Memoir Meme

Please, if you have not already done so, go and check out Scriptor Senex's blog from yesterday, for - Bless him - He was kind enough to pick up the Meme I set on choosing the 4th photo from your fourth album... etc.

I love Scriptor's daily rambles on a variety of subjects, stemming from years of experience and marking life's moments to treasure; His photographs have inspired me to do more to capture my own life's moments in the near future... when I am fully fit again and can tout a camera about!

~ For your perusal today, I have pinched, er selected, another Meme from the pages of Lynne Ede.

The idea being to select only six words that will encapsulate your memoir!

I thought this would be a shorter piece to do, some hope for me, eh?...

I was led to Lynne Ede's Things UK blogspot, by the Maestro, David McMahon via Friday's post of the day nominations and awards. Bless you!

Lynne has some interesting paintings and accounts on her site, and she kindly offers all up for viewing and I hope borrowing, rather than stealing, so I hope this is okay!


If you were to write your memoir, how might you describe your life in so few words?

How would you want to be remembered?


Should you wish to tag along, mes bloggeurs, the Meme instructions are as follows:

1. Write your own six word memoir.

2. Post it on your blog; include a visual illustration if you'd like.

3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post, and to the original post if possible.

4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.

5. Leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!


And, ta-da... The six word memoir I came up with is:

Mad, Bad And Dangerous To Know...... but I know that already 'kind of' belongs to the Byronic Lord Byron, as he was famously described by his one-time paramour, Lady Caroline Lamb.



Lord Byron famously wrote of one of his many lovers,

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes





In this early scandal, which in Byron's life was but one of many, he embarked on a well-publicized affair with the married Lady Caroline Lamb, which shocked the British public. And from la Goddess Wiki: "Byron eventually broke off the relationship, but Lamb never entirely recovered, pursuing him even after he tired of her. She was emotionally disturbed and lost so much weight that Byron cruelly commented to her mother-in-law, his friend Lady Melbourne, that he was "haunted by a skeleton".

I sometimes think David Beckham might one day say the same thing... Ahem!

"She began to call on him at home, sometimes dressed in disguise as a page boy, at a time when such an act could ruin both of them socially. One day, during such a visit, she wrote on a book at his desk, "Remember me!". As a retort, Byron wrote a poem entitled Remember Thee! Remember Thee! which concludes with the line, "Thou false to him, thou fiend to me".

As a child, Byron had seen little of his half-sister Augusta Leigh; in adulthood, he formed a close relationship with her that has been interpreted by some as incestuous".

Byron went on in life to scatter loves and offspring, illegitimate and adopted, throughout Europe, but not before, he courted Lady Caroline's cousin Annabella Milbanke, who refused his first proposal of marriage but later accepted. They married at Seaham Hall, County Durham, on 2 January 1815.

This is a picture of Byron's home, I think, in Venice...



but the hall where they married is not far from my home, and is once more a venue for weddings and conferences - It's a lovely Georgian house, now a hotel, part of some international conglomerate group, Von Essen, which includes Cliveden House, which you might have heard of, where "Guests have included every British monarch since George I as well as Charlie Chaplin, Winston Churchill, Harold Macmillan, President Roosevelt, George Bernard Shaw, John Profumo and Christine Keeler, and many other well-known names from the past and present", but not Lord Byron apparently!

Seaham Hall:



And so as to try (in a really futile way) to out-Braja Braja, here is a pic of the wonderfully tranquil (and hideously expensive!) spa at Seaham Hall:



I might return to Byron's life on another day, for I find that period of literature and art fascinating, and what a way to be remembered as, 'Mad, bad and dangerous to know...' but today I am supposed to be thinking about mine own memoirs from an altogether different era!





The Eighties - A decade of ra-ra and unwearable puffball skirts, footballer's perms

and outrageous shoulder pads!

My early thoughts on this are:

And In Her Mouth An Amethyst...

which was inspired by lyrics in a song by the eighties band, Wang Chung. From the band's own website,

"... the most common explanation of the band's name is that it meant 'perfect pitch', which neatly summarized the tie-in to a Chinese musical philosophy.

