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chocolatepot · 5 months ago

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I definitely don't mean that because it was a half-made-up example off the top of my head!

Folk magic was a big part of everyday life, a lot of it more than nominally Christian in a way that doesn't really fit with our preconceptions about medieval Europe. John Bromyard recorded a charm for healing in the 14th century that was still said centuries later:

St Mary enchanted her son against the bite of elves and the bite of men, and she joined bone to bone, and blood to blood, and joint to joint, and so the boy recovered.

There's a thin line between charms and prayers, but churchmen of the period drew that line, mainly along the basis of how strong your certainty was. Asking God or a saint to heal you: just prayer, okay. Claiming your words could cause God/a saint to heal you, saying that the specific words of your prayer would be more likely to get God/a saint to heal you: that's magic, don't do it.

It was okay to say the Lord's Prayer while collecting medicinal herbs, but reciting anything else, no matter how religious it was, was considered an "incantation" and a use of magic to heal. Requests to saints for healing like these might be written down on parchment and worn in an amulet, again to more strongly encourage healing or protection, were also considered magical if a) they consisted of more than text from the gospels, b) were deliberately written at a specific time to be more powerful, or c) made promises like "whoever carries this will be protected etc."

Trials by ordeal, where a person was wounded and their innocence determined based on whether God let their wound get infected or started it on the healing process, was initially seen as religious, but eventually condemned as an attempt to practice magic by some. (Because it was forcing God to play a part with humanity.)

Belief in love charms of various kinds were strong, and the clergy tended to condemn them strongly for the harm they could cause. They took the form of incantations, wax effigies of the desired target, rings, and potions. Sometimes they were supposedly made with the eucharist, women cheeking the bread so they could do magic with it later. It could also be used in magic for making livestock more productive.

Anything that fell under the heading of "divination" was magical. Deciding not to start a journey because the stars weren't right or a rooster hadn't crowed yet was magic, doing a horoscope was magic, thinking an owl flying across your way was a good sign was magic. Essentially, trusting in what we'd now call superstitions about luck was magic.

Veneration of things in the natural world was magic. Leaving an offering at a fountain said to help women conceive - magic. Pouring a bit of wine on/building a cairn at a fork in the road to make sure your journey would go well - magic. Pre-Christian shrines in places like these were usually destroyed during conversion, but were also often built up again afterward as the belief in them persisted, even if filtered through Christianity.

When priests hid magic they were doing from their superiors, it was in part because they were indulging in folk practices that they were supposed to be suppressing, or at least spiritually above.

Further reading:

Magic and Religion in Medieval England by Catherine Ryder

The Rise of Magic in Early Medieval Europe by Valerie Irene Jane Flint

I understand why a lot of fantasy settings with Ambiguously Catholic organised religions go the old "the Church officially forbids magic while practising it in secret in order to monopolise its power" route, but it's almost a shame because the reality of the situation was much funnier.

Like, yes, a lot of Catholic clergy during the Middle Ages did practice magic in secret, but they weren't keeping it secret as some sort of sinister top-down conspiracy to deny magic to the Common People: they were mostly keeping it secret from their own superiors. It wasn't one of those "well, it's okay when we do it" deals: the Church very much did not want its local priests doing wizard shit. We have official records of local priests being disciplined for getting caught doing wizard shit. And the preponderance of evidence is that most of them would take their lumps, promise to stop doing wizard shit, then go right back to doing wizard shit.

It turns out that if you give a bunch of dudes education, literacy, and a lot of time on their hands, some non-zero percentage of them are going to decide to be wizards, no matter how hard you try to stop them from being wizards.

#history

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sociologyonthemove · 5 years ago

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Litter: the MESSage around us by Dan Galvin

This walking essay will present a descriptive account of my walk through my hometown of Worcester; exploring the notion of litter within the city through a sociological lens. I seek to go beyond the affirmation that “walking is full of litter” (Puwar 2019:3), by investigating the messages litter can ascribe to us when examined through deeper meanings. I aim to decipher what litter can tell us about particular streets and thoroughfares, as well as humanity and wider society. I follow a sketched map (Figure 1); embarking on a route that botanises the asphalt of the city’s differing facets, instead of being drawn to the attractions of the urban terrain, as per the Dérive (Debord 2006). Throughout my journey I embody the punk sociologist (Beer 2014); gathering and uncovering insights by trawling the social world, enlivening sociological topics through the litter I find.

As I savour the dregs of a flat white, I notice the butt of a cigarette on the pavement through the coffee shop window. Laying trampled, it looks as sombre as the early morning sky overhead. The bell above the door delicately tinkles as another tired soul joins the two-man party that is the barista and I. She precedes a draft as bitter as the coffee I have been nursing. Despite the daffodil in a retired milk bottle on the table in front of me, nothing about this dank morning feels Spring like. Zipping my coat up, I step outside into the shadows of the Victorian terraces opposite. The cigarette butt, now at my feet, marks the start line of my journey; a poignant snippet of what I anticipate is to come.

