Ancient Greek Gods and Modern Anri Statues

When we studied Greek mythology and ancient Greece as children, we became familiar with the gorgeous blindingly white marble statues of the ancient Gods and Goddesses.  It was only later that we discovered that the ancient Greeks did not see them like that.  They once were painted in bright colours!

I love wood and have a number of wooden statues of Our Lady, many of them carved in Anri studios at different points in the 20th century.  They are old and for the most part, only the natural wood ramains... but when new, they were painted as well!  It is odd to consider how our perceptions depend on the time when we encountered something for the first time.  Whether it is a city, an ancient Greek statue made of marble or a wooden statue made by Anri.  What is conjured in our minds when we think of these things is our own point of encounter, often quite different from the original.

In the case of the ancient Greek statues of marble and the Anri wooden carvings, I think I prefer the item ravaged by age.  Perhaps this is somewhat sad and I should hate to think that I myself am more the 'honest' version of my own self now that I have aged, with the brightness and hope chipped away by the decades than I was when I was newly minted by my Creeator... but in the case of these objects, representations mainly of gods and goddesses, I do prefer the medium stripped down to itself rather than obscured by paints.

Even in India and Nepal, for the most part, when I encountered the Hindu gods and goddesses in their temples or on their carts in procession, they being ancient no longer were painted either, but displayed the dimmed lustre of the brass from which they were fashioned.  Curious, isn't it?  I spent a great deal of my childhood in museums.  My own vision of history and other civilisations therefore probably was determined by the fact that I first encountered most objects and symbols in an altered setting, behind glass, preserved for the future, rather than finding them when they were new, before the value that history imposes on such items had accrued.

Moghran ya Layl by Ragheb Alama' and Time Travel

In the first half of the '90s, I was involved passionately with one of the great causes of my life and it was at that time, when my daughter was a toddler, that I encountered 'Moghram ya Layl' on the site of a fellow activist.  He was a very compelling individual and I suppose we became infatuated with one another based almost entirely on our intellectual internet postings, articles and work.

The song still sends shivers down my spine.  It is curious but I never liked romantic songs in English.  They are rather off-putting to me.  The songs I like tend to be rather caustic... songs like Lou Reed's 'Sweet Jane', 'Heroin' or at an extreme, Kimmel's song, 'STFU'.  In French, Italian or Arabic, however, I love romantic songs, listen to them without ever tiring of them.  Is it because the lyrics, filtered through interior translation, are not as obvious?  Is it because I do not dissect them intellectually the way I would do always with English lyrics?  Who knows?  The truth is therefore, that most of the romances in my lifetime have been accompanied by songs in another language or entirely intstrumental mainly Classical pieces, even when the object of my desire was an English-speaking individual.  He probably never knew which songs conjured his image.

So here I am, decades later, listening to 'Moghram Ya Layl', thinking about a man I never met but whom I knew very well over the course of the two years when we were in almost constant contact.   Although tempted, I never succumbed to his invitations to visit him, mainly because I felt he had a false image of me and I realised that he fundamentally would expect me, despite my persona as a social and political activist, to be a submissive partner in any personal relationship.  Indeed, he wanted me to officiate on a cooking show on cable television at one point... a role to which I was entirely ill-suited.

But never mind all that... in retrospect, I see that Romance with the capital R is mainly built on illusions and dreams.  Real relationships, however successful or satisfying, usually are not THAT romantic at the end of the day.  What sustains ordinary life is support of all sorts and not romantic illusions.  One still sometimes dreams of having it all, but I have come to the point where I would be satisfied if my physical mobility were restored.

So A...., this is for you... memories of opportunities not taken, a future never created, just as the Homeland never has come into being either...  I sometimes wonder what it would have been like had I gone to Al Khalil ... but I was more responsible than that, more practical than that, once I became a mother.  Before that, I probably would have gone as an adventure, even if not ultimately a Romance... and perhaps we would have worked well together on the ground as well as the very new world of the internet that was.

I look back on the early '90s when we were pioneers of the chat rooms and internet sites, finding that politically, cyberspace was as revolutionary to politics as the gun was, giving us equality and a voice to the whole world when otherwise no one listened.  A thousand protest marches and nothing changed but a few internet publications and our cause was HEARD at last, even if hostility often was the result... I always felt that if we could educate even one individual, we had not wasted our time and I still believe that.

What happened ultimately was that I realised my political activism could endanger my child potentially in the post-11 September atmosphere, and I stepped back gradually from my reckless, if entirely honest stance...  gradually I lost the fire that was at the very heart of my soul.   I do regret that a little, although, in fairness, I began to realise that the leadership was corrupt and that, while noble individuals were willing to sacrifice their lives and livelihoods for a JUST cause, the vultures would be the winners in the end, greedy entrepreneurs and ego-swollen politicians, rather than the  people for whom we tried to speak and act.  People who lived in refugee camps still while their so-called Leaders swanned about the world acting as though they were the heroes.  Nor was there any unity even within the cause.  From the earliest days of my activism when I discovered that, if one faction were invited to an event, two others would refuse to attend, this sorry state of affairs continued to bedevil us and that only benefited the enemy and made a mockery of our attempts to change the political map.  Division between political factions and between religious factions and different religions and traditions... when very real and significant problems such as lack of water, lack of a home, lack of any livelihood was destroying the real PEOPLE.

It is very easy to tear down a structure, but not as easy to rebuild, and that is the problem that afflicts many revolutionaries and activists.  They can criticise and protest, but they are not terribly good at creating a firm foundation of unity for the future.

So there it is.  My life in that decade was very circumscribed socially but politically, I was a firebrand and I lit fires thousands of miles away on occasion, whether or not they had any real effect ultimately.  It still made me feel I was doing something worthy.  I have not felt that way for a long time.

The lyrics of Moghram Ya Layl:

 مغرم يا ليل يا ليلي مغرم يا ليلي بسهر الليل
مغرم يا ليلي يا ليلي مغرم و قلبي مايل ميل
x2
ميل لقمري و غناله وقمري مش واخذ باله
x2
محلى القمر محلى جماله في كل ليله بشوفه
جميل جميل يا ليل
لو عالنجوم عديتهالك
لو عالبحور عديتهالك
x2
و اعنتني وعديتهالك
و لحد امتى حتبقى تقيل
x2
ميل لقمري و غناله وقمري مش واخذ باله
x2
محلى القمر محلى جماله في كل ليله بشوفه
جميل جميل يا ليل
سهرتني و سهري حلاله
و اعشقت حلك و حلاله
x2
طب ليه بعادي بيحلاله
مكفايا بعد كفايا رحيل
x2
ميل لقمري و غناله وقمري مش واخذ باله
x2
محلى القمر محلى جماله في كل ليله بشوفه
جميل جميل يا ليل

In English, the title translates to 'I'm in love with you, O Night!'

