Tempus may fugit, temperatures may crash and burn but trees are forever – well a really, really long time… usually. I’ve been listening to medical intuitive Caroline Myss rant – she likes to rant, by her own admission – about holy ground being well, bloody everywhere. You don’t need to climb a mountain high, or seek a valley low to find a rendezvous for you and the divine. The ‘subway’, Myss reckons, is as good a place as any.
Divine destination?
But there’s something about the brief portion of my twice daily walks to and from work through Bunhill Fields Cemetery with its peridot and emerald studded arbour, like a mosaic ceilinged sanctuary, which soothes the soul.
England's green & pleasant graveyards
Feeling a tad tetchy the other morning I spent a bit of time stroking one of the bigger trees – embarrassingly I didn’t even ask its name – and experienced almost instant calm. The permanence of the tree versus the transience or impermanence of this moment in time filled me with a sense of peace and perspective.
Don’t worry, I’m not developing Dendrophilia – a real live ‘philia’ apparently – despite the fact I found myself panting under another tree in Victoria Park later that same day at a very clammy British Military Fitness session.
The Mediterranean summer means we’ve actually been enjoying the great outdoors and the simple life. Summertime and the living is eeeaaaaaaaasy: ice cubes chink against tall glasses at tennis matches, pianos tinkle everywhere – part of the London Festival – and people stink while listening to rock bands. And a few weeks hence me and my sis sung along at Sing-Along-A-Wickerman, the pagan feel-weird movie of the summer solstice season.
Basket case?
Oft overlooked, or merely looked over for little other than Britt Ekland’s stand in bottom and her bewitchery wooing of Edward Woodward, The Wicker Man belts out a barrage of frolicking folk-style songs by a certain Paul Giovanni. The luscious lyrics tell of getting down and dirty in rigs of barley and weave the circle of life with the Maypole song, which comes with it’s own actions – way before Macarena was a twinkle in Los del Río’s collective eye.
Does my bottom look big on her?
As weird and wacky as the pagan world is made out to be in the Wicker Man the film and its unusual music evoke a time when people felt an intrinsic connection to the natural world, and were, as a result, in awe of it. The pagans, as the film’s many musical interludes suggest, were aware of their part in the rhythm of life.
But as the long awaited Wicker Man finally made his entrance and went up in a blaze of gory sis said she felt funny singing-along to a sacrificial slaughtering. This was one of the many criticisms The Guardian blog commentatoratti had been expressing, although the presence of the Director Robin Hardy seemed to sanction the proceedings. And the abomination of Christopher Lees in their crazy haired, polo-necked, tweediness seemed happy enough.
This is not my boyfriend...
Someone somewhere said the sing-along assumes the sing-alongee is siding with the pagans, when it’s the foolhardy policeman we’re supposed to support. Thing is, he hasn’t any memorable numbers… well only a hymn at the end, he’s too busy bossing everyone around and telling them they’re wrong, and he’s right, to really let rip. And, perhaps, if we want to sing-along with the oh-so-happy pagans but ultimately empathise with the bobby-with-a-bug-up-his-bottom it’s because we can see ourselves in him.
Get down with an Owl
If you can see beyond Britt Ekland’s stunt-stripper-derriere, or musical murder scenes, then perhaps singing-along with the Wicker Man reaches parts the film, and the landlord’s daughter, otherwise may not reach. As tempatures sky rocket, oil spills into the Gulf of Mexico, and NASA releases images of a Greenland glacier melting a mile overnight maybe it’s time to really stop, listen and sing. This could be the last act. Roasted nuts anyone?
Roasted nuts with that, sir?
Sermon ends.
Adventuress Undressed 