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Tag Archives: Lent

Visio Monachi de Eynsham c 1196 CE (revised) or The Vision of Edmund, the monk of Eynsham.

23 Tuesday May 2017

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Community, History, Literature, Poetry, Religion, Writing

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Tags

Abbot, Adam of Eynsham, Archbishop of Canterbury, Baldwin, Benedictine Rule, Bishop of Salisbury, Blessed Souls, chain of being, Charismatic Renewal, Compline, corporal punishment, Easter, Edmund of Eynsham, election, Geoffrey of Eynsham, Good Friday, hallucinatory drug, Holy week, Joscelin, Lent, Matins, nepotism, Osney, Oxfordshire, Paradise, Purgatory, quinsy, Rapture, Saladin, sanctification, Sanctus, St Lawrence, St Nicholas, Sub-Abbot, vanitas

Vision of Edmund of Eynsham

 

https://i0.wp.com/amoureuxdulangage.m.a.f.unblog.fr/files/2014/08/eynsham-abbey.jpg

 

 

Adam – now there’s a fine symbolic name

for a Sub-Abbot, but it is not he

of whom we wish to write.  No, the fame

belongs entirely to his brother: Edmund.  He

is the one whose ‘deathbed’ revelation

showed him Paradise and Purgatory.

Taken by the hand of St Nicholas,

he saw the penalties of Vanitas.

 

 

We are in twelfth century Oxfordshire,

but the application is for us too,

though believers in Rapture are fewer.

Nowadays it would be put down to ‘flu,

a fever, or hallucinatory drug.

Out-of-body experiences – who

would credit them with the spiritual?

Movements like Charismatic Renewal?

 

 

Imbibing only some tepid water,

for fifteen months, Edmund lay, very weak;

his quinsy made him hotter and hotter.

As Easter approached, he commenced to speak

and, with the help of a supporting stick,

he wanted to celebrate Holy Week

in the monastery chapel.  Brothers

claimed he remained longer than the others.

 

 

From midnight until noon on the next day,

he confessed all his sins and lamented.

The following night, he began to pray

and lay on the ground, as if demented.

Adam had cold water splashed over him.

He thought Edmund had simply invented

this behaviour to gain some attention –

thus he wanted to defuse the tension.

 

 

How Edmund arrived there, without some aid,

was a point to be considered (but post-

Good Friday.)  Yes, though fresh blood was displayed

on the cross, the monks felt the Holy Ghost

was not behind Edmund’s troubling conduct.

Maybe he wanted discipline, to boast,

boost spiritual pride.  He’d asked for penance,

but was too weak for simple observance.

 

 

Through Good Friday evening, the next day,

water dribbled from his lips, till sunset.

They thought he was returning to the clay,

for he made no response and didn’t fret

when pricked.  They blew a horn in his ear,

but he did not stir – at least, not yet –

till Compline, when his eyes opened.  He sighed

and ‘Sancta Maria‘ many times cried.

 

 

He had begged for corporal punishment

and he kept on sobbing into his hands,

while compelling everyone to repent.

One of his more unusual demands

was to have a silver cross brought to him.

No one to this day really understands

why he was agitated; in this state:

raving like some kind of inebriate.

 

 

On Saturday evening, he ate some bread.

Miraculously, he went, unaided,

to Matins, where he bowed his tonsured head

and the cross and relics venerated.

The Prior and Sub-Prior heard him confess,

till no omission had been evaded

and he received the Sacrament as well,

to the ring of the credence Sanctus bell.

 

 

He then shared his dream, which began in Lent:

how a man had stood beside him, who said

that the prayers of a Godstow postulant

should join with his and be intermingled.

Then, roused to consciousness, he kissed the cross,

penitent for time he had spent in bed.

Entering the chapel of St Lawrence

and All Martyrs, he bowed in obesiance.

 

 

He begged Adam for further punishment

and bathed his eyes in blood and swallowed it.

He was birched further and did not give vent

to spleen; nor did he ask for a remit.