Moghram Ya Layl 

Moghram Ya Layl, live 


Moghram Ya Layl, early live rendition
 

The Three Swords of Stavanger (QM2 Journal)

Excerpt from Queen Mary 2 Journal: Stavanger, Norway

There is a certain point in an illness, when it is particularly severe, where reality retreats and one feels almost as though one were under the influence of an hallucinogenic drug.  Strange thoughts intrude and bizarre fancies become a part of the fabric of plans half-conceived for the day.  For example, I thought that the Chinese had put into execution a new economic programme to make clothes with seams that would fall to pieces within hours.  The logic for this was impeccable in my fevered state. 

I experienced three days of this during the period when we were en route to Norway and indeed in Stavanger.  One day, I neither was able to eat nor drink because of a sore throat that was excruciatingly painful.  Every swallow was torture.

Yesterday, however, I returned to formal dining for the first time.  In the afternoon, I had a most magical experience on the balcony of our stateroom.

It was the first sunny day we had experienced for a start.  Winds had created whitecaps, extraordinarily beautiful.  The sunlight shimmered on the water and the spume thrown up was caught by the light in such a way that small rainbows appeared in more than one place on the surface of the sea, almost as though part of a tapestry pattern.

At first I thought that the specks of brilliant white light that hovered, dived and flew up from the waters somehow were a trick or illusion created by the winds, much like the whitecaps.  I then realised that they were living creatures, hundreds of tiny white birds who soared, dove and then flew up from the waves again and again.  I never have seen anything like it.  We were somewhere in the channel that divides Norway from Denmark but no land was in sight and yet hundreds of tiny birds were frolicing in the air and water.

I tried to capture even one in a photograph but was not successful.  They were too tiny and moved far too rapidly.  In my photographs, they became nothing more than brilliant specks of light. 

Part of the magic of this encounter was the way that the white feathers actually reflected the sunlight, making them flash and shimmer with light.  It was a veritable symphony of light, comprised of delicate rainbows and the flash of sunlight both on the waters and on the wings of the tiny birds.

That had to have been one of the most magical experiences I have had on the high seas.  As far as the land and ports are concerned, with respect to this particular voyage, one of the highlights was the 'Three Swords in Mountain'

Outside Stavanger, there is a remarkable sculpture or monument in the form of three gigantic swords thrust into a rocky finger of land near a bay.  It is a sort of public park now, I believe.  Beautiful white swans float in the little bay to the right of the small hillock where the monument was created.

It is the scene of an ancient battle, although the actual battle took place in the water and not on the land at all.  Most of the fallen sank below the waves from the weight of their armour and weapons.  I will research it more when I have better access to the internet.  Even the Cunard programme on Stavanger gave absolutely no facts about the monument, but at least alerted me to its existence.  I think I never would have forgiven myself had I not made a pilgrimage to the 'Sverd i fjell'.

It is very frustrating to be without funds, mobility, good health or time and in Stavanger, I was painfully conscious of all these restrictions.   There is a local 'hop on, hop off' coach in Stavanger for visitors and locals, but it does not make a stop at the Swords in the Mountain.   One had to go via taxi.   As the monument is not in the city, it was a fair drive and unfortunately, the taxi driver was Turkish and knew very little English and very little about the history of Norway. 

My sole souvenir from Norway is a chip of flint stone from the hillock where the 'Sverd i fjell' are located.  Had I sufficient funds, I would have purchased one of the gorgeous cardigans from 'Dale of Norway', something I always wanted but knew in my heart was out of my reach economically.   I did visit the Dale of Norway shop in Stavanger and saw the cardigan of my dreams.  Even have a photograph of it and did wear it for a brief moment.  Sometimes, miracles are possible.  I do have the email address of the shop.

'The Vikings' on the History Channel

(Photograph shows the 3 Viking Swords near Stavanger in Norway)

Confined (rather ironically, in view of the topic) to a recliner after hip surgery, I have been searching high and low for good shows to occupy my attention, especially in the wee hours of the morning when the pain often is most difficult for me...  I resisted 'The Vikings' originally because it did not look terribly accurate and it is a period in history and a culture in which I actually specialised and taught at one time.

My neighbours across the road both love it, however, so I decided to give it a chance.  It is highly entertaining, packed with battles and duels as well as intrigue.  It is based very loosely on the old saga centred on the very colourful (and heroic) character of Ragnar Lodbrok (aka Ragnar Hairy Breeches).  You can find a lot of original source material about Ragnar but this particular show appears to be based primarily on 'The Tale of Ragnar's Sons':

The Tale of Ragnar's Sons

As a child, I loved tales of heroes and their courageous deaths, their ability to defy pain and the appearance of the Grim Reaper in the most awful circumstances.  I loved the tales of Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster, who bound himself to a rock after being disemboweled, stuffing his entrails back into his body, in order to remain standing, facing his enemies in combat at the moment of his death.

Here is the original account:

'Then he went dawn the road of Meadhon-Luachair, by Slieve Fuad, and his enemy, Erc, son of Cairbre, saw him in the chariot, and his sword shining red in his hand, and the light of his courage plain upon him, and his hair spread out like threads of gold that change their colour on the edge of the anvil under the smith's band, and the Crow of Battle in the air over his head.

"Cuchulain is coming at us," said Erc to the men of Ireland, "and let us be ready for him." So they made a fence of shields linked together, and Erc put a couple of the men that were strongest here and there, to let on to be fighting one another, that they might call Cuchulain to them; and he put a Druid with every couple of them, and he bid the Druid to ask Cuchulain's spears of him, for it would be hard for him to refuse a Druid. For it was in the prophecy of the children of Calatin that a king would be killed by each one of those spears in that battle.

