So last week, Zoe came up to the mountains house to learn lines for three days straight. After waking up a couple of times, both of us dreaming of nothing but milk wood words, she’s pretty much got it down.
Down at Mini Ha Ha:
So last week, Zoe came up to the mountains house to learn lines for three days straight. After waking up a couple of times, both of us dreaming of nothing but milk wood words, she’s pretty much got it down.
Down at Mini Ha Ha:
The Reverend Eli Jenkins, busy on his morning calls, stops outside the Welfare Hall to hear Polly Garter as she scrubs the floors for the Mothers’ Union Dance to-night.
Listen to the audio:
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Fishermen grumble to their nets. Nogood Boyo goes out in the dinghy _Zanzibar_, ships the oars, drifts slowly in the dab-filled bay, and, lying on his back in the unbaled water, among crabs’ legs and tangled lines, looks up at the spring sky.
NOGOOD BOYO (Softly, lazily)
I don’t know who’s up there and I don’t care.
Listen to the audio:
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Hello 2010. It’s already February, holy crap. To welcome in the newish year, some video from our workshops. I’ve been experimenting (as you’ll know if you’ve been following along) with cartography extensively. Paintings blend with high res maps scans from old Welsh tour guides (read most bizarre and invigorating extracts below). Also been playing with dust/dusk – see below. And finally, Bessie Bighead (even though she was looking all the time) – beloved amongst her beloved cows.
It’s been some time between posts for me. In one moment, detailed in the prior UMW post, everything’s gone on milky overload. How simple it is to swap water for milk, Nat. Creamy, sticky, sweety, pasteurised goodness. Thinking about how the elixir of life would meld (and seep) into the scabby wooden floors of our potential venue. Very well, I believe. Building the scale (and not-to-scale) model of the village Nat and I sketched out across the floor and even up the walls – Zoe meandering in and out of trees, shoreline and town pump. Lots of textures and tones coming out in my brain now. Milky water dregs and curdled cream and blue cheese. Coagulation and renin in a gullet.
In the beginning I wanted her to climb out of a pile of suffocating white ash and dust, now I’d settle for a teacup of warm milk. I’ll give you a snorkle, Zoe? Yes?
A wonderful day of hardcore audio, Zoe and I channeling the delights of bullying children for Gwennie’s song and arguably the most superior narration in the work. Found old footage of mid-20th century Welsh children playing: girl with girls, boys with boys. Hop, skip and jump, rolling wheels down cobbled streets, manic dancing in circles, swinging off ropes in the town park. Will post audio soon.

I can’t believe we’ve yet to tackle Gossamer.
SECOND VOICE
Gossamer Beynon high-heels out of school The sun hums down through the cotton flowers of her dress into the bell of her heart and buzzes in the honey there and couches and kisses, lazy-loving and boozed, in her red-berried breast. Eyes run from the trees and windows of the street, steaming ‘Gossamer,’ and strip her to the nipples and the bees. She blazes naked past the Sailors Arms, the only woman on the Dai-Adamed earth. Sinbad Sailors places on
her thighs still dewdamp from the first mangrowing cockcrow garden his reverent goat-bearded hands.
GOSSAMER BEYNON
I don’t care if he is common,
SECOND VOICE
she whispers to her salad-day deep self,
GOSSAMER BEYNON
I want to gobble him up. I don’t care if he does drop his
aitches,
SECOND VOICE
she tells the stripped and mother-of-the-world big-beamed and Eve-hipped spring of her self,
GOSSAMER BEYNON
so long as he’s all cucumber and hooves.
Breaking through to our third or fourth weeks of workshops. We have, in some form or other, tackled the primary characters that have always drawn us in, which is more or less an unrelenting challenge in a text with 60-odd characters. Trading skills and lessons, we’ve been rolling around with the cat for days in the doona-slash-ocean of the town’s dreams.
Some of the images rolling along with us are shown below, all of them stolen from the magical suitcase Zoe delivered to my bedroom.
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The Ward Lock Red Guide – Southern section of North Wales
Continuing to appreciate the differences in tone and attitude to the Welsh landscape from within and without its borders. The above excerpt has been instrumental in kicking off our workshops, and more or less a product of Wales. Ms Hemans herself emigrated from Liverpool to Wales.
I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the oloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
‘Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.
the weather, giants, the reaper, the mourner, etc…
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Chapter IV: A Welsh Market-Town from “PEEPS AT MANY LANDS: WALES”, by M WILMOT-BUXTON, 1911.
“[We should] visit Corwen or any other Welsh market-town on a Sunday to see the most striking characteristics of the people. The streets are nearly deserted, and a strange stillness broods over the place. At the open door of some of the cottages an aged woman sits with a Welsh Bible on her knees, and keeps an eye upon the toddling baby at her feet. Everyone else has vanished, and not until a burst of melody sounds from the plainly-built chapels which occur so frequently on the highways and within the township, is their whereabouts revealed. Such singing it is, too ! It has been said that the Welsh people sing naturally in parts, and certainly it seems as though nothing but years of training would produce such a result with English choirs, not to speak of a whole congregation, as is the case in Wales. In perfect time and tune the beautiful old Welsh melodies ring forth, and we begin to realize what a large part this hymn-singing and fiery enthusiastic preaching plays in the daily life of this emotional and deeply religious people.
REV. ELI JENKINS
Praise the Lord! We are a musical nation.