Adam denied the Benedictine Rule

condoned this practice.  He felt its ambit

was for daylight hours, but, apparently,

St Nicholas had amended the decree.

 

 

Edmund saw souls flogged and bound together,

but they still had a hope of salvation.

You could have knocked him down with a feather

when he saw, in the throes of purgation,

(previous Abbot) Geoffrey of Eynsham,

negligent in his organisation,

though he’d been in charge for forty four years,

now past nepotism induced his tears.

 

 

The Bishop of Salisbury – Joscelin –

committed sexual immorality

and, as for the dire dealings of Baldwin,

he had tinkered with criminality:

unwise Archbishop of Canterbury.

(Most preferred Saladin’s mentality.)

Much given to Chapter disputation,

Baldwin funded Crusades through taxation.

 

 

In the next place to which Edmund was led,

he smelled a vile pond and climbed a steep hill:

souls were burned on one side and they perished

with cold conversely.  A rotating grill

principle moved them from one location

to the other, like ants from an anthill.

To see a goldsmith from Osney- a drunk-

being purged here did not surprise the monk.

 

 

The third realm was a place of snakes, devils –

reserved for the homosexual.

A lawyer was suffering for evils

and monks too were punished by gradual

degrees.  Unchaste churchmen who had blasphemed

(so nothing much there far from the usual)

by dispensing holy things with foul hand,

epitomising the wrongs in England.

 

Those who had been successful in the world

endured more than those of a low degree.

Regions of Paradise were then unfurled

to Nicholas, Edmund: a panoply

of Blessed Souls, who approached a huge gate

set in a wall of crystal – so shiny

that, blinded, he scarcely saw the entrance

of those receiving their inheritance.

 

Edmund then saw Jesus Christ on a throne,

but, at this point, his guide made him return

and yet he sensed that there were those who’d flown

to higher realms and who with joy would burn.

They exuded Light Inaccessible,

but he was not yet ready to discern

the joys of one who finished his course –

his sanctification was yet perforce.

 

This vision showed him a chain of being,

linking angels and the perfected souls,

descending from God, who is all-seeing,

to those who’ve just embraced heavenly goals.

Necessary purging of perception

allots individuals specific roles.

Adam wrote this down for our perfection:

Verify your calling and election.

 

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Debatable Lands

11 Tuesday Apr 2017

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Humour, Relationships, Social Comment, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

barmkin, bastle, black market, Bonnie Prince Charlie, border control, Brexit, debatable lands, donkey sanctuary, Easter bonnet, First Minister, haggis, Independence, Lent, Northumberland, Palm Sunday, Pele Tower, Presbyterian, re-moaners, reiver

File:Chathill MMB 03 Preston Tower.jpg

(image: fortified tower by mattbuck)

[This is a continuation of my Augustus Snodbury saga…]

Diana Fotheringay- Syylk was sitting at her scrubbed pine table in

the kitchen of her pele tower.  She was writing to the church warden,

to apologise for the mule-ish behaviour of the Palm Sunday rescue donkey,

which had slipped its rein in the procession through the graveyard and had

made a dash for the appetising trimmings on Mrs Digby’s Easter bonnet.  This

had not tightened the bonds of fellowship, even though the nibbled headgear

had been sported by one who had contributed to the donkey sanctuary in the

past.  No, she- Diana- felt responsible for introducing such innovative practices

to a staunchly Presbyterian congregation.  She couldn’t help thinking that the

bonnet was a little premature and should have been left until well after Lent,

even if its wearer was the church warden.

Diana would always be a stranger here – a Sassenach.  Murgatroyd might

have saved a prime example of architectural heritage for the nation through

his restoration project, but neither she, nor her husband were of reiver stock.

Oddly enough, her erstwhile lover and the father of her beloved daughter, Dru,

was of that lineage, so she supposed Dru could trace her roots to the ‘Debatable

Lands’ too.

