Philosophical mutterings

When I was a young girl I had a teacher who urged me to study economics. Despite having a high regard for this teacher, I couldn't, because, as I told him "I can't get past the fact that it's all made up. It's a gang of people persuading each other what things are worth and the world falling into line with their valuations."

I still believe that, which is why I sometimes find myself wondering what the hell I am doing playing SCA.

I should preface the following with the facts that I genuinely enjoy much of the SCA. I find the skills fascinating, I love and like many people that I would never have met outside the game, I find value in the ethos of supporting the weak and demanding justice from the strong, I am grateful for everything I have learned and understood, from handstitching to John Dowland, from Elizabethan politics to English war techniques of the 14th century.

But I keep hitting a philosophical wall.

Are we a society (and I mean a group of people bound by common purpose) or are we a club?

Either we are a society bound by common values based on chivalry and courtly grace and common directions based on historic research, or we're a club of nutters playing who has the best frock or fastest stick.

And I find that, to me, the difference is crucial.

The former gives you all the things I love in the SCA. It gives you Rowan and Mouse sitting down with a newbie and explaining how frocks go together. It gives you Elfinn and Muirghein passing snacks to the broken girl napping behind the table. It gives you Gabrielle and Marguerite miming how different pleats fall and then providing lists of where to use each. It gives you AEdward giving all his fighter auction opponents best of three bouts. It gives you Batholomew and Katherine housing strangers and friends with equal warmth. It gives you Cornelius standing with a hose on his friend's roof against an oncoming fire. It gives you Bethan turning a ragtag crew of singers into a crack team of harmonists. It gives you Sara standing feeding her perfectly dressed baby while behind her Rodrigo sits on a hand-wrought stool stirring pottage in one of Alex's cooking pots. It gives you Tycho who points out fighting tips to young men while chopping carrots with a knife he wrought himself. It gives you Anton and Katherine debating transliterations and translations of Plato in the wee small hours.

These things capture the imagination; they give impetus to working well at one's own crafts, from garb to politics. They give meaning to status; if a Duchess's interest or thanks is given weight by people like this, then being a Duchess has worth in itself. At the same time these people and their acts (and many others, too) provide goals: if I work hard, I wil be like them; if I act in a lesser way, I will disappoint them, so I should not.

In a society without gods or mystic wonders, this secular grace stands as a way of directing purpose and the encouragement of the gracious becomes a sign of favour. It is our most authentically medieval artefact; the support of the ranking and powerful having real import.

On the other hand, the club model leads to all the things I truly hate. This is is the model that rewards the sport and boy scout badge approach, whose proponents claim that it is supporting meritocracy, but who really construct a group that values our least democratic elements.

Here winning is the mark of the great tournament fighter. Noblesse comes with entitlement, not oblige. Rank commands respect, and does not see fit to earn it. Skills and resources are used as a mark of superiority, not seen as a resource to teach and share. Power becomes a way of ensuring personal success, rather than a duty to work for the whole.

I was reminded of all these things sharply over the last two months. At Festival I had a number of discussions with some fairly fabulous new young people. Regular questions included why some peers were good and others obnoxious; I could only prevaricate when it came to named culprits and suggest that there may be other issues in their lives. But as a general rule, it was determined by the SCA model they worked to, with those who saw their peerage as a well-deserved 'win' being generally ghastly, while those who saw it as a duty (while still being able to be happy about it, of course) being generally good.

Then at Crown I met up with two fighters who were there because they disagreed with everything about the current system. One of them still believed in the worth of his consort and was fighting for her. The other was fighting for himself. Both lost, but they reminded me of other SCA kings in other times who had looked to the throne as some kind of personal vindication. And I did not like the thought of that style Crown at the head of a Kingdom I helped build.

Because there is enough of that in the mundane world, where we have substituted a warped idea of merit for things of actual worth.

And the reason for all of this weighing on me? I am not at all sure that my way of thinking is the majority way.

And if it's not, then I should let people have their style of fun and go back to theatre, where I can now add costume to my list of credentials.

Oh the nagging ...

Memo to self: New Blogger mad, hates comments, requires manual turning on thereof. Almost as bad as line of dialogue on TV just now: You were built to seduce and run, Chad, you just can't help it! Secomd memo to self: If real life ever occasions moment when such a line would be apposite, turn on heel and run like the limpy wind!!!!

Yes, yes, I have been very lackadaisical with the blogging of late. This is because I have been working on a new frock, plus trying to tidy the house, plus having an apprentice shuffle, plus having lovely houseguests. Add to that May Crown, loads of work and a great need to catch up on sleep, and the blog had no chance.

