Long Way Down

You get to see – and hear – some funny things as you wander through the Museum.  The other day, a couple of kids on the fourth floor, as they crossed a “bridge” looked down at the drop to level ‘0’ and one said, ‘Wouldn’t it be cool to jump down there!’  About a month ago, I too looked down, and saw a couple of workers taking pieces of the horse skeleton that lies in a glass case at the bottom of this drop, presumably performing some kind of restorative process on the bones. 

And I thought: yes, that’s how most of us deal with history.  We preserve it; give it a polish, and present it to the present with a contemporary sheen.  As long as we can gloss over the past and put it in a glass case, we can distance ourselves from the humans behind the story.  But their story isn’t likely to be much different from ours.  This horse came to a pretty pitiful end – it’s likely it was hamstrung and slaughtered, a sacrifice to honour the dead, or as a propitiation to the gods. 

I wonder if, in 500 years, museums will look back on the 20^th century and baulk at the things that were done in the name of religious fanaticism, political ideology or ridiculous superstition. Or will they, as this century, this new millennium, seems to be suggesting, carry on abusing animals, minerals, the planet and our fellow human beings with unending, unremitting lunacy?  I wouldn’t wish it on my kids.  But history can teach us nothing.

Horrible History

Those Vikings had some

horrible ways; pillaging and

raping with their elongated boats

and horny helmets: the stuff

of comic books and cartoons. 

But flog a dead horse?

This equine specimen,

encased with nuts and bolts,

from four floors up looks like

he was thrown from history,

straight into the 20^th Century

 – a fate far worse than

anything the Vikings could do.

Shout Out

Today’s Festival Treasure-inspired sestude is about a spiky comb called a ‘heckle,’ used for teasing out the tough fibres before spinning and weaving the flax into cloth. This gave its name to the interruption and debate that occurred among the belligerent workers in the Dundee flaxworks when the daily news was read out by one of the workforce.  Now, I don’t tend to shout-out other blogs, sites or twitterati, but I think today is the right time.

Even outwith the manic month of August, Edinburgh boasts a vibrant spoken-word scene.  Poetry-readings, story-telling, mini-festivals and random literary gatherings occur unerringly throughout the year.  Well it’s no wonder: we are the first UNESCO City of Literature http://www.cityofliterature.com/index.aspx?sec=1&pid=1, home of the Scottish Book Trust, http://www.scottishbooktrust.com/ and the Scottish Poetry Library http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/. 

Last month, I performed one of my short stories at the Storytelling Centre www.scottishstorytellingcentre.co.uk and participated at Red Squirrel’s monthly ’10-Red’ event (here endeth anonymity) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKCuHbrGf9o&feature=share. I could reel off a handful of other regular events, but the lovely @auntyemily has written perfectly adequately (and less waffly) on the subject: http://auntyemily.wordpress.com/2012/06/30/what-is-spoken-word/

At a recent poetry workshop, somebody asked if people ever heckle at poetry readings.  The general consensus was, no.  But yesterday, at an event that was part of the Festival of Spirituality and Peace https://sites.google.com/site/stephgreen1/poetry-in-the-persian-tent Jackie Kay was, I think it’s fair to say, heckled by our own national poet, the Makar, Liz Lochhead, regarding her pronunciation of the word, “Quaich.”  Quick as a flash, she rhymed it with ‘quiche’ – which made me think she’d read the April entry of this blog http://throughtheturretwindow.blogspot.co.uk/2012/02/drinking-in-edinburgh.html  But no. Even so, I hope she reads this.

And if, with all these links, since I’m now onto the 17^th sestude of the year, there is any confusion over what constitutes a ‘sestude;’ or if you are unclear about where I got the idea of completing 26 of them, here is the final shout-out: http://www.26treasures.com/

Anyway, that’s quite enough interruption: here’s this week’s picture-and-poem…

An Epic, Homeric Hackle

Pretty Penelope sits with her heckle,

a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde.

Every day she teases her flax,

combs it and spins it,

winds it onto the loom.

By night she unravels her garment of gloom,

resigned to be left on the shelf,

returns to her former, single self

until somebody shouts,

‘Oi, you with the freckles:

get on with it!’

Money, so they say

Over half-way through the Fringe, and I have not yet tired of wandering along the Royal Mile and having flyers thrust at me by not-unattractive drama-students shouting out, “Five-star reviews in the…” and there you can insert whatever crappy publication that employs hacks to review things about which they know little. Mostly. 

While I will happily blog, comment upon, give thoughts and feedback, and even my opinions, unless I am writing about something on which I have specific and relevant background knowledge I will not pretend to be a “critic.”  I would urge all people to analyse deeply what a “critic” is saying before choosing not to attend a performance.

But public opinion, even in these days of increasingly discredited journalism, is a real force.  Everyone who has the guts to put on a show during the Fringe, however mediocre or unpolished, deserves applause.  These up-and-coming-or-otherwise-hopefuls need stars, just as they need to learn to dismiss those who pan their efforts. 

If Art is the lie that helps us to understand the Truth, I’m not sure what journalism, steeped in mendacity, hypocrisy, half-baked facts and spurious agendas, stands for.

Morals? Hardly. Art? Nah. Money? Probably. If so, they can keep it.
I believe in Art.

Render unto Caesar.

Pontius Pilate has the best lines in the book:

‘What is Truth;’ ‘What I’ve written I have written;’

and something else about a mango. 

Keen on personal hygiene, he’s always washing his hands;

and – rare for a Roman – listens to his Missus

(though her sage advice he dismisses.)

So why such bad press for the Puppeted Politician?

A fickle thing, Public Opinion.

Busy Times

There’s too much going on at the moment, and not enough days in the week, hours in the day, minutes in the et cetera.  Some sort of Sports-Day thing in London, the Proms on the Radio, and here in Edinburgh: well, where do we start? 