And he bid the men of Ireland to give out shouts, and Cuchulain came against them in his chariot, doing his

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three thunder feats, and he used his spear and his sword in such a way, that their heads, and their hands, and their feet, and their bones, were scattered through the plain of Muirthemne; like the sands on the shore, like the stars in the sky, like the dew in May, like snow-flakes and hailstones, like leaves of the trees, like buttercups in a meadow, like grass under the feet of cattle on a fine summer day. It is red that plain was with the slaughter Cuchulain made when he came crashing over it.

Then he saw one of the men that was put to quarrel with the other, and the Druid called to him to come and hinder them, and Cuchulain leaped towards them. "Your spear to me," cried the Druid. "I swear by the oath of my people," said Cuchulain, "you are not so much in want of it as I am in want of it myself. The men of Ireland are upon me," he said, "and I am upon them." "I will put a bad name on you if you refuse it to me," said the Druid. "There was never a bad name put on me yet, on account of any refusal of mine," said Cuchulain, and with that he threw the spear at him, and it went through his head, and it killed the men that were on the other side of him.

Then Cuchulain drove through the host, and Lugaid, son of Curoi, got the spear. "Who is it will fall by this spear, children of Calatin?" said Lugaid. "A king will fall by it," said they. Then Lugaid threw the spear at Cuchulain's chariot, and it went through and hit the driver, Laeg, son of Riangabra, and he fell back, and his bowels came out on the cushions of the chariot "My grief!" said Laeg, "it is hard I am wounded." Then Cuchulain drew the spear out, and Laeg said his farewell to him, and Cuchulain said: "To-day I will be a fighter and a chariot-driver as well."

Then he saw the other two men that were put to quarrel with one another, and one of them called out it would be a great shame for him not to give him his help. Then Cuchulain leaped towards them. "Your spear to me, Cuchulain," said the Druid. "I swear by the oath my people swear by," said he, "you are not in such want of the spear as I am myself, for it is by my courage, and by my arms, that I have to drive out the four provinces of Ireland that are sweeping over Muirthemne to-day." "I will put a bad name upon you," said the Druid. "I am not bound to give more than one gift in the day, and I have paid what is due to my name already," said Cuchulain. Then the Druid said: "I will put a bad name on the province of Ulster, because of your refusal."

"Ulster was never dispraised yet for any refusal of mine," said Cuchulain, "or for anything I did unworthily. Though little of my life should be left to me, Ulster will not be reproached for me to-day." With that he threw his spear at him, and it went through his head, and through the heads of the nine men that were behind him, and Cuchulain went through the host as he did before.

Then Erc, son of Cairbre Niafer, took up his spear. "Who will fall by this?" he asked the children of Calatin. "A king will fall by it," they said. "I heard you say the same thing of the spear that Lugaid threw a while ago," said Erc. "That is true," said they, "and the king of the chariot-drivers of Ireland fell by it, Cuchulain's driver Laeg, son of Riangabra."

With that, Erc threw the spear, and it went through the Grey of Macha. Cuchulain drew the spear out, and they said farewell to one another. And then the Grey went away from him, with half his harness hanging from his neck, and he went into Glas-linn, the grey pool in Slieve Fuad.

Then Cuchulain drove through the host, and he saw the third couple disputing together, and he went between them as he did before. And the Druid asked his spear of him, but he refused him. "I will put a bad name on you," said the Druid. "I have paid what is due to my name to-day," said he; "my honour does not bind me to give more than one request in a day." "I will put a bad name upon Ulster because of your refusal" "I have paid what is due for the honour of Ulster," said Cuchulain. "Then I will put a bad name on your kindred," said the Druid. "The news that I have been given a bad name shall never go back to that place I am never to go back to myself; for it is little of my life that is left to me," said Cuchulain. With that he threw his spear at him, and it went through him, and through the heads of the men that were along with him.

"You do your kindness unkindly, Cuchulain," said the Druid, as he fell. Then Cuchulain drove for the last time through the host, and Lugaid took the spear, and he said: "Who will fall by this spear, children of Calatin?" "A king will fall by it," said they. "I heard you saying that a king would fall by the spear Erc threw a while ago." "That is true," they said, "and the Grey of Macha fell by it, that was the king of the horses of Ireland".

Then Lugaid threw the spear, and it went through and through Cuchulain's body, and he knew he had got his deadly wound; and his bowels came out on the cushions of the chariot, and his only horse went away from him, the Black Sainglain, with half the harness hanging from his neck, and left his master, the king of the heroes of Ireland, to die upon the plain of Muirthemne.

Then Cuchulain said: "There is great desire on me to go to that lake beyond, and to get a drink from it."

"We will give you leave to do that," they said, "if you will come back to us after."

"I will bid you come for me if I am not able to come back myself," said Cuchulain.

Then he gathered up his bowels into his body, and he went down to the lake. He drank a drink and he washed himself, and he returned back again to his death, and he called to his enemies to come and meet him.

There was a pillar-stone west of the lake, and his eye lit on it, and he went to the pillar-stone, and he tied himself to it with his breast-belt, the way he would not meet his death lying down, but would meet it standing up. Then his enemies came round about him, but they were in dread of going close to him, for they were not sure but he might be still alive.

"It is a great shame for you," said Erc, son of Cairbre, "not to strike the head off that man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father."

Then the Grey of Macha came back to defend Cuchulain as long as there was life in him, and the hero-light was shining above him. And the Grey of Macha made three attacks against them, and he killed fifty men with his teeth, and thirty with each of his hoofs. So there is a saying: "It is not sharper work than this was done by the Grey of Macha, the time of Cuchulain's death."

Then a bird came and settled on his shoulder. "It is not on that pillar birds were used to settle," said Erc.

Then Lugaid came and lifted up Cuchulain's hair from his shoulders, and struck his head off, and the men of Ireland gave three heavy shouts, and the sword fell from Cuchulain's hand, and as it fell, it struck off Lugaid's right hand, so that it fell to the ground. Then they cut off Cuchulain's hand, in satisfaction for it, and then the light faded away from about Cuchulain's head, and left it as pale as the snow of a single night. Then all the men of Ireland said that as it was Maeve had gathered the army, it would be right for her to bring away the head to Cruachan. "I will not bring it with me; it is for Lugaid that struck it off to bring it with him," said Maeve. And then Lugaid and his men went away, and they brought away Cuchulain's head and his right hand with them, and they went south, towards the Lifé river.