It's also sometimes explained as being the sound a guitar makes when you hit the strings down then up, with 'Wang' being the sound on the down stroke, and 'CHUNG' being the sound on the up stroke". Simples...!





Romantically, the vision of being held tightly and swished across a crowded dance floor, for the song from which the lyrics come is called, "Dance Hall Days", was enchanting to me in my youth, and particularly in the summer I spent in France, in Normandy in fact, as au pair to an aristocratic family, who could trace their humble origins back to the Norman Conquests... So, "And in her mouth an amethyst..."

Back to Wiki, this time on amethysts: "The Greeks believed that whoever wore an amethyst or drank from an amethyst cup would not become intoxicated. The word amethyst is derived from the Greek word "amethystos," meaning sober. The gemstone was associated with the god of wine, and it was common to serve wine in Amethyst goblets to prevent overindulgence.

It was also claimed that amethyst had a sobering effect on those "drunk" on love’s passions..."

In crystal therapy, amethyst is considered a stabilizing crystal, has a calming and tranquil influence symbolizing peace. Amethysts can bring on pleasant dreams, and allow you to channel positive universal energy. As a result many people place an amethyst under their pillow before going to sleep at night to enjoy sweet dreams throughout the night".

John Martyn 11th September 1948 - 29th January 2009

Today I want to pay a small homage to an overlooked and often under-rated musician called John Martyn. Music is a big part of my life, so please forgive me if it appears that I am trying to push it upon you occasionally? I'm really not... Honestly...

You might not even know who John Martyn is, or indeed was.

You might not have noticed that John passed yesterday morning at the age of 60, although it would be fair to say he had been half in love with love and life, and death, for many years.

What was it Keats wrote: "...for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death..."

The Guardian said of John yesterday when the news was breaking, "John Martyn was one of those people, rare in the narcissistic world of rock and pop, who realised what he produced was far more important than who he was. He treated life as a game – a tragic game, but not without its comic absurdity.

At the Mojo awards in 2008 Martyn, a famously heavy drinker whose right leg was amputated following an abcess below the knee in 2003, said as he took to the stage:

"I promised them I wouldn't get legless before the gig …"



John Martyn was unique, an individual, no other quite like him, a singer-songwriter and talented guitarist who flirted with many music genres, more often than not jazz and folk, blues and funk, although he didn't like to be pigeon-holed - Who does? I read about him somewhere that, "...throughout his life he kept searching for new musical forms in which to express essential themes: love, loneliness, and what it means to be alive."

And that is perhaps just what we bloggers and writers are doing now, you might say...

You might not have heard of John Martyn because he believed the music itself to be more important than the cult of personality, that appears to sadly drive so much of the music business today.

In a career spanning over 35 years, by the time he released his perhaps most famous album, Solid Air, in 1973 it appeared that he was unstoppable. John's music and unique style of guitar playing has gone on to influence so many poets, artists and musicians today.

John was also well known as a good friend to the tragic and ethereal folk giant Nick Drake, of whom later in life - when his too early dimmed star was rising once again - he refused to talk about, saying..., "He was killed by the indecent, parasitic opportunism that pervades the music business".





and
"I don't want to talk about Nick. It's creepy, ghoulish and strange; this lionisation is too late when you're dead. If they'd dug him enough then, he'd still be here now..."



John played in his time alongside Donovan, Richard and Danny Thompson, Dave Gilmour, Eric Clapton and John Paul Jones, among others. He influenced a wide variety of musicians from U2 to many who do not even mention his name.

John was a gentle and sensitive giant, but was one whom life troubled perhaps even more than he dared write about... Child of a broken home, born in Surrey to light-opera singers but brought up in Glasgow by his grandparents, he struggled with the vagaries and whims of the industry throughout his career, "I often thought of faking my own death and watching the record companies f***ing drum up all the shit they can..."
- Classic Rock 6/00.

I believe John wrote this particular loving and wistful song years ago for his small stepson, it's called May You Never - This is John's performance on TV's The Old Grey Whistle Test in 1973.



