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KNIGHTLY Meeting Annabelle Knightly, Courtesan and Friend. Is it the end?

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Posted January 11, 2020

Perhaps it's a ta ta for now.

“Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades”

Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats

Read on for further information regarding my current struggle and perhaps marking the end of an era.



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A brief moment on a N. London bus between a mixed martial arts class and arriving home, I read Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats. The theme formidably current on a personal level.

The struggle in the poem between ideal and actual, the everlasting and change, waking and dreaming. The poem capturing the zeitgeist of my current conundrum. Through out my blog, I will quote a couple of passages.

I drew a metaphor from the poem which may help me verbalise the following:

Annabelle Knightly my alter ego, has served me well but in return I have lost myself in her song as so have my lovers albeit for them, they hear a beautiful seamless melody. She is ever elusive but a constant rhythm to my life which has become louder and more invasive, shrinking my other dreams and reality. She has become a siren luring me away from freedom and has kept my time shackled. Constantly wailing, meta-tags, SEO, content, admin. Awful.

I feel I must ease and liberate myself from the demanding nature that is the huge administrative task that Miss Knightly demands, cease any further devotion to propagation of the brand, halt advertising platforms as well as social media. I have other projects this year which require my full attention and as many know a full time carer for my elderly mother.

The site shall remain as is for another month meanwhile, I shall continue posting as much as I can, which in turn undoubtedly is never- ever enough, the internet is a greedy beast by nature. Which is the predominant issue.

Once the month is up, I will cease all content and put the site on hold as an indefinite hiatus, a single page will remain with details but I will not advertise any longer and unlikely take any new engagements, unless full deposits and terms are agreed, with lengthy notice. I shall retain my close friends whom I have much love for during this transient time.

The melodious connections, adventures which have lit up my life with joy and laughter, those remain and will continue to support me with their patronage. I may perhaps in a few months find an alternative way to keep up with administration with a secretary but more likely than not, may choose not to do so. I simply do not want to dedicate my precious time any-longer to such humdrum tasks.

“Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades”

Rather than sadness, I feel elated to have more time to pursue my own private interests but sad if I have not yet been able to meet and escape for a brief moment the reality that we all live, with a new connection. You still have one month to contact me, preferences always made to those longer engagements

Finally, I chose the name Knightly (initially as Knight) 8 years ago, as I played with the first name Luccia, meaning light as my actual name means light bringer. Like a lunar flair,I thought I must burn bright. Today I read an Ode to a Nightingale and I find the harmony, that I too brought song and romance to those who longed to hear it even if just for a moment.

I feel it is time for me now, without a definite end to say that I will be singing still but not here.

“ Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”

Yours,

Annabelle Knightly

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Ode to a Nightingale

BY JOHN KEATS

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?