rhondacrockett: (Am I addicted? - dava)
Yes, I know it's not Sunday but I can't wait until the end of the week to share these!

Sketchy Sunday Blast from the Past 1 - sharpened photo 38d57193-a5a6-4183-a376-f51f7e4fe0e8_zps501152c1.jpg

Sketchy Sunday Blast from the Past 2 photo Lipsy_zps350a7943.jpg


My sister Amy found these when she was clearing out the cupboards in her room yesterday. Oh man, 2001, thirteen years ago; these pictures have just hit the awkward teenage years. Ok, Ice Crystal has horribly deformed shoulders and upper arms, and he's, ah, rather snug in the crotch area (o.O'). Lipsy, meanwhile, has impossibly tiny feet with insanely long legs, and her bust is set way too low, it's halfway to her belly button lol. I couldn't draw a horse's head face-on, that's why they're both looking awkwardly to one side - they'd have a terrible crick in their necks if they were real.

...Lipsy's shorts are awesome, though. I'm really pleased with the shorts. ^.^
rhondacrockett: (Lookit me)
More nature! This Monday, I like... hawthorn.

I Like Monday - hawthorn blossom photo 5685338130_ec007df2b9_z_zpsb5b757fd.jpg
Image taken from Stephen Buchan's Flickr feed. Photograph is copyright Stephen Buchan.


And a good job too, because there is a lot of it in Northern Ireland! Practically every hedge around every field is made up of hawthorn. I'm told that the trees live for ten years but I'm sceptical; I'm over 30 and don't remember dad having to replant any of our hedges in that time - and they were well-established before I was born. Of course, it is possible that the hawthorn replaced itself with offshoots or germinated seeds, and in the muddle of brambles and ivy, I couldn't tell the difference between the old and the new.

This particular spring I am loving watching the hedgerows turn bright yellow-green with new leaves or white with blossom. Winter is over, the world is gearing up for summer, the birds are chittering all around. It's a good time to be alive and be out in the country, and the hawthorn is an important part of that. Why else is it that we have a veritable plague of house-sparrows around home when the TV tells us they're in decline in the UK? Could it be *gasp* because of all those hawthorn hedges, with their long, untidy shoots, close-packed mesh of thorns and branches, and that super-abundance of red fruit in autumn?

Yes, spring and autumn - those two threshold seasons, with one foot in the hot, one foot in the cold and both feet in the wet - that's when the hawthorn is at its best. Spring, because of that gorgeous shining green I mentioned earlier, and the bright white flowers with a splay of pink-tipped stamens inside (see the second image here), which from a little distance makes them look like they've got freckles. And autumn because of those berries. In fact, you say the word "autumn", I immediately think of haws (as they're most often known locally). As a child, asked to bring in autumn leaves etc. for a school nature project, haws made the majority of my haul. I remember being disappointed at the time; I would have liked to get more rosehips lol. They say that familiarity breeds contempt but in the case of hawthorn, it's bred appreciation.
rhondacrockett: (blood & claws)
This Monday, I like... "A Man of Words and Not of Deeds".

I Like Monday - garden of weeds photo gardenofweeds_zps6a328dce.jpg I Like Monday - penknife photo penknife_zpse293d879.jpg
Left hand image taken from Southwest Landscapes; right hand image taken from Aceros de Hispania


Ok, I know I said some time ago that Mondays were to be reserved for Nice Things Only so people may find today's choice rather odd, if not outright inappropriate. But "A Man of Words and Not of Deeds" is one of my favourite nursery rhymes. Yes, it creeps me out, but it creeps me out in a good way, in a weirdly reassuring way, like having a vivid dream about being a survivor in a post-apocalypse scenario...

I'm not explaining this very well, am I? I guess this rhyme appeals to the same part of me that adores angst in stories. Angst in real life can be draining, irritating and miserable, but in stories it can make you love characters even more than you thought you did already. It makes heroes more heroic, gives their sacrifices, actions and decisions more weight. (Another reason for liking Batman: everything the guy does oozes angst.) Angst in stories shows that being 'the good guy' is not easy and is therefore more important. "A Man of Words..." does something similar - not by focusing on the 'good guy', but instead zooming in on the 'bad guy' until he becomes not a mere person but an all-encompassing, inescapable, natural phenomenon. How are you supposed to defeat or defy something so big? Suddenly goodness is not a matter of just being 'nice' but an act of desperate necessity, of survival.