“At every corner stand groups of farmers, talking eagerly with hands and shoulders as much as with lips, and with that curious rise and fall of the voice which, they tell us, is the secret of Welsh oratory.
“Meantime the market-women have spread out their goods poultry, butter, eggs, and flowers on the market-stalls in a picturesque fashion enough. Many of the women themselves are worth the attention of an artist, with their strong brown faces, black crisp hair, and very dark blue eyes,” put in with a smutty finger,” as someone has well described them.”
[somewhat tremulous (modest, excitable) beginnings of video concepts for the time of dusk in the town]
Continuing from a post Zoe has… posted… I have further delved into the anthropological rumblings of the text. At Bryony’s behest, I have stapled a couple of walking tours of Wales to this entry that might frame the passage of time and the representation of the countryside from outside Wales’ borders, this text coming onto bookshelves a great deal earlier than Thomas. Comparing it with the Red Guide that has formed our initial fascination with the anthropological narration of Wales, it’s… somewhat unsurprisingly bleak.
An English Reverend: A SECOND WALK THROUGH WALES, Rev*. Richard Warner, OF BATH taken in AUGUST AND SEPTEMBER 1798. Published 1800.
Much of our pleasure has arisen from an accidental addition to our party, the two younger Mr. Th-m-s’s, of P It ch, Glamorganshire, who yesterday morning joined us at Cowbridge. Their society has been of material use, as well as productive of great satisfaction to us, since an intimate acquaintance with this part of Wales enables them to point out a variety of minute objects of curiosity, which, without such an assistance to our enquiries, would probably escape the notice of strangers.
Of Caerphilly
We quitted Newport the 5th, and proceeded through a pleasant country towards Caerphilly, a town on the eastern confines of Glamorganshire. Our walk afforded but little room for remark, the scenery being tame, and the population scanty, compared with the trat we had hitherto past. An agreeable and lively effect, however, in the landscape, arises from a practice, which is become very common among the Welsh peasantry; a great object of their ambition (would to heaven all ambition were equally innocent!) is to render their little dwellings conspicuous, by coating them with whitewash. This gives a great appearance of neatness and cleanliness to the cottages, and at the same time adds to the picturesque of the country; for although a great breadth of white, produced either by a number of houses grouped together and whitewashed, or by a large single mansion covered in the same glaring manner, be disgusting to true taste, yet small detached cottages thus coloured, sprinkled through wooded valleys, or studding the broad sides of verdant mountains, produce a relief and contrast in the scenery that are highly gratifying to the eye…
Of Pont-Neath-Fechan
No sooner was our supper dispatched, Mrs. Jones gave us notice, that at a neighbouring public-house the cottagers had met, and were dancing to the sound of the village harp. The idea of a genuine Welsh Ball pleased us highly; and Mr. Gilpin having previously discovered that our company there would not be considered as intrusive, we immediately adjourned, under his auspices, to the scene of festivity. , With regard to myself, I confess, that happiness is always contagious; nor can I see others merry, without feeling an emotion of joy also; I cannot express, therefore, the pleasure I felt on entering the room. It was not, indeed, very commodious, nor famously illuminated, being about fifteen feet square, and having only one solitary candle of sixteen to the pound. The party, however, which consisted of twenty-five or thirty, made up for every defect; animated by the tones of their favourite national instrument, and enlivened with the idea of the week’s labours being terminated, (for it was Saturday night) they entered con amore into the business of the evening, and exhibited a complete picture of perfect happiness.
Of Anglesey:
Of the agriculture, we have to regret that we cannot give a tolerable account. It is a languid, spiritless, unprofitable system; the consequences of which are too visible in scanty crops and a poverty-stricken peasantry. A dearth of fuel adds to the other inconveniences of the labouring poor, obliging them to rob the commons of their shallow staple, which they pare off without mercy; procuring, by these means, an incombustible kind of turf, badly answering the purposes of burning. Land, which if improved, or tolerably cultivated, would let for twenty shillings per acre, now goes for seven shillings, another proof of wretched husbandry. To this neglect of tillage, however, there are some exceptions, particularly the extensive property of Mr. Panton, which is in a state of rapid improvement. Black cattle are one of the staple produces of Anglesey. They are large, handsome beasts, and being exported in great quantities, make a considerable return to the island.
Of funerals in Anglesey:
Like all other ignorant people, they are extremely superstitious; and of the power of witches, the appearance of ghosts, and the tricks of fairies, they ” hold each strange tale “devoutly true.” Much singularity is observable in their funerals, and some curious circumstances distinguish the North-Wallian courtships from the mode of making love in South-Britain, When a person dies, the friends and relations of the deceased meet in the room where the corpse lies, the evening previous to the funeral. Here the male part of the company are seen smoking, drinking, cracking their jokes, and sometimes indulging themselves with a Welsh air; whilst the women are kneeling round the corpse, weeping bitterly, and bewailing, in terms of ” loud lament,” the loss they have experienced. When the body is committed to the ground, the sexton, after casting the earth upon it, holds but his spade to the attendant mourners, who, in turn, contribute as much money as they can conveniently afford, The sum thus collected is a compliment to the officiating minister, and intended by the donors as a bribe to extricate the soul of the deceased -as quickly as possible out of purgatory.
16
Feb 10
NT Intervention Followup
(Our roles as outsiders//Excellent assessment of the twisted debate of summary arguments against the Intervention)