At that time the army of Ulster was gathering to attack its enemies, and Conall was out before them, and he met the Grey of Macha, and his share of blood dripping from him. And then he knew that Cuchulain was dead, and himself and the Grey of Macha went looking for Cuchulain's body. And when they saw his body at the pillar-stone, the Grey of Macha went and laid his head in Cuchulain's breast: "That body is a heavy care to the Grey of Macha," said Conall.

Then Conall went after the army, thinking in his own mind what way he could get satisfaction for Cuchulain's death. For it was a promise between himself and Cuchulain that whichever of them would be killed the first, the other would get satisfaction for his death.' (END Of EXCERPT)



In similar fashion, the death of Ragnar Lodbrok is one of the most heroic, having been thrown into a pit of serpents by the horrible King Aelle of Northumbria primarily for refusing to renounce his religion and convert to Christianity.  According to tradition, he showed no fear and died as he lived, a follower of the All-Father Odhinn...

Which brings me back to 'The Vikings'.  I will deal with other inaccuracies in the series, but first and foremost, the idea that the Old Religion was an intolerant one is erroneous for the most part.  In the Poetic Edda, it actually states that Odhinn himself is known by many different names in many different lands and worshipped according to many different traditions....  The Old Religion embraced other traditions in a way that Christianity refused to do.  It is the Christians who cut down all the Holy Groves of the Pagans on the Continent and the Christians who condemned those who refused to convert to torture and death.  Yes, human sacrifice was part and parcel of the Old Religion but it was NOT sacrifice that was done because some one refused to convert!  Indeed, such sacrifices were deemed to be an honour, not a punishment for the most part.

I have no doubt that there were many individuals like Flothi who were themselves intolerant of other paths and religions but that was something that was not encouraged, unlike the way in which early Christianity in Northern Europe went out of its way to attempt to eradicate ANY other paths or traditions.

To many of the Northern Europeans, Christ was the 'White God', a generous Lord in the manner of any Northern Lord, a Ring-Giver who sacrificed himself like Odhinn heroically for the world.  The Northern European version of the Life of Christ shows as much.  It is beautifully written and creates a portrait of Our Lord that may be more valid in many ways than the one promoted by the Church in Europe, who used their religion as a scourge and a way in which to gain temporal power.

The landscapes of 'The Vikings' are gorgeous and the show does depict the difficult life of the far North, eking out a living by fishing and hunting and farming poor soil.  What I find a little problematic is the way in which the Vikings themselves are depicted.  They look more like a contemporary motorcycle gang than anything else.  I think farmers in general are conservative by nature.  They do not defy tradition for the most part.   The berserkers and other fighters who joined animal totem societies were different from the ordinary Viking farmer who went raiding during certain seasons, but so far, I have not seen any mention of this in the series and no distinction is made between the ordinary fighters and the berserkers.  There is no view of berserker traditions either.

What I discovered during my studies of comparative mythology was a great similarity between Northern European pagan societies during the 'Viking era' and the cultures of the Plains in North America later in history.  The Plains tribes, like the Northern Europeans, had very strong totem societies, as well as religious figures who devoted themselves to singular lifestyles that placed them outside the ordinary traditions.  In the Plains societies, these religious figures sometimes were called 'Clowns'... they often dressed as women, even lived as women, although they were men, using gender confusion to step outside the boundaries of ordinary existence.  This occurred as well in the world of the Northern European pagans but again, it is something else that is missing from 'The Vikings'.  They show 'priests' in Uppsala, but they simply are bald men in robes chanting bits from the Poetic Edda and the shadowy figure of the 'seer' in the village is simply more bizarre than anything else.  Is he a victim of some childhood blight or disease, a victim of leprosy or...?  It is unclear.

The Northern sagas and poems are rich with allusions to religious traditions such as the pagan equivalent of baptism but I see nothing of that in 'The Vikings'.  Instead, the writers have chosen to manufacture peculiar rites of their own not found in any original source.

I think that there is a determination NOT to look at historical timelines to some extent.  The era in which Ragnar lived was fairly late in the history of the so-called 'Dark Ages'.  Vikings had founded the kingdom of Russia and had served as mercenaries in the Holy Land and Constantinople long before he was born.  The Vikings were not a primitive people unknowing of art!  They had traveled far more widely than most of the Christians at this point in time and, unlike the social restrictions imposed on ordinary Christians by the priests, who guarded their knowledge of reading and writing jealously, it was ordinary men and women who ventured far afield in Northern pagan society to explore the world beyond their own lands.

Another oddity is the way that Anglo-Saxon society is defined as 'peaceful' and 'agrarian' when in fact, it had its roots in the same traditions as the Vikings of the far North.  The Angles and the Saxons were invaders, much like the Viking raiders, who finally settled on England's soil and negotiated with Romano-British society to fight alongside in tribal wars.

Nor is Christianity as fully ingrained in England at this point as the series would like one to think.  The famous ship burial at Sutton Hoo shows pagan traditions alongside Christian ones...  although it predated the life of Ragnar by a couple of centuries, some aspects of paganism still flourished in Great Britain at this point.  The Anglo-Saxon rune poem is far later than the original Germanic version... the poem obviously represented a longstanding vibrant tradition.

The real strength and power of 'The Vikings', I would contend, is not in its depiction of history or religion, but in its characters.  The main characters have a depth and complexity that is seldom found in these 'action' dramas.  The character of Ragnar in particular goes far beyond the sagas and original sources.  He is shown as a man who above all thirsts not for blood but for knowledge, a man who is quite capable of delivering the force of a blood eagle sacrifice upon an enemy but who yet can be merciful when logic and justice demand it.  He is capable of perceiving the value of another society and a foreign religion.  He is a true King, in the oldest meaning of the word, a real leader whom men follow not because they are forced to do so, but because his character and his ambitions are compelling.  Moreover, his love of his family and his children drives him and makes him a very sympathetic character.  He takes his disabled son out to the forest to be exposed in a sacred grove, but then defers to his wife's decision to rescue the child.

Ragnar as depicted in this series may desire power but he desires it in order to further the safety and security of his people, to give them a better life.  This sort of man actually is found quite often in the ancient Northern tales and sagas.

More later...  two fingers of my left hand remain 'dead'  and have been so since the surgical procedure when they damaged my nerves with the I.V.  It still is difficult for me to type.

