All of the following is completely true.

Bright eyed Fed began by telling a story. She told a story of something (puzzling? true? – of course true, always true, although it might not have happened) she experienced that day. She ended with the phrase: “And I don’t know what that means.” The next person in the circle did the same but with a new story, and so on round the circle. The coda shifted and at some points seemed forgotten or ignored or undiscerned but from time to time was picked up, often in a manner reminiscent of an unfamilar uncle at the school gates.

Velvet lungéd James took us through some voice exercises. Humming. Ionian scales (there are notes elsewhere on this site what these are – dear reader, I urge you, seek ye them). We executed these with various twirls and curlicues for which I lack the correct language, but they centred around notes on their own, then in 2s, then in 3s, then in 4s. Several people struggled with these. Not I. As a youth I spent my summers working as a cabin boy on a Russian oligarchs yacht. In return for teaching her how to spear fish, his swift eyed Greek bride snuck from her quarters at night and schooled me in the Mediterranean way. I was and remain grateful. James urged us as I urge you to listen to the files what skilful digited Simon sent out. This will either make sense or it will not.

We clapped out a rhythm. Gradually the majority of the claps were removed from the pattern although the rhythm remained the same. In other words, you counted the ‘missing’ claps in your head. This proved surprisingly diffcult for many although my spell as fill-in drummer for Lenny White at the El Mocambo stood me in good stead. I was not afraid.

Nimble toed Sian developed these rhythms. First, simple clapping in groups of 3. 3 slow claps from one person. 3 slow claps from the person to their left. And so on round the circle. Then repeat with 3 quick claps. Then sending a single clap round the circle, first as a slow pulse, then a quick pulse.

We developed the clap (insert your innuendo HERE) by expanding it into an improvised movement as we passed the clap on (quiet at the back) to the responsible adult on our left or right (the movement would change directions).

We chanted the word Ithaca, first taking all 3 syllables oneself, then taking a syllable at a time. Three, as Dave Jude Jolicoeur would take pleasure in reminding me over endless Cognac and Dr Peppers on the tour bus, is the magic number.

We combined the clap with a heel step and chanting. We were in a circle. We combined all this with four steps inwards, tightening the circle, and then four steps back, widening the circle.

We divided into 3 groups and used three-word phrases – ie Pour Your Wine, which chanted in our groups. We then alternated phrases between groups. I forget the other two phrases but let’s say they were –Show your scar and Kill the King – this meant that the order of words would go:

Pour
Show
Kill
Your
Your
The
Wine
Scar
King

Which reads like a Radiohead lyric. Reader, like Odysseus, I digress.

However, because each group had its own phrase (and movement to accompany the phrase), the phrases themselves remained distinct. To us, anyway. Although to be fair, we were the ones doing it.

We intermingled ('intermingléd'?) and tried this (remember, 3 chants, but the members of each ‘tribe’ mixed up)

We combined movement with sound again, another 3 phrases.

One was ‘Soon as she sees him, she will see the scar’. We divided into 3 (or 4?) groups. We used these three phrases and movements as the basis for creating mini-performances. The first group showed off horrendously (ie they were very good), the second group created a repressed memory that – God willing – no psychiatrist will ever drag from my unconscious. Mercifully, I was in the third group and so was spared the ordeal of observing. With my experience in the Ukraine as a dancer (12 years with a touring troupe of acrobats for hire), it was no doubt of a very high standard.

Fed urged us to tell Books 19+20.
She began by recounting a (true? always true) story. “Earlier on, I was having a burger with Johnny Donnelly and he asked my what happened in Book 19 and...” then she nodded and some brave soul continued the story. Sometimes the story of Book 19 was told. Sometimes the story of John and Fed and the burger, including feeding and all manner of grotesquerie. This continued all the way through Books 19+20. Were we listening to one another?

At some point rhythm challenged John (reader, I was that man) wrote this text what fleet tonguéd Simon read out:

He didn’t know his own name
He had no teeth
They rotted on the way
His friends were dead
She did not know him
He did not know his own face
She fed him because he was too scared to eat
He ate because he was too scared to speak in case no one would listen
She was his wife but she was missing
He saw their intimacy and was afraid
He said touch my scar
She said no
He said don’t touch my scar
She saw him and was afraid because if it was him it meant the end of the story
And she needed the story
To keep the old him alive
When the story ends
the world ends
All he had was his words
And he could not speak
No, that’s wrong
Of course he could speak
And he told her to shut her old mouth

Any additions, amendments, extrapolations, reorderings or reimaginings beyond what is written above is a lie. This is an accurate and faithful account of events of February 16, this year of our Lord 2011. This is as I remember it and is therefore true.