Lyrics:

And may you never lay your head down
Without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold.

You're just like a great strong brother of mine
You know that I love you true
And you never talk dirty behind my back
And I know that there's those that do.

Oh please won't you, please won't you
Bear it in mind
Love is a lesson to learn in our time
Now please won't you, please won't you
Bear it in mind for me.

And may you never lay your head down
Without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold.

Well you're just like a good close sister to me
You know that I love you true
And you hold no blade to stab me in the back
And I know that there's some that do.

Oh please won't you, please won't you
Bear it in mind
Love is a lesson to learn in our time
And please won't you, please won't you
Bear it in mind for me.

May you never lay your head down
Without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold.

You're just like a great strong brother of mine
And you know that I love you true
And you never talk dirty behind my back
And I know that there's those that do.

Oh please won't you, please won't you
Bear it in mind
Love is a lesson to learn in our time
And please won't you, please won't you
Bear it in mind for me.

May you never lose your temper
If you get in a bar room fight
May you never lose your woman overnight
May you never lay your head down
Without a hand to hold
May you never make your bed out in the cold.

May you never lose your temper
If you get in a bar room fight
May you never lose your woman over night
May you never lose your woman over night
May you never lose your woman over night.

John never entirely recovered from lost loves, including his second wife who pre-deceased him, and as he sang of his good friend, Nick Drake in the title track, Solid Air:



I know you, I love you
I'll be your friend
I could follow you, anywhere
Even through solid air.

John was a fond mentor to artists coming up on the folk scene, like my much-loved John Smith, whom I blogged about here on the President's Inauguration Day, and came out of semi-obscurity himself in the early noughties to reap standing ovations from those who were desperate to see him play the music from Solid Air once more...

He toured twice with music from Solid Air, and the tour I caught ended up with some dates at the Royal Albert Hall in London, John was rolled on stage in his wheelchair, his arms outstretched as if he were gliding in a 'plane. The musicians who joined him on sax and guitar looked as if they had been dragged in from the pub just outside, with their ill-fitting suits and dodgy haircuts. Only the younger keyboard player looked as if he were holding it all together, marking time sequences, and keeping this about to be runaway train on the tracks...

I've just found something John said about the keyboard player in 2002, "A lovely man but he wouldn't buy you a drink if your teeth were on fire..."

A variety of beautiful guitars were passed into John's chubby-fingered hands, and he rambled through the set, much as I ramble through these blogs... Still hitting all the notes, in the right order, mellowly skimming over the lyrics, so that you couldn't always tell which verse he was on, but it was still beautiful to behold.

And when he elected to master all his energies and pick properly at the guitar strings, and maybe you even closed your eyes, John the virtuoso and unparalleled musician was still there for all to behold. He still had "It".



Throughout his life, he was warned away from the demon drink, but it was too integral to his life, and how he wanted to live, shuttling between Ireland where he lived and played and Scotland's music scene, even at an earlier point breaking his neck in a car accident after colliding with a cow! In his earlier career John had taken drugs which were pretty much legion in the music industry (which he also despised) in those years. ...And the effects of substances on his soul were tangible. Perhaps they dulled the pain that stemmed from his losses and perceived failings, his lack of obvious success and the demons that continued to dog him. But John was ever recognised by the musos.

On 4 February 2008, Martyn received the lifetime achievement award at the BBC Radio 2 Folk awards. The award was presented by Phil Collins, a friend. The BBC website says of Martyn, "his heartfelt performances have either suggested or fully demonstrated an idiosyncratic genius."Martyn performed "Over the Hill" and "May You Never" at the ceremony, with John Paul Jones accompanying on mandolin.

Martyn was appointed OBE in the Queen's 2009 New Year Honours list.

John Martyn died on 29 January 2009 in hospital in Ireland, his home, and I read this comment by someone called Michael von Kruger on a tribute page just this morning, and have taken the liberty of posting it here because it is so true, "Others took many of his ideas, commercialised them, simplified them, rubbed off the edges, the grace and the danger, the heart and soul, and had massive global success, and the fame and money that goes with all that. All the things that in a fairer world should have been John's".

