'SORRY I DON'T EAT FISH'

Whether you believe it's man-made, God's will or just natural forces, climate change is happening and we will all have to adapt to survive.
Rhys and I have a joint exhibition, his art work and my poetry, which is our creative response to climate change and a celebration of the natural world, and takes place at the Norwegian Church Art Gallery from October 24 -30 2011. There's a preview this Sunday, 2-4pm.

Proceeds from sales will be divided between two environmental charities; Awel Aman Tawe and Taffs Well Community Garden.

Please come along and invite your friends!

Rhys' art work can be found on http://ieuanrhysdaniel.tumblr.com

A few of my poems in the exhibition will follow this blog

DON GIOVANNI-A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

Rhys had never been to an opera. I'd been to a couple years ago. I saw Aida in Milan, performed in the open air. The production included live animals, including a camel. A man walked behind it, brushing up his business as singers performed their arias. Most distracting. I saw another at the iconic Sydney Opera House. It was more for the experience of the building than the opera-Bernice and something-see it was that memorable I can't remember the full title.
    All these years of living in Wales, with the internationally renowned Welsh National Opera(WNO), based in Cardiff and two musicians from the Company living next door, we'd always thought opera was boring. All those fat men and plump women singing for hours in a foreign language-it wasn't for us.  We had thought of opera as musical theatre primarily for toffs, although we knew some ex-miners with a penchant for Puccini.
     In an attempt to try out new things this year, I booked for us to see the WNO production of Don Giovanni at the Wales Millenium Centre; the story of Don Juan, the rapacious womaniser and lovable rogue, with music by Mozart and libretto by Da Ponte. The Company have been trying to widen access to opera for years, and offered a pre-show talk by the Artistic Director. This was a great help as we learnt about the history, the context, the plot, the music, that Rodin's sculptures had inspired the set and the use of McGubbins-a devise to extend the story line with sub plot. We were promised a thrilling evening.
    The story is set in Spain, sung in Italian and to Rhys's delight there were sur titles in Welsh as well as English. We could follow what was going on and enjoy the sumptuous production values, the fantastic singing and a wicked Don Giovanni, played by David Kempster who resembled Clark Gable.
     On the way out, Rhys met the musicians from next door-one of whom is Rhys's guitar teacher.
     'Oh, you haven't been to the opera have you?', he said as if Rhys just wasn't the sort. To which Rhys replied,
     'Oh yes, it was wonderful and I want to go again!'

'Don Giovanni' is touring UK from the 12th of October 2011.