Before I end this portion of my post, however, I would like to share an interesting theory about one of Ragnar's famous sons, Ivar the Boneless.  Although it clearly is stated in original sources that Ivar was born with some sort of deformity in that his bones 'resembled gristle' rather than proper bones, it is only recently that a man with a similar deformity has done some serious study of the matter and conclued that Ivar suffered from brittle bone disease.  Here is a video that deals with this matter:

Ivar the Boneless, the Strangest Viking

Viking Burial at Repton



Personally, I am more inclined to support the theory of Ivar being a small, disabled man who chose the bow because of his disability than the unsupported theory that it is his gigantic bones that are buried at Repton!  The idea that he was a giant of a man is not given in any original source, but there are quotes about him being hoisted on a shield by his men in order to be carried into battle.


Furthermore, those who contend that a disabled or mutilated man could not be king are confusing Celtic traditions with Norse ones.  Odhinn himself had only one eye and Tyr only one hand, both of them having undergone deliberate acts of sacrifice in order to save the world...  It is only the Celts, an entirely different culture and people who forbade a disabled or mutilated man from becoming King.

Music and Television Shows

Confined essentially to a recliner, however elegant and comfortable for most of the day and night in a room without a television, I have explored all the mobile device possibilities, including Amazon Prime, Netflix and Hulu.  After the surgical procedure, I was forced to be in a rather sad rehab facility for a week... not a private room, which meant that I had more than my fill of television shows with adverts.  Thank God for Netflix, Hulu and Amazon Prime as well as Daily Motion, where I can watch what I want without the intrusion of commercial messages.

What is interesting, apart from the discovery of some good dramas and comedies is the music they have brought in their wake.  I do not like radio for the same reason I dislike television... the adverts drive me round the bend.  Further, I don't see why any one else should dictate what noise or music invades my space and radio is all about the egos  and taste of the various announcers.

So here is my list of songs I have discovered through the shows I have liked best recently:

A show called 'The Good Wife', originally on CBS but now available on Hulu (7 Seasons!) has a marvelous scene that features Jane Jensen's delightful song, 'Luv Song'....  kind of a surprising juxtaposition of action and music but very powerful and quite amusing!

Luv Song

A show called 'Betas' on Amazon Prime that seeks to rival my favourite 'Silicon Valley' features as its theme a song by Telekinesis called 'Power Lines'.

Silicon Valley recently, quite aptly featured an old song called 'Pied Piper' by Crispin St. Peters.

I will try to think of some others. 

50 Shades of Impotence

When I was 10 years old, I boarded a jet on my way to Nepal by myself.  My mother, watching from the window of the terminal, always tells people I never looked back.  What I did, in fact, was find my seat by the window, open my copy of 'The Three Musketeers', one of my favourite books and begin to read, making certain that there would be NO tears to obscure my vision.

On the way to Hawaii, the air hostess gave me a glass of champagne, despite the fact that I was very much underage.  I did not have any 'babysitter', though.  I went through customs alone at Honolulu and then met my relations, a family I really did not know at all.

And so it went... I went alone to England to University at an age when most children still had at least three more years of school to endure.  I tried not to look back.  I wanted to be a warrior woman, an intrepid adventurer in life.

Well, that did not work out entirely but the pattern endured.   Years later, after feeling I was being smothered in San Diego, dealing with a great-aunt who had advanced Alzheimer's disease and finally making it clear that they needed a real professional, I took a plane to New York with three cats, no job and no money.  I had obtained a copy of the 'Village Voice' and rented a room in a flat, sight unseen.  The girl who had the lease told me that the flat was in Manhattan... I barely made the flight and did not know whether or not the cats had made it until I reached La Guardia..  Changing planes somewhere in Texas, all I could discover was that there WERE some animals in the hold.  Those were the days when pets were not allowed to travel with their human companions but were placed in the hold with the bags... rather cruel, but both they and I survived and were reunited at the airport in New York.

When I found a taxi and gave the address, telling the guy it was located in Manhatten, the driver, with a heavy Brooklyn accent replied, 'Lady, that's in BROOKLYN.'  Of course he was right and the location had been misrepresented by the Italian-American girl who had rented the flat to me.  Two months later, she moved out and rented the entire flat, over my head, to some one else.  I found myself in a day homeless, out on the street with three cats in their carriers!

And yet, somehow I found a place to stay, ironically with another taxi driver who, seeing me on a pay phone attempting to find shelter for the night, recognised me.  He had driven me on Hallowe'en to Manhattan a month previously and had been highly impressed, evidently with my dominatrix outfit!  When he discovered my plight, he offered me a spare room in hsi flat in Queen's.  By this time, I had a job but in those days, it was virtually impossible to find a hotel that would accept three cats, however purebred and well-bred, as guests.

I could recount a thousand tales of my life, of situations that were insecure or dangerous, but that I managed to escape or overcome, always ultimately landing on my feet.  It was partly because I saw it all as a grand adventure.  Whether meeting the notorious Jackie O at a party or accompanying a very unstable but close friend who was going through terrible withdrawal symptoms to a tenement in Bedford-Stuyvesant where he went to 'score' some smack, I saw it all as an ADVENTURE, as grist for the creative mill ... and if something truly awful occurred, if my heart were broken or I were forced to deal with loss of any kind, however terrible the pain, I tried to convince myself that I would emerge from the other side of the darkness enriched somehow with life experience.

For you see, as a young girl, I was placed in a special programme for so-called 'gifted students' where a Creative Writing course was created just for me.  My teacher, a rather unsuccssful but brilliant poet told me, 'You are extremely talented and have a superb knowledge of the English language but you lack the most essential foundation for any writer which is 'EXPERIENCE'.  Go out and get some of that and then perhaps you can be a real writer!'

At the same time, my Mother beat it into my head that no one ever could be a great Artist without SUFFERING.  Indeed, according to her, one had to suffer more than Our Lord on the Cross to become anything worthwhile in terms of ART...

The combination of these two maxims almost killed me, literally, more than once, but I survived and continued to have both extraordinary life experiences and extraordinary amounts of suffering, both spiritual, emotional and physical, until gradually, in the past few years, with increasing physical disability, my life and Life basically ground to a half.