I travel down Henwick Road, towards the University. The road is congested with commuters, a high spec BMW sits agitated waiting to move. I catch a glimpse of the face behind the wheel, he yawns as I pass. Reaching the entrance to the campus I find the close proximity between commuter and student rather apt; the latter soon to become the former. Two wheelie bins reside inside the gateway, a mattress is sleeping between them. Black bin bags surround the red bin like boulders at the foot of the cliff, its green counterpart stands lonely; recycling must be yet to catch on amongst students. Turning onto Oldbury Road I need no confirmation that students reside here, the stench of takeaway boxes and stale alcohol makes it apparent. The road is signposted by varying articles of refuse lining the pavement. As Puwar (2019:3) appropriately asserts, “whilst the walls of the university extend across the city and into our neighbourhood so does the litter and rubbish”.

The persisting trail of litter escorts me as I turn onto Comer Road. My pace is irregular, the halts in my steps coinciding with the flashes of my camera. The litter harboured on the unkempt tarmac evidences the well-practiced student night out. The memories of the night before may be blurred this morning, but the litter remains clear. I smile for the first time today at the sight of the last man standing; an empty beer bottle on number 68’s window ledge.

The end of Comer Road is flagged by two ugly sisters; a boggy puddle and a mound of debris. The mound is sporadically decorated like a Christmas tree, a wine bottle, Thatchers can and coffee cup as baubles. The student paradox of alcohol and caffeine. Contemplating the juvenile lack of regard for correct litter disposal (see Munro and Livingston 2012:1684). I surmise that perhaps student’s temporary status as residents prohibits any investment into cleanliness.

A bus pulls up on the opposite side of Bromyard Road as I lollop down its trivial decline. Why does walking downhill always feel so clumsy? The hiss of the bus as it stops is as passive aggressive as the ‘try your brakes’ warning sign further down the hill. A pleated skirt dances in the wind around the ankles of an elderly lady as she clambers onto the bus. The wilt in her back makes the manoeuvre laborious. The traffic has picked up, fumes of petrol fill my nose; invisible litter. I imagine the air pollution above my head to be as copious as the cigarette butts below my feet. Propelled by slipstream, litter gathers at the kerbside. I spot a yellow ‘M’ on a brown paper bag, McDonalds is approaching. The pudgy smell of grease makes me nauseous at this early hour as I reach the eatery. Tradesmen in hi-vis jackets and cargo trousers eat egg McMuffins with their cracked builder’s hands. I hate egg. The slope starts to lessen, the litter does not. Yesterday’s 9-5 is outlined in front of me, the paper cup of a morning coffee, the lid of a lunch time salad box, a receipt for a bottle of Malbec to have over supper. Two young mums stride past me purposefully, their pushchairs ploughing through the snowfall of litter under them. The taller of the two has a small boy clinging to the seam of her jeans, the thumb of his free hand is in his mouth. I tread over a soggy newspaper, it’s a copy of The Sun, how disappointing! It’s the first newspaper I have seen; student-ville was unsurprisingly newspaper free.

As I near the city centre, I reach a roundabout. A green island encompassed by a moat of concrete. During the festive season the lanky pine tree in the centre is decorated with LED lights; today an Extinction Rebellion banner and plastic bag. The busy A44 that joins the roundabout to Worcester Bridge is free from pedestrians but not litter. The pavement paralleling the road is overgrown, evidently not a well-trodden path. Intermittent bursts of air hit my face and rattle my ear drums as boisterous traffic zooms by. Impulsively my head bows and my stride slows as the pug like face of a lorry hurls towards me. I feel exposed. My walk turns to a march. I march past a jumble sale of plastic bottles, cans, crisp packets, burger wrappers and a hubcap; all the expected roadside culprits. It seems, just as electrons attract protons and magnets attract magnets, litter attracts litter. It’s no surprise the state of verges in Worcester is a recurring complaint (Dury 2010). A yellow speed camera lurks above; I wonder how many speeding drivers it has seen, I wonder how many littering drivers it has seen.

Eventually I reach the river; the water’s surface dapples as it meanders lazily. A bevy of swans is the only vessel afloat this morning. Their beauty makes it easy to forget the headache they used to give our cox during regatta season. My eyes gaze upstream in search of the Rowing Club; four years has passed since I captained the boys squad, yet the Boat House still feels like mine. The rivers continuity is calming. Birch and maple trees line the water’s edge; leaves swaying on branches like hands waving on arms. An arrangement of Chrysanthemum’s wrapped in discoloured polythene is tied to the railings that run along the riverbank (Figure 5); marking the last patch of earth someone stood upon like a bruise. The flowers look as sorrowful as I imagine the grief-stricken family do. Regrettably, their limp and lifeless demeanour provokes images of the deceased; a shiver runs down my neck. I continue to study the bouquet; the tribute now so putrid it miscarries my sympathy. Without emotional ligature the flowers are as much an eyesore as the preceding crisp packets. It is apparent that how litter is defined varies from one observer to the next. For me, the urban landscape is tarnished by the flowers, for a grieving mother it is embellished.

