Tuesday, 17 February 2015

the aisling

A longer piece this week. I've had a few requests to add more on some writing i put here before christmas (just scroll down a page or so). It involved my introduction to story as ritual by an old medicine man and the long road that took me on. This includes why i ended up in his company, and some of what happened next. Coming from my next book rather than a specific essay for here, it may reference elements that don't immediately appear in these words.
I know this won't phase you.

***

Some time ago i’d gone up to a hill in Snowdonia and sat for four days. Without food, tent, company, watch. I call it a wilderness vigil, but you may know it as a vision quest. And if you know it at all, it’s probably due in large part to the incredible work of Stephen Foster and Meredith Little. It was they, and the school they founded, The School of Lost Borders, that re-introduced the practice back into a non-native climate in the early seventies. Without them, this book would not exist.

I’d gone up there ready for certain things. Some time of deep reflection. Enjoying the beauty of the Welsh wilderness. Maybe a little ceremony, a little marking of life’s stages. A psychological spring clean. Things that, although edgy, felt explicable to a western person - a rite-of-passage. All I heard about was the universality of the experience, every culture seeking the same thing. What I had not expected, and could not really have been prepared for, was for what transpired. What was waiting was powerfully local, powerfully specific.

By the end of the time on the hill, I was so far past my own sense of myself and my issues it’s almost impossible to write about. In my common parlance, i got dreamt. My own dreaming took a hike. I got taken to a place that almost every sinew of my being would cry out as impossible. Where my nature got humbled, wrenched, wilded, and finally scattered over an area of about three miles.

I beheld things out on the hill. Impossible things. The kind of things you read about in far-distant anthropological journals on initiation and put the book down shaking your head. Well, i’d had one. An ancient place choosing a particular style to communicate itself. It’s not bragging: it was a messy, exacting, beautiful ordeal, which did not leave me with much in the way of wisdom at the time. I just didn’t think this kind of thing went down in Britain any more.

Twenty years on, I still have my journal from over those days and a couple of years that followed. There is little in the way of a considered therapeutic process about it, few insights that have even the merest whiff of profundity about them. What they do seem to have is the taste of someone slowly being devoured by a place. Touching the aboriginal.

As the days deepened, something else entirely gripped me. Something that, by its very nature, would not be confirming the ‘me’ that had turned up to do a little soul-searching.
It kicked the shit out it.


***

And then before I knew it I was standing at Birmingham New Street station in blistering heat trying to navigate a change of trains back to South London. Where variants on this kind of opening continued, in their startling, life-will-never-be-the-same fullness. Now a mountain top in Wales i could almost comprehend, but it appeared I had arrived back in London with a slippery trajectory in and out of regions that were unutterably mapless to a white kid. This is the reason i’d ended up in the company of the medicine man.

The experience was clearly not typically “inspirational”, not something to be quoted on a C.V., or gain government funding for a wilderness programme for at-risk youth. But Christ, it mattered to me, it was me that had to sit in its consequence, me that had to sweat it out, and ultimately me to forge some kind of gift from it. A message through the dark. From way back. It was my life now. So, as I sat in the lodge with the medicine man and told him the full, halting story I really didn’t know what he’d make it of it. Well, he didn’t think it strange in the least. He just played with one of those great braids and started to talk about the powers of a place. Turned out, there are stretches of the world where such experiences are not so unusual. He got me working. It was long medicine, that first fast: years of brooding as it slowly, properly, revealed its hand. Most everything that I initially tried to make of it fell away.

There’s an old irish word, aisling, which touches on something of the experience. You go to the mountain and are led to a powerful place. The spirit of the place will arrive - often in the shape of a woman - and for a period of time, reveals something of the nature of the land. When you return to your village you, usually through poetry, reveal your instruction. It’s a job for life.

