The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part Three

Good morning and welcome to today’s Sunday Spinster Sermon brought to you with the battle cry ‘Lead the revolution in your bedroom & set all the zippers free!' The week began with a mighty T10 over in Asia and ended with the Olympic Opening Ceremony in England. Many zippers will have been set free. Grindr, the all male find-a-friend app crashed. Love has been shared across the land.

This leads us to today’s first reading. A short tale of love and loss inspired by the young bucks strutting around the Castle I type this from and my interesting period of fallow.

The Greek myth of Diana and Actaeon can be found within Ovid’s Metamorphoses. The tale recounts the unfortunate fate of a young hunter named Acteon who was the grandson of Cadmus, and his encounter with chaste Diana, goddess of the hunt. The lovely goddess was nude and enjoying a bath in a spring with help from her escort of nymphs when the foolish but exceptionally handsome man unwittingly stumbled upon the scene. The nymphs screamed in surprise and attempted to cover Diana, who, in a fit of embarrassed fury, splashed water upon Actaeon. He transformed into a deer with dappled hide and long antlers, robbed of his ability to speak, and thereafter promptly fled in fear. It is not long, unfortunately, before his fellow hunters and his own hounds track him down and kill him, failing to recognize their friend.

Not a problem to be found whilst using Grindr.

The myth was explored through dance and art and poetry and music in a soul enhancing extravaganza on the BBC this week. If you’re lucky enough to get BBC iPlayer you can watch here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b01l8tgh/imagine..._Summer_2012_Dancing_with_Titian/

Or if you visit London this Summer the installations and original Titians are on display http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/whats-on/exhibitions/metamorphosis-titian-2012

The second element of today’s Spinster Sermon must of course be the Opening Ceremony of the Olympics. Another fusion of dance, history, myth, art, poetry, fairytale, theatre and magic. All the wonderful lefty multicultural crap, as a Tory MP so eloquently tweeted.

Thanks to Danny Boyle, I have finally started watching sport. I hated it as a child. I was forced to watch it on TV, in the same way I was forced to go to church on a Sunday by an over zealous father with Creationist tendencies. Once you added bullish, bulldyke PE teachers and skipping training bras to go straight to a cup size before going to Secondary School, my sporting fervour was somewhat diminished. I must have been one of the few children at school who adored English and Maths and Science but would actually bunk off to avoid the agonies of a PE class.

The pageantry of the weekend has transformed this. I can now see sport as theatre, sport as storytelling, sport as beauty. (Sunday Worship to follow confirms this)

I’ve never achieved the dizzying heights of success that these athletes earn through years of determination and endeavour. This led me to wonder what would be my top ten moments so far? What have been my Olympian moments? Moments where I’ve transcended the every day to become a champion? I have no wedding day or first born to celebrate. No marathon or race won, so what have been my moments of perfection?

These were the top ten that came to mind as I mused last night.

1. Hearing that I looked beautiful in the moonlight by my first love as I lay naked on the two single beds pushed together
2. Flying a Cessna over the Okavango Delta I’d just mokoroed down
3. Getting A grade A-levels on the same day as my little brother and seeing mum cry with happiness
4. Learning dad would live after signing papers agreeing he was brain dead
5. Swimming with sharks off Dyer Island in South Africa
6. Learning I was going to present the BBC documentary IpsoFacto when I was 15
7. Kissing an ill-fated pararmour under the stars on a sampan in the South China Seas
8. Being fed a joint and a ribena by two separate boys after a night clubbing in Leeds, too content to move
9. Strutting in heels through a heavily armed PLA in a square in Beijing on route to an Asian Football Cup party without authorisation but high so feeling authorised
10. Sitting in my house on Lamma Island after a big party thinking about the friends I’d made and life I’d created, thinking, I did this.

They’re my breathtaking moments. Amongst hundreds of others. The ones that come first to mind. I encourage you to think of your own. They’ll make you smile.

Now for some light relief with our Sunday Worship: http://wheelr.tumblr.com/post/27937753079/hotlympics-the-hunks-of-london-2012

No Tom Daley is not there, he has a 12 year olds head and can be googled easily.

I leave you with another piece of lefty multicultural art. A spot more Italian Renaissance by the very clever Alt-J.

 

Til morning comes, let’s tessellate.

Peace with be you

x

The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part Two

Hello and welcome to our Second Sunday Spinster Sermon.  

I hope you all enjoyed our opening hymn.  

As a committed friend of a friend of Dorothy, I was very excited to be seeing The Wizard of Oz LIVE at the Theatre Seven this week. I had tissues at the ready. I thought of Judy's original perfection and Eva Cassidy's raw hope and knew I would be sobbing before the first few minutes were done. This was not true.

The Wizard of Oz a la Shropshire was the campest thing I have yet to see and I've frequented a lot of gay bars. Each character was a Mae West impersonator. Every last one of them! Highlights including the tinman having a magic 'ass' due to his midwestern drawl and Toto, the pug, fleeing the stage wherever possible. 

As this is part of Sunday Service where I must offer up an act of contrition; this week I am mostly sorry for sniggering in the Gods while playing imaginary drinking games along to each act of high campery. 

