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By hutmaster
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31 December 2007 |
I was a choirboy in this very place and still remember the Latin hymns - and the penny poker!!
It was a tiny door. Arched. Oak, I think. Leading to a heady height of lost content.
Mass. The Sunday glory of remorse. Father Lynch sprinted from Introit to Blessing and the time between was lost and beautiful.
Taking the spiral-stairs to the choirloft after the first Sunday of perfidy meant nothing; a creep into the gloom and dust of ghost echoes,
ascendent steps to hell. Up here,
amidst ancient chorales and strangled wails, we corrupted one another.
We crowed unsacred songs. A sad symphony of grand illusion for lost
boys; our last of innocence.
Dart said that here the prayers of
God Almighty went unheard. And we pitied him. He said that this space
was unholy in its echoes of emtptiness. We were cast in the cream of
his words and repented at grim leisure.
He dealt. We raised our
cards in the gloom of purgatory, and bet. We tried, in our
misremembered sanctity, to guard the thud of our tumbling coin. It
reached the prayered Nave, though, and turned more than one distracted
head. They heard, in their Latined schmaltz, the slam of unchristian
coppers, the slow drift of choirboys from pennied Heaven.
And in their Sabbath hearing, was heard the gradual demise of boyhood Faith.|
Written by Phil (6730 comments posted) 31st December 2007 | Lovely bit of writing - almost poetic in delivery. Odd how religions we leave behind in childhood have such a lasting effect upon our adult selves.
The beauty of writing about things like this is that many of the things you mention have their own set of resonances that enrich a well written piece further. It's a little like a cook working with top quality ingredients.
Phil |
Written by Fledermaus (3301 comments posted) 31st December 2007 | | Never expected them to be angels... Swearing and betting in church. But then, having read Boccaccio, I suppose it was never different. |
Written by Lizzy (800 comments posted) 31st December 2007 | A really good piece of writing.
So much more behind the words than you actually wrote.
(Does that make sense?)
Liked the last sentence.
Lizzy |
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 31st December 2007 | Thank you Phil. It was a little longer and definitely poetic before I chopped it to this size.
Never angels, Fled, never angels. I have since met those of the generation above my own and they assure me that our unholy poker was mild in comparison. Makes you wonder!!
Thank you Lizzy. Could have added a few more escapades but I wanted to leave that to the imagination.
hm | HI Hutmaster
Written by jean.day (2283 comments posted) 31st December 2007 | Having played the organ in choir lofts for many years, I wonder how you got away with it. I suppose the choir director and organist were so holy their heads were buried in their missals, and they never suspected a thing. Or perhaps they knew full well what was going on and didn't want to lose their best singers.
I enjoyed reading it. |
Written by hutmaster (134 comments posted) 2nd January 2008 | Hello jean. How we got away with it? Well, the loft wasn't in use at every service so when not on choir duty we chose a time when it was empty and used it for our nefarious purposes.
Glad this appealed to you and thank you for commenting.
hm |
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