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The Princess who wanted a piece of the Moon

Many moons ago, there once was a Princess who lived with her mother and father, the King and Queen, in a castle in a fairytale land. She was a lovely girl but because she was a Princess she was used to having whatever she wished for or wanted. The King and Queen loved her dearly and so did all the people in the kingdom, so whenever the Princess wanted something, she was soon presented with it. Whether it was a pony, a new dress, a shiny necklace, or even a second slice of her favourite chocolate cake, she never had to wait very long before it was given to her. Yet, despite having whatever she wanted, she always seemed to want something more. She never truly felt happy or satisfied, not deep down in her heart, where happiness really counted.

Then one warm summer evening she was gazing out of the window of her bedroom in a tower of the castle and she decided, right there and then, that what she wanted, more than anything she had ever wanted before, was….a piece of the moon.

“It’s so beautiful. Glowing in the night sky”, she explained to her father, the King, “and I’m a pretty princess, don’t I deserve to have pretty things, and what I want is a piece of the moon”.

Well, the King was troubled by this. He loved his daughter and always tried to give her everything she wanted but this latest thing, well, it was going to be a bit tricky. He wasn’t quite sure how anyone would actually go about getting a piece of the moon.

“Dear, deary me…I’m..er…I’m not quite sure..how..exactly..”, he stammered, but the Princess stamped her pretty little feet and shouted, “It’s what I want and I shall have what I want! I’m a Princess!” and with that she stormed out and up to her bedroom for a really, really good sulk.

The King put up notices all round his kingdom asking if there was anyone who could bring his daughter a piece of the moon. Quite a few people turned up, hoping to please the King, or maybe receive the reward of gold that the king had offered but all they had were bits of old rock painted white. They were trying to trick the King and were placed on the naughty step or sent away with a good telling off. One person even arrived with a bit of old cheese and tried to convince everyone that it was a piece of the moon! Nobody seemed to be able to bring the Princess what she wanted and her sulks were getting longer and longer and much more frequent.

Then, one fine day a humble lad, dressed in simple clothes, strolled into the castle and asked to see the King, the Queen and the Princess. He announced to them and everyone present, in a very confident voice, that he would succeed where all others had failed and would bring the Princess a piece of the moon. A lot of people laughed when he said this so confidently and all of them thought him foolish to be so certain that he could do it, but the King recognised the lad as being the son of a Wiseman he knew and who had been a good friend to the King for many, many years.

“When!” exclaimed the Princess, “when will you give me my piece of the moon?”

The lad looked at her, grinning, “I will give you YOUR piece of the moon tonight”, he replied, “You must meet me down by the small river that runs gently through the castle grounds, just after dark”.

“I had better come along with her”, announced the King, thinking to himself, “this is going to be interesting!”

So that night the King, the Princess and a few of the Princess’s friends walked down to the river. There to meet them was the lad’s father, the wise old man, and the lad himself, with bare feet and his trousers rolled up to his knees.

“Where is it?”, the Princess demanded, “where is my piece of the moon? It’s dark and a little bit chilly and I would like to get off to bed”.

“Shame, I think it a rather splendid night”, said the lad, “just look at the river”.

They all looked at the gentle, slow moving river, almost completely still in the moonlight and there, reflected in the water, was the lovely, big old full moon. They all gasped at the sight and smiled, commenting to one another how beautiful it looked.

“Shall I wade in and fetch you a piece?”, he asked the Princess. She clapped her hands in excitement and replied “Yes, yes..hurry up!”

The young lad waded it to where the moon shone on the surface of the river and he cupped his hands into the reflection of the moon. Turned and slowly made his way back to the bank, being ever so careful, as if he carried something so very rare and precious in his hands.

“Have you got it? Have you got it!”, cried the Princess, “…give it to me!”.

“Here, bring your face a little closer”, said the lad, “that’s it..if you really want it so badly, here have it!”

..and, with that, he threw a handful of cold, icy, river water straight in the Princess’s face! And, what was worse, he laughed a big hearty laugh as he did so!

“There!” he chuckled “There’s your piece of the moon!”

And the King chuckled too, but quietly into his big long beard, so the Princess didn’t see him.

“Arrest him!”, she screamed, “throw him in the dungeon!”

