The Chivalric Order of the Sword-Organum

Good afternoon, my friends. Today is a day for secrecy, for I am going to discuss my very own secret society, The Chivalric Order of the Sword-Organum. This is, in fact, my second attempt at forming a secret society. The first was called the Most Holy Order of Whidbey Islanders, and it remains so secret that its members do not know that I disbanded them. This new one is much better, as it is actually founded on high and noble principles, among which are Megalomania, Satire, Christianity, and Art. In this way it is quite reminiscent of Erik Satie's private church, L'Eglise Métropolitaine d'Art de Jésus Conducteur, but I would prefer to believe that my ideas are completely original. What are these ideas, I rhetorically inquire?

Our organization shall consist of twelve gloriously titled leaders, twelve being properly symbolic for our purposes. Around these titles shall be formed rituals and duties to be done for the good of the society. Furthermore, from these titles and their associated functions, the society will develop its Grand Charter, declaring all matters of import to the society. Just how the titles find their respective outworkings is limited to the parameters already set forth, including Megalomania, Satire, Christianity, and Art.

More of our chivalric code is discernible in our name, most obviously by the use of the word "chivalric." Chivalry, being a more or less dead virtue, is important to us, for it is imperative that we elevate dead virtues. It is also very medieval, and it implies knighthood, which was very important from the start. Even the Most Holy Order of Whidbey Islanders used a knightly symbol, the Cross of St. Olaf, so we can see that I would never dream of being part of a secret society that does not promote knighthood. Of course, we also realize that not all secret societies dealing with knighthood are noble and virtuous.

Next, the word "Order" has been present in both The Most Holy Order of Whidbey Islanders and The Chivalric Order of the Sword-Organum. This is an immensely important word, as it implies monasticism. Furthermore, together with chivalry, it evokes one of my favorite images, that of the warrior monk. All the cool secret societies trace their origins back to obscure medieval orders. Medievalism is essential.

Why a sword-organum? What do I mean by "sword-organum?" Let us recall the seventeenth verse of the sixth chapter of Ephesians: "Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God." There is our sword. Also, I can make a sword look like a cross, so how could I do any other? An organum can be one of three things, and I mean it in all three ways. First, it is a primarily medieval musical style. Second, it is a set of principles for investigation. Third, it can (from its Greek root) refer to an instrument for investigation. This all ties together in our symbol, which happens to be replete with symbolism of its own, in particular numerical symbolism:


I now humbly request that all readers not part of the Chivalric Order of the Sword-Organum forget all I have said here today. To facilitate such an end, here is a photograph I found. It makes me wish I had not been asleep when it was taken:

A Thing that I Made

The City in the Sea

I have made a new composition. It is a musical composition. Well, it is not entirely new, for I began in in the long lost days of June 2007, and I finished it on 23 December 2007. Since then I have been slowly completing the grueling (that is, extremely dull) task of transcribing the notes into a printable* format, which I have provided for you, my friends, here today. I would encourage all adept in the esoteric Art of music to attempt its performance, as that would entertain the megalomaniac** in me. For those not adept in the esoteric Art of music, I encourage a concentrated focus on the page. This will achieve nothing by itself, but for the sake of all the readership, I shall speak of the contents of these pages.

One of the first notable qualities of the music is its program, as the musicologist might say, the poem by Poe. It was selected before composition began in June. It should be read on the grounds that it is excellent, and then the music may be applied to it, an unfailingly a good time, at least for me. Ordinarily, composers incorporate their texts to be sung, but I did not do this. I have never cared much for song, at least relative the music itself. Those who argue for the primacy of text make me terribly ill, and I assure these people that they must repent of such foolishness or face dire consequences. These dire consequences, of course, are incipience and degradation of the text***, thereby defeating the original purpose of the Art. That is enough digression, though. My aim was to create an atmosphere, not set a text. Now onward!