LUNDY ISLAND

Ever since coming to Wales, over three decades ago, I have often stood on Penarth Pier and peered over to Ilfracombe. Well, that's where I thought, was told by my husband I was peering at. Last weekend I learnt that Ilfracombe is somewhere else. Over there across the Bristol Channel, yes, but much further along the coast, the North Devon coast, and more importantly the place to launch yourself to Lundy Island.
      Lundy Island is a two hour crossing from Ilfracombe. If you've watched the weather news, you may have noticed a small thin speck on the map where the Bristol Channel meets the Atlantic ocean. That's Lundy. Three miles long and half a mile wide, this remote island is a natural fortress, with a tempestuous history as a pirate lair.
      When we first spied the ship, MS Oldenburg that would take us to Lundy, it was the first part of its name that made an impression. It had clealry seen better days. We were a mixed bunch of hearties setting forth that day; day trippers, children, young couples holding hands, swaggering middle -aged men with ropes and rucksacks,  older people with walking sticks and stout boots, and a man with a bobble hat with the word 'Silly' emblazoned on the front.
      The sea is no respector of age, gender or mentality. The mistake many made was to go down below. The crew circulated paper bags and washed down the decks with buckets of disinfectant.   We sat smugly on the open deck, watching the horizon, the fresh air keeping us well...well, that's what we hoped.
      As we pulled into Lundy, a ghostly trail of sick travellers emerged from down below. My friend, who got her sea legs years ago on boats in the Scilly Isles, dished out good advice. One young woman, a day tripper who had three hours to recover before repeating her performance on the return trip, seemed to listen very closely.  We later spied her in the Marisco Tavern with a pint of Lundy Experience in her hand.  We were just glad it wasn't us going back with her. We were staying for a few days and even better than that, we were staying in a thirteenth century castle.
       Walking up from the ship, we heard an annoying repeating sound and then realised it was the fog horn that would blast its message through the island for the next 24 hours. We clutched each other in the mist, seeing strange shapes appear and disappear as we walked along a path we were told would lead us to our island home.
         Suddenly, the Castle emerged in front of us. The Keep is divided into three cosy apartments, fitted out in the Landmark Trust style for the discerning middle class holiday maker; pine and oak, a solid fuel fire, comfy chairs, damp sheets and threadbare oriental rugs. Entering the toilet there was a notice instructing us how to use it. A yellow container of bleach sat on the cistern looming ominously over the bowl. The instruction was to spray before and after use. Not what you'd expect in a 'green' property. Back in the kitchen was another notice and the sort of antiseptic gel you get in hospitals when they're trying to eliminate MRSA. The notice informed us of norovirus, gastroenteritis wide spread on the island. They are so paranoid about it, that even while we were eating our one and only meal in the tavern, a member of staff came and sprayed the door knobs next to our table.
      When the mist cleared and the wind subsided, we set out to see the island. The scenery is spectacular. Purple and pink heather mixed with canary gorse covers the springy turf moors and cliffs at this time of year. On the second day there was an electric storm as we walked northwards across the open moor. Clutching our metal walking sticks we ran through sleeting rain for cover in an old Admiralty look-out, now a cottage, banging on the door for shelter. Nobody was home and it was tempting to do a Goldilocks, but the front door was locked, so we stood in the lee of the building, standing close to an aluminium ladder, so that if the lightning missed our sticks, it could find another outlet.  Durrr!
     We walked from end to end and from west to east but we didn't get anywhere near seeing everything. We had hoped to go on a warden led walk, attend a warden talk about the wildlife, history and archaeology, and a snorkelling safari. But the computer and the lady in the office said, 'No, not now.' So we bought lots of wine from the shop and played the game of 'Articulate' in front of our coal fire instead.
     On the final day, we looked out of the toilet window-the only sea view from our castle keep-and saw a swirling sea of wild horses. Would it be a 'splash and dash' return by ship or a helicopter to take us back to Ilfracombe? We really hoped for the chopper. It would complete our adventure. But the message came that MS Oldenburg was coming early to avoid the brewing storm.
     As we pulled into sunny Ilfracombe after a good crossing, we muttered to each other our beliefs about the probable reason for an early return. I mean, it was Saturday afternoon and there was rugby and football on the tele. . .
    
 

