This has not been an easy festive period – for me, for most people I know – though there have been pockets of deep happiness, and the sharing of honest love among friends and family.
But then, I ask this, perhaps cynical, question: What deity was it who commanded that high days and holidays, festivals and birthdays should be attended by the Gods of Happiness and Peace? Or is this not, rather, yet another human construct that is not examined in anything like enough truthful depth?
Lord of Misrule more like! After all, he was traditionally appointed to preside over the Feast of Fools at this time of year – and this both delights me (nothing like a capering twat, preferably cross-gartered to the knee, to raise the Yuletide spirits and encourage a fulsome belly laugh as the tree comes down and the final slices of Christmas pudding are surreptitiously slipped to the dog) and reminds me of Shakespeare’s play meant for this time of the year, ‘Twelfth Night’.
Back in 1988 (well before several of my friends here were more than a twinkling in their respective fathers’ eyes), my Drama teacher friend, Jon, and I gathered the adolescent troops together, auditioned the buggers and, having as it were sorted out the men from the boys (an apt one given the cross-dressing central to the play), cast for the play.
I can still recall most members of that cast (and their respective birthdays, sad moo that I am!) – and the memories of that time are, given my central message for today, suitably Misrule-esque and certainly perfect for the idea of a Feast of Fools.
Just after we made the decision to do this play, I was attacked (sexually) by a stranger in the street – so my memories of the weeks and months following is a mish-mash of conflicting emotions (not unlike those triggered in so many of us this Christmastide): I was traumatised and my teaching was affected, but also I loved being a co-director/co-producer of the play.
My life back then was a feast of foolishness and misrule in and of itself. In the two years leading up to the attack and the play, it was a long round of unsuitable ‘partners’ (and the only time in my life when I have had one-night stands), a time in which I drank too much, smoked too much and was involved in a relationship which gave me little true happiness or peace of mind.
I identified with Malvolio. I was akin to Feste. I scorned the soppiness of Orsino and his, to me, pathetic love for Olivia. Recently – and not so recently – abused myself, I found all the love stuff tedious and silly, and was actually provoked to anger at the thought of it. And yet, ironically, that inner fire and fury helped me to survive (even though I got into trouble with the Headmaster for an incident which now makes me howl with laughter, but at the time scared me).
It was not a happy period of my life – but it was most certainly creative and energising: I had finished the first draft of ‘Heneghan’ just days before being attacked and had also started learning to play the violin a few months previously.
The play was a success, as I recall, and our cast of young things did us proud. I do remember the after-show party and the sense of sadness I felt; I do remember feeling this sense of loss because that particular fifth year group (many of whom were in the play) were soon to leave school and go on to sixth form elsewhere (Worle being an 11-16 school) and I feared, at the time, that I would never see any of them again.
Yes, it was a Feast of Fools in many ways – but, when I hear or read the word ‘Fool’, I also think of the Tarot card – and, in the deck I have worked with since the early nineties, this character is called The Seeker. Both are apt. Both set out on a journey. Both have a certain level of innocent hopefulness. Both face troubles (and delights) ahead. Both have difficult decisions to make as they walk the Rainbow Path and face the Abyss we must all, at some point, come up against.
Today is Twelfth Night once again, and twenty-nine years since that long-ago performance of Shakespeare’s play. Today, I will take down the Christmas tree and other festive decorations – and start to prepare for my birthday party (which takes place next week). My mood is sombre, though sparks still shiver up and down my spine as energy returns. I am not radiantly happy. But then, why should I be, or pretend to be? We, as a race, put far too much pressure – on ourselves and on others – to conform to these mood-related expectations, and I do not consider this to be healthy.
When we utter those words – ‘Happy Christmas’ or ‘Happy New Year’ – it is loving wish and not strait-jacket of rigid expectation. Why? Because happiness does not come with tree trimmings, turkey and crackers, nor is it inevitably triggered by drunken bellowing of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ as the bells peel another year into being.
The festive period is as much practical joke upon humanity as it is unalloyed joy! And, let’s face it, seeing my mother on Wednesday was every bit as much about Nativity as is the Christmas story, and sadness has just as much right to exist as happiness.