“We can’t have people thrown in the dungeon without proper reason”, the King said, scratching his chin, “but then I suppose we can’t have people throwing water over princesses either. You had better come along with us, boy, and bring your father”.

The wise old man winked at the King and the King winked back before turning to the lad and saying,

“We’ll all go back to the castle for some tea and tomorrow you will have to explain why you did it and if the explaination isn’t good enough, well..!”, he shook his finger at the lad. The King had added the last bit because, from the corner of his eye he could see the Princess, standing with her hands on her hips, her hair all wet and stuck to her face. It was a funny sight and the king wanted to laugh but thought it best to just wag his finger, instead.

“You’ll throw him down the dungeon!”, the Princess wailed, “for throwing water at me”.

“It was only a bit of water, my dear”, the King replied, “nothing hard that would have, actually, hurt you…such as..er..”

“…A piece of the moon!”, said the lad, giggling all over again.

That was all too much for the Princess and she stormed off to her room for the longest sulk ever.

The next day the lad found himself before the King and Queen to answer for his actions. His father, the wiseman, was there and as he took his seat, he winked at the King, and the King winked back.

“Why did you throw water over my daughter?”, the King asked, struggling to keep a straight face.

“To wake her up”, the lad replied.

“I wasn’t asleep!”, the Princess gasped.

“Your eyes were shut to other people’s thoughts, hopes and dreams”, he answered.

“I don’t know what you mean”, she said.

“You wanted a piece of the moon?”, the lad asked.

“Yes”

“And what would you have done with this piece of the moon?”, the lad asked.

The Princess thought for a minute before replying, “I don’t know, I would have put it on the table by my bed so that I could look at it, I suppose”.

“and then?”

She thought for a bit longer before saying “I would have wanted another piece, to put on the table on the other side of my bed!”

“So, if I had managed to fetch you a piece, pretty soon you would have wanted another piece?”

She nodded.

The lad continued, “and what the princess has, the other people in the castle want too, so more pieces would have to be fetched”.

“I suppose…”, said the Princess.

“And each piece would have a price, and as less and less moon was left, the price of each piece would increase, so only the richest could afford to own a piece of the moon”, said the lad.

“I suppose, that’s true”, the Princess whispered, thinking to herself about what he was saying.

“Until, there was no moon left at all”.

Everyone fell silent for a few minutes before the lad asked the Princess, “Don’t you think everyone has a right to look at the moon? A kitchen maid, as well as a Princess?”

“Yes”, the Princess whispered.

“And if a few people were greedy enough to all want a piece of the moon, there would be no more moon for everyone to gaze at and enjoy”, the lad continued, “you see, the beauty is not in the actual stuff the moon is made of, the beauty lies in our hearts, how we feel when we gaze up into the night sky and see the moon and more importantly how we feel when we see other people’s enjoyment at looking up at the moon. If those of us who could afford a piece of the moon all took a piece of it for ourselves..all we would really have is a lump of dull old rock and no more moon for us, or anyone else, to look at and enjoy”.

Everyone in the room fell silent and thought about the young lad’s words. Then the Princess spoke,

“I suppose, in a way, because I can look at the moon whenever it shines in the night sky and I know that wherever I am in the world it is the same old moon that my loved ones are looking at too and because I feel happy to see it and to see the enjoyment it brings other people, well, in a way…I already have my piece of the moon, don’t I? It is here in my heart already”.

The young lad smiled and nodded.

“There’s still the matter of throwing water over my daughter!”, the King said, laughing and winking at the wiseman.

“Indeed, my apologies!”, the lad said, “if the Princess still feels annoyed about that, well…perhaps I should allow her to splash me with water, in return for me doing it to her!”

“I will not quite splash you with water”, the Princess announced, walking towards the lad, “but I will do this” and with that she kissed the lad on the cheek, for she knew at that moment that he was not just the son of a wise man, he was quite a wise man himself!

THE END

end game

This might sound a little extreme, but if my doctor were to inform me that I would be dead in six months, I would, probably, be the only person to ever shake his hand in such a situation and ask if he could make it any sooner.

I am tired. Tired of the big things, tired of the little things.

Big things like:

The only place I ever found that I loved, my university town, being changed from a quiet, easy going community of a place into an over crowded corporate madhouse.