Next the even minimally competent pianist will notice that the performer is expected to play three staves at once. I, the Evil Composer, giggle, for I know that performers hate this sort of thing. Actually, my pen and paper original used only two staves, but all the notes did not fit neatly on two, so I had to use three. I would have preferred two, though. It takes less paper and less ink. Also, it is not as if I wish to have trouble reading it. I assure the potential performer, it is all playable. I have played most of it myself. In the end, though, it looks interesting, so there is a grand victory.

Also, some might notice the way in which I chose to sign the music: J I G. These, of course, are my initials****, and they represent a great debate currently raging within me: shall I initial things J I G or JG? This is a difficult question. My current leaning holds with J I G because it is groovy. JG is still swell, though. We shall see.

There we have The City in the Sea, which I have decided to dedicate to Friendship. By extension, it is dedicated to mine excellent good friends. The Music of the Future be with you always, even unto the end of the age. For our next installment, I will allow you, my friends, to see the original draft, which I believe is pleasing to look upon.

Until then, I wish you well, and even after that also.

------------
*Please note that these pages should print cleanly and clearly to a standard printer page. Substandard pages, however, will not do.

**The megalomaniac inside me is not a good person. Do not entertain him too much.

***Also hellfire.

****They do not stand for Jedediah Ignatius Grumblesnout.

The Return of The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

Greetings, gentle friends! A brief portion of my Thursday afternoon was devoted to finishing Tolkien's The Adventures of Tom Bombadil. Now I resolve to review all the poems one by one.

I. "The Adventures of Tom Bombadil"
Tom sings passages from this one in The Lord of the Rings. It deals with Goldberry, badgers, Old Man Willow, a barrow-wight, and Tom Bombadil, specifically in relation to sleeping and dancing. Also, it covers the marriage and honey-moon of Tom and Goldberry.

II. "Bombadil Goes Boating"
Tom here takes a boat up the Withywindle, meeting the mocking of animals and Hobbits all the way, eventually partaking of delights with his friend Farmer Maggot. Afterward he slips back to his home.

III. "Errantry"
It is about errantry. What should one expect? The road goes ever on...

IV. "Princess Mee"
Meaning aside, the words sound very nice together. Meaning considered, the imagery of this one is exemplary.

V. "The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late"
Hey diddle diddle and so on and so forth is arranged in a Hobbit poem. It is almost a dream come true, except I never dreamed it.

VI. "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon"
Continuing with this Man in the Moon character, Tolkien provides a bit less overt silliness in favor of some more serious fun. I shall say no more, except that I like this poem very much.

VII. "The Stone Troll"
A troll has stolen a bone from Tom's late uncle Tim. Tom demands that it be put back. The troll decides instead to eat Tom, and Tom decides to kick the troll. Neither of these attempts work, so they go on their respective ways. I am not certain I am comfortable with the idea of Tom Bombadil's fallibility.

VIII. "Perry-the-Winkle"
All a troll really needs is a friend with whom to take tea. That sounds really insipid, when in fact it is not, but I would like to leave that false, humorously banal impression.

IX. "The Mewlips"
This one just might be my favorite. Mewlips are unspecified critters that live in unpleasant places that will eat you. The poem is even better than whatever your imagination might be conjuring.

X. "Oliphaunt"
I have read this someplace before. It is a silly verse about the mighty oliphaunt, traditional to the Shire, recorded for us by Sam Gamgee.

XI. "Fastitocalon"
If you spend much time around me, there is a decent chance I have related one of my favorite medieval tales to you. It is about sailors who land on an island to rest, except that the island turns out to be a whale, which proceeds to dive and drown the slothful men. This is the same idea, except with a giant sea-tortoise. I am partial to it for reasons now obvious.

XII. "The Cat"
How can a poem that starts out "The fat cat on the mat..." wind up being quite clever and interesting? The cat is dreaming of its fellows that happen to be lions and tigers (but not bears, oh my!). Just as the cat does not forget the power of its kind, neither should we forget that the only reason cats do not kill and eat us is that they are not large enough to do so. That last bit has nothing to do with the poem, mind you.