Important note: As it goes, my experience, though having a kind of intensity to it, has proved no more extraordinary than any of the fasts for others i have supported. The gradient of so-called otherworldliness can oscillate, but that’s really not the point. The point is becoming a true human being. Many get there in subtler, more elegant ways. Whilst it’s important for me to state pretty baldly some of my own story (in wider book) I ask you not to fetishise it or start a game of comparisons. The aisling will arrive for anyone that learns to listen long term in the wild places. I just needed more of a kick up the arse than most. I was always a slow learner.

Some of this story is known in other books. I ended up leaving London, returning a large record contract, and heading out to the woods, my only offering a cradled grief manifesting as a battered heart after the end of a youthful marriage. Looking back, I realise I took a lot of hits in fairly close succession.

It’s useful to tell I suppose, because this is the story of someone experiencing big, old-time instruction and then being set adrift in a society of deep forgetting, amnesia and hostility. That’s a hard gig. But it’s also the root of almost every story worth telling.

I’m a kid from a Torquay estate, I don’t have a name like wolf-bites-owl, or tracker-in-the snow. I come from a place that in part is very brilliant, very sick and very lost. I come from the west. And my task these few years has been to abide in exactly that. To not lose the scent of it. To find what is still regal, and mystical, and generative in it. Twenty years ago its land claimed me, and I will not refuse it.

It’s also important for me to state publicly that old powers still reside meshed in the hills and cliff faces and the streams of England. It is an entirely understandable misnomer when eco-folks insist this could not possibly be the case, that the industrial damage is too impacted. That the land is simply to angry, to exhausted. Well I carry a simple message: it’s not so. Test my statement.

My time in the tent was just before the emergence of the pulse of a cell phone in your pocket, or the omnipresent luminous squat of your laptop on the table, so when the tent flaps were sealed against the March squalls and the oak gave itself to flame, you could claim a resolute, triumphal aloneness.

I never gave a damn about being an obscure poster boy for alternative living, I eat vegetables because people I love tell me I have too. But i’m a straight up, unredeemed, never quitting romantic - that’s one of the few things of which i’m certain. So when I decided to live outdoors, well, man, Genghis Khan himself was going to be envious of my tent. A trellis of thick ash, ornate, steam bent roof poles, canvas as black as the ace of spades, a floor of fur laid three skins deep, and books: gorgeous, obscure, fiery, heartbreaking and making books. Books everywhere in wobbly camelot towers. You’d loved it.

Cut wood from the lightning tree without the farmer noticing, crawl twice daily under a barbed wire fence, continually elongate stew to last a week, live in a circle, get buffeted by weather, hit the books, and lots of time out in the crow dark of an english copse, that was the drill. I drifted into a prophetic frequency.

So there I stayed, out on the edge. I visited people, maintained friendships, earn’t a crust when i had to, but my real focus was elsewhere. A ruddy cheeked apprentice to barbarous weather, medieval texts, a hurting loneliness, edgy dreams, animal tracks in dewy grasses and frosty mud. I would sleep in the winter months with batteries under my clothes, under my sheep, goat and deer skin covers. In the morning there would be enough body heat to get about ten minutes of a tape recorder working before they succumbed to the icy cold again. The sound of the sitar, or a genius poet, or Mongolian horse music, would charge through the yurt as I coaxed the burner, drank my coffee and peered through the felted opening at sloughing sheets of grey rain moving steadily over the valley’s oak garland.

Dragging bashfully behind though, was speech. Story. That thing that happened with the medicine man as we peered up to a story-starved thunder being and began to use the dusty old language of praise. That's the thing that will go with me into the ground.

So I was gone for good, punch drunk in love with the sound of brave, fragile language. So I went to see storytellers. Surely that was the place to go. Here’s the thing: i’d only really experienced story as the moment in a ritual where your tongue became the antler-tip of the collective happening, speech was exquisitely tied up with the temperament of the grasses shuddering under your feet, the strut-caw of the distant cockerel, the moment where you glance into the shadows and you realise you ancestors have strolled up and are leaning of their staffs, not quite cheering you on, but not telling you to stop either.