This time last year, amid the Festival Frenzy, the refurbished National Museum of Scotland re-opened its Old Building after many years and was mobbed with visitors.  My only regret (and I feel bad for saying this) was that the Millennium Clock Tower was banished to a siding, like an old train, and now competes with a tacky golden cockroach.

So for the first of my Festival Sestudes, and to wish the National Museum a slightly-belated happy 1^st Birthday, I will make a rare exception and venture out of the Scottish Building. Here, slightly perversely, is a before-and-after-time pair of pictures.

Such is Time

I cranked into action. Crowds

gathered as music began.

Two little children ran

like mischievous mice.

“Mum, you’ve got to see the clock:

it’s amazing!”

But time is fleet-footed, ephemeral.

I used to command an audience

the full length of the room –

even the fish stopped to look –

sometimes they’d applaud.

Now they’re gone, and I’ve been

exiled; shunted into dry dock.

Images Copyright M J Richardson. This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic Licence.

Mouthy Mary

Four weeks after John-the-Baptist’s Day, the ecclesiastical calendar commemorates Mary Magdalen.  While John preached repentance; Mary Mags (if we believe she was the penitent prostitute) practised it.  There is a fabulous Rubens painting in the Scottish National Gallery, depicting Herodias spiking the tongue of John-the-B with a fork as his head is presented to her husband, Herod, on a dish by sumptuously-dressed Salome.  The symbolic message of the jabbing fork is clear: that will teach him to speak out.

The witch’s gag or ‘branks’ in the museum is another horrid symbol of how, in the past, women have been silenced.  Some of these awful contraptions had spikes that, when inserted into the mouth, would pierce the “gossip’s” tongue if she talked.  Whether these so-called witches, loose-tongued, or accursed women were truly evil, touched by spirits or just plain misunderstood is hard to say.  Jesus Christ was reported to say, ‘let the one without sin cast the first stone.’  Tell that to the tabloid journalists, 2000 years on.

Madeleine and the Minister

Quoth he: I’ll mak ye haud yer weesht,

an’ he straps the branks on ma heid.

Kens Ah’ve blether fir the baith o’ us;

gin Ah clype oan - he’ll be deid.

His creeshie words are sleekit as oil,

but it’s me wha greets an’ begs.

Ye’ll cry me a gossip, but hae a wee keek

at whit lies between his legs.

Buried Treasures

So we come to the third of this year's Fridays-the-Thirteenth - triply unlucky for those who believe in bad luck - and with it, as coincidence would have it, the thirteenth of my 26 Treasures from the National Museum of Scotland. I've already said I'm not superstitious, and I don't have a mind for numbers, but it kind of makes sense.  Any month that begins with a Sunday will have a Friday 13^th.  This year, an extra day in February means that, three months had Sundays-the-first; each three months apart and therefore, the Friday 13^ths were thirteen weeks apart. Ooh, scary?  No, just maths. 

What secret or subconscious power led me to post a 13^th sestude on Friday the 13^th? The simple fact is that 26 sestudes (yikes - that's 2x13!) in the space of a year is no easy task, especially when it involves finding, researching or even photographing one of the museum's vast array of Treasures every fortnight. Sometimes items have caught my eye; a story, or an over-heard snippet or random fact inspired me.  Mostly, it is serendipity or chance.

For today’s Treasure I could have chosen from a multitude of artefacts that symbolise luck or superstition. The ancient practice of burying treasure with the dead pre-supposed that it would be useful in the next life; and so, there are many items of symbolic meaning.  This gave me plenty of words to play with.  For that reason, I have chosen a string of glass beads, and formed my sestude out of meaningful words, half-randomly strung together in three contrasting tiers, to be read in any direction you – or fate – may choose.

What a Bore

When I started this project of 26 Sestutes for 2012, inspired by the 26 Treasures competition for the National Museum of Scotland, I had great plans and pretentions.  First, that I could write a mere 62-word snippet based on 26 of Scotland’s Treasures – displayed in a building I enjoy spending far too much time in – every two weeks for a year.  Believe you me: a ‘sestute’ is no easy discipline.

Second, that I would find time to look more deeply into issues of national identity, and explore what it means to be Scottish.  This is particularly hard for someone who pronounces words with a ‘posh’ (or at least, received) English accent.  And third, that I (while being chronologically-challenged) would find items to write about that might slot pleasingly into calendars of events, historical, personal, or ecclesiastical.

I managed to shoe-horn Corpus Christi into the mix; even Lent got a mention but, when it comes to the hagiographical calendar, I sadly forgot about Saint John-the-Baptist, whose date was handed to me on a plate, since I used to work for a church that bore his name if not his fore-running fame. So, with apologies to June 24 (and anything else that rhymes with ‘ore’) I will throw this one in, belated. 

Oh, and if you’ve never heard the wonderful and legendary John Kenny play this beast of an instrument, I urge you to look it up while you’re here on the internet.   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVAWwWi0DbE

The War-Trumpet

I’m not quite sure

who bore the boar

on a John-the-Baptist dish.

A weapon of war,

adored and abhorred, a caricature, 

with bulging eyes and laughing lower jaw;

its sforzando roar let rip

with puckered lip

and petrifying embouchure.

Then, in a peaty grave and frore

was chilled by hoar-frost

and nature’s icy blast;

a silenced sacrifice,

heard – and feared –

no more.

This brass and bronze head of a carnyx - an Iron Age battle trumpet - was found at Deskford in Banffshire. It is the only surviving carnyx head from Britain. The carnyx was used sometime between 80 and 200 AD, and buried as a sacrifice to the gods. The head resembles that of a wild boar, a symbol of strength and fearlessness.