XIII. "Shadow Bride"
There is nothing quite like a morbid little romance. This is one of those.

XIV. "The Hoard"
Ah, the evils of greed and all that sort of thing! A dwarf crafts a treasure hoard underground, only to be killed by a dragon. The dragon keeps the hoard for an absurdly long time, only to be killed by a young warrior. Then an old king, consumed by love of the hoard, dies a lonely death, and the treasure is forgotten underground. This should be about as excellent as your imagination indicates, as long as your imagination indicates excellence. It is very "Middle-Earth," if I may say so.

XV. "The Sea-Bell"
Apparently this is intended to detail Frodo's melancholy dreams of his later days. I take Tolkien's word. I shall leave it alone beyond that. Note my italicization of "alone."

XVI. "The Last Ship"
Elven ships sailing from Middle-Earth, of course, are the subject here. Knowledge of both The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion are essential to making sense of this poem, or at least its allusions. It deals with a particular elf maiden (who, as far as I can tell, is not wearing butter-supple loins) who must decide whether or not to leave Middle-Earth.

That is all for this night. Farewell, be well, and may we meet again soon.

The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

My friends! It is a fine night to speak by moonlight, is it not? If only the moonlight would come out this midnight. Let me light a fire.

I have acquired a new possession. You might ask me, "What on earth are you thinking, making purchases for yourself right before Christmas?" To that I respond, "Bah, humbug!" This possession I purchased from a local bookseller, wherein I spent a bit of my Wednesday afternoon. That was only part of my fun, though, for I had just come from the dentist and afterward it was time for me to visit certain excellent good friends. We talked about music and things, these excellent good friends and I, and we scoffed at the uncouth heathen, just like old times. Good old times. My new possession, though, which is a book, I found at the local bookseller behind some other books. It is called The Tolkien Reader, which I had discovered just the other day contains the otherwise impossible to obtain (for any reasonable price) The Adventures of Tom Bombadil. In fact, I took care to visit the Tolkien shelves just in case this particular book was actually present, and so it was. Happy day!

Also in The Tolkien Reader are The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth Borhthelm's Son, Tree and Leaf, and Farmer Giles and Ham. Respectively, these are a play based on The Battle of Malden, literary criticism on fantasy and the like, and a short fictional work of some kind. I would say more, but I have not read them yet, though I have begun The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, which is precisely a collection of poetry pertaining to the title character, supposedly of Hobbit origin. The work of Bilbo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee seems to be featured prominently among the sixteen poems, the rest being folk songs and that sort of thing. They detail, among other things, tales of Tom Bombadil, of Goldberry, of Old Man Willow, and of various critters, both together and separately. In writing these poems, Tolkien well adopted the character of a Hobbit, as is plainly echoed in the verses, quite consistent with The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, from which some passages are readily recognizable. Again, I should very much like to say more, but I am not finished reading them.

To conclude, we shall celebrate. Whereas before I had little hope of obtaining The Adventures of Tom Bombadil, now it is in my hand, at the moment quite literally. I hereby convey this excellent discovery to my noble readers who, being of good taste, will certainly be interested in these matters. We all know well that Tom Bombadil is a great being. Not many characters could have been so far out as to avoid any reference whatsoever in Peter Jackson's films, but that eccentricity is what makes him so extraordinarily delightful.

Old Tom Bombadil was a merry fellow;
bright blue his jacket was and his boots were yellow,
green were his girdle and his breeches all of leather;
he wore in his tall hat a swan-wing feather.
He lived up under Hill, where the Withywindle
ran from a grassy well down into the dingle.

And so on.

The Fjestival

It is a festival! Happy festival! Fjestival fjestival!