That the few women I have really loved, either did not feel the same way, found other guys, ultimately rejected me, to the point that I am left assuming that I am, simply, unattractive, stupid, and not wanted.

Why I contracted M.E (CFS) at the point in my life when things were finally, after a hell of a lot of effort, just starting to work out.

The world is somewhere I do not want to be.

Little things like:

Why IT is promoted as being wonderful but rarely works. None of the software I have purchased ever ran smoothly and does not seem compatable with Windows latest OS. Why predictive text on mobile phones is pointless and annoying. Listen up: No damn machine CAN EVER, I MEAN EVER predict what I am going to do next, jeez….I don’t know what I am going to do next half the time.

Why there is a madness to convert everything to electronic gadgetry: I will tell you something, I have never had the batteries die in a book, or the words go missing, rearrange themselves or otherwise screw up, even in the cheapest paperback, so why do we want electronic readers..just something else to glitch in our glitched up lives.

There is plenty more….I am just too tired to bother anymore. I am just waiting for it to end, around about February 2012 at the latest.

Toshiba

Having only ever bought one Toshiba product; an external hard drive that has been looked after, hardly used and never knocked, mishandled or otherwise badly treated. I am guessing “Toshiba” is Japanese for “Crap that breaks really easily”. I won’t buy any of their stuff again, advise everyone else to avoid it too, unless you like wasting money and, in the case of my external HD, lose a load of backed up data.

Damsel in Distress

The Dragon and the Damsel

We all know the story or are familiar with a variant of the theme. Brave knight fights the dragon to save the damsel in distress. On the surface this could be, merely, read as a bit of a macho man thing, striding in, slaying the beast and saving the defenceless woman. I like to look at it differently.

Stories like this always fascinate me because they deserve a little more attention than we sometimes afford them. Plus, they always bugged me a little because I could not help feeling the old dragon, not to mention the damsel, got a raw deal.

I was reading a few books recently about the limbic part of our brain. It was referred to as our Lizard brain, because it consists of the oldest and most primitive part of the brain. Possibly, the part that generates dreams, it is concerned with basic drives, connected to the nervous system and has an emotional aspect to it. It would take too long to describe its full make up here. The point being that Lizard, Serpent and Dragon really represent the same thing. So we have a starting point with our story: the dragon may represent the Lizard part of our brain. So why do we need to “slay” it. This caused a few problems for me. I have spent a lot of time seeing the need for us to develop and listen to this very aspect of our minds. As humans we spend too much time in our rational, cerebral mind and suppress a lot of what the cerebellum creates for us. Recently, I realised that, maybe, the Lizard/Limbic and the cerebellum are not quite identical, or that there is a negative side to this portion of the brain too. It is the fearful, selfish, spoilt child part of us, the “do as I please”, want things my way, throw the toys out of the pram aspect in each of us…a shadow side to the cerebellum’s creative, nurturing aspect which is the part that has the potential to give birth to dreams and creativity. So, the dragon represents this shadow aspect. It does not have to be slain but it does have to be tamed. This is done with the rational, organising, logical aspect of our brain; the cerebral, thinking part. Rational thought, logic, etc, are qualities often attributed to the male. The masculine aspect of the brain, in other words: The brave knight. So, why does he save the Damsel? We have already brushed upon it. The emotional and creative aspect of the cerebellum, where ideas and creation are born and nurtured. These can be seen as feminine attributes. The damsel is a woman and a woman can bring forth new life. The damsel in the story is the positive manifestation of the limbic system that needs to be separated and rescued from the negative aspect (the dragon) by the cerebral aspect of the mind (the knight). Once the cerebellum is protected from the dragon of selfishness, fear, anxiety, stagnation and denial, the damsel of nurturing, creativity and love can be unchained.

Fact and Fiction

The last episode of the three part series The Normans on BBC2 tonight, As I said in an earlier post I think this is a well presented and well produced documentary. However, I still have a tiny problem with it. Some of the information presented as fact in last weeks programme, particularly, around the subject of Hereward the Wake are not historical certainties but are aspects that can only really be judged as anecdotal evidence or legend. With history of this antiquity it is only to be expected that “fact” becomes intertwined with legend and a documentary can be forgiven for presenting them without differentation, but it still slightly concerning, especially when they are delivered in a programme that has a style of a no-nonsense, straight talking lecture on Norman History. It is how facts begin to get warped; someone else uses this programme as a reference and the information gains a certain verity. This episode also mentioned the way Anglo-Saxon words are used for the animal in the field (sheep, for example) but the French term is applied to the meat on the table (mutton). I am sure I have read that this is a bit of accepted wisdom that has no authenticity and was a creation of the Victorians. If so, it is slowly becoming assimilated into historical programmes as a fact which simply is not true.

