, murky and full of lilies hiding something. The little light underneath only brings out its distinct sense of primordial soup. SS and her husband want to be gentle with it (many froggies spawn there so they don't want to filter it into oblivion) but it hath a fearful look to it. In my opinion, it's just a matter of time before Dagon and his minions rise out of it, ready to sacrifice us all to something tentacled and monstrous. Just a hunch.
Between the fire pit, the torches, many lanterns swinging from boughs and little multi-coloured candle holders glimmering in the earth, Saturday night saw the garden transformed, sparkling in the dark, perfect for meeting up with old friends. Much alcohol and many beloved faces later, I crashed into bed, a happy boot.
And here I am now, some part of me sated. Do I miss London? I have to think about that more deeply. Right now, my head is full of green cemetaries and glittering gardens. Oh, and of course, I am totally shattered!
Friday saw me spending the day in London with my mother.
She is way too thin. She made me coffee and within some, oooh, 30 seconds of me sitting next to her, pointed to the mole and demanded immediate removal. We agreed that I would get rid of the mole, if she would remember to eat. Deal done.
It was a good day. We did Mother/Daughter things, we talked for many hours, we went shopping and I even let her cut my hair, which delighted her. This is now going to be ruined by her phoning me every six minutes to see if I've had the mole removed. My November appointment isn't soon enough for her, and she has already phoned once yesterday and twice this morning, offering to pay for me to get it privately removed abroad 'where they take these things more seriously,' or even worse, ask my aunt(s) or even my father if they can pay for it. As if I couldn't pay for myself! As if I would ask my father for anything, ever! She's driving me seriously nuts. Anyone would think I needed an arm transplant. Enough. I want to keep my good humour from the weekend for as long as possible.
Late in the day I left to go to Splendid Sekhmet's house in Highgate for her birthday and the ritual. Now, Splendid Sekhmet's house has been her master project for these two years; Recently she has dedicated most of her resources to the garden, determined that it should be in a state of extreme loveliness for her birthday. It paid off beautifully. Decking here and electric lights there, a firepit up at the top among the trees, it was all very pretty indeed. The ritual went well, and typically of most successful rituals, there is very little to say about it. We ate chocolate cake (no strange thrice baked lentil affairs this time) and drank Moet&Chandon and all was well. My friend was happy with her birthday.
The next day, SS and I, accompanied by Dr_Sneaky and another chum (lj monicker talking dog/evilgood? Dunno) went on a tour of Highgate cemetary. It was just astonishing.
Et in Arcadia Ego, says the reaper, And in the garden am I. But the reverse also holds true: In Hades' kingdom trees revel, roots spiralling down the sides of vaults, ash and beech, sycamore and ivy entangled together, flourishing, abundant. The angel of death sits in their shade perhaps, waiting for the cool of the day, or walking alongside visitors under the green.
The guide, a passionate lover of the place, told us that his favourite time to visit Highgate was late november at twilight. I would like to see it then, for in summer's height I could barely feel any forlorness, only the overwhelming beauty of the place. Maybe in the crispness of winter the Highgate angel leaves footprints in the snow.
The tours are fantastic; a situation where even facts are fascinating, though the only story I'll recount here may have a shade of poetic licence to it, courtesy of the Victorian romance with love and death:
Lovers of the pre-raphaelite movement would know this lady as the model for Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting 'Beata Beatrix' and Millais' depiction of drowned Ophelia. She OD'd on laudanum, and her husband Dante wouldn't believe it - he sat by her side for six days determined that she was in a trance. When they finally buried her (in Highgate of course) he placed his poetry beside her.
Never trust the passions of a poet! Years passed and Rossetti, now convinced he was a better writer than painter, felt he should retrieve his poetry. And yet, how could they be exhumed without disturbing the beloved? Long he struggled with this dilemma. But in the end, he gave permission for the verses to be removed from his wife's side. He could not bear to be there himself, and when they brought his recovered poetry to him, they told him that despite death and time, Elizabeth's beauty was undiminished and her radiant hair had grown, its locks curling around the pages of his words...
We left on a high, and stopped at a delightful pub nearby for a jug of pimms. Pimms turned out to be the drink of the afternoon. It kept us going through Splendid Sekhmet's spirit of pre-party industry, for Saturday night was major party night, and the garden needed to be lit, mainly with citronella candles in order to deter huge mutant midges from the pond.
That pond is strange, murky and full of lilies hiding something. The little light underneath only brings out its distinct sense of primordial soup. SS and her husband want to be gentle with it (many froggies spawn there so they don't want to filter it into oblivion) but it hath a fearful look to it. In my opinion, it's just a matter of time before Dagon and his minions rise out of it, ready to sacrifice us all to something tentacled and monstrous. Just a hunch.
Between the fire pit, the torches, many lanterns swinging from boughs and little multi-coloured candle holders glimmering in the earth, Saturday night saw the garden transformed, sparkling in the dark, perfect for meeting up with old friends. Much alcohol and many beloved faces later, I crashed into bed, a happy boot.
And here I am now, some part of me sated. Do I miss London? I have to think about that more deeply. Right now, my head is full of green cemetaries and glittering gardens. Oh, and of course, I am totally shattered!
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Re: Curses Curses
Date: 2004-08-16 06:35 am (UTC)Re: Curses Curses
Date: 2004-08-16 09:40 am (UTC)Now I definitly need you to be in two places at once. How else can I shower you with rose petals and kisses without Lariens coughing politely and asking of we'd like a cup of tea.
(Cannot think, brain full of happy pink goo)
Re: Curses Curses
Date: 2004-08-16 10:04 am (UTC)Re: Curses Curses
Date: 2004-08-16 10:51 am (UTC)Would that there were three of you M'dear.