EDINBURGH FESTIVAL 2011

Just got back from an intensive weekend of comedy, theatre and music. This was my second trip and again I wished I'd discovered the festival years ago. It's so much fun! We saw a variety of shows over three days. The breadth of talent is formidable, the city buzzes and friendly people share tips for top shows wherever there's a queue, even for the loo.
      Ruby Wax in a two women show, 'Losing It' was very funny but also very moving, telling her life story that included a nervous breakdown and periods in and out of The Priory. Ruby is as sharp and quick witted as ever, but also unexpectedly a very visual comedian.  It was clear from the question and answer session at the end that there were audience members who related to her through their own experiences of mental illness. She's touring the show to NHS venues and will also be at the Duchess Theatre in London this week.
     Another woman artist, Irish Camille O Sullivan, gave a superb performance. Above the stage hung vintage dresses over light bulbs and the piano and drums were decorated with fairy lights. Her performance began as a wacky wicked witch, but as she disrobed she morphed into a wonderfully sexy young woman with a honeycomb voice and melting songs by Nick Cave and Jacques Brel.
      Fascinating Aida was another sell out and deservedly so. Three women, one in her sixties, one in her fifties and one in her twenties sang the mick out of politicians, pomposity and cheap airline tickets. Oh, and there was also a song about dogging and some well chosen four letter words. Very entertaining!
     Late night Comedy Reserve comedians had to curb some of their choicest language and innuendo, as they were faced with a chatty ten year old child in the front row. What kind of parent deliberately exposes a child to explicit stories and jokes about adult sexual practices? According to the compere, 'cool ones'. I'm not so sure. Although the child seemed more bothered by a possible racist comment. With a propensity to answer the comedians' rhetorical questions in a loud attention-seeking way, he became part of the entertainment, but not the show we'd paid our money for.
       On the more serious side, Oedipus,  directed and adapted by Stephen Berkoff (after Sophocles) was interesting. Unfortunately, Berkoff, the actor was indisposed and so we missed his rendering of King Oedipus. The play is set in ancient Greece at a time of plague and turmoil. However, even this dramatic and moving play about a son brought up by surrogate parents, who unwittingly kills his birth father and marries his birth mother, had its funny moments. Mainly in the character of Oedipus's wife/mother played by Anita Dobson (Angie, the landlady of the Old Vic in Eastenders). She looked more like Oedipus's grandmother, but that would have been fine if she'd done more than move around the stage like an wimp geriatric ghost.
       Splendid Isolation, is a play by Nick Ward set in an outpost of the colonies in the late eighteenth century and tells a tale of pearl and slave trading, addiction and madness. The token slave character, played by a beautiful black woman, was also directed as a ghost in the cream-coloured clothes of her ex-master. The opportunity to develop her character outside of the stereotype exotic black woman was disappointingly missed.
        The Girl with an Iron Claw was a beautiful fairy story performed by four gifted actors and their puppets to an entranced adult audience. Pity there were no kids. There was a ten year old at the festival who might have enjoyed it.
        Finally, the show I'd asked all my friends to come and see and which played to another packed crowd, was performed by The Dog-Eared Collective.  My friend's daughter Joanna Hutt and three pals from Uni make up the group. Their material is surreal and anarchic. Among several very funny sketches, the Snooker sketch, Party Planning for Wakes and the St John's Ambulance sketch stood out. Oh, and the super small hero trying to bring justice and wage war on behalf of people vertically challenged. And then there was the audience participation...
        

WRITER'S BLOCK

Last night was the third Tuesday of the month and the last Pontardawe Script Cafe of the year. It was an open mike session and eight scripts were read out and mulled over. I wanted to break out of my normal style and try something different. Since chairing Script Cafe this year, I haven't done much writing myself. I've sent off my two full length plays to various theatres and am awaiting the usual rejection letters. I've written a few poems for our exhibition about climate change in October but it doesn't feel like a great output and I haven't felt inspired.
       I've heard writer's block described as a lack of ideas or anxiety about writing crap- it's all crap so why bother writing anything? It is hard to keep motivated when you aren't getting anything published. For me it's been a bit of both and also because of other priorities, I've lacked a regular routine. When there is so much else to do in life and writing is hard work, it is easy to let writing drift, and that's what's happened. So last night it was fun to see my play,' Emergency Ward 301' given an energetic reading/performance by three of our members.
      The play is set on a hospital ward. Two patients, Dave and Nick are in bed discussing their operations, while the Surgeon, Andy, performs his chaotic surgery on them. It all becomes too much, they turn and start performing brain surgery on him with a chain saw.
       Comments included,'Daliesque', 'Goonish', ' Reminiscent of Monty Python.'
       Celia Thomas in an email wrote,
        ' A clever use of metaphor which sadly we didn't pick up on- the main characters meant to represent David   Cameron, Nick Clegg and Andrew- an admirable attempt to show the state of the NHS today. Derek thought it could be staged using a white sheet. Thought provoking. I thought Fawlty Towers takes over the national health- very gruesone but fun too. Well done!'

NO.26 BUS TO PARAQUAY

When Richard Durrant was eight, he would take the Number 26 bus from his council estate in Brighton to his weekly guitar lessons. His guitar took him to Paraguay, at first in his dreams but eventually in reality. His hero is Agustin Barrios, a virtuoso guitarist known for his tremolo.
      Richard Durrant opened the Welsh Proms at St David's Hall on Friday with pieces by Barrios and stories about his own career told in an entertaining cockney style. After Richard had performed a very successful concert of Barrios's work in a concert hall in Paraquay, he came out on the street to see a Number 26 bus pulled up at the bus stop.