Another of John's beautiful and poignant songs to look out for is "Don't Want To Know...", with its refrain that jangles so in our world where hatred and evil, greed and hypocrisy, are sadly never far from us:

And I don't want to know about evil
Only want to know about love
I don't want to know about evil
Only want to know about love.

Sometimes it gets so hard to listen
Hard for me to use my eyes
And all around the cold is glistening
Making sure it keeps me down to size.

And I don't want to know about evil
Only want to know about love
I don't want to know one thing about evil
Only want to know about love.

I'm waiting for the planes to tumble
Waiting for the towns to fall
I'm waiting for the cities to crumble
Waiting till I see you crawl.

Yes it's getting hard to listen
Hard for us to use our eyes
Cause all around that gold is glistening
Making sure it keeps us hypnotized.

And I don't want to know about evil
I only want to know about love
I don't want to know about evil
Only want to know about love.

I don't want to know anything about evil
Only want to know about love
I don't want to know about evil
Only want to know about love.



"Very few people are trying to reach the heart these days...I feel strongly that there's a great dearth of the heart everywhere right now".
- John Martyn NME 7/1973

"I just want to be happy. I'm fed up of being miserable ...but there's always a melancholy streak in my nature..."

A Paean to Paris, Some Red Carpet Awards and a Tag-Along!

Beautiful Auntie Gwen from Auntie Gwen's Diary has been kind enough to tag me...

The rules are:
Go to the 4th folder in your computer where you store your pictures
Pick the 4th picture in that folder
Explain the picture
Tag 4 people to do the same

As I'm not technically gifted enough to store my own photos, and rely upon my family to do this for me - They are on Grizzler's laptop...

Here instead is the fourth photo taken from my fourth album on Photobucket. This album is called City of Lights, and you might not be surprised that, like Auntie Gwen's, it concerns a love of Paris, the capital of France.

This picture is of Sacre Coeur in the area known as Montmartre, once filled with vineyards, once the haunt of artists and painters, musicians and writers... Now it is a higgle-piggle, hodge-podge of tinsly touristy shops, (some) seedy clubs, and many, many bars and cafes. Oh, and the splendiferous modern meringue that is Sacre Coeur itself...

The views that open up from the steps of the church are wonderful, and I cannot resist a trip up the hill on the funicular railway, jostling with tourists!

Still, the peace and tranquillity and a scintilla of what magic the area once held can still be found, by wandering the streets of Montmartre and stepping away from the crowds...




I cannot resist adding in some of the other pictures in this album. Hope you don't mind?

Paris in the palm of your hand!

City of Lights




Ah, the atmosphere and drama of Black and White photography...Timeless!



One little vignette from our last trip to Paris a year last Christmas - the first time we have ever had Christmas away from home, and it was uplifting, invigorating and enchanting for us as a family.

(And, to be fair, we got a good deal then in terms of Sterling against the Euro - We could not afford to take that trip again this year, even if I had been in full fitness with my back... Alors, my fond commiserations to my British chums sequestered in lovely France, who are struggling quite a bit with the credit crunch...)

As a family, we always trot about Paris every day of our trip, and religiously try to avoid the many beggars and merchants lining the streets of the most familiar attractions and landmarks.

Grizzler has been brought up to do as we do, head down, a swift "Non!" and hurtling past the many African-origin hawkers and tradesmen.

When we reached the bottom of the steps at Sacre Coeur on Christmas Day evening, we had got slightly separated from one another in the crowds. I reached for GJ in the dimming light, and found him, but where was our 6' 4" Griz?

We spotted him with his blond mane above the many other heads in the crowds; He was in the process of having Rasta braids woven around his index finger by a stocky black man. Our hearts sank - Just how long would this take, just how were we about to be fleeced by these men, how could we escape, they are so experienced in inveigling change from the unwitting tourist?

We approached the chap and found a bemused Griz... The fellow was chatting away to G about the luck this weaving would bring him, and how this bracelet - in Jamaican colours - red, gold and green - would last until he saw us again.