Nora Ephron would now like to come forwards and recite the first reading of the day:

“Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I've accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter. Reading gives me something to talk about later on. Reading is the unbelievably healthy way my attention deficit disorder medicates itself. Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it's a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it's a way of making contact with someone else's imagination after a day that's all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.”

Amen.

Our second reading comes from Durga. My favourite Virgin Goddess. A Virgin Warrior and Destroyer. We are very pleased to welcome her here today as meditating upon her has cheered me no end. She remains my favourite not just because her mode of transport resembles Aslan but that her wiki page describes her as being able to, 'manifest fearlessness and patience, and never lose her sense of humor, even during spiritual battles of epic proportion.'

Thank you Durga.

The word Shakti means divine energy/force/power. I am the warrior aspect of the Divine Mother / Brahman (Supreme Absolute Godhead). As a goddess, my feminine power contains the combined energies of all the gods. Each of my weapons were given to me by various gods: Rudra's trident, Vishnu's discus, Indra's thunderbolt, Brahma's kamandalu and Kuber's Ratnahar. 

According to a narrative in the Devi Mahatmya story of the Markandeya Purana text, I was created as a warrior goddess to fight an asura, or inhuman force/demon, named Mahishasura. He had unleashed a reign of terror on earth, heaven and the nether worlds, and he could not be defeated by any man or god, anywhere. 

Mahishasura underestimated me, thinking: "How can a woman kill me, Mahishasur—the one who has defeated the trinity of gods?". However, I roared with laughter, causing an earthquake soon making Mahishasur aware of my powers. Mahishasura rampaged against me, changing forms many times. First he was a buffalo demon, who I defeated with my sword. Then he changed forms and became an elephant that tied up my lion and began to pull it towards him. I cut off his trunk with my sword. The demon Mahishasur continued his terrorizing, taking the form of a lion, and then the form of a man, but both of them were gracefully slain.

Then Mahishasur began attacking once more, starting to take the form of a buffalo again. I became angry, and proclaimed to Mahishasur in a colorful tone—"Roar with delight while you still can, O illiterate demon, because when I will kill you, the gods themselves will roar with delight". When Mahishasur had half emerged into his buffalo form, he was paralyzed by the extreme light emitting from my body. I laughed before cutting Mahishasur's head down with my sword. Mahishasur slain, I rewarded other soldiers who helped in the battle by bestowing upon the army a knowledge of jewelry-making. Give a man a medal and he's proud for a day. Teach a man to make his own medals and he's proud for a lifetime.

Thank you Durga. 

We move on to this week's Sermon. Last week's was very lunar and quite emotional. This one moves away from the feminine and towards the masculine.

This weekend. I met my uncle for the first time. He said he'd seen me before when I was about 10 years old. At that time I was quite shy and bookish so I don't recall. As I am no longer so shy (still bookish), it made for a much more memorable meeting. He's similarly prodigal. I always thought Prodigal meant had gone away and now come back, due to Bible stories. Turns out that's not quite right.

prod·i·gal/ˈprädigəl/

Adjective:	Spending money or resources freely and recklessly; wastefully extravagant.
Noun:	A person who spends money in a recklessly extravagant way.
Synonyms:	adjective.  lavish - profuse - extravagant - wasteful - spendthrift noun.  spendthrift - waster - wastrel - spender - squanderer

Uncle likes a drink, smokes, wears stoner t-shirts, dived with sharks, travelled the world, speaks his mind and has blue eyes. We had quite a lot to talk about.

The most interesting stories were of his father, my grandfather. I never really got to know him as he was a non comedy version of Melchett, from Blackadder. The Sergeant Major. Fabulous beard and moustache. Very shouty. 'Hells, bells and buckets of blood' he would rumble when vexed. He made beautiful art too but didn't like children, so as he died when I was 13 we never got to chat. I learnt lots of wonderful history about him this weekend. Lots very sad but fascinating also. Having been brought up by a very down to earth mother who enjoys the English countryside more than the trade winds, it made a lot of sense to learn my grandfather had been with the Royal Artillery during the Second World War and had fought in Mumbai, Calcutta, Mandalay, Imphal and Ceylon. He'd fought with the Chindits.

Ernest James Siseman was the youngest captain at 23. Ernest James Siseman operated deep behind Japanese lines and was weakened by malaria. Ernest James Siseman met my grandma at Deolal, 100 miles outside Mumbai when she nursed him back to health. 

The British saying 'doolally tap', loosely meaning "camp fever" comes from Deolali and the apparent madness of men waiting for ships back to Britain after finishing their tour of duty. Doolally today means mad or insane. Mum was born in May of 1946. The Burmese campaign ended in July 1945. What a place to be made. Not surprising he didn't talk much. He did create beautiful paintings though.

After his death his paintings were sold off. Most of his work was of landscapes, he didn't ilke drawing people. The little girl being bookish on the left is me. Hope to track it down one day.

