Hiya,

(Apologies if the language in this is a bit flowery but I wanted to get in the spirit of things.)

Here starteth the◘ henge review.

Was desperate to go cos I couldn't get to Stone'enge (where the children dance to the pipes of Pan, & nobody knew who they were/what they were doin') so this was organised as a treat for me by member of staff who also loves this kind of thing.
Going to such an event was stupidity itself but though I knew I was going somewhere I knew not of where or what it was & by the time I knew it was too late.

A man walks up & explains why he had ◘henge built, for his late wife, & reads a poem about how the stars don't know of love, grief, things not happening as they should, or human life. I think how I envy them as I adjust my silky red & black, gold-edged dress which fits like paint, wincing as it chafes my unfettered breasts every time I breathe.

I sip from my goblet of strong mead, arranging my legs so I don't slip down in my chair & so my pointy boots don't come off. My Consort is sadly not here, but a fellow fosterling is, with his companion – (my own's husband) --, both looking as if they want to be anywhere else but where they are. I, on the other hand, have loved this w/ all my ♥ for nearly 100% of my life; novels, magazines, & stories I read/write are full of it .

A woman w/ a flowery headdress on top of locks the colour of flames appears in front of me to say she had a vision of a Native American. There's a woman w/ heavy b&w make-up & clothes, she's carrying an accordion. She must be a folk musician but she looks like she should be in a rock band. Why is she looking at me ? I don't want her to look at me; yes I do. I don't want her to start playing; yes I do -- I don't want her to stop once she starts.

I'm as dry as a kex, & so nervous I want to vomit. I thankfully don't. My chair gets stuck in the grass, eventually having to be pushed by said carer, who has been working since ¼ to 7 that morning, & her husband keeps forgetting I can't drive myself.

The flame-haired woman gives me a ☺ & asks my name. Nearly forgetting it, I tell her as I look at her old-fashioned dress in complete awe, somehow knowing she sings, anticipating her high, clear voice that would – like her -- frighten & enchant me at the same time, feeling like I'll pass out. How can I feel as if I've been here before, when I haven't??.

Over pan-pipe music which makes me want to weep, another woman asks the Goddess & Guardians of Earth, Air, Fire & Water, to be w/ us as she opens the Sacred Circle. She lists all the Goddess's names. The Goddess is also in Her male form, the Lord of the Hunt(!)

The flame-haired Priestess starts to chant.
"I see the moon,
The moon sees me
The moon sees somebody I want to see....."

She carries on chanting,. 27 drummers are behind her, including Karen, all w/ big drums they've customised themselves or had customised, according to them mostly aided by spirits.

"Mother, I feel you under my feet," the Priestess sings, "Mother, I feel your heartbeat........" we all join in as much as we can; as she says, we're all one after all. She is right; I just wish this were true of my flat in the care home & that I could share this w/ someone else there aside from said member of staff.

She then says hail & farewell.

The sky is now a backdrop of pink & orange to the wooden "stones", the moon is full & blue, like the song.

The b&w-clad dancers –the Pig Dyke Molly Dancers they are called – they look like human versions of Merlin -- do 3 dances to music I ½-recognise w/o knowing but love regardless; the Witches' dance from Macbeth, as the 3 witches were all supposedly real; a dance about death, & another dance.
They dance in mid-winter, they tell us, to dance the sun up (to halt the work of yon Wintersmith!) I ½ -move my legs, forgetting I cannot join in & why.

I go through the lines of people to partake of wine & hog roast (had already partaken of bbq'd meats at lunch & about 4pm, spring rolls & coleslaw) while the drums carry on, frightened & thrilled equally. Said hog roast, w/ crackling, & apple sauce, is dropped all over my lovely dress.

We get ready to go about 9pm. I want to stay. Why can't I stay with these people? This is where I should be; this is my home; my flat, as good as it is & as well as I am tended to, is simply where I happen to live.
Back in the bus, my friend's Companion gets his belly out & starts to dance to the music outside. Then while driving us back, he does a witch's cackle & starts speaking in a high, scratchy voice, making my friend & I jump out of our skin.

Later I am still dry as a kex as I am today, i'faith – there'd been nobody to make me a cup of tea before bed – beyond exhaustion & desperate for the privy, my feet go into spasm. Serves me right. They're ok after boots come off – wore them too long -- but start up hurting again the next day.

The most important thing is would I go again? YES but I'd need to either go in my manual chair/have one of those big tank-like chairs. Of course i'd have to check concert dates too.

It is rumoured I may not be able to write any more for I shall be hanged from the gallows oh so high for disbelieving in Christ (why, when all religions do basically the same job, & other things can & do do said job for me ??) then a bunch of steely-eyed itingerant minstrels, whom I loved more than life & as much as my parents, whose career has spanned decades, will write a song about it, which I sadly won't hear.

(Goddess be praised, for it has this moment been decreed that said steely-eyed band of minstrels hath been ordered to play @ Derngate on 29th Nov – I'm bowel-looseningly pleased w/ this & have just frightened her fellow fosterling to death screeching my head off.)

Here endeth the◘ henge review.

I ain't got the blues no mo' I said.