SUSURRUS

  I don't know if susurrus (pronounced sus-yoo-rus) is a made-up word but according to the playwright, David Leddy it means,'the wind rustling in the trees.' It is also the title of his latest production to be premiered at Margam Country Park from the 25th June to the 3rd of July.
     He is our invited guest at Script cafe in Pontardawe Arts centre tomorrow, so I was keen to attend a preview yesterday in the Park.  According to the information given out,
   'It is part radio play, part recital, part lesson in bird dissection and part stroll in the park. . . the different elements creating a perfect melding of location and text to create a theatre experience in which there are no actors and only one member in the audience:you'
     We were given headphones, a MP3 player and a map each, and set loose to follow the trail while listening to the 'play'.   Margam Country Park was once a twelfth century Cistercian Abbey, the wealthiest and largest in Wales. It has been extended and added to and has the longest Orangery in Britain.  It was a brilliantly sunny day, families were strolling around the lake and playing frisbee on the grass. A large party of Asian families were having a barbecue on one of the smaller open spaces, children swinging and climbing over ancient yew trees, and a couple of butch-looking women with huge lenses swung around their necks were taking photos of the ducks and close-ups of foliage patterns. A perfect  back drop for a play about 'love and loss. . . a sensual interpretation of a Midsummer Night's Dream with a contemporary edge.'
      I should have known when we were told by the guide that it had adult content that it wasn't going to be what I thought it might be.  I wandered around the park imbibing the perfume and colour of the roses,  pastoral scenes spread out in front of me like a delicious picnic, the steel works of Port Talbot in the far distance, and the sea sparkling on the horizon. I was enjoying the wonderful music and operatic recital pieces that accompanied me from bench to bench, when I suddenly realised that 'love and loss' in the audio drama included sexual abuse, a bereaved daughter, a suicidal father, a homosexual lover, and a post mortem on a dead sparrow. Not the love and loss I was expecting, but a very moving and sad story juxtaposed against a sunny Sunday afternoon.
      I would certainly recommend the audio drama- it is a new intimate experience in theatre going, cleverly interweaving four viewpoints, layered with meaning. But if you can't stomach the story, you could just listen to the momentous musical bits in between the action as you stroll around the magical Margam Country Park.
    
    

LET ENVIRONMENTAL CONSTELLATIONS CHANGE YOUR WORLD

Earlier this month I attended another workshop at Llwynbwch, entitled,'Environmental Constellations' run by Zita Cox.  It is an idea based on the work of Bert Hellinger.

   

 'We are all interconnected parts of family, organisation, community and eco-system. The difficulties we struggle with are often best resolved when we work systemically.They allow us to observe our place in nature and our systemic relationship to other living beings. They assist us with new ways of thinking and finding resolutions to the problems we have created, such as climate change, pollution, alienation and accelerating species extinction etc; They can be an aid to empathy and shared understanding in all situations. A constellation draws on emotional intelligence and intuition as well as logical thought. It can provide a way of seeing below the surface to understand what the real issues are and what can be done to improve things.'*

  
 This workshop was aimed at therapists who want to find a different way to explore some of the issues raised in their work with clients and to develop their own self awareness. We were asked to identify a deeply felt, ‘burning’ issue. 

    In my case, I decided to constellate my next life step. Zita asked me to invite people from the group to stand in a special configuration – called a constellation. This provides a ‘living map’ of the issues you are dealing with. With guidance from Zita, the representatives in my constellation were asked to feed back their experience – focusing on their physical and emotional responses. Zita tested possibilities by inviting representatives to move positions and make simple statements. Pathways to action were revealed and explored. When an optimum configuration was arrived at, I was invited to step back into the constellation to experience the resolution.

    The experience was very interesting. As only one person knew me I think it would have been difficult for all representatives to have been in collusion with one another projecting their ideas of me onto the constellation. However, I can see that a cynic could think this.  What seemed to come out of this exercise for me was a shift in what could be my next life step. Whatever it is, it seems it should involve crossing water and preferably the sea. The last time I had really itchy feet was around seven years ago. I ended up living and working in the Shetland isles for a year and wrote a book, 'Soothmoother's Saga,' about the experience.   Where and what it might be this time has yet to be revealed to me, but you'll be one of the first to know when it is. 