This one is at Liverpool University. Really modern. I look forward to visiting.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/artists/e-j-siseman

   

Lovely to meet you uncle Quentin. Looking forward to visiting you in Finland. The fact you live a short drive from Moomin World makes the offer all the more attractive :)

It's nice to have an uncle. Nice to have some male energy around. Even when it bleats like Melchett :)

I leave you with today's Sunday Worship. 

A spot of Steam Punk Victoriana

http://lebeaupaonvictorien.blogspot.co.uk/2010/04/vintage-voice-pseudo-victorian.html

 

Peace be with you.

And also with you.

You may now walk out, to the fine strains of Raphael  Attar and his homage to Gary Barlow.

Be excellent to each other

xxx

The Sunday Spinster Sermons: Part One

As you walk in and chose your seats, you can listen along to Lucy Rose singing Lines. Filmed in Wild Wales to set the scene.

In future Sundays we shall move into our Acts of Contrition and follow up with readings, but for the pilot Spinster Sermon, we'll cut straight to the homily itself:


‘I’m not going to stand for it,’ she screamed down the cluttered stairs.

‘Stand for what?’

‘You being such a bitch to me. I go out of my way to do things your way. I bend over backwards. And all you can do if remind me how I only have a month to go until I need to move out. You can’t even bear to spend more than half an hour in a supermarket with me.’

‘Oh you do get yourself in such a huff,’ she jokes.

Teenager high jinx. Such memories. Sadly, this is not a memory. Well it is. But one from today, not twenty years ago. Moving home has brought back all the old behaviours. Mum is made of sterner stuff than me, a more grounded soul, so clashes are frequent.  I find myself seeking attention and getting angry when I don’t receive it. I thrive on intrigue and giggles. Mum on peace and gardens. 

This last ridiculous argument was down to the Twinings Logo in the tea and coffee aisle during our big shop in Asda. I asked how old she thought it was. She said old and moved to go. I said no, guess how old? She said 100 years? I said no. She said 200. I said no. She said, ‘Enough, I’m sick of playing these games, we’re leaving the supermarket now!’ So I got upset. Such a shame. The Answer is 300 years. So near. Yet so far. I read it on a tweet this morning. I am twelve.

The twelve year old put the shopping in the car in a stony silence. Drove home. Unpacked. Took items particular to herself in a bag up to room. Slammed door and sulked in the tiny back bedroom still full of boxes. This is following a further scene at the check out, when mum had asked me not to do any of my cooking until after she’d finished her’s, as she had a friend coming over. I’d glowered back. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I won’t be anywhere near you. I’ll stay out of your way.’ God. I’m a bad episode of Sunset Beach, perhaps I’ve turned into my own evil twin?

Then mum knocked on my bedroom door and asked if we could talk. This is always bad. I stop being angry and get upset. I cry. Mum feels bad. She wants a hug. I am so tense I don’t want anyone near me. She doesn’t understand why I’m upset. She says she loves me. I cry a bit more. We’re just different people. A spinster and a divorcee sharing one very small house. She knows I’ll find a job where I can move out. Having tried for over a year, I am less sure of this. But I am sure that I get happy when I write.

I had already planned to start my Spinster Sermons this morning. At 5am. When I woke up with the monthly barren bat signal. The Spinster Special. This is no way completely explains the proceeding paragraphs… I was pondering a way to motivate self to write again. I knew I needed something with a reasonable frequency. I admire my friends who keep to weekly blogs by adding photos of fashion or travels or some such. As I reside in the Shire and my social life is pretty sparse this would have been tricky so I wanted to play with the Spinster thing. At 5am, I realised that Spinster Sermons would work.

As a very lapsed Roman Catholic I could still recall the Sunday Mass rundown. There’s a welcome, an act of contrition (saying sorry for being bad), lessons (Bible and Gospel readings), a sermon or homily, transubstantiation (flying saucer paper with stamped crosses and cheap red wine turn in the body and blood of Christ), Communion and then thanksgiving. All rounded up by a song.

This week’s Sermon seems to have something of a lunar theme. Next week who can say. Two weeks time will definitely be sex based. We should be back to tears again in 4 weeks. 

In the spirit of this back to front, moon-kissed Spinster Sermon. I offer up this reading by Keats. I first learnt the tale of Endymion when captivated by the most beautiful man at Chatsworth. There are many tales of Endymion. My favourite is that Semele, the Goddess of the Moon who fell so in love with his beauty she decided he must never age. He was therefore granted immortality but must always stay asleep except when the Moon Goddess came down to visit him and enjoy his company. They had 50 daughters.

Endymion by John Keats. 1818.

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Not prevalent in your usual Roman Catholic Mass, but Spinster Sermons offer up movie recommendation of the week. Mass tended to tell us what not to watch. The Life of Brian was certainly banned. This week I recommend Bright Star http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0810784/ the story of Keats but told through the eyes of his lover, Fanny Brawne. It's gentle and tender and kind and of course poetry filled.

I think we come to the end of today's Sunday Spinster Sermon and I'd like to include my favourite part of Mass. The connection. When we would all stand up from our pews and make contact with each other. We'd say 'Peace be with you.' 'And also with you' while we shook on it.

So.

Peace be with you.

And also with you.

Much love

Til next Sunday

Alison 

xxx