So, a quick update before more serious updates later in the week (and yes, they're partially written so they will actually happen). The following are in no particular order.

* The Pirates in an Adventure with Scientists/Whaling/Communists had me in stitches for a week. I blame Maeve/Jen (who is now 30! How can she be so old? How can she be so young?) for me wasting several very enjoyable evenings on these three. Mr Gideon Defoe deserves your cash, go out and purchase his tiny tomes of giggledom at your first opportunity. They are very silly, but like all good silliness, it builds cheerfully, so persevere if you find the first dozen pages ridiculous. Each is as the name suggests, and if you think the mix of The Pirate Captain and Charles Darwin is inspired, wait till you see the PC and Karl Marx ...

* Laurel minutes should not be nearly 8000 words long. And that was after I left out the bad jokes. Honestly ...

* Apprentice 1 remains in place, albeit too busy to sew till November. A2 is off to be a Baroness and so is free unless she wants to come back, in which case her A will have been kept toasty warm for her. A3 was offered a squiredom before he was an official A. This was OK, because he had dreamed of being a squire, and it was to a knight good enough that I was prepared to let him go (he wouldn't have been given a general dispensation!), but now I'm not sure if I should take his A number as reserved or not, which matters because I am about to take on an official A4 or A3, depending on how we look at things, who is keen and lovely and has promised to be soft around we aged folk. And since her name doesn't start with A, I have to find her an A nickname ...

* J has torn the ligaments in his right elbow fighting in May Crown. They are not torn all the way through nor off the bone, but badly enough for six weeks out of fighting and no heavy lifting. Hilariously we discovered last night that there was talk he'd thrown the bout. Such talk was clearly from people who noticed neither the immense look of pain on his face at the tournament, nor the immense grumble of frustration after the tournament. And if that rumour started because he and I had a little private chat before the semis, it was him checking with me that I'd keep to our minimalist plans if he won the tournament, which was statistically likely.

I also had to laugh at some of the people offering to teach him some technique so that he would stop injuring himself. Yes he has tweaked this elbow before, but it's all for the one reason in that his muscles are far more developed in one direction than in the other. It is tangentially to do with SCA fighting, in that he has big strong whip the sword back muscles, and lithe, fast move it forward ones, but he just needs to lift some weights when his ligaments are less sore to even his muscles up so that his body stops working against itself. I would mock him, but I have pulled my own shoulder out of its socket reaching for an umbrella in the past, which would make me mockable, except my friend Sue broke her own humerus in two arm wrestling, so she wins in the stupid things with overdeveloped muscles game.

* We did Bridgewalk back in March, it was FANTASTIC. We went at night when the smoking ceremony was on; it's an aboriginal tradition to cleanse a place. It was beautiful, and enormous fun. I'm glad I badgered J into coming, and he was glad, too. Here's a photo of the bridge:


Taken from the middle lane where one would normally be flattened within minutes. I love the sculptural nature of this bridge, and I love the courage of the people who built it; both political courage for funding such a big project in the middle of a Depression and actual courage for doing such a difficult job with such rudimentary safety equipment. There is a cycle path on the western side of the bridge that is one of the world's most fun rides on a nice day; you can see all the way down the river and hear the penguins mipping as they play near Luna Park.

Of course, we were not the only people walking. In this shot you can see the smoke, but also the lights from the thousands of caps with LEDs that were given out to all the walkers. It was a nice touch by the sponsor, and it meant that all around The Rocks afterwards you could spot who had been there at that time. I'm quite looking forward to the centenary, now. Which I suspect may come about before John Howard apologises for the stolen generation, but after he leaves office, fingers crossed! (Probably not as tightly as Peter Costello's ...)


* I was a foul and grumpy haggis for most of Festival, the small reasons for which will be covered off in a subsequent post, but the big reason for which was that my foot was agonisingly painful the whole time. Aside from dust, that site is so evil in its rockiness. It was my fault for wearing period shoes, but seriously; OW!

* Anyway, we went up to see the ponies at Glenworth, site of next year's Festival and took a few photos of the property (NB, we're at the other end, but it all looks like this):

You will immediately note two major differences to Crossroads; it has grass and it is green. It is soft underfoot and when you trip, you do not damage yourself unduly. There is water, in little trickles that are quite safe for young folk of more than toddlerdom.

There are trees, and it's a valley, so there is shade and no gale-force dust-laden wind. I think that we might start camping again ...
More soon, sleep time now.