I love the imagery, the slow accumulation of similes as each one grows out of the one before. I like the way it starts so gently, so dreamily - and then takes that abrupt left-hand turn in the middle into much darker territory. And yes, I admit, I like the way it zeroes in so vividly on physical pain towards the end (touch of sadomasochism, anyone?).

And yes, I also admit, I like the fact that it's rather obscure and therefore more exclusive. I didn't know this rhyme as a child - that is, when I could count my age in single digits, which is when we traditionally become familiar with nursery rhymes. I heard it for the first time when I was around 10 or 12, maybe a bit older than that, on a cassette tape of other rhymes and songs. (Don't ask why a 10-to-12-year-old was listening to a tape of nursery rhymes; I just was, ok?) I knew all the other rhymes on the tape but this one was new to me and it captured my imagination. I suppose it helped that I was old enough to appreciate how clever the rhyme was, how 'literate' in comparison to, say, "Little Miss Muffett". Some people think that it might be the work of, or inspired by the work of, John Fletcher, an Elizabethan author and contemporary of Shakespeare, or that it might be a Puritan satire on Charles II. (You can google for more info on both theories; I'm not convinced by either, personally.)

Powerful. Vivid. Angst-ridden. Relatively unknown. And strangely appealing in its own ominous way. Yes. This Monday, whatever the reasons, I like "A Man of Words and Not of Deeds".

**

A man of words and not of deeds, is like a garden full of weeds -
And when the weeds begin to grow, it's like a garden full of snow -
And when the snow begins to fall, it's like a bird upon the wall -
And when the bird away does fly, it's like an eagle in the sky -
And when the sky begins to roar, it's like a lion at the door -
And when the door begins to crack, it's like a stick across your back -
And when your back begins to smart, it's like a penknife in your heart -
And when your heart begins to bleed
You're dead -
And dead -
And dead indeed.*


*The line layout and punctuation here are more or less of my own invention. Up until I wrote this post, I had only known this rhyme as recited orally, not written down, and when I went looking I wasn't satisfied by the way others had laid it out.
rhondacrockett: (Lookit me)
This Monday, I like... Latin.

I Like Monday - Cornelia and Flavia photo ILikeMonday-CorneliaandFlavia_zps4a793062.jpg
Image scanned from Ecce Romani 1: Meeting the Family (2nd ed, Oliver & Boyd : 1982), copyright the Scottish Classics Group, illustrations by Peter Dennis, Trevor Parkin and Hamish Gordon. Used without permission, not for profit and with no intention to impinge on anybody else's legal rights. Please don't sue me!


Socially, secondary school* was not a good time for me; suffice to say I had a very big culture shock upon starting which drove a wedge between my contemporaries and me. But oh! how I loved the work! And amongst the standard English, maths, etc., there was my new favourite subject: the dead language of an ancient empire.

It started with my first lesson and the picture above. It accompanied a short and not-terribly-exciting paragraph about a Roman girl called Cornelia sitting under a tree and her best friend Flavia, who was singing for no particular reason. Having translated the paragraph with just a handful of vocabulary, and no clue yet about things like cases, participles or conjugations, we then answered some comprehension questions written in Latin: simple stuff which only required us to either copy directly from the paragraph or swap a few words around. But then our teacher added a question of her own, which she told us to answer in Latin: "ubi est Flavia?" - where is Flavia?

Most people went with "Flavia est sub arbore" - Flavia is under the tree - although the paragraph never specified that Flavia was under the tree, just Cornelia, and in the picture she seems to standing a little distance out. Others gave a more sweeping answer: "Flavia est in Italia" - you can translate that one for yourselves - but it seemed too general for me. A few went with the plain wrong: "Flavia est in (vicina) villa" - Flavia is in the (neighbouring) villa - certainly the paragraph said that was where she lived, but that wasn't where she was.

Then I saw it, right there in plain sight: "ecce! in pictura est puella, nomine Cornelia. ...etiam in pictura est altera puella, nomine Flavia."

So that was my answer: "Flavia est in pictura" - Flavia is in the picture. And I was hooked.

