Twelve Days of Christmas: 8

Eight Maids A-Milking


 

Photo credit: Spamily via Flickr



Merry Christmas. What a gift! The cold shoulder!

Get this, Sunday lunch and I’m feeding the baby. My mother-in-law says breastfeeding is not something to be shared at the dinner table. I told her ‘It’s not your dinner table.’ Then John reminded me she’d helped pay for it.

            ‘She didn’t pay for this chair,’ I said, ‘I’ll do whatever I like on it.’ And I carried on feeding the baby. She went to the bathroom and didn’t come out ’til pudding. Ridiculous. And now we’re not invited to Christmas.

‘Breastfeeding at the table is not in the festive spirit of things.’ I don’t know how she thinks baby Jesus got fed.

So that’s it, no seeing her granddaughter on Christmas day. Says she’ll come for mince pies on Boxing Day. I haven’t invited her. Neither has John. He says he’s with me on this. Although he did say Arabella probably doesn’t care if she gets a boob or a bottle and perhaps I could compromise just this once. I threw Flat Bunny at him. ‘That’s not the point!’ I said. So he’s staying home with me.

I told the girls from Mums and Bubs Club. They were spitting teeth, couldn’t believe it. They agreed with me, they said all eight of us should stage a sit-in at her house: turkey, brussel sprouts and boobs out.

            Merry Christmas! I should tell her not to cry over spilt milk.

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 9

Nine Ladies Dancing

Slowly, like music box dolls, we turn on the spot. Feeling small I close the gap between us, hoping a change will make me seem bigger, more, enough. Cheek to my love’s chest, I hear a heart beating in time with the record player’s tune.

The dance floor is full. The dance floor is empty. I don’t know. My eyes are closed. Flickering, they visit – all masked – parodies of me, these women who dance through my body and are gone. They dance on.

My love has given me another chance. I am a cat with nine lives and this is my last.

Photo credit: Tilemahos Efthimiadis via Flickr

Twelve Days of Christmas: 10

Ten Lords A-Leaping

On the tenth day of Christmas the King announced that he wished to find a fitting suitor for his daughter. He set three impossible tasks. Whomsoever could swim the vast moat that kept the castle as a far-off island, whomsoever could scale the castle walls that stood as tall as mountains, whomsoever could leap over the giant fire that would await them in the courtyard, that man, that man would marry the Princess.

            ‘Easy enough’ thought hundreds upon hundreds of dukes and lords, princes and peasants. They could swim, they could climb, they could jump. They were the perfect candidates. And so they came, from all four corners of the kingdom, they came, trudging over frozen fields and plains until at last they arrived at the edge of the moat.

 It was as deep as it was wide, as dark as it was dangerous. It was coiled around the castle, a blue-black serpent waiting for its prey. Teeth chattering, the many men surveyed the freezing-cold passage that stretched before them. At the King’s behest and the sound of canons nobles and knaves alike fearlessly, foolishly, launched into the water.

Less than half reached the other side. Struggling for breath and blue at the lips, fewer still could cling to the castle walls – each and every stone was covered with frost and moss and though they willed their frozen fingers to work, down and down again slid the men. There was, however, a lucky number who used brutish strength and spider-like skill, fight-climbing their way to the top.  By nightfall, ten Lords had landed in the courtyard. They stumbled towards the blazing bonfire that roared victoriously, towering above them with flames like fists pounding at the dark night sky. The Lords thawed themselves. On the other side of the fire was the Princess.

‘Over the fire you leap, good men! Your bride awaits you!’ said the King, his rabbit-skin gloves softly coming together in a clap, clap, clap.

And so it began. The first lord staggered forward, shaking, exhausted. Gripping his own arms he tried to compose himself. Another stood by his side. Soon all ten stood together. Solemn silence, stolen moment of reflection. One lord thought only of the Princess’s striking beauty. Another revelled in her youth. Ten men and many eyes wide with anticipation, mad for the power they would gain in just one leap. Only one lord wished to make the Princess proud, to see her heart ablaze with a love to match his own.

One by one they leapt into the flames, one by one a shrieking, a crackling, a pop and a hiss as black smoke billowed up from the bonfire. One by one they tried to jump over it. One by one they failed until only the last lord remained.

He faced the flames, strong in the knowledge that in his death he would die a happy man for trying. He softened, thinking of the Princess and all he would do for her. And, with each loving thought a snowflake fell, one after another until a flurry filled the air and the entire courtyard was covered in a thick white blanket of snow and the bonfire was nowhere to be seen. The lord leapt over the spot where it had been and into the arms of his Princess. And with the fire of their hearts to keep them warm, they lived happily ever after.

Twelve Days of Christmas: 11

Eleven Pipers Piping

 

Hairnets on, dressed all in white we look like snowmen. ‘We’re making Christmas, my darling, right here!’ with a twist of her wrist, softly squeezing, she conjures delicate lines of green icing as holly leaves appear on the blank face of the cake.