So, peering over a cup of weak tea in a black box theatre as a recital wended its script-inflected anecdotal way through a tiny crowd failed to convince i’m afraid. In fact, it evoked a little more than that. I thought it was absolute, unutterable bullshit.

The notion that supposedly full grown adults engaged in this activity provoked a whirling sea of suspicions about mental health issues and hurt teenagers that never quite made it into drama school. I’m not proud of this attitude, but that was the business end of my thoughts at the time. Had I encountered the likes of Hugh Lupton, Jan Blake, Ben Haggarty and actually many other tellers, I would have re-forged that opinion.

So, as you may be sensing, I wasn’t quite cooked. Still not quite ready to place a hoof back in the market square. Well, its one thing to cock-a-snoot, but what can you deliver oh mighty one? So, In the end, I realised I had to learn a story and tell it myself.

The night came at the black tent. Old friends rolled in for whisky, Guinness and song, not realising under my hosts grimace, there was the quaking reality that at some point I was going to attempt this thing called telling a story. I waited. I’d clear my throat. Bottle it. The party would continue. I think there was bagpipes. I’d wait.

By around 3 am, the tent was just a pile of bodies snoozing under goatskins, the burner was now so roasting the door flap was open on a freezing February night, the moon was out and glinting on the empty bottles, and I was finally ready for my story. Pretty sure i was speaking to no one I began. Now remember, this wasn’t speech procured from deep inside the sweat lodge, or hurled into the grey mouth of Welsh rain, this was me speaking to a human audience. Well an audience working on their dreams at least.

So by lantern I warbled. Like a toddler leaping from wet rock to wet rock across a stream, it would have been an alarming proposition had anyone witnessed it. A crazed prisoner amok in the word labyrinth. Um and ahhs, over-wrought phrases squatting self consciously in a muddy sludge of half-memorised images. I sat stock still, probably with my eyes closed till i showed mercy to the story, took it out to the pasture and ended it. Finished.

Then, out of the darkness, from one of the slumbering lumps; “that was…eh..quite good.”

God almighty. Gavin was awake. It was the voice of the village speaking back to me. Y’see, sincerely pitiful though it was, this was the first time I had been able to offer anything that remotely resembled a gift to other people since i’d left the city. Ceremonial work was not really about humans so much, it was a daily, unremarkable, labour intensive maintenance programme to the unbearable wonder of all things. How you “felt about it” was not a going concern for me, that just seemed to perpetuate the tyranny of our own, fluctuating feelings.

But this odd little story was different. It seemed to be a crossroads between the out-in-the-woods space i’d been abiding in, and my friends, good natured, slumped and snoring in the dark. It seemed generous. I loved that. Stories seemed generous. And they looked both ways. It was tacit ritual. I saw for the first time a track back to the village. Another kind of work had begun. And during it, I would take on a great deal more respect for the art of storytelling.

Copyright Martin Shaw 2015

Wednesday, 4 February 2015

last places

elfrida of the flowers

As some of you will know, i've taken up the staff and have been walking the myth lines of old stories on Dartmoor again since early January. One of the tales is below. It doesn't exactly fit any modern polemic, it's rather sad really, but hits a certain true note. Few really win in this one. How do we experience consequence? What brings out the hoarder in us? "Don't fib to women or kings" could be the initial strap line. The commentary's lengthy - i will add a small chunk here sometime. Looking forward to the first gathering of the year this saturday; "When Words Were" Like Magic: The Shaman and the Storyteller", Dartington Village Hall, 10-5, £50. We are expecting very healthy numbers, so get in touch today - now - if you plan to come and forgot to drop us a line - that's Tina at tina.schoolofmyth@yahoo.com

***

Wintering trees are always fairy tale trees, you get to witness a skeleton: thin, bony fingers beckon and poke as you pick your way through the half light of the woods. It’s winter, and its the rooster comb of spindle branch that brings the old world that bit closer. A place of ghostly huts and thin trails of blue smoke, old ladies with bobbing heads leading you into enchantments, crows that a second later are elegant men glimpsed with fine black cloaks and a smokers cackle. Magics close.