Severe chronic pain is the worst enemy I ever have enoountered.  It is a constant companion, jealous and greedy.  It works against everything that is positive or exciting in life.  For a long time, I fought it and tried to continue to have adventures and experiences but it finally cornered me.  Bent over double, unable to stand without support on either leg, experiencing excruciating pain whether standing, walking, sitting or assuming a quasi-prostrate position in bed (I no longer can lay flat at all, but am forced to sit... the last straw in a way, because prior to this, the closest to peace I ever had was when I was in bed)... well, to put it bluntly, the quality of my life became less and less viable.

Finally, they are going to operate in June and then again, if recovery from that procedure is good.  It will not solve all the problems or even rid me of pain completely but it may help me to walk again like a proper human being.

At this point, each day is a nightmare and I literally count the days wondering if I will make it to June.

A few months ago, one of my very best friends from my New York days told me he would be coming to New York and I told him I would come to the City to see him on 25 April.  It would have been a difficult trip even at that point in time.  By 1 April, though, I seriously doubted whether or not I could make the trip at all.

It involves two hours by coach from here.    The trip would be undertaken alone.  A breeze back in the old days when, after moving to Pennsyvlania, I still visited my friends in the City twice weekly if possible.  Now though, when a trip up the stairs to my bedroom is a huge undertaking, I almost despaired.  I kept telling my friend that I would manage it somehow and I tried to convince myself that I would, but a part of me despaired.

Yesterday was D-Day.  I barely sleep in any case with the pain, but I set my alarm for 5.00 a.m. in order to feed the cats before the trip.  I sat with Cupid on a chair in their Hall of Mirrors chamber and the tears ran down my cheeks.  I held him for about half an hour, crying while he licked my face as he is wont to do as he feels he is in charge of my grooming.... but I think he knew how miserable I felt as well.

When I went upstairs again, I was determined to make the trip but wondered how I would manage it.

This is a very long introduction to what became quite an adventure and I am writing it not for myself but for other disabled individuals as well.  It really became a series of misadventures, but somehow they were overcome and I went to Manhattan and returned home again.  Yes, today is worse than usual in terms of pain, as is any day when I have exerted myself more than usual, but for once, if was for something worthwhile.

I triumphed over this awful physical state of impotence temporarily.  I saw LIFE again, even if my experience of it was less than it would have been if I had been able to walk and I saw my dear friend...  last year, one of my closest childhood friends died of cancer.  I never had a chance to say goodbye to him, among other things.  I did not even know of his condition.  I do not want that to happen again. Friendship is such a vital part of life.  I don't want any opportunity to see a good friend ever to pass me by again.

One reason I am writing about this trip publically is to write about the way I was treated as a disabled person.  The coach service was amazing.  Having travelled every week to New York for many years on the coach, I knew how crowded it would be.  Sometimes, during the rush hours, every seat would be taken.  I was given two seats at the front of the coach for the trip to the city.  I therefore was able to stretch out my legs when the pain of being seated became intolerable.  Some one carried my bag onto the coach so that I could hoist myself up the steps using both hands.  I did not have to worry about walking down the corridor because I was given the front seat.

I had stressed the need to have my friend meet me at the Port Authority.  I no longer have tha ability, even with the walker, to traverse more than a few yards at any given time.  It has a little seat and I knew it would be necessary for him to push me part of the way through the concourse to 8th Avenue.

He really hates Port Authority.  Many people do.  In fact, many of them probably haven't set foot in the place more than once or twice.  Unfortunately, there is no train service to the place in Pennsylvania where I live.  One either has to drive or take a coach if one wishes to visit New York.  In fact, I was rather horrified initially to discover this.  I was not fond of coach trips.  In Europe, I never took them.  I took trains, whether underground or overground.

My friend kept his promise and met me at the gate.  Unfortunately, the business of pushing me in the walker proved to be extremely difficult.  The damned thing kept listing to the left.  I finally suggested that we try to find a wheelchair service.  We were directed to a 'house phone' where dialling 54 would connect one with such a service.  About ten minutes later, a man appeared with a very large wheelchair.

He was the nicest man imaginable.  He refused a tip in fact at the end of the journey, taking us directly to the front of the taxi queue where we were placed immediately in a car in front of every one else.  A part of me did not like the idea of 'jumping the queue' but in all honesty, it would have been very painful to be forced to inch my way forward, enduring another half hour of waiting...

We went to his hotel first.  I needed a bit of a rest and he told me that they served fabulous coffee with croissants.  The Hotel was the 'Library Hotel', a most interesting place.  Not far from the wonderful New York Public Library.  There are brass plaques set into the pavement along the street in front of the hotel, all the way to the actual Library I am told, each with a quotation from a famous writer.

it was on this pavement outside the hotel where the first midadventure occurred, however.  Taking the walker from the boot of the taxi, one of the rear wheels actually detached itself and rolled forlornly into the gutter.

Upon investigation, a bolt was discovered to be missing.  MISSING!  How could this have happened?  Well, while I was travelling in the very wide wheelchair, my friend was carrying or pushing the walker.  He does not have much experience with these and the bolt must have come loose and escaped somewhere in the concourse.  He did not notice it.  It was NOT in the boot of the taxi nor anywhere on the pavement outside the hotel.

I do not think my friend realised what an utter catastrophe this was at first but I had to make it very clear that I could not go anywhere without the walker... the only way I could have gone anywhere was if I had a bearer who would actually CARRY me.  This obviously is not a viable option in the 21st century... there are no sedan chairs for people like me.  The damned thing had to be fixed or replaced.

It was here that the Library Hotel proved itself.  I was able to limp to the lift with a three-wheeled walker, very very slowly and there was a chap with a bucket and mop in the lift with us.  I asked him if he knew of any one who could help with the walker's repair.  I think my friend was a little upset with me for engaging in this conversation with the first person I encountered but it was a good instinct on my part.  The guy told me that the 'engineer' for the hotel could fix it and that he could be sent to the room.

Lo and behold, the Engineers (there were TWO of them) appeared and proceeded to engage in a rather lengthy and complicated process of repair.  Although they had a cart laden with supplies and tools of various sorts, they determined that they did not have the right size or type of bolt.  One of them then went to a local shop to fetch the right bolt... in the end, after about an hour, the walker was fixed and I was given an extra bolt in case it ever happened again.  They were not entirely happy with the repair but said they had done all that they could to try to prevent the bit from being 'stripped'.  In other words, they really made an effort!  It is not the best or most expensive walker in the world but I do need it and their efforts were impressive.