She raised her head and addressed her housekeeper, Mrs Connolly, who was

peeling a turnip (or was it a swede?  The two vegetables had lexical differences

depending on which side of the border they were being consumed.  Another

grave divergence.  I kid you not.)

Mrs C, what do you think Theresa May signified by ‘Brexit means Brexit?’

Ach, jist something like I meant when Ah tell’t ma wee yin ‘Bed means bed!’

Mind ye, Ah usually backed it up wae a swift toe tae the….

Please, Mrs C!

But Diana chuckled inwardly.

She was trying to sort everything out for Gus and Virginia’s visit.  Dru and

Nigel would also be arriving for their end-of-term Easter break.

It had not been a year since she and Murgatroyd had renewed their wedding

vows. What an event it had been, with Dru and Nigel AND Virginia and Gus

tying the tartan knot, in a combined nuptial service. Ah, so much had

happened in a short space of time.

Virginia had offered to put her own house on the market.  It had been her

previous marital residence.  She was worried that house prices might fall,

or the £ might plummet.  She and Gus were ‘Re-moaners’ and proud of it.

They were contemplating re-locating to the Borders, now that they had both

retired from St Birinus Middle.  The problem was that they did not know on

which side of the border to settle.  For this reason, the Debateable Lands

attracted them, in order to hedge their bets.

Dru and Nigel both had accommodation at their respective boarding schools,

but they had been keen to renovate some outbuildings in the pele complex, as

a way of getting themselves on the housing ladder.

Diana was keen on this, as she felt Dru would only conceive when she was away

from the stresses and strains of teaching.  Grand-children were on Diana’s

agenda and she liked the idea of them being on site.  If things became too

riotous, she could always retreat to her fortified bastle and barricade herself

in.

The problem was that the Scottish/ English border ran straight through their

barmkin.

Should’ Sturge’ effect Independence, then to which Csarina should they render?

Would Murgatroyd be evicted from half his property and have to remain in one

half of his complex?

Diana had an idea.

Mrs C, what if we were to transfer all the property to you – you know, put it

in your name?  If we only had permission as foreign residents to live in

the country for a proportion of the year, we could move the furniture

to the other side of the room; stay over there and you could call us your guests.

Nae borra!  Mrs C nodded enthusiastically.  Ah dinna ken whit that wee ny-

eh, that First Meenister is goin’ oan aboot.  Her granny came fae

Northumberland, so she’s practically a migrant hersel’.  An’ some o’ her pals

look like aliens tae, if Ah say so mahsel’.

Onywise, when Dru has her wean, we can put the whole shebang into its name. 

It’ll be born here, Ah take it?  Ach, Ah hope it’s a wee boy: a proper Bonnie

Charlie.

If there is ony Border Control, we will make a killin’, sellin’ haggis, shortbread

and whisky oan the Black Merkit. if they come to inspect, or patrol oor border,

we’ll jist drag the boxes ower tae the far side o’ the room.

But no one down south likes haggis, Mrs C…

It’ll be a different story efter Brexit, ye’ll see!  pontificated Mrs C.  They’ll a’ be

starvin’ ower there. 

And her eyes swivelled significantly, as she directed her stare to the other

side of the kitchen.

Mebbe we can dae a trade in barrels o’ pickled herrin’ tae.

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Lenten Villanelle

08 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by Candia in Bible, History, Literature, Poetry, Religion, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

1 Chronicles 14, Baal- Perazim, balsam tree, King David, Lent, Philistines, Populus balsamifera, Psalm 84, Rephaim, sussuration, Valley of Baca, villanelle

Populus balsamifera.jpg

(Balsam- Populus balsamifera)

 

Love the phrase:  ‘Who going through the Valley of Baka maketh

it a well,’ from Psalm 84.  It relates to King David fighting the

Philistines in the Rephaim Valley.

I also liked the translation: ‘Valley of Breakthrough.’

There is more detail in 1 Chronicles, chapter 14, where

a previous victory is described.  David employs a different

military strategy on the second occasion.