I’m wandering through the boreal forest on the way to the shepherd’s hut. Dawn. Grasses glitter, frozen with dew. I’m laden down with extra blankets and a tweed jacket who’s pockets are stuffed with twigs. The temperature has dropped yet again over night, and the radio promises snow for those of us a hundred foot above sea level.

The key turns the latch and i’m in. I don’t waste time. My own breath steams out before me. My kindling’s lobbed into a stack of twigs gathered back in late summer by the door, and i kneel by the small wood burner and start to scrunch news paper. I glance up as i hear rain start its tap dance on the barrelled tin roof, in fact that’s more emphatic than rain - that’s sleet. Only one move away from the mooted snow.

The fire, bless it, plays no tricks today, and is soon furnacing the burner; i hear the pops and crackle of the wood and little flicks of burgundy and orange through the small air opening in the door.

There’s heaps of books, a stack of lanterns and a raised bed with a space underneath for any passing sheepdogs or lost lambs. Praise allah there’s no internet signal and a distinctly erratic phone connection.

As i write, i have a curly sheepskin wrapped over my legs, two scarves round my neck, defiantly battered trilby on head, and still the cold is resident in my hips. I get up and push a large log into the grate of the burner. If this keeps up, i’ll soon be up on that bed, where much of the warmth is gathering.

But i only have a little while; i will be following the trail of this gem of a local story for much of the day, so my dawn time must be spent singing it out into the hut. Otherwise, how will i track? I close my eyes and begin.

***

ELFRIDA OF THE FLOWERS

Far to the west lived a woman. There is always a woman far to the west.
Elfrida was her name. She had strong family. Her father was a big man, Earl of Devon, her brother a giant, who some say built the original Tavistock abbey.

In the east, King Edgar, the Saxon king, brooded for a wife. When word reached him of Elfrida, he sent his courtier Ethelwold to meet the woman. A dangerous journey, hoofing many miles. As he wearily arrived, Elfrida met him in the doorway.

Her hair hung in two long black plaits over a tight green bodice, her eyes calm like speedwell flowers. All memory of his king's enquiry grew dim, the desire to even mention his lord became ashes on the tongue. Entranced with her swan-white skin, he was a-fever with desire for the lovers wrestle. A sophisticated courting took place, and she, dazzled by the exotic stranger, agreed to be his wife. Finally, he was to have something that even the King didn’t have! His chest became puffed, and his gestures inflated, his tongue positively loquacious.

East courts the West,
and cardinal directions
get dizzy, just
for the thought of
one other.

The evening star
cannot help
but pour the wine,
when geese with
their bales of dawn
arrive.

But this eastern king
does not rove the lanes,
but sends a ferret
as his eye.

He should have let
his own fur
rustle the bracken.

On return to the King, the servant thought quickly: “Sire, it appears that travellers have over praised this woman – she is fair to be sure, but lacking the rapture that a man of your stature would befit. But, she is wealthy, and for a plain man like myself, she would suit. So, the journey was not.. entirely.. wasted.” His hands were sticky as he thinned out the truth. The King swallowed the whole story, rose and gave his blessing for his courtier to head out and live on remote Dartmoor with his new wife.

Having made his bed, Ethelwold knew a large part of lying on it would require keeping Elfrida out of sight, and making sure no one saw her true beauty. So in the castle she remained. Ethelwold have traded anything for the comfort he now enjoyed.