*For further info see: www.environmentalcontellations.com 

THE FERRET WHO CAN'T SWIM

I've just got back from a week's holiday with my daughter staying in a very nice hotel near the seaside resort of Kalkan in Southern Turkey. I was last in Turkey twenty-one years ago when our daughter was nine and our son, five. Then, it was our son who got all the attention. The Turkish men made a great fuss of him and he lapped it up like a Cheshire cat. Our daughter had felt quite left out. This time it was her turn for attention but it was mainly unwanted and at times persistent and sleazy.
     One of her 'suitors' was the pool supervisor, whose Turkish name sounded like Ferret and that's what he asked us to call him. He was friendly with both of us, but when she was resistent to his charms, he became hurt, angry and sulked.
      Ferret is from eastern Turkey near the Syrian border. There was no work in his village and so this was his eighth summer working for the hotel doing the same job.  Despite his job title he can't swim and hates the sea. When we asked him what would happen if someone got into trouble in the pool, he said he'd call the captain of the little water taxi that takes folk around the bay. And if he was out at sea? Nothing had ever happened and he didn't think it ever would.  
      It didn't matter where ever we might be: sitting by the grand or round salt water pools, sunbathing down on one of the bouganvillea-covered terraces, swimming in crystal waters, or at the precise moment when one of us was trying to unobtrusively extricate ourselves from a wet costume, he would pop up like a meerkat, comparing the market for holiday insurance.
     Most of his days are spent practising proverbs with British holiday-makers, avoiding animals he may be allergic to, or snoozing in the wooden box that stores orange beach towels, dreaming of Welsh girls he would like to go out with.  Where there's a will, there's not always a way.
   

'THINK LIKE A MOUNTAIN'

This weekend we celebrated the festival of Beltane, the time of the year when the sap of the Earth is rising, bursting with fertility, the Moon is waxing and growth and expansion are in the air. We celebrated at 'Llwynbwch,' in a two day workshop facilitated by Sue Weaver, Rosemary Bell and Alan Bellamy.
     This was the last in a series of workshops that I have been attending over the past few years, held at key times in the Celtic calendar, including the equinox, solsitices, Imbolc and now Beltane. The workshops are 'work that reconnects' and are in the Deep Ecology tradition of Joanna Macy.
      This weekend the blurb stated,
       "We will draw on the energies of this time: of Fire and Earth, of the interweaving of masculine and feminine within and between us, of the natural growth of tree, flowers and grasses, the singing of birds and insects in celebration here on the land at Llwynbwch, asking how to manifest our own dreams and visions within our lives and communities, seeking to empower ourselves for fruitful."
    
     The format of the work is based on a spiral. It started with a ritual cleansing with sage, giving gratitude for all the wonders of the natural world. We drew on magical moments from our childhood and life that had inspired and empowered us. In a truth mandela, we honoured the pain, sadness, anger, grief and emptiness we felt at the human destruction of Gaia- Mother Earth. We went out onto the land trying to see the world with new eyes and asking ourselves the questions,'What am I longing for?' 'What am I capable of?'
     After a celebratory meal we gathered around a fire talking about our hopes and aspirations. At the end of the night we jumped the Beltane fire. Well, those of us who weren't wimps and could jump did. I opened my legs and skirted round it with legs like a cowboy who'd been on his horse too long.
     The next morning we discussed our dreams from the night before. These workshops often produce rich material that relates to our journeys in re-connecting with the natural world. We identified our strengths and qualities, and the weapons of the Shambala Warriors of compassion and insight which would help us make the next step. Again, out onto the land on an adventure quest facing our demons that could stop us having a life sustaining future.
     The weekend was powerful and intense. These workshops have helped me look at the world in a different way, taking a more expansive view of the inter-connectness of all sentient beings and our relationship to all parts of our universe. I am sad they've come to an end. I wish Sue and Alan all the very best in their next step moving to the Isle of Arran. I shall miss them, Llwynbwch and their work, but everything has a time and there is a time for everything. I don't know what my next step will be yet, but here is a Haiku I wrote in response to the weekend:
    
                                           Her scorched hand screams
                                          Gaia holds on like cling film
                                               Wade in her waters