Here’s the poem:

 

Blessed is the man whose lamentation

is overcome by digging for a well-

even in desert peregrination.

 

Israel, Judah became one nation

and the Philistines could no longer quell

David’s army.  Divine exhortation

 

inspired a strategic operation

and grasshoppers routed the infidel:

lamentation turned to jubilation.

 

Baal-Perazim introduced elation,

but now rearguard action relied on smell

from balsam trees and the sussuration

 

of their leaves.  The wind, on this occasion,

convinced those warrior giants by some spell,

or by an auditory sensation

 

that reinforcements, an augmentation

of David’s troops would bring a living hell.

Blessed is that man, whose lamentation

converts to joy, mid-peregrination.

 

 

 

 

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Ash Wednesday 1

28 Tuesday Feb 2017

Posted by Candia in Bible, History, Literature, Music, mythology, Poetry, Psychology, Religion, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Cranmer, ecumenicism, Lent, Palestrina, T S Eliot

Feria Quarta Cinerum

Crossofashes.jpg

(Image- Jennifer Balaska 2/2/12; author Oxh973)

I won’t go into all the Lenten references to words spoken over

Adam and Eve, referring to the dust to which they shall return.

I won’t go into Cranmer’s dismissal of the procedure as

‘superstitious’ nor its ecumenical resurrection in the 1970s.

What I did- prior to preparing to sing Palestrina’s Reproaches– was

re-read and listen to T S Eliot’s acclaimed poem.  I found his voice

lugubrious and the tone exhausted.  Still, he seemed to have squeezed

through the eye of the needle, in spite of his cultural baggage.

Thanks be to God!

Here’s my version.  I tried to be more positive!  And if you don’t think

I succeed, then I abhor myself in the proverbial dust and cinders and

promise to roll around in a bit of sackcloth.  But fasting?  Well, that’s

more difficult!

See following post…..

 

 

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Fifteen Minutes of Fame

17 Tuesday Mar 2015

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Humour, News, Religion, television

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

amphibious vehicle, BBC, Drambuie, Dyson, Garden of Gethsemane, High Priest, James Bond, Jeremy Clarkson, Judas, Lent, MacQuarrie, Malchus, Mardi Gras, Oisin, Pearly Gates, Peter, Popemobile, Sanhedrin, Van Gogh

New drambuie bottle.jpg

Diana decided to sit quietly in the barmkin and study her Lenten passages.

Murgatroyd was at an auction, so theoretically she would get some peace.

Mrs Connolly kindly brought her a Drambuie coffee before she took out the

Dyson.

A bit early in the day, Mrs C? Diana queried.

Ach, it’s cold outside.  It’ll warm the cockles of your heart and put some

hair on yer chest, Mrs C opined.

Diana wasn’t really desirous of becoming hirsute in that- or any-

department.

Could you…eh, would you mind not hoovering yet?  I have to meditate

on some passages.  You could polish the silver first, if you like.

Nae bother, Mrs C agreed.  You meditate on yer passages and Ah’ll

clean the passageways. But whit’s that yer reading noo?

Pope-peter pprubens.jpg

Oh, it’s just about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane…you know,

when He was betrayed by Judas’ kiss.  Peter became really angry and

lashed out at the High Priest’s slave, who was probably compelled to

be there.

Sounds like that Jeremy Clarkson, sighed Mrs C.  These bullies always

go for the soft target.  The poor wee soul was only trying to do his job.

Or not, according to Clarkson, replied Diana.  Anyway, it says here in

my notes that the victim was probably called Malchus.

I thought he was called Oisin, ken? said Mrs C.

No, I mean the High Priest’s slave.  Fortunately Jesus healed his ear.

Portrait of a clean shaven man wearing a furry winter hat and smoking a pipe; facing to the right with a bandaged right ear

He wisnae oan hand fur Van Gogh though.  But his wis self-inflicted,

Ah suppose.

Diana wished that Mrs C would stop dusting and leave her in peace.