Occasionally a passing traveller would catch a glimpse of her gazing out from behind the turrets, or even turning her horse in the meadow. Even in such brief glimpses she was so staggering in her beauty that word cantered up through the rugged country and finally got to the Kings ear. Shocked and angered, the King proposed a hunting trip to the Forest of Dartmoor, and sent word on to Ethelwold. Cornered, the husband tearily confessed all to a stunned Elfrida, and begged her to disguise her beauty – twigs in hair, a bruised and muddy face, rough clothes – or the life they had shared together would be utterly lost.

This was the first she had heard of a King. She looked at him with a cool expression: “Oh, I will change my face, certainly.”

Courtly knights
wander
Provencal villages
just for word
of her.

Fish wives
weave cloaks
to cover
grey puddles.

But she is a
dagger-maiden.

A lover to Saturn
and all those other
Old Men of the Night.

And all council a reckoning.

Rather than dirtying her body, she slow bathed it in milk and herbs. She washed her face with elderflowers. She wore her costliest gown, a necklace of delicate shells. Her skin like cream, eyes as deep as a moorland gully. Her hair was unbound and laced with Hexworthy wild flowers. Just as dawn was breaking she rode out ahead to meet the King. When he beheld her, he loved her, this utterly untamed thing. A hunt was arranged in a desolate stretch of the moor, and Ethelwold did not return that evening. Another union was arranged, and the two married. Their son Ethelred, became a king of England.

The woman from the far west lived a long time next to her husband in the east. But I cannot tell you that on long autumn nights she did not look up from the hearth and gaze wistfully homewards, or carried a hurt in her heart for that first husband. Such confusion.
But so it is when you marry a king.

Woman, you
galloped
to the big life.

Acres of sorrow
squeeze their mud
between your toes.

And that is just:
the hem of sovereignty
is blade and bone,
dog-rose and penny-royal.

Close your gate, and light the wick.

Copyright Martin Shaw 2015

***

Friday, 23 January 2015

Storytellers

The Raven and the Wound


I've had a few notes recently about an issue i've been addressing in talks: the seduction of the wound. So, here it is in brief below. And below that, just because it's winter, just because it's friday, is a Dartmoor Raven story. There's certainly a wound in the tale - an enormous cultural one, with no easy ending - but little clues for a possible re-orientation.


THE SEDUCTION OF THE WOUND

One of the clearest imprints in myth is an emphasis on service. That the bigger the trouble, the greater the expectancy that the trouble is actually wrestled into a gift for a wider circle. Not just a human one. Victory is not the aim, beauty is the aim.

For many of us, wound means truth. In a sugared world, holding your gaze to something broken, bereft or damaged seems like the deepest position we can take. We see this move all the way through the modern arts. It’s what gets the big grants. Myths say no. The deepest position is the taking of that underworld information and allowing it to gestate into a lived wisdom, that, by its expression, contains something generative.

The wound is part of a passage, not the end in itself. It can rattle, scream and shout, but there has to be a tacit blessing at its core. Many stories we are holding close right now have the scream but not the gift. It is an enormous seduction on behalf of the west to suggest that jabbing your pen around in the debris of your pain is enough. It’s not. It’s a trick to keep you from doing something more useful. That’s uninitiated behaviour masquerading as wisdom. Lead is not gold, no matter how many times you shake it at the sun.


CHAW GULLY RAVEN

Raven is the cave priest.

Every strong word in every good book,
conks from the dark wishbone of his mouth.

Sleet pebbles his pre-historic feathers,
as the small black prophet

Preaches thistle speech
to his patient congregation
of stones and bog.

Raven loves hard weather. Raven carried Noah’s ambition for dry land. But Noah should have known that Raven's fondness was for the vast wet. And if it ever found such turf it would have to be moss-drunk and fat with prey. And it may forget to come back to the ark. Our Raven is the Raven of Chaw Gully. Always been there.

Raven brought light, it remembered to itself. Way back. In a box wrestled from the chief of the Otherworld. Took some smarts to do it. But people forget; there was no light in this world. There was no way that Raven could drop berries and fish down to the first people, couldn’t see a damn thing. So Raven became a leaf in a stream, was drunk by the chief's daughter, became a baby in her, got born, stole the box of light, got feathery and beaky and jumped through the pin-prick hole back into this world.