Our day was 'back on track'.  After they left, I said I was rather surprised to find that a hotel actually had a team of engineers on board.  My friend responded, 'You know, they used to call them 'janitors'!  He was quite right, of course.

Once the 'engineers' had performed their miracle, for it was a sort of miracle in the circumstances, we were free to move forward.  We had planned to visit a dealer in bronze medals.  There had been correspondence with the man, and he supposedly knew that we were planning to visit him on that specific day, but when we arrived at the shop, it was shut with a notice on the door to the effect that it was CLOSED.  Very disappointing frankly.  If I had known that the shop would have been shut, I would have chosen an outing to one of my favourite museums instead... but the man has a reputation for being eccentric.  The shop is what some might call a 'junk shop' really... the windows were stuffed with odds and ends, from skulls to crystal balls to a variety of bronze medals and various other commemoratives.  It is the sort of shop I absolutely adore, where I always would be able to find a treasure.  Indeed, dual portraits of MY Emperor and the awful Josephine, framed in mother-of-pearl, graced one of the upper shelves in the window and the price was very reasonable, I thought... not that it signified.  I wouldn't have bought it even if I had the money for I despise Josephine and always have.  It would go against the grain somehow to break the frames in half, jettisoning the awful woman in favour of having Napoleon to myself.  He evidently has quite a lot of Napoleonic stuff though.  Pity, pity, pity... well, I shall have to return when and if I am able to walk.  I shan't make another trip like this until then.  The price, as I knew it would be, was very high.  My pain levels today are through the proverbial roof.'

After that disappointment, we looked for a place to eat.  Fortuitously, the shop was situated in a section of mid-town that is filled with Korean restaurants.  There are no Korean restaurants where I live although, somewhat ironically, the many Japanese restaurants here are all owned and managed by Koreans.  I always have loved bulgogi.  I am very much a red meat sort of person and good bulgogi is first and foremost good beef.

I went through a phase of watching a lot of Korean films and television series, one of which took place in the presidential palace and involved a great deal of cooking.  Its title was Jinjja Jinjja Jong-a-hae or 'I really really like you.'  It was kind of a typical soap opera, apart from the amazing cooking.  Korean cuisine is extremely sophisticated, especially at the presidential or royal level.  Hundreds of side dishes grace every meal and they are visually stunning as well as exquisitely prepared.

Our lunch reminded me a little of Jin-jja Jin-jja Jong-a-hae.  We were surrounded by tiny plates and bowls containing beautiful little pickles and vegetables, every one of which had its own unique spices, flavours and even texture.  The bulgogi was cooked at the table and was tossed with glass noodles, another favourite of mine.

The restaurant where we ate was not our first choice.  Unfortunately, the first restaurant proved to be inaccessible to me in my current crippled state.  One had to sit on the floor, with ones legs in a sort of underground cellar beneath the table.  There was no way I could have negotiated my poor legs into that position at this point and they were quite clear that they could not allow anything else.

It was one of the most elegant Korean restaurants I ever have visited, beautifully appointed and very traditional.  I hope to return someday, if my condition improves.  Meanwhile, though, they recommended a place named 'Miss Korea'.

I confess that I found the name rather off-putting, too trendy or kitschy even for my taste.  Nonetheless, when my friend tried to persuade me not to hobble the distance, to settle for something closer, I refused.  I had an instinct that whatever place had been recommended really might be special... and it was!

The atmosphere was not terribly elegant and the music was less than stellar, being some sort of generic popular American radio offering,  but the food was fantastic.

Why am I writing about all of this?  It really may not be of any interest except for one thing:  I did it.  I did it when I thought it would be impossible.  I cannot make it up and down the stairs sometimes from my room to the kitchen, cannot leave the house even to see a favourite flower in the garden most days.  I cannot stand for more than a few minutes, cannot sit for more than a brief interval without experiencing extreme pain and certainly did not think I could weather a two-hour coach trip, let alone go through that TWICE in the same day.   And yet I did.  The Will can be extraordinary.  I made a promise to myself that I would grit my teeth and survive the trip, that I somehow would transcend my physical reality to be fairly decent company and have a good time with a very dear friend.  And I did.

What did that do for me?  Well, for a start, it has given me hope at a time in my life where everything was spiralling downward into total blackness and despair.  I wanted to be reminded of what life could be like, even if I have almost no life at the moment.  I wanted to be reminded that there still was a reason to keep struggling on, day by day, night by night, through the endless, unremitting agony of it all.  I did want to see my friend very badly because too many good friends have died in the past few years without me having had any opportunity to see them again, but beyond that, I wanted to prove to myself that there still was a world out there that I wanted to explore and perhaps could explore again...

I am writing this partly because i want to share my experience of taking a trip like this by myself as a disabled woman.  People were wonderful.  They went out of their way to be kind and helpful.  I was able to reserve the same front seat for the return trip to Pennsylvania by ringing a special number.  We were able to obtain a wheelchair at the entrance of Port Authority for the long walk down the concourse to the coach gate and the Port Authority employees were helpful and friendly.  It does make a difference.  I so feared and dreaded the journey.  I knew how helpless I would be.  My helplessness was countered, however, by the helpfulness of others.

The Lunar Year of the Monkey and Tales of the Monkey and Peach

The 8th of February 2016 marks the first day of the Year of the Monkey.  The Monkey often is associated with the Peach, a symbol of Immortality.  The artwork shown here depicts the Monkey inside a Peach.

One of the most famous tales about the Monkey is Momotaro or Peach Boy, a very popular Asian folktale.  Another, however, is the tale of the Monkey King.    Here are the two tales:

The Tale of Momotaro

'Peach Boy' or Momotaro is a very popular folktale from Okayama Province in Japan.  It follows a theme that is known throughout the world wherein a young lad is found by an old childless couple floating on the sea, river or lake and once grown,  goes off to save his people.  Typically, along the journey, he acquires useful animal companions who come to his aid at a critical moment.  The name of the hero, Momotaro literally means 'Peach Son' as Momo is the word for Peach and Taro is the word for elder son. 