Ah suppose Peter wis a big chap like Clarkson.  He wis probably famished

after a long day of discipleship and jist lost his rag and threw his weight aroon.

Ah don’t fur wan moment think he’d have had a private helicopter tae take

him tae a boutique hotel.  He must have taken the sword aff wan o’ the

crowd.

Still, he didnae lose his joab over the stramash, did he?    He wis actually

promoted tae chief bouncer at The Pearly Gates, as far as Ah recall... Och,

fools rush in where angels fear tae tread, but once they’re oan the side o’

the establishment, they’ll keep ithers o’ their ilk oot.

Like making the bully Head Boy? Diana developed the thought.  She’d

never been a fan of the idea at school.

Ah’m no’ sayin’ there shouldnae be consequences fur the belligerent,

Mrs C continued. Clarkson is goin’ tae be hauled up before the Sanhedrin,

or The High Heid Yin.  MacQuarrie’s his name, Ah think.  He’ll proabably be

crucified upside doon.

Well, if Clarkson had been observing Lent, he’d have been saying cheerio

to meat anyway and he might have stayed out of trouble till Mardi Gras,

Diana laughed.  Brawn and brain.  Clarkson has both, but needs the

latter to control the former.

If Peter wis alive today, smiled Mrs C, whit kind o’ car wid he hae

driven?

A Popemobile? ventured Diana.

Mebbe an amphibious vehicle, Mrs C pushed on.  Like that James Bond

wan.  Then he could have driven over water.

Vehicle - Wet Nellie

I suppose Judas shows us that there is hope for villains such as Clarkson,

Diana tried to conclude the session.

But whit aboot the poor wee producer fellow?  His masters might not like

him if he’s seen as damaged goods.

He’s probably had his fifteen minutes of fame now, suggested Diana.

He’ll lapse into Malchian obscurity, but will, no doubt have sustained lifelong

scars.  At least he will have a story to tell – or sell.

So, that’s where we get the phrase  ‘givin’ somebody a severe Malky’ ? 

Ah’ve never thocht o’ it before.  Mebbe Ah should dae some o’ thon

studies an a’… Right, Ah’ll leave ye tae it then.  Whit did ye fancy fur

yer lunch, did ye say?

Just a cold platter, said Diana.  Thank you.

Image result for Oisin Tymon

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Conscious Uncoupling

28 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Humour, News, Philosophy, Psychology, Romance, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

a posteriori, Coldplay, conscious uncoupling, Dr Habib Sadeghi, Dr Shahizad Sami, Goop, Gwyneth Paltrow, Lent, Love and Weight Loss, New Age, poodle moth

GwynethPaltrowByAndreaRaffin2011.jpg

We haven’t had conscious coupling for some time, sighed Carrie.  Gyles

is so busy.  And I don’t want to know about teenagers’ unconscious coupling

either.  She sipped at her latte.

She was reading The Mail Online from her tablet in Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe where there is a WiFi connection.

I am always warning her that her bank details might be exposed in using

public sites for her iPad obsession, but she is reckless.

So this latest Paltrow phrase is a trendy euphemism for divorce? I queried.

Maybe their foreplay was all Coldplay.  I was proud of knowing the name of

Gwynnie’s ex’s band, for some reason.

It’s a load of Goop, Carrie replied.

Goop?

Oh, some site where Gwynnie’s gurus post New Age Lifestyle Advice.  In

relationships, people apparently play teacher and pupil.

Sounds a bit kinky, I commented.  You’d have thought it might have spiced

up their marriage.  Maybe she should have bought a gymnslip.  Or is that

non-PC nowadays?

Carrie scrolled down.  Every irritation and row is a trigger which flags up a

need to examine one’s psyche to locate negativity that requires healing.

Who are these people? I asked.

Dr Habib Sadeghi and his spouse, Dr Shahizad Sami.  They state that humans

are not wired to be with one person for decades.