Raven became two, and nestled on Odin’s shoulders. All its genius, thoughts and memory, it whispered into his ears. Almost improved his mood. Chaw Gully Raven has been busy. Now it watches. The Gully is a deep gash in the rock up near Challacombe Ridge.

All moor people have a memory of coming not from sweet above, but from the rusty below. Where the god of tree roots is slow-silent below the hysterics of the everyday. But even that memory in our blood-brains gets turned from longing to a clutching desire. Something is down there, we know that much. And down go we, brutalising, cranking the rock, all for mother tin, the glimmering ore. Our will becomes a muscle, un-bending, as we place our lusty hand into the vast black slit, crazy for the glint.

In the pub, old men say the Romans did the work, found the seam. That we, as a culture, have just followed their straightness ever since. Sending us barking. Us of the orchard and the spiral energy. But we are loyal dogs when beaten hard enough. So generation after generation of men clamber on slippery grey rock to find the hoard below – the greasy dragon mountain, a shingle of jewels.

But what comes back with the men is more than good news. Men get drizzled by terror down there. They hear things. Yes, they bring tin to the surface, but they hear things. It’s often in the dimpsy time, when they should have packed and crawled back to the confirming pink light of dusk. They hear the Knockers.

There are other things down in the gully. There is the knock of chisels, picks, hammers; finding seams, but from the other side of the rock to the men. Miners have been known to piss with fear when the scraping begins. Or the sparks of light leading men from their companions further in. Or the backward singing. Sometimes the miners claim they left offerings in the old way: hunks of beef, strong beer, and that they were led by the knocks to a new seam of ore.

But the old men know better. They know that the Knockers could get right inside a digging man. Could walk right through his spleen and lungs and squat in his mind, dropping wet horror into his dreaming. After a time they would start to leave the gully alone. Even with the talk of Roman gold.

Oh, they speak of it.
By the hut fire,
stumpy fingers
point into darkness
out towards the gully.

All night the timbers shake,
with bellow-talk of foreign wealth,
and cider brags of risk and valour.

But come sour dawn, as they
shuffle to the shape that day requires,
cheese and beef is their only directive.

They shake the stories loose
from the blue cloak of night.

Raven watches. The hard beaked sentry. Never sleeping, never turning the post to a younger, always the same one. It watched the centuries when dozens of men fingered their way down into the blackening, it watches when twenty years of hail is the only offender to its solitary reign.

It knows what the Knockers are. They have an accord, always did.
They were here when the giants boomed above them over gorse. They heard the victory cheer of bright Brutus on the hoe. No matter.

Raven watches. One day a boy comes from over the ridge. Plump with cheese and ale, a straight un-thinking look. That look Raven remembers. It was that look the miners had when they broke up the holy stone avenue up on Challacombe Ridge. When they go home and look through their piggy eyes, the kitchen is still scrubbed, the china daintily arranged. No evil occurred, surely, my bed is still made.

The boy unravels rope and gear as Raven courses through his thinking. It’s the same old stuff. He doesn’t even glance round, catch the atmosphere. No up or down. No cosmos. No holy smoke lit, no empty belly as he waits for permission. The transgressions are endless. Just his lardy arse clinging to the rope as he lowers himself down. Around his head his thinking has become guttural and nervous, Raven watches that brain become a waspish cone of ambition. Down he goes.

No, says Raven. A decision. Hands comes from nowhere, a blade. One steadies the rope, one smoke-dark hand starts to cut. Oblivious, the boy descends until the fibres fray. His body will be taken and lain on the heather beside the entrance to the gully.

Do i look pretty?
says the boy.

Where is my mother?

It is autumn, and the
House of Falling Leaves
crafts his cairn.

Copyright Martin Shaw 2015

***