Ah, the guests have arrived. Hello, guests. How are the guests doing, now that they have entered my home in this lush river valley? Of course the guests are well, for they have entered my home in this lush river valley for the festival. There are foodstuffs on the table: shrimp and vegetables (cauliflower, peppers, tomatoes, carrots, and broccoli) and vegetable-dip and crackers and cracker-spread. The table has a fascinating history; it used to be white, you know, but some say it is yellow. Its previous owner was once a local insult. There is a television set over there, and it is yellow. Elbow, pillow, both yellow. It is time for baseball! That man is part bee. We know this because he wears a yellow shirt. Also, he has antennae; therefore, he is part bee but not whole bee. He must bowl now, and his ball is pink. No! It is red. Or was it blue? No! It is yellow. The ceiling is yellow. The truck is yellow. Yellow! The monkey is yellow. Yes, it is a reed organ in the Wall, classically symbolic of death. It is time to eat. There are two varieties of meat and macaroni and cheese (in case Bob had not left, which he did) and green beans and potatoes and bread and desserts. Also, there is tea and water and sodapop to drink. Nice tea, nice water, nice sodapop. Yellow tea, yellow water, yellow sodapop. Runaround and runaround and squeal! Hurrah! Chocolate? No. Yes! Chocolate! Play the pianoforte, my young friend. Me! You! Yellow! You can reach a fourth, little one. Watch my hand. Runaway! Runaway! Kill the deer. Kill them dead with your guns! Kill the men. Kill them dead with your guns! Kill them with your cars, on the beaches, in the streets. Steal their possessions, the rednecks and the Chinamen alike, but do not tell them where you hid them, for they have guns. They will kill you dead with their guns. In hunting, the greatest lunatic will win every time. Six points eight points ten points see my antlers: they are yellow. Yellow antlers, yellow points. Let us fly! Let us bowl. Rock out! Drive the truck and toss the ball, but not that ball. Hide that away, OK? Weeping and wailing for the teeth, eh? Oh no! Now we cannot settle the unknown! I am sorry, my seafaring friends, but revenge must come another day. Tomorrow? I do not know. Let us rock out instead! Hadrian and Commodus have requested audience with me. The emperors themselves? Oh, yes! Let me melt your faces first, if that is all right. Of course, by all means! Thank you! Excellent! Thrilling! Yellow! Pillow! Yellow pillow! Yellow pillow elbow! Goodbye. The festival is over.

It was a festival! Happy festival! Fjestival fjestival!

The Respective Fourth Parts of Call it Sleep and The Book of Daniel as defining The Bildungsroman as a Genre

The Bildungsroman, commonly regarded as the novel of development, has an interesting development of its own as a parallel to historical development. Such is the case laid out by Franco Moretti in his The Way of the World, which chronicles the changes of the European Bildungsroman from its supposed origin with Goethe until the start of the Great War. In this time, the Bildungsroman passes through two distinct eras of the classical Bildungsroman and the Post-Napoleonic Bildungsroman; however, the Bildungsroman arguably lives on beyond this time period and beyond Europe, in such novels as Henry Roth’s Call it Sleep and E.L. Doctorow’s The Book of Daniel. It may well be that these novels are merely reflections of their own time and place, or perhaps the between shadows of the European Bildungsroman and these possible Bildungsromans there are clues to a common “ideal form,” to borrow from Moretti’s terminology. Thus by looking upon the novels relative the qualification of these eras of Bildungsroman can a notion of genre be conceived. Thus the Bildungsroman itself can be described in terms of the striving for homeland, liberation from the past, and the fall of ideals, all in relation to its essential conflict between autonomy and socialization.

The striving for homeland in the classical sense essentially meant that “A Bildung is truly such only if, at a certain point, it can be seen as concluded” (Moretti 26), whereas in the Post-Napoleonic World the narratives “seem ‘interrupted’ more than ‘concluded’” (Moretti 118). Not apparently reconcilable teleologies, the final books of each novel should indicate their entirely appropriate union. First, in Call it Sleep, the protagonist, David Schearl, concludes with a listing of seemingly random, unrelated memories, of things and their various types, with no regard for their respective significances (Roth 441). Herein David does indeed create more than an interruption than a conclusion; very little is resolved; however, a conclusion yet exists. David has concluded, whether he himself realizes it or not, that all his situation, all his memories matter very little in relation to one another. He takes them simply for their existence, with no further analysis. It is a conclusion to draw no conclusions.