I could have told them that, I said, munching on an almond croissant.  But

better the devil you know and all that..

**********************************************************

Virginia Fisher-Giles was reading The Mail in her brief break.  She recognised

this ‘Goop‘ argument a posteriori– to wit, that people in relationships begin to

smell less fragrant to each other after a while and the emotional protection of

the equivalent of a vinaigrette in plaguish times becomes a vital vade mecum.

What is all this about relationships between the sexes being like that

of a teacher and pupil? she pondered, while taking a tray into the study of

Augustus Snodbury (Acting Head).  She had only put a single biscuit on

his plate, as this 50% reduction was supposed to be Snod’s self-denial

for Lent.  No doubt there would be a Bourbon Restoration later in the year,

as there had been in 1814.

Please don’t put that on top of these reports, snapped Snod.

She slipped out silently.  Actually, one Bourbon down was a strategy for

weight control, she thought, and it was in line with Dr Sadeghi’s Within:

A Spiritual Awakening to Love and Weight Loss, mentioned, or promoted in

the article.  All you had to do was release your weight.  She wondered

where it all ended up.  Maybe injected into some media type’s butt.

Kim Kardashian 2011.jpg

But this newly-displayed moodiness meant that her honeymoon period of

infatuation had run its course. Something had all too short a day, she thought,

and it wasn’t summer.  She was experiencing a seven year itch and she had

not even married him, let alone been out for a date.  So much for teacher/

pupil relationships.  She could teach the old boy a thing or two.

A boomerang of a thought hit her with some force, provoking a suppressed

notion about males to emerge, blinking into the light.  She suddenly saw that

she was acting out a role that she had outgrown.  She was going to crush

any sense of personal injury.

She returned to the report.  It said that any ‘peeve‘-curiously colloquial, but

then it was reported in The Mail, was only evidence of an older emotional scar,

and she knew what that was all about, but she wasn’t about to open up old

wounds.

It was just as well that she had presence of mind and skills that were so

essential for a School Secretary.  They were evidence of her spiritual

evolution, naturally.

Suddenly the image of that squashed Venezuelan poodle moth came to mind.

It was an entomological symbol of the insignificance of her boss and his

retarded development, surely?

The bell rang.  She had to get on with sorting out parental envelopes, but at

lunch break she would read the rest of the article about insects and human

emotional development, according to Goop.

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The Missing Years

01 Saturday Mar 2014

Posted by Candia in Arts, Education, Family, Humour, Music, Nature, News, Politics, Psychology, Religion, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Travel, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, David Dickinson, El Sistema, GovUk, Gustavo Dudamel, Lent, Los Angeles Philharmonic, marimba, poodle moth, Sexagesima, Shostakovich, St Birinus, wyvern

Crossofashes.jpg

The school chaplain was banging on about Lent in Assembly.

What are YOU prepared to give up for Lent? he had asked the

congregation.

Augustus Snodbury looked at his school calendar surreptitiously.

Last Sunday had been Sexagesima.  Well, there was no issue in

abstemiousness in that line, as he had not had relations with a

woman for thirty years or so.

Maybe he could cut down his Bourbon biscuit intake.  Yes, he would

tell the School Secretary to bring a single biscuit at elevenses for the

next forty odd days.  That was a 50% reduction.  Time off for good

behaviour in Purgatory?  No, that was the opposition’s belief, surely?

His mind wandered to his ‘to do’ list.  It was more than a week since

he had received the Wyvern signet ring from his step-brother in

Venezuela.  He ought to reply and thank him.

After the boys had filed out, he sat at his desk and began to draft a

letter.

St Birinus Middle School,

Suttonford etc

27th Feb., 2014.

My Dear Hugo,

I am writing to confirm receipt of the signet ring on our mother’s instructions.

I realise that finding the cost of its postage must have been challenging for

you at this time of rampant inflation in your country.

I enclose a photograph of your niece, Drusilla, and myself, standing outside

Wyvern Mote.  The lady in the wheelchair is your Aunt Augusta- Berenice’s

sister.