M-E-R-R-Y C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. I’m in charge of the lettering. It’s easier than the holly but harder than the edging.

‘Me, your grandmother, her mother before her and her mother before that. Your Aunt Nell, Auntie Jeanie, Great Aunt Eleanor – all the way back, eleven women, five generations. Including you.’ Mum comes round my side of the counter, wraps her arm around my shoulder applying the same gentle pressure she does to a full piping bag.

We reach the last order of the day and she takes the sherry bottle from behind the plastic tubs of glacé cherries and mixed peel. She pours what is left into two mugs and passes one to me as she admires my handiwork.

            ‘You’re a fine piper, my girl, and a fine baker!’ She’s being kind, my mum.

She makes my Christmas.

 

Photo credit: Mink via Flickr

 

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas!

It does feel somewhat strange saying this with the fan on, sweating in the heat here in Brisbane, Australia, but it is Christmas time nevertheless. And that means Christmas carols.

A number of years ago my siblings and I stood, cocooned in jackets and scarves, in a packed pew at a local carol service. We warbled away with gusto ever aiming for the high notes – usually missing them – and then we spotted it: a simple typo on the carol song sheet that resulted in much mirth amongst us. 'Hark the herald angels sin' was probably not what the Almighty had in mind by way of celebrating his birthday. And so an alternate story existed: wild angels taking the day off and making merry in their festive woolly jumpers.

This year, I've written a series of alternate interpretations, responses to the English carol 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I've written short stories, script, poetry; I've played with style and genre, some are happy, some are sad some are something else. For the next twelve days I'll be posting the pieces here and also sharing excerpts of them via my twitter account @wulftheatre.

I hope you enjoy them and I would love for you to share your own responses to either my creations or the original 'Twelve Days'. Words or music, song or sound, illustration or even movement – whatever you feel inspired to do is very welcome and would be a gift. And, if you like short and sweet, tweet using the hashtag #12DaysOfXmas or post to this blog.

I hope you and your loved ones have a very peaceful, playful, caring, creative festive season!

Twelve Drummers Drumming

 

Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of my oldest coat I walk, head down, hiding from the cold, to our familiar spot. There he is. Sat on the bench facing the swings. He doesn’t turn around. I can see a limp sprig of mistletoe resting on his knee. I can’t see what is coming.

I sit down. Smiling wanly, head to one side, he dangles the mistletoe above the space between us. I remember sighing. He crosses his legs – and I think that must have been a signal – a drilling sound erupts from right behind us. Out of the bushes come twelve grown men dressed in red and white. Twelve Father Christmases all beating a rhythm I can’t recognise, hammering at their long-suffering drums. It could have been festive. It could have been a death march.

            He’s smiling again. He kneels down on the concrete, on one knee, slipping slightly where it’s icy, still trying to hold the mistletoe high – waving it at me, a white flag. It starts to snow. His lips are moving, the drumming gets louder and I can’t hear a word he says.

Musical Cloakroom: Hack The Barbican 2013!

Musical Cloakroom: Sounds, Stories and Sensors

 

Throughout August 2013 the Barbican Centre, London, has seen its cavernous foyer spaces hijacked by theatre performers, hardware hackers, sculptors, musicians and computer scientists as part of the unconventional arts event Hack The Barbican.

Imeh Akpan and Nebulous Flynn invited me to collaborate with them on their sound installation Musical Cloakroom. Thirty-three squares linked to sensors form the stepping stones to musical tones: each time participants step into a square they trigger a sound: Nebulous Flynn's soundscapes or a story. I wrote six separate thirty-three-word stories for the project. The piece, conceived and programmed by Imeh Akpan, offers multiple ways for the public to play and create within the space. Participants can twirl through the cloakroom at random forming their own sound piece, or step through methodically following the trail of a tale.

If you're not in London you can still make your own music and catch five of the stories online here.

Words and Worlds

Blue-faced Honeyeater. Photo credit: Lip Kee via flickr.com

Hello again.

It’s been a while. Why? Well, for the last five-and-a-bit months I’ve been settling into life in Australia. What does that mean, settling in? All sorts really. On a practical level it has meant feathering the nest in which I live. It has meant walking heel to toe, heel to toe, sometimes barefoot, sometimes not, letting my feet meet the ground of my home-for-now. When you’re new to a neighbourhood it is very important to get your bearings. This ensures you don’t get lost. And so, I have taken time to walk the streets and note landmarks as guideposts. Energetically too, there is a grounding, a connection I feel that occurs when we walk on land that doesn’t happen by simply driving around a new stomping ground. Moving at speed doesn’t serve connection in the same way. The same goes for truly connecting with people, another aspect of settling in.  The importance of community is highlighted when you arrive in an unfamiliar city. Connection and community are also essential to creating extraordinary theatre. It’s uphill work if you try to get a show up by yourself. It’s far more fun to create with others and, by engaging others to use their specialist skills as writer, designer, producer etcetera, community and connections are strengthened, everyone's gifts are valued and given space to bloom. I digress. I’ll come back to communion and community, earth and earthly bodies another day. Now to bodies of feathers and fur...