My strides heavy with sadness, I walk over Worcester Bridge. I ponder all the people it has upheld since its construction in 1781, the 18th century glove makers, Edward Elgar, me. The heavy rainfall as of late has caused the river to burst its banks further upstream, taking everything in its path with it. Today Worcester Bridge is a bouncer, policing what travels further downstream; a gathering of refuse is queuing to get in (Figure 6). This pontoon of varying trunks and branches sits on the water like a scab; a flood battle wound. It is hoarding an assortment of wares like a magpie nest, albeit litter rather than silver. This morning’s collectables consist of a neon traffic cone, blue watering can and ladder back chair. This stockpile of refuse evidences how “Nothing is protected from litter” (Puwar 2019:5). Litter does not discriminate; neither a window ledge, pine tree or a river can escape it.

Now over the bridge I traipse towards Broad Street; a part of the city I have frequented many times. The uneven cobbles below disjoint my footfall. A patchwork of Tudor wattle and daub, Victorian facades and modern architecture enclose around me. The acid scent of rain greets me as it starts to fall; the air feels close. The traces of early shoppers and young school children cut across the land generating unofficial paths down the high street; desire lines (Bates 2017). Chewing gum peppers my route like spots on a Dalmatian. The spots are most prevalent around the bins; all the missed shots, so near yet so far. Despite the succession of bins lining the high street there is litter all around. Enough receipts, flyers and newspaper pages are stuck to the wet street floor to make a catalogue. I walk over a W.H. Smith receipt; £1.70 for a bottle of water! Remains of human consumption besiege me; chocolate bar wrappers, bottle tops, the crust of a pastry, a lollipop stick. A polystyrene kebab box lies disembowelled by a bench, bloodied with ketchup. I wonder what part the seagulls have played in this operation as they intimidatingly swoop above me in the dismal sky. A clump of grease saturated chip paper lies in a shop doorway. I hold my breath to dodge the curry sauce stench. Despite my growing appetite I do not feel like eating any time soon. A damp Gregg’s paper bag is situated just outside the bakery like a door mat; a lifespan as short as a mayfly.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window spanning the entirety of Barclays bank; my hair has frizzed in the rain. I pass Chicken Cottage. It looks nothing like a cottage. Although somewhat living up to its namesake, there is a long-bearded man resting his head in the porch of the doorway. The black nylon sack that cocoons him is easily mistakable for an agglomeration of bin bags. A Costa cup and 13p in an overturned beanie sit beside him. He is as objectified as the litter I have been shaming; sympathy chokes me. How must it feel to wake with an empty stomach in a bed fenced by the remains of consumption? There is an empty packet of Quavers, deflated Ribena carton and tuna sandwich wrapper, in the adjacent door way; the skeleton of a Tesco meal deal. I don’t know what is more criminal, the littered doorway or the pungent choice of foods? The damp weather has not deterred Worcester’s exponential pigeon population from commuting to the littered streets. These vertebrates litter the city just the same as the detritus I have encountered. Perhaps flying litter is more apt than flying rats.

The end of Broad Street is intersected by Saint Nicholas Street. The offering of more ground to tread helps quieten the pedestrian flows (Bates 2017). This end of the street is less commercialised and subsequently less littered. The frayed flag above the entrance to the Whitehouse Hotel has drooped in the rain, it reminds me of the carrier bag in the pine tree on the roundabout. A bus moans as it lugs forward. The lips of a waiting taxi driver are pursed around the brim of his Starbucks cup; I pine for caffeine. Vases full of elegant blooms pose in the window of Hopmarket Flowers; its unfathomable to think of them and their sisters at the river as part of the same family. I trudge under the railway bridge, dodging the pigeon droppings. The orange corner of a train ticket pokes out of a drain cover. Walking through the bridges shadow supresses my mood; I think about how our temperament can be affected when our senses interact with the urban landscape.

An empty cigarette packet watches me as I turn down the dingy corridor that is Pierpoint Street. This alley is home to The Marrs Bar, “Worcester’s finest live music venue”; the drab brickwork and windowsill mould suggests otherwise. Sprinkles of gold confetti mottle the paving stones near the entrance. I imagine them raining down, heightening the climax of last night’s performance. This morning however, they only heighten my despair. Ambling up the residential Sansome Walk, waves of litter start to crash around me once more. The line of my strides connects the scattered rubbish like a child’s dot-to-dot. There are numerous black and green bins standing proud in front of their houses; regimented like soldiers in a line down the street. The litter scattered on the pavement battlefield signifies the soldiers defeat in this war.