It was a cold night, the throngs of tourists were anxious to be on their way, and by now we had a crowd of the merchants surrounding us, curiously laughing and bantering away.

The deed finished, the bracelet clamped to Grizzles's wrist, GJ began to negotiate a price. They asked us where we were from, and one of the guys spoke of living in London until quite recently. GJ mentioned working in Nigeria of late, said he was accustomed to haggling (he lied!) and named a price, half of what the chuckling merchant wanted.

We finally agreed on what was probably not a fair price, and scuttled away. We reasoned afterwards, once securely ensconced and laughing in a local eaterie, that it would have been pretty slim pickings for those men that night, and how they were obviously 'all for one and one for all' in this endeavour, making their living in a relatively haphazard way.

We opined that they would likely as not have shared what they had managed to fleece, good-naturedly, from the average tourist, and felt we had in the end paid for a half-hour's entertainment and friendly banter!

Still ringing in my ears were the merchant's final words to me, en Francais, about my husband, "You bring your man back to me again next year, and I will give him lovely braids in his hair!"

This made us hoot hysterically; GJ has longish locks for most men, together with a pronounced widow's peak, and is thinning up top it would be fair to say, and has been since I met him when he was 21...

Laugh, he nearly cried!

and to end, a Gargoyle of Notre Dame


In the spirit of tagging, I need to pass this on to 3 or 4 more people in accordance with the rules, so, hoping you don't mind, I tag:


Moannie at The View From This End for her winsome writing;

Saz at Fat, frumpy & fifty for her colour, honesty, warmth and integrity;

Scriptor Senex at Rambles from my chair... for his intelligent ramblings and wonderful pictures, and

Michelle at Raw Cool... Black is the new Blog for her sassy soul!

As for the Premio Dardos award kindly proffered to me by Diane at Diane's Addled Ramblings the other day, I passed it to Moannie, but I also need to pass it on to 3 other people to acknowledge the values that every blogger shows in his or her effort to transmit cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values every day....



Drumroll please, Maestro!

Auntie Gwen at Auntie Gwen's Blogspot for her beauty, warmth and, almost daily, witty honesty and insights;

Saz at FFF for the obvious - The woman is a follower-magnet, she writes so effortlessly;

Kate Coveny Hood at The Big Piece of Cake because we all need cake, comfort and good sense in our lives!

Today is brought to you by the Number 13

Of late, I have found myself checking the number of comments on my bloglets...

Not unusual, you might say. Possibly it's something we (mostly) all do.

And this is not a random piece of writing, asking for more comments, or for lurkers to de-lurk - No, please read on!

This is actually about my relationship with the number 13.

When I step over into the world of A Woman Of No Importance, to see if lovely friends have dropped by, or said something really funny, which they usually do, for they are all excellent friends, I find myself over the next day looking at how many comments have been left, and if the number is about to reach 13, I feel myself getting a little angsty...

And if the number of comments falls over into 14, having been stuck at 13 for a time, I breathe a sigh of some relief. It's crazy, non?

And yet it isn't crazy. Apparently, I'm responding to centuries of memories and conditioning, burned into my very soul, my own psyche.

I am talking about superstitions, like tossing a pinch of spilt salt from my right hand over my left shoulder, so it hits the devil that sits on the sinister side!

...It's like avoiding walking under ladders propped precariously against any building and touching wood - Yes, I do both things, and more... I once, in my hasty teens, walked under a propped up ladder, and then something bad happened. I can't even remember what it was, so it can't have been that bad, but I've never walked under a ladder since.

Crackers, isn't it?!

I've had to go and bow to Lady Wiki herself (and other sources) to find out more about my peculiar condition. And here we are, "Of all superstitions, perhaps the most pervasive -- and yet least explicable -- is the aversion to the number thirteen.

It's called, "Triskaidekaphobia (from Greek tris=three, kai=and, deka=ten); It is a superstition and related to a specific fear of Friday the 13th, called paraskevidekatriaphobia or friggatriskaidekaphobia. (Friggin' heck!)