I always knew it was an impractical subject that would never get me anywhere. The "transferable skills" they tried to sell us about problem-solving skills, methodical reasoning, data analysis and verbal comprehension, were the same you could supposedly get from every other subject on the curriculum. At each major examination stage - GCSE, A-level, undergraduate degree - I considered giving it up. But I just enjoyed it too much! Only when I reached postgraduate level and could pursue only one subject, did I finally let it go, first for the Creative Writing MA and then the nightmarish PhD. (And that's how I ended up with the most unemployable set of qualifications ever!)

As to why I liked it, that's harder to say. I had a talent for it, sure, that helped. I have an interest in classical mythology and history. Having always loved English, learning about grammar in greater, systematic depth was fascinating. Translation was like the best word puzzle ever, and prose composition - turning English into Latin - was the best word puzzle squared. :D Looking back, I suspect that it helped that it was a purely written language. I always hated French orals - no such problem in Latin!

Of course, my knowledge these days is extremely rusty; I doubt I could translate any real Roman text without taking a refresher course first, and I certainly couldn't do any prose composition. But I will always look back on the subject - and on Flavia - with great fondness.





* Secondary school: the second level of formal education in the UK, from ages 11 to at least 16, at which age you can choose to leave education altogether. Here in Northern Ireland, however, most secondary schools will include students up to 18.
rhondacrockett: (Take a bite)
Since Mondays are reserved for Nice Things Only, I decided to keep this particular Story Teller memory for today. This seriously scared me as a kid. I couldn't bear to listen to it, or even look at the picture. Thankfully it came right at the end so I just had to turn the tape off quickly once the penultimate story had ended. It still freaks me out now, take a listen for yourselves:

rhondacrockett: (Take a bite)
This Monday, I like... "Eleven Wild Swans" by Hans Christian Andersen.

Or, to be more precise, I like this version of it:




Once upon a time in the eighties, there was published by Marshall Cavendish a fortnightly, magazine-sized anthology of stories and poetry for children with a read-along cassette, which was purchased by a mother desperate to get her eldest daughter to go to sleep. So it was via Story Teller that I was introduced to Alice in Wonderland, Peter Pan, Pinocchio, Gobbolino the Witch's Cat, Grogre the Ogre, and many many others, and it is probably to blame for my habit of telling myself stories in bed at night.

This fairy tale in particular caught my imagination: the enchanted brothers unable to cry a warning as they're forced to flee; the sneaky ploy playing on the king's prejudices to make him banish his own daughter; the terrifying journey across the sea to hide out in a foreign land; the grotesque method to break the spell; the doctor's accusation of witchcraft; and the happy ending which doesn't appear until the very last minute. For once, the heroine has an actual name, instead of a nickname, like Cinderella et al. While Eliza seems at first to be your usual usurped-true-princess character, her goal is not to marry the duke, or to be restored to her royal birthright; she just wants her brothers to be human again. When told how the spell can be broken, she doesn't baulk at getting her hands dirty - and badly damaged into the bargain. The images in the video aren't very clear, but the pictures of Eliza after she starts picking the nettles show her hands and feet covered in an angry red rash.

Talking of the illustrations, they are among the most beautiful and evocative that Story Teller had, full of rich, scratchy texture and clean, muted colours. My especial favourites are the sorceress banishing the swan-princes, the swans carrying Eliza in the net, their miserable night out at sea, the duke and doctor spying on Eliza in the churchyard, and the final scene with Eliza tied to the stake and the swans gathered around her. And I did not remember that it was read by Joanna Lumley! Her voice is perfect: gentle and warm and melancholy. When she reads the bit about the king throwing Eliza out of the palace... D; And then the duke and doctor spying on Eliza... D8>

When I later read the original Andersen text, titled "The Wild Swans" (it can be found here), I was disappointed by it. It was too wordy, too overwrought. The touches I had loved the most - the swans leaving in silence, Eliza thrown out by her father by mistake, the old woman at the churchyard, the duke dropping the bundle of nettles, Eliza's escape from the duke's castle, the character of the doctor - they were all missing!!! And there were new elements which I couldn't warm to at all: the long period of time between the enchantment of the brothers and Eliza's own banishment, the toads in the bath, the suspicious Archbishop, and all those pious exhortations. Apart from the youngest brother being left with one wing (and it took me some time to get used even to that), I consider Andersen's original to be inferior to the Story Teller version, both in plot structure and in writing.

I don't know who wrote this adaptation (my own copies of Story Teller are long gone) but s/he really tightened the whole thing up, made the characters real, emotional people, and created one of my favourite fairy tales in the process.

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