Augusta oversaw my education when our mother- he was going to write

‘scarpered‘, but Tippex-ed it out and replaced it with ‘left for warmer climes.’

The news did not come as too severe a blow to Augusta, as she had

believed her sister had been disappeared years previously.  We did not go

into too many details anyway, as the old dear is now in her dotage.

Wyvern yielded some of its secrets on our visit.  Drusilla spotted a photograph

of the tutor in an old schoolroom and his facial features betray my origin.  Not

yours, of course, dear boy.  Perhaps you have inherited Berenice’s genes in

the appearance department.  In that case, you may resemble Aunt Augusta,

who is said to be her ‘dead spit‘, as some would crudely put it.  Judge for

yourself.

Perhaps you would find it in your power to send us a photo of yourself-

possibly in revolutionary garb, manning barricades or indulging in some

such activity.  That is, unless your post is censored.

Saint Birinus.jpg

Dear old St Birinus must have been watching over us, as my mother

remembering the name of the school led to our successful contact.  An odd

thought came to me in Assembly.  Apparently Birinus could also be spelled

‘Bernius’.  Was our mother given the saint’s nomenclature by a dyslexic

registrar?  What connection did her parents have to the school, or to the

saint?  Our grandmother was Augusta too, if I recall correctly and our

grandfather was a rug merchant, and probably a rogue trader too, by all

accounts, from somewhere in the Bosphorous.  I saw a photo of him once

and he bore a striking resemblance to David Dickinson, that antiques

chappie.

David Dickinson crop.jpg

I would love to come and visit you, dear brother, but GovUK advises against

it at present. The site informs me that you have been experiencing heavy rain

and road conditions are poor.  We have a similar situation in Surrey,

Hampshire, Dorset and Somerset.

No doubt your passport has been suspended.  We are concerned

when we read of famous beauty queens and boxing champions being

killed.

Our peripatetic marimba teacher commented that El Sistema, the universally

famous Music Education programme should speak out about your political

situation.  He is disappointed that Gustavo Dudamel, Music Director of the

Los Angeles Philharmonic, has not taken a stand.  But he cannot embed

secret messages in his music, as Shostakovich did, as he is only a conductor

and not a composer, as I tried to point out.

Thank you also for the inadvertent gift of a poodle moth which somehow got

into the packaging of your communication.  The Biology teacher was thrilled.

He posed me a riddle: What is fuzzy, adorable and terrifying all at the same

time?

(He had read this sub-title in one of our staffroom magazines: The Week, as it

happens. Not a publication with which you may be familiar, but no matter…)

I don’t like riddles in general, but I immediately replied, John Boothroyd-

Smythe.

He is a bete-noire of mine.  The correct response should have been Poodle

Moth, naturally.

Take care, little brother.  One day we shall meet and discuss the missing

years.

May St Birinus protect you.

(He scribbled ‘Gus‘) and then signed off with a flourish:

Augustus Snodbury (Acting Head)

Then he crossed out the parenthesis and sealed the personal letter in

a school envelope. The School Secretary could work out the international

postage and use the office franking machine.  There was no fraud involved.

He was, after all, saving the school catering budget a fortune on biscuits for

the foreseeable future.  Or so he rationalised.

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The Transfiguration of the Ordinary

11 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by Candia in Education, Religion, Romance, Suttonford

≈ Leave a comment

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Antinomianism, Bradford on Avon, Cockney Rhyming slang, Lent, Quinquagesima, sat nav, South Wraxall, The Longs Arms, Windsor knot

Snod had felt unwell and listless since Quinquagesima, or the Sunday

before Lent.  He always felt depressed at the thought that someone-

God?-might expect him to deny himself in the edible line.

Most of the boys were at home, or in San, with streaming colds.  He

felt that all he could do was to recline on his battered sofa for a

couple of hours till some epiphany would dazzle him with a

personally delivered illuminated manuscript announcing what

he should do next to facilitate the Transfiguration of the Ordinary.