Crimson Rosella. Photo credit: Arthur Chapman via flickr.com

One of the best parts of settling into this leafy suburb of Brisbane has been getting to know the flora and fauna. It is such a joy and thrill to spot yet another strange and wondrous bird whose feathers are splashed with rainbow-shades: vivid greens, red, yellow and blue. I race to borrow my neighbour’s bird book. I find out this happy creature’s name: a Rainbow Lorikeet. Then there’s the bird with the long and daintily curving beak, the one who wears a light blue mask and looks at me coyly through the fronds of the tree leaves. Oh you Blue-faced Honeyeater, you. At night, out come the bats that chuckle like a jack-in-a-box and the brushtail possums that climb high across the telephone wires perhaps sensing my desire to keep them as pets. It’s the same desire I had as a child, nursing eggs from the fridge in the hope that they would hatch. Oh please, be my pet. There is something in the need to know the name of things in the world around us.  Like signposts that give us a sense of direction, a sense of safety and place and home. I wonder if the English colonisers of 1788 were desperate to name and to own and to find a sense of place and home – did they make up the names of the birds as they wished? I’ve heard that the early European settlers encountered huge flocks of Rosellas in Rose Hill, NSW (now Parramatta according to the font of all knowledge that is Wikipedia). The birds became known as ‘Rosehillers’ which was contracted further to Rosellas. They’re quite something to behold with their bold blue and rich red feathers although there are many varieties within the species, each group with their own vibrant plumage. 

When I look at these creatures, I wonder what their Aboriginal name or names are. I say names because there are many Aboriginal languages. According the Creative Spirits, an indigenous knowledge website, there were 250 Aboriginal languages and 600 dialects spoken prior to the invasion of the colonisers. The website states that there are now just 60 Aboriginal languages spoken as mother tongue today. What would be different now if the English settlers had asked the Aborigine people for the names of all they saw? What if the English paused to connect with the land? What if they had chosen to respect and connect with the people who had inhabited it for tens of thousands of years before the English arrived, rather than attempting to subjugate them to British rule? I wonder…

Rainbow Lorikeet. Photo credit: runmonty via flickr.com

The words we use have such power. We can name a bird. Name land or re-name land, use words to claim and label. On a daily basis we humans do this to others, to what we see and also to ourselves. What labels do we carry on our backs that we have burdened ourselves with or let others plaster upon us? And how can we let go of them? I remember British yoga teacher Rowan Cobelli gently offering a path to such freedom during a candle-lit yoga class. As we rested in Child’s Pose Rowan suggested we experiment with letting go the labels upon us. A practice so simple and yet so profound.

 

Photo Balasana, Child's Pose. Note the variation with arms extended and not by sides. 
Photo credit: minishorts via flickr.com

Here’s an echo, a variation of that practice. Five minutes to forget who ‘you’ are and remember the ever-present peace within:

Child’s Pose, Balasana

Kneel on the floor on a mat or towel. Sit back on the heels, knees hip width apart. Allow the spine spine to lengthen and the torso to slowly fold forward, resting the torso between the thighs, relaxing the forehead towards the floor. Bring the arms by the sides of the body, palms upwards. Inhale deeply, breathing into the torso; expand the breath into the back of the torso [1]. With every breath, have the sense of opening yourself into this restorative pose. Inhale. Exhaling, release the tops of the shoulders towards the floor.  With each exhale, invite the sense of shedding the labels that you might carry with you: man, woman, mother, sister, brother, job title, friend, family member, lover, partner. Observe the body, the mind, the emotions; let thoughts and feelings float gently to floor like leaves from a tree. Rest in the space that is revealed, when the words we surround ourselves with are placed to one side. How does it feel to be in that space?

Words, energy, movement, thought and feeling. A powerful inter-connection. Alchemical process. And we are the creators of our worlds. What words will you use today?

Photo credit: minishorts via flickr.com

[1] Much thanks to YogaJournal.com for their insightful doorways to deepening such a seemingly simple practice. In their ‘Beginner’s Tips’ section they offer this:

"We usually don't breathe consciously and fully into the back of the torso. Balasana provides us with an excellent opportunity to do just that. Imagine that each inhalation is 'doming' the back torso toward the ceiling, lengthening and widening the spine. Then with each exhalation release the torso a little more deeply into the fold." 

I highly recommend reading their thorough exploration of Child’s Pose here.