Many buildings (particularly hotels) tall enough to have a thirteenth floor will not number it as such. So firm is its grip upon us that even hospitals, usually bastions of rational thought, decline to label their operating theatres with the number...

What is it about the 'devil's dozen', as it is sometimes termed in Scotland, that poses such evil portent?

The answer, as with so many superstitions, is biblical. Thirteen gathered in the upper room on the night of the Last Supper. 'And in the evening he cometh with the twelve. And as they sat and did eat, Jesus said,

"Verily I say unto you, One of you which eateth with me shall betray me.' (Mark 14: 17-18).

And, in terms of guilt by association, what about Friday the 13th, ...it is a "lamentable intersection of unlucky number and dire day.
Triskaidekaphobia may have also affected the Vikings —it is believed that Loki in the Norse pantheon was the 13th god. More specifically, Loki was believed to have engineered the murder of Baldr, and was the 13th guest to arrive at the funeral. This is perhaps related to the superstition that if thirteen people gather, one of them will die in the following year.

This was later Christianized in some traditions, describing Satan as the 13th angel. Another Norse tradition involves the myth of Norna-Gest: when the uninvited norns showed up at his birthday celebration—thus increasing the number of guests from ten to thirteen—the norns cursed the infant by magically binding his lifespan to that of a mystic candle they presented to him.

A superstition existed long before the Christian era. Ancient Persians believed the twelve constellations in the Zodiac controlled the months of the year, and each ruled the earth for a thousand years at the end of which the sky and earth collapsed in chaos. Therefore, the thirteenth is identified with chaos and the reason Persians leave their houses to avoid bad luck on the thirteenth day of the Persian Calendar (a tradition called Sizdah Bedar).

'And on a Friday fil al this meschaunce,' wrote Chaucer in 'The Nun's Priest's Tale'.

The superstitions surrounding this fateful day -- particularly Good Fridays -- are numerous: a child born on Friday is doomed to misfortune; do not feed anyone butter churned or eggs laid that day. Courting, and especially marriage, on Friday is a folly. Do not move to a new home or new job on that fateful day; do not rise from an illness; and please, please do not take a journey -- for as the fishermen say, 'Friday's sail, always fail."

(Adapted from NARROW HOUSES, Douglas E. Winter)".

However, the number 13 is not uniformly bad. For example, the 13 attributes of God (also called the thirteen attributes of mercy) are enumerated in the Torah (Exodus 34: 6-7).

And, this tradition or superstition does not hold in some other cultures, e.g. in Romanian, Greek and Spanish cultures, Tuesday the 13th is considered unlucky".

And did you know,

Industrialist Henry Ford wouldn't do business on Friday, the 13th.

Multimillionaire Paul Getty stated, "I wouldn't care to be one of thirteen at a table."

President Roosevelt would not dine in a group of 13 people.

Many hotel guests refuse to stay in Room 13, so rooms are frequently numbered 12, 12A, and 14.

Most architects have the humility by bypass the thirteenth floor of most buildings,

On April 13 1970, NASA launched Apollo 13 at 1313 hours central time. An oxygen tank exploded and if you've seen the movie, you know the rest. NASA was also forced to abort a launch in November 1981 scheduled for Friday the 13th due to a glitsch in the fuel cells.

The ancient Hebrews thought 13 was unlucky because the thirteenth letter of the Hebrew alphabet is the letter M, which is the first letter in the word "mavet," meaning death.

Years ago, London bakers were subject to harsh penalties if they were caught selling bread in what was called short weight. The bakers would add an extra loaf to each dozen to be sure the sale met the minimum weight requirement. They process of adding an extra loaf became known as the "baker's dozen."



So, there you have it, while Friday began as a good day, often a sacred day, our love became despoiled, and now the day brings unlucky portents.



So too the number 13!

So, if perchance you stop by, and the comments are set at 13, please feel free even just to leave your name - A calling card, if you like... Anything to stop me comments sticking at 13. It's doing me head in, honestly, and I wouldn't even call myself superstitious!

We all need a little bit of good luck from time to time, non?!