Meanwhile, he read and re-read the letter from Diana. No, that

wasn’t the divine set of instructions, but it was miraculous all the

same.

He placed the heart-shaped diamond ring in its plush-lined shagreen

box into his holdall and, notifying the Headmaster’s Secretary that he

was going to a relative in Bradford-on-Avon to recuperate, he

opened the door of his ancient vehicle and drove out of the school

grounds, telling himself that he wasn’t lying, since he really did have

a blood relation there: namely his newly-discovered daughter,

Drusilla.

How fortuitous that he had booked that advanced calligraphy course

in Bath for half term.  He could simply extend the number of nights

that he required accommodation and would create a longer break. It

was the perfect alibi.  Mind you, why should he need an alibi when

he wasn’t doing anything wrong?

This Catholic guilt is getting to me, he thought.  I prefer Low Church.

They don’t deny themselves so much.

He had texted Diana and they had arranged to have lunch at The

Longs Arms, South Wraxall, just outside Bradford-on-Avon.  Thank

goodness he wasn’t an abstainer in the Lenten tradition, for the

menu looked mouth-wateringly enticing.

That was the plan, if only he could find his way there.  Diana had said

that Drusilla would stay at home, in order to give them privacy to talk

about the intervening years since they had last met.

He loved the name and thought about the semantic fun he could

have had with the boys, teasing them as to whether Long should

have a final ‘s’ or not, or whether an apostrophe came into it.

He was suddenly aware that he had driven over the narrow bridge

in Bradford three times and had still not seen a sign for South Wraxall.

He might have to twist the long-longs-ha!arm of the law to direct him.

But there was never a constable around when you wanted him.

(It didn’t even occur to Snod that he restricted his thoughts to a generic

masculine.)

Or if you did see one, you had probably taught him in 1976 and

knew his intellectual limitations.

He was going to be late. What if she thought that he had stood her

up?  He had driven a very circuitous route and stumbled upon Lower

Wraxall.  Stopping and winding down his window, for there was no

electric system in his jalopy, he addressed a tractor driver politely

and asked if he was near his destination.

The farmer looked puzzled and said that he had never heard of it.

Snod was beginning to panic.  He had no satellite navigation system

either, usually trusting to a map, but, for some reason, there wasn’t

one in the driver’s door.  He must have removed it when he had the

car valeted at Christmas. He would never purchase anything so

vulgar as a sat nav.  It sounded like a Cockney Rhyming slang for

the abbreviation of a water closet.

Thanking the man nevertheless, he set off down a very

narrow lane, hoping against hope that he would arrive there

serendipitously, or would encounter a signed junction.

Yes, he was actually there in a few minutes.  How could the farmer

not have recognised the name of a village about a mile away? Surely

nowadays they go on package holidays all over the globe and get a

neighbour to cover the lambing or harvest, or whatever.  Mind you,

that particular example had looked a little, how could he say this and

remain PC?-  inbred.  He felt he should deny himself for such a sinful

thought but decided that the penalty should definitely not be related

to anything comestible.

He would wear that scratchy jumper later in the week- the one that

his great-aunt had knitted him for Christmas.  It could double as a

hair shirt.  Nothing too punishing- he wasn’t a Roman, after all.  He

preferred to adapt the Pauline concept to his own agenda: sin a little

bit more to avail himself of free grace!  And if that was

Antinomianism, well, it was a lot cheerier.

He parked behind the pub and, smoothing what was left of his once

wiry curls, he checked his Windsor knot and rubbed his sweaty palms

on his corduroys.  He licked his wrist and smelled his saliva and

entered by the rear door, as if he hadn’t the self-esteem to use

anything other than the tradesmen’s entrance.

She was standing in the narrow corridor, down from the Ladies’

Room, affecting to study the sepia photos of Wraxall in days gone by.

Diana!

She turned round.  He’d have known her anywhere.

Drat!  He’d left the roses in the flat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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