The Book of Daniel also demonstrates this union quite distinctly though its ending, an interruption in the fullest. Daniel, whose narration had just prepared the reader for a thorough conclusion, immediately announces, “However, just a moment ago…someone came through announcing that the library is closed” (Doctorow 302), and he proceeds to quote the Biblical Book of Daniel, pertaining to the closing of the book in which everyone is written until the time of the end. Quite plainly, this is an interruption as opposed to a neatly socialized conclusion; however, there is substantial difference in that Daniel has not failed to socialize. Simply, he has refused to cling to his autonomy, renouncing his opportunity to provide answers for his questions, the questions of the novel. As Daniel at one point laments, regardless of what he does, society is the victor. Such is the case in any Bildungsroman, that any occurrence and all endings favor society. Like David, by not answering, he allows all around him, society, to take its course, surrendering to its will.

Liberation from the past plays into the classical Bildungsroman with the mention of time against the whole, a reference to the work of G.W.F. Hegel: “having become superfluous, time abandons the stage to the harmonious dance of the Truth and the Whole” (Moretti 55), whereas the Post-Napoleonic Bildungsroman advances “an ‘accessible’ past, on the same hierarchical and chronological level with the present, and yet already ‘frozen’ and hostile to that experiment” (Moretti 122). Call it Sleep contends very much with the past upon nearing its completion when David’s parents’ secrets are revealed, those being his mother’s affair with the church organist and his father’s partial responsibility for the death of his own father. The matter of interest, though, is David’s involvement in these revelations. Having inadvertently brought them out, he successfully shatters the mysteries surrounding his parents, a subject troubling him throughout the novel, thereby exposing for himself the whole. This, however, is not an easy whole to contend with, especially considering that the whole of this whole is not known to those concerned, particularly the identity of David’s biological father. This gives the past its frozen hostility, as well as its imperativeness to the course of the novel. Furthermore, going in tune with the previous conclusions, the issues of this past are left fairly unresolved, rather, the unseen conclusion of the fight and David’s injured return cast attention away from the matter, the present defeating the past and leaving it on its own.

Daniel’s troubles deal greatly with the past, and the whole novel might be considered the character’s attempt to come to terms with it, not just his own but with the history that made it as it was. In the end, though, the great number of manipulations and interpretations of both history itself and personal events become glaringly obvious. The past is corrupted by the faults of memory and the twists of the individual will. In his meeting with Linda Mindish, the reader is presented with an interpretation of the Isaacson trial heretofore unheard of (Doctorow 282-283), though intimately known, essentially the contemporary, condemning view of the courts. This flat contradiction to all Daniel believes, or would like to believe, or at least thinks he believes or might like to believe, compels him even further to speak to Selig Mindish, the man he views as being most responsible for his parents’ death. Interestingly, Dr. Mindish is to be found in a surreal, fantastic world of tomorrow at Disneyland. As Dale puts it, “‘He’s senile…there’s nothing left up here’” (Doctorow 292). Dr. Mindish has ventured into an imagined future, utterly devoid of any particular sense of time, including sense of the past. Indeed, it is almost a parody of the usual Communist aim, and it is certainly a slap in the face to any Marxist analysis of history. This is the complete absence of a whole, and it makes the past both inaccessible and seeming almost worthless. The present makes the past worthless, and its future is either blank or a delusion. In both novels, any attempt at drawing an autonomy from the past, as one might draw from Napoleon in the Post-Napoleonic Bildungsroman, falls instead to the society of the present, for socialization is always a matter of existing therein.

The fall of ideals is essentially the vehicle by which society gains its ultimate victory over the Bildungsroman’s protagonist and his autonomy. In the world of the classical Bildungsroman, this was achieved to this protagonist’s benefit: “Its purpose is to creat ‘full and happy men’” (Moretti 31), whereas in the Post-Napoleonic age the protagonist was merely made impotent: “the story must end in the protagonist’s death to be deprived of meaning” (Moretti 119). Call it Sleep has a different approach in a world wrought with ideals, at least to David’s perception. In the end, they all indeed fall, perhaps best exemplified in Leo, whose almost messianic presence became tainted when he brought David immense trouble in the episode with his cousins, and David’s father, who, in the final scene, is observed in his speech to have “a peculiar harshness as though he were at the same time provoking and steeling himself away against a blow” (Roth 440), exposing weakness in his father’s idealized strength. The result is neither complete socialization nor impotence, but it seems much more to be an acceptance of reality as it stands, a new reality purged of ideals, leaving only reality itself. The last lines of this final book of the novel read “… and feel them all and feel, not pain, not terror, but strangest triumph, strangest acquiescence. One might as well call it sleep. He shut his eyes” (Roth 441). The classical finds itself echoed in triumph, and the Post-Napoleonic in acquiescence. Society has not accepted David, but he has accepted society, becoming socialized in an autonomous stroke not evident in the European Bildungsroman.