Laugh?

Maybe, I am the one missing something here but isn’t the purpose of “comedies” to be, fundamentally, funny?

The BBC has missed this crucial aspect not once, but twice, with their new “comedies”, Roger and Val have just got in and Grandma’s House both of which are woeful. I must admit I have never found anything Dawn French has done that hilarious and Simon Amstell has always struck me as that kid in Sixth Form who thought his humour was sophisticated and amusing whereas in fact it was just extremely unfunny. The BBC seem to lack good comedy writers, even things like The Old Guys and My Family are pretty dreadful.

THe Normans: Wednesday BBC2 9pm

I read a review before watching the first episode of this new series: “Fascinating stuff, but very drily presented” was the concluding comment from the reviewer.

I would disagree. It was fascinating, informative and perfectly well presented by a knowledgable expert in the field, Professor Robert Bartlett. It came as a refreshing change to have a documentary that placed its focus on its subject rather than the whistles and bells so often a part of the contemporary genre: Things like “celebrity” presenter, CGI mock-ups, acted reinactments and incessant repeating of the same information, all of which seem to dominate much of documentary programming these days.

This programme served to remind us how documentaries used to be before the ten second sound bite of dumbed down television took hold.

Watching the Detectives.

First episode of Sherlock on BBC1 Sunday 9pm. Having always been a fan of the writer Steven Moffet, having written Coupling and Jekyll, I was happy to give this a go, notwithstanding the fact that I was seriously keen on the Sherlock Holmes stories as a child: Avidly obsessive would be a reasonable description of my enthusiasm.

Well acted, particularly, Martin Freeman. One of those actors who does not get the credit he deserves. I thought the plot a little predictable. The scene where they were tracing the GPS on the murdered victim’s mobile as the cabby ascended the stairs with Sherlock remonstrating and trying to solve the dilemma was painful to watch. Working out that Mark Gattiss was Mycroft and not Moriarty was also telegraphed. Liked the style, the use of graphics. The scene where Sherlock gave a description of Watson’s brother by observing details on his mobile was also a bit clumsy but an interesting reworking on the original, I seem to remember Holmes analysing a pocket watch, the scratches around the winder indicating drunkeness. Worth sticking with, though. Now when I hear the word “Moriarty” I have the immortal line, “I’ve got it, it’s Arty Morty!” and if you do not know the reference, you have not seen “Without a clue” and you are missing out on a funny film.

Good to see BBC4 repeating the entire first series of the Swedish version of Wallander on Saturday nights, brilliant television.

Fetch

Perhaps, this all began when I was shown that image, of my Fetch. Does that count? An image, I mean. A bit like hearing a recording of a Banshee’s Lament. Folklore says you, actually, have to meet your Doppelganger, your double, or Fetch in British Mythology, but all that was written down before the concept of a camera could even be imagined. Indeed, that would have been seen as some infernal instrument that trapped souls. I made a mistake, somewhere between Nadia the Model and my second year in university. In Nottingham? There are any number of moments, of events. Tiny, seemingly, insignificant minutes that I could point to and say There! That was when I died. Nadia, in hindsight, my big mistake, rejecting her. The other yoga girl, a big mistake, for accepting her. When she walked into that class on a mid-week summer evening and smiled her entrapping, soul enwrapping smile, I should have remained closed and turned my face from her. Or was it when I sat within those four small Galway walls? And realised that all the world was beyond those four barriers. All the world, all dreams, hopes, experiences, life, always on the other side, listening to the soft murmer of the shower girl next door and knowing there was no way for me to ever get to the other side of those walls. They were the permanent block that kept me from it all. Everything on one side and me on the other, always other. I am not in this world, I was never meant to be I do not think. Some cosmic mistake. All water under the bridge, except I, too, was swept under and drowned.