Momotaro was sent from heaven in a giant peach and launched upon the waters to be discovered by a childless couple.  The old woman was washing clothes when she spied the enormous peach floating upon the water.  She and her husband opened it in order to eat it and found the boy inside. 
When he reaches the age of 15, he determines to save the land from some demons who inhabit an island.  It is thought that the Island where the demons lived was Megijima Island because of its many manmade caves.
In some versions of the tale, the boy resembles the heroes of many Western folktales and fairytales in that, rather than being a hardworking, diligent lad, he sleeps most of the day and is considered feckless until he goes off to meet the challenge of the Demons who plunder the land.  Similar heroes are found, for example, in such stories as the tale of the Princess on the Glass Hill where the hero is the youngest son who, while his brothers are hard at work each day,  sleeps in the ashes next to the fireplace but ultimately is the only one who can reach the top of the hill to win the Princess.
Curiously enough, one of the first stories I ever wrote was called 'The Apricot Pit' and followed some of the same themes but the 'hero' in my tale was a girl rather than a boy.  I wrote it when I was eight years old, bored during school sports, dying to be in a different time and place.   While idly tracing designs in the dirt with my shoe, I unearthed a dried apricot pit.  Splitting it open, I was fascinated by the almond-shaped seed at its centre.  The seed actually smelled like almonds as well and I later discovered that it is used both in sweet biscuits and liqueurs.  In any case, I began to invent a tale wherein the pit contained not a seed but a girl...

The Monkey King

A monkey was born from a stone egg that had been fertilised by the wind as it lay on the peak of a mountain. He discovered a heavenly grotto in which other monkeys would reside safely and thus the stone monkey became the Monkey King of the monkey tribe. He soon became very adept at magic arts and learned skills from a Taoist immortal who among other things gave him the personal name of Discoverer of Secrets, and taught him to change his shape at will and to fly through the air. The Monkey King organised all the monkeys and slew a monster who was persecuting them.He obtained a magic weapon from the Dragon King of the Eastern Sea with which he began to make himself a master of the four quarters.

After a great feast given in his honour, the Monkey King fell asleep in the shade of a pine tree. As he slept, two men approached, tied him with rope and dragged him to the King of Death, who had him chained in the Region of Darkness.

However, he broke his bonds and stole the register of deaths from which he deleated his own name and that of all monkeys making them immortal. As a result of all the trouble which he caused he was summoned to Heaven.  He was given the title then of Superintendent of the Heavenly Stables to satisfy his demands for status.

All was peaceful until the Monkey King learned from the other ministers that his new position was one with no rank. He started angrily breaking everything up in heaven and then withdrew to a mountain. The Lord of Heaven called for a siege of the mountain, but was repulsed by the Monkey King. Seeing that the only way to keep him from doing more harm was to keep him in heaven under their watchful eyes, the Lord of Heaven and his followers agreed that the Monkey King would be accorded a new title, The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven. When the Monkey King heard of his new position, he agreed once again to behave himself. Unbeknownst to the Monkey King, his residence was built next to the Garden of Immortal Peaches, a source of immortality. His title carried with it no duties and he therefore idled away his time with various stars and heavenly constellations. Other immortals were afraid that his idleness would lead to more roguery. They asked the Lord of Heaven to give him a duty to perform. Thus, the Monkey King was made Superintendant of the Garden of Immortal Peaches.

Unfortunately he was not invited to come to the Peach Festival (held every 3000 years), and to revenge himself he not only ate all the food and wine prepared for the feast but also stole the medicine of Immortality. As the Monkey King had already eaten the peaches, he was therefore made immortal.

He retired to his mountain kingdom, but his irresponsible behavior had now infuriated all the gods and goddesses. After a long siege in which the Monkey King employed all his magic skills to avoid defeat, he was finally captured and brought before the Jade Emperor, who condemned him to death as a criminal in revolt agains the Heavenly Throne. The sentence could not, however, be carried out because the monkey King was protected both by the peaches and the pills. He was handed over to Lao Tzu, father of Taoism to be distilled in the alchemists' furnace. 

The furnace was heated to white heat for forty-nine days, but at the end of this time the Monkey King lifted the lid and threatened to destroy Heaven. In despair, the Jade Emperor sent for the Buddha, who asked Monkey King why he wished to possess Heaven. The Monkey King's reply was that he knew with certainty that he was sufficiently powerful to rule Heaven. When the Buddha demanded proof for his claim, the Monkey King explained that he was immortal, invulnerable, able to change his shape in 72 different ways, to fly through the air and to leap a distance of 108,000 li (1li = 1/3 of a mile).

The Buddha doubted whether the Monkey King could even jump out of the Buddha's palm, but agreed that if the Monkey King was successful, then he was surely entitled to rule Heaven. The Monkey King leaped into the air and sprang across Heaven to the furtherst corners of the earth, where he came to rest at the base of a great mountain, where he urinated as animals do when they wish to mark territory as their own. Then he returned in a single bound to confront the Buddha. 

The Buddha however laughed at his claim of having traversed the whole universe at a single bound and showed him that the mountain where he had unrinated was but the base of one of the Buddha's fingers and that he had not even escaped from the palm of the Buddha's hand. Then the Buddha created a magic mountain and imprisoned the Monkey King up within it.

Here he would have remained had the Goddess of Mercy not obtained his release so that the Monkey King might accompany a monk on a great pilgrimage to the Western Paradise (India) to get authentic versions of the Buddha's teachings. The Monkey King swore faithfully to obey his new master and to protect him from perils. He did this despite many temptations and dangerous situations on the way.

On their return, the turtle who was carrying them across a flooded river left them to sink, because the Monkey King's companion had not fulfilled the promise he made to turtle on the way to the destination. Despite this, they managed to swim safely to shore and were greeted with great honours by the Emperor of China and the people.

Their final honours came from a heavenly committee of welcome presided over by the Buddha Yet To Come. The Monkey King was made God of Victorious Strife. At the beginning of the pilgrimage a helmet had been fitted on the Monkey King's head which contracted upon his skull when he was wayward or wanton. The agony of the contractions had caused him to refrain from wickedness. When, therefore, he was given his new title, the Monkey King begged to have his helmet removed since he had now become an enlightened one. The answer that was given was that if the Monkey King was indeed enlightened, the helmet would vanish of its own accord. The Monkey King reached up to feel his head and found that the helmet had disappeared.