The Tale In The Trench
The Birth of Hermes
We’re diving into a Greek myth this week. First, a couple of announcements to share, with news of an upcoming tour and the latest over at Jawbone…
TO FALL BEAUTIFULLY FROM THE EDGE OF THE WORLD:
TECHNOLOGIES FOR GETTING MADE
Canadian Tour May 2005
I am delighted to be coming back to Canada, events and ticket links are here:
In the latest episode of Jawbone I am exploring: And Where the Desert?
The Wink is All
It’s rare that I tell a Greek story here, simply because most of the ones I know are rather long, but this gleeful little gem is just the right length. I don’t tell it too often, but it’s shown up in England, Canada and America – in fact I once told it in Hermes Gorge in Crete nine years ago, the fabled place of his birth. This version comes from The Night Wages, my long-form essay on walking through grief and the experience of sustained heartbreak.
The Birth of Hermes rather bucks the mood of that book, being a lively account of the first few days of the life of Hermes, who, amongst other tasks, is the Greek god of the storytellers. I’ve always felt that Dylan Thomas and Lorca carried something of his crackling spontaneity. I’d recommend anyone interested in telling stories to pay close attention to how he yarns and weaves: there aren’t enough Hermian tellers really, playing from the hip.
As always I’d ask: Where do you find yourself in the story?
Some of the questions I’ve carried over the years with this tale have been: When did I covet my brother’s cattle? How did I obscure my footprints? How do I play that lyre gently with a mind open to pleasure? Have I made sufficient libation before I attend to my own appetites? Why is it impossible to bind Hermes except by blessings?
For me, today, it’s the big wink he gives Zeus as he tells the most imaginative and rollicking version of quite what happened to his brother Apollo’s cattle. Never do we get the sensation he’s really trying to deceive, rather invite everyone in to the play of his incantations. Humour has proved to be a ritual device for depth in hundreds of storytellings I’ve given. It relaxes, and allows deepening sensations to be more fully realised as they develop in the stories. Changes of gear mood-wise are essential. No one needs Saturn railing at them, hour after hour.
After the First World War, people noticed that Greek myth motifs were turning up in Scottish traveller stories. It took a lot of puzzling till people realised these were tales told in the trenches by the classically-educated officers when dug in with their men, exchanged for folk-tale and traveller fable. I think that would please Hermes no end. Stories long fixed suddenly accommodate new episodes, forged under the serious listening that duress can bring. Stories can be alive like that, when the stakes are real enough.