The Book of Daniel’s fourth part is dominated by the deaths of ideals, embodied plainly in those who hold to them. Daniels parents are executed by electric chair for their communist ideals, and Susan, embodiment of her own ideals, dies under their weight. Even at her funeral, Daniel makes a parody of these ideals of the past when he rounds up the old, “misfit” rabbis, “usually shabby, their heels run down” (Doctorow 300), around the cemetery to pray old prayers over Susan’s grave in an absurd, pluralistic call of history. Daniel, like the Daniel of the Old Testament book, has before him a dream, but he cannot tell what it means. Though he spends the entire time interpreting the dreams of others, he in the end cannot interpret his own. In this way Daniel’s ideals are not only dead, they were not allowed to manifest in the first place, regardless of any attempt to develop them. Daniel was never given a chance to be autonomous; he was guaranteed socialization by the attempts at autonomy by those around him, for he was granted freedom by and from the past. The fall of ideals is essential to the inevitable victory of society.

At the last, these three textual elements of the striving for homeland, liberation from the past, and the fall of ideals, readily observable in the history of the Bildungsroman, are also apparent in the conclusions of these novels, Call it Sleep and The Book of Daniel. Together, they paint a picture of the Bildungsroman through its primary tension between the individual and society, and they show that society is always the victor. In the classical Bildungsroman, the conclusion consisted of a pure, willing integration of the protagonist into society. Society was the victor. After Napoleon, the protagonist’s refusal to integrate led to his undoing, usually by death. Again, society’s maintained its flow. In these novels, it is a willing, but untidy, integration, wherein the unknown is left to linger. All the same, society supplants the individual. It seems then that most basically the Bildungsroman is the novel of society’s triumph over the individual, or conversely the individual’s submission to society. The rest is merely a reflection of history, but if this is development, then so be it.

Bibliography

Doctorow, E.L. The Book of Daniel. Random House, New York: 2007.

Moretti, Franco. The Way of the World: The Bildungsroman in European Culutre. New Edition. Verso, London: 2000.

Roth, Henry. Call it Sleep. Picador, New York: 1962.

The Cockatrice

‘Ere one day did hie away,
an’ that day there did pass by
creatures I can scarcely say,
ne’er beholden i’ mine eye:

A faerie, fair, i’ the air,
flying yonder to an’ fro
ear to ear to ear an’ e’er
whisp’ring as the wind doth blow.

An’ ‘ere mine ear ‘e came near,
voice o’ the Morrígan, that
obscure crow, that carrion seer,
speaking on mine hillside sat.

“My fine friend, dost thou behold,
or hast thou heretofore been told,
word of the far off mountains cold
whence marcheth forth a man so bold
to curse against our order old,
to cast our lord into the fold?

That roguish wretch doth yonder walk,
but fear thou not—he soon shall balk;
he doth on Kingdoms of Naught talk;
forgotten with the chiming clock.
A fool doth with his own self hock,
but hear now how his tongue doth mock.”

‘Ere did ‘is procession halt,
an’ began ‘is singsong speech;
surely as the sea hath salt,
so ‘is tongue did all ‘round reach:

“A truthful telling of a treasured tale
hath thoughts of times unspent so strongly snatched;
yea, ‘tis the story of a poor man pale
who by the Charadrius on life latched.

For from his forehead aching was he bled,
but blood did but a sanguine mealtime make;
the leeches lying gorged in puddles red;
they slept whilst he did agonize awake.

