Back in body but only just in spirit from en extremely rich MYTHTELLER gathering - the first of that name. Laughing, crying, deep in the stories, fellowship, the fireside, Dartmoor in autumn, perfect.
We will be announcing the 2013 year course dates at the beginning of November, so all that missed this or where on the waiting list, jump on quick, as these places will go - we have a maximum of 20.
I now have a little time to settle back into my studies, and also keep preparing for the winter migration to California. There will be myth-work in the Point Reyes area as well as Stanford (no access to that course unless student i'm afraid) - more on that and contact details soon.
I also have news of two short events over the Fri/Sat of November 23/24th. First up is an evening up in Dorset at Bridport Art Centre, then second, an all day workshop in my local ground of Dartington. It had been suggested to me that i may do something due to a lot of folks that could not get places at the Mythteller and Prophet weekends,so they still get at least a taste of what the school is all about.
Why not come to both, and make something of a weekend of it?
The below workshop will be the very FIRST time i have worked with this gutsy epic. I can't wait, i must admit. The poster above is rather small - so here's the info.
EROS AND PSYCHE
A Living Myth
A workshop with mythologist
Dr. Martin Shaw
Sat November 24th 10-4.30, Dartington Village Hall, Devon £50
This ancient Greek story is packed with information about how modern men and women experience the trials that love creates. A startling myth, it contains rich metaphors for loves stages, and how they inform our wider growth as human beings. As the telling unfolds over a day, we experience its giddy beginnings, its rough betrayals, the funeral contained within a wedding, the long road out of the Underworld and the hard won ecstasies of the lovers chamber.
To book a place, ring 01364 653723 today or email firstname.lastname@example.org
“Her name? Psyche - the yellow breast of the moon shines through her - milk
surges from dark soil when she strolls by, even sea bandits praise her name”
I am also happy to announce a telling of that swaggering and magnificent fairy tale TATTERHOOD at Bridport art centre in November. Last time i was there it was packed, so you may want to book tickers asap if you are thinking of coming. I will tell the story and then as a wild little one-evening-tribe we will explore its many delicious layers together.
Here's the art centres info on it:
BRIDPORT ART CENTRE, DORSET
STORY CAFE: MARTIN SHAW
23 November 2012, 19:30
Mythologist, author and shamanic teacher Martin Shaw is a skilled and witty wordsmith. He explores the idea that myth is nothing to do with A Long Time Ago – it’s about a place you can inhabit at almost any time.
“Story is a Sharp Knife – not as allegory, repertoire or form of psychology but as an independent energy. How do we nurture it if it decides to be told by us?” Martin Shaw.
“Martin Shaw is a true master. One of the very greatest storytellers we have”. Robert Bly
Suitable for adults and older younger ones.
Excerpt below from my telling of the story - a king and queen who cannot conceive are visited by an old woman of the woods who has information on how to change the situation:
The nieces runs to the sovereigns,
“i have news!’
I have met a leafy-girl -
who says her granny
can make bellies swell
like a browning loaf:
She sings salt back to the ocean
she calls the owl to nestle in the lonely croft
of your hips.”
They are summoned.
And the dark stick
behind our raggled-girl
Hawk nosed, thistle-haired,
yoke fat with cobra-knowledge
Pockets a-clatter with magics,
dragging rooster blood
from the heart of the moon.
In the grandeur of the hall
at first she denies the powers.
That the child is tongue-eager,
bent to exaggeration.
But as the dusk shadows flood
over the gold, she relaxes.
In that time before candles are lit,
she shows some form.
Her proud shape
juts into the room.
mearcstapa - the boundary walker
zaunreiter - a hedge straddler
hagazussa - hag
She gulps brandy
and spits chicken-claw words:
“you will never grow large.
Your bed is too high, too smart,
too far from dirt.
In your far off tower,
a woman’s eggs grow dizzy
a mans pearling will be as a drizzle
of stagnant water.
You can rut
Like the creamy whale
ablaze with its concubine
in the indigo kingdom
but nothing much will happen.
Take your bed
Your pillows that hold your thinking
your graceful sheets
Out to the furthest stable
with the pitted earth floor.
after you bathe,
carry the water, a-clink down the stairs,
sloshing with your filth.
Give it to the stable dirt,
four directioned, intended,
Then drag the bed
over the pool
and start the steady grind
of your seeding.
push the bed aside.
There will be two flowers -
white and red.
Eat the white.
Under no circumstances eat the red.
Do this and all will change.”
Her speaking is strange.
Like words gathered from underneath
By now the hall is almost completely dark.
As the page lights the first candle,
the women canter out
on the dark horses of their pride.
Copyright Martin Shaw 2012