One soldier is missing in action, resulting in a pile up of waste. The pink umbrella reminds me of my frizzed hair. I wonder if the variance of litter emulates the variance of residents. A battered Lynx canister, a shattered compact mirror, a senior bus ticket, an ‘I have been brave’ dentist sticker; male, female, old, young. The pavement I traipse along is as slender as the beanpole of a man approaching me. I smile at him by way of thanks as he tucks into the wall to let me pass; my first interaction of the day. His furrowed brow echo’s the surrounding litter. A set of three draws perch at the end of a driveway without a dresser or a cabinet to call home. Rather than the usual underwear or stationery they contain only a few browned leaves. Trying to determine the reasoning behind their redundancy it occurs to me that litter can become of anything. Just like the bygone mattress and watering can, these once useful draws are now nothing but litter.

I get to the end of the road; behind me The Chestnut pub, in front of me the affluent Shrubbery Avenue. I step precariously, dodging the cracks in the pavement from the roots of the mature trees lining the avenue. Delicate buttercups and daisies are dotted on front lawns. Impeccably parked cars wait in succession at the kerbside. The sky is still grey but everything is brighter. I weave around the sticky yellow guts of squished plum-like fruit that stain the pavement around one of the tree trunks. Compostable litter. An Essential Waitrose Sliced Brioche, clear polythene bag hides itself below the wheel of a car. I can think of more essential groceries. The litter here is much less prevalent than anywhere else on my walk. Within other facets of the city the litter has volunteered itself, but here I have to seek it. This well-to-do neighbourhood evidences the undoubtable social class demarcation of litter (Puwar 2019). The picturesque trees continue to accompany me as I stroll towards St George’s Square. The square is pristine (Figure 9). The length of grass that runs down the middle is litter free. Damp with dew it glistens like an emerald. Even on this dank day the square seems to smile; a stark contrast to the frown of Sansome Walk and Comer Road. I am struck by the absence of litter, I am struck by the extent of control and influence citizens have on their environment (Puwar 2019). Litter is a multi-structural phenomenon; a complexity of varying prevalence within differing social landscapes. The coo of a grey dove overhead announces the end of my walk.

Walking is emplaced; an embodied happening that is to be appreciated as multisensory. It exercises both eye and mind, bringing the interrelated visual and other senses to the fore (Pink et al 2010). It is thus I have used photographs and sketches to represent my walking. As an extension of text, photographs provoke the readers multisensory knowledge; inviting them to explore imagined and imaginable routes of movement. Enticing viewers to envision where and how the photograph was taken in a moment of sensory movement through the social environment (Pink et al 2010). Additionally, observational sketching generates further non-textual visual data. Exploring the social world through this research tool forced me as the observer to change habits; encouraging me to be more watchful in different ways (Heath et al 2018). Sketching provides a sense of concentrated seeing. Whereby close up views help inform understanding of the broader whole; viewing litter through a magnified eye to understand the wider social world. As the observer attempting to capture the essence of what lies before me through sketching, I found the embodied engagement between hand and eye inspired new insights into perceived familiar territory (Heath et al 2018). This use of refreshing visual data aims to afford the letters on these pages with a material presence similar to that of my footprints on the urban landscape.

Bibliography

Bates C. 2017. Desire Lines: Walking in Woolwich. In: Bates C. Rhys-Taylor A. Walking Through Social Research. Routledge. P.55-69.

Beer D. 2014. Punk Sociology. Palgrave Macmillan. Basingstoke.

Debord G. 2006. Theory of the Dérive. In Knabb K. (Ed.) Situationist International Anthology. Bureau of Public Secrets. Berkeley. CA.

Dury 2010. Each item of litter you drop costs us money. Worcester News. [online] https://www.worcesternews.co.uk/news/8362833.each-item-of-litter-you-drop-costs-us-money/ [Accessed 18/05/20].

Heath S. Chapman L. The Morgan Centre Sketchers. 2018. Observational sketching as method. Internation Journal of Social Research Methodology. V21:6. P.713-728.

Puwar N. 2019. Walking Through Litter. Life Writing Projects. [online] https://reframe.sussex.ac.uk/lifewritingprojects/place/nirmal-puwar/ P.1-7.

Pink S. Hubbard P. O’Neill M. Radley A. 2010. Walking across disciplines: from ethnography to arts practice. Visual Studies. V.25:1. P.1-7.

Munro M. Livingstone M. 2012. Student Impacts on Urban Neighbourhoods: Policy Approaches, Discourse and Dilemma’s. Urban Studies. V.49:8. P.1679-1694.

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