Ah, but in the autumn’s evening sunset
sat silhouetted in the window’s frame
the Charadrius gazing hopeful yet,
which took itself the illness and the shame.

The sun then burnt away the bird in flight;
thrice plunging undersea it flew aright.”

Methought I a glow did see
‘bout ‘im in the morning light,
but no garment great wore ‘e:
a tattered tunic, once white.

Stirring now an’ stepping on,
mine own feet the same thing did.
Rushing forth ‘afore ‘e’d gone,
following behind, I hid.

Wi’ me went the faerie fair,
whisp’ring e’er, an’ ‘e I heard,
wi’ a flowing stream o' air,
‘gainst the tide o’ this man’s words:

“Lo! hither stands a splendid seaside tree
who strangely bears for fruit a flock of geese.
When ripened fully, falling some are free,
these landing safely in the water’s peace.”

“Absurd creatures! this thou knowest;
they may even be the lowest!
‘tis a fool with which thou goest.”

“But O those silly souls which strike the soil;
they suff’ring with snapped necks, the fox doth feast
on the forlorn friends no longer loyal,
who fled the roaring sea to feed the beast.”

“And truly ‘tis the fate of all
who dare to heed the downward call,
all freely to the fox they fall."

“Daring some dive down the dreary deep,
these geese again will rise above to fly,
and home these hie unto a kingly keep
on far off mountains there beyond the sky.”

“Devoured or drowned, I suffer how:
torture later or anguish now?
The tree, I choose; wouldst thou allow?"

“For now from thence my march I must not stall.
O gentle goose, I pray thee watch thy fall.”

Onward on the road ‘e went,
the faerie an’ I behind,
knowing wither ‘e was sent,
knowing what ‘e was to find.

Trees decay’d an’ rotten logs
lined the road ‘ere on each side;
this land’s naught but wretched bogs
wheresoe’er our king resides.

Past the castle-guard centaur
‘e went, we ‘im giving chase.
Breaking down the dishevel’d door,
we hid from our king’s cruel face.

“O Cockatrice, Our Lord and King,
hearest how the wind doth sing?
Yonder shouldst thou thy sight bring.”

“O Lord of Flies, which flies to corpses cling
that line the wall of thine horrendous hall;
O Prince of Serpents, gazing thy grave sting,
I do return thy gaze that thou shalt pall.”

“Fear him not, O King of this World,
in blackened silence art thou furled.
Against thee arms cannot be hurled!”

“For if the prophets ever truthful spoke
then, true, by sight shalt thou be surely slain.
Still cowering behind thy nighttime cloak,
thence fallen never shalt thou rise again.”

“But in the open standeth he;
thou shalt see him before he ye,
so cast thine eyes—to victory—”

“O Cockatrice King, methinks that th’art blind,
else wherefore hast thou seen me not yet here,
lest seeing thou did naught but thyself find,
mirrored in mine armour crystal clear.”

“Gnash thy teeth: hither he lieth,
in his darkness, lo, he dieth
for he did his own self spieth!”

“And with its master malevolent spent
shall all this putrid place henceforth be rent.”

The castle walls did crumble,
and the centaur guard took flight,
the moon i’self did stumble
as the stars fell from the night.

Now the horizon breaking
where bare mountains stand behind,
they i’ the distance quaking,
became slowly misaligned.

‘e then waved for mine approach,
i’ my fear I could not turn;
I heard the faerie’s reproach,
as the whole word ‘round did burn:

“Thou sought him dead, but thou didst fail,
I warned thee fair of this man’s trail.
Now look, the sky in flames doth hail!
If but thine hand would take the nail,
if thou wouldst dare to risk the vale,
perhaps thine heart would hold the scale.

Thou traitor to both he and me,
best hang thyself from yonder tree.
If but thou didst never be!
And heed not any wave of he
that overthrows all thou dost see
—but cast aside thine enemy.”

The Grandmaster Conversationalist Extraordinaire

Good afternoon, mine excellent good friends! As you may recall, I sometimes speak of the weather, the archetypal embodiment of what some call "small-talk" or "petty conversation" or "inane, meaningless banter." Please note that that last one is only true if "I" am "some." Such a classification of weather-talk, though, I think is entirely inaccurate. As a grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire, I ought to know about these things, and I can think of no instance when the weather has been the subject of my "inane, meaningless banter." Bear in mind, however, that grandmaster conversationalists extraordinaire do not have "inane, meaningless banter," for they make all conversations deep and meaningful. That being said, all my weather-talk has not even threatened to be such, simply because weather-talk is full of depth and importance. Just consider this conversation I am having with myself:

"When is it going to snow?" I ask.
"It is summertime," I respond.
"No, it is not," I claim.
"Oh, yes," I agree.

Now I realize that I forgot to remember to collect any summer rain. Now what shall I do?

"Now that we agree that it is wintertime, when shall it snow?" I ask again.
"It is autumntime still," I correct myself.
"Not on my calendar," I indignantly state.
"What calendar might that be?" I inquire.

I wonder whether my fellows ever look at their watches to figure out what year it is, only to realize that that information is not on the watch. Always this is a disappointment. I also wonder whether a pocket watch would be a worthy investment...
...I do not think it would be.

"It would be the completely arbitrary seasonal calendar that lives within me," I continue.
"That is absurd," I defiantly tell myself.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead, mind you.

"That is the beauty of it," I say.
"You speak the truth," I concur.
"And do you know what else is true?" I ask.
"What is that?" I wonder.
"It has been snowy for a while now," I smugly affirm.

Perhaps I shall soon be able to build a fort and hide in it. Better yet, I can build an igloo and hide even better in it. May Jack-in-the-Green stay away for a while.

"Then why did you ask me when it would snow?" I try to understand.
"That is what I always ask," I reply innocently.

This is true, except usually there is little snow involved, just the longing for it. That does at all not stop the conversation from becoming at least as profound as this one, for remember, I am a grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire. Consider this, also:

"When is it going to snow?" I ask.
"I do not know," I respond.

Then I weep bitterly and rend my garment in mourning. This is a frequent occurrence in my imagination. I often wonder, if I tried, could I rend my garment? What if I wear more than one garment? Do I rend them all at once or separately? At what point does one laugh instead of grieve at the inherent absurdity of trying with great effort to rend all of one's garments to express said grief? These are important questions, very useful for the grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire when engaging in the Art of conversation. I once read in a book that it is important for any grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire to ask all other conversationalists questions, particularly those that create the illusion that the grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire is really very much interested in the other conversationalist. It goes like this:

"Hullo! Because I am very much interested in you, I am asking you, what is up, O friend?" the grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire begins.
The other conversationalist responds, "Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, 'There is a man child conceived.' Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it. As for the night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein."
"Great! And how about that crazy weather lately?" the grandmaster conversationalist extraordinaire continues.

With skills like these, how can one avoid success?

Ennui

It is a good evening, gentle readers, for tonight we shall discuss ennui, an excellent subject that promises to enthuse you all beyond measure. I myself brim with an extraordinary enthusiasm that I can scarcely abide. Soon I shall begin a brief pause to allow the overwhelming deluge of feeling that has undoubtedly flooded your hearts to recede. Ennui, after all, never fails to invoke the deepest emotions within us. A pause is therefore absolutely necessary, for I can hear your ecstatic cries even here in these lonely and faraway lands.

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Make remembrance of the countryside if you find yourself weeping.

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Here is a soothing oration:

ooh...
lann...
thann...
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ehs...
....
may...
ag...
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roy...
koss...
ohn...

Actually, I tire of ennui, so I have few further words for you. I shall not much longer continue on. I encourage you all instead to find the secrets stowed away in these utterances.

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Have you enough ennui to seek them out?

Of Sylvan Spiders' Silken Web

Of sylvan spiders' silken web,
weaved away among the trees,
the creatures craft no stranger sight
than blank and shimm'ring tapestries,

which when together tell a tale,
stretched across their webbed halls,
of times here, gone, and yet to come
from which away no mortal falls.

For when one finds his whitewashed way,
in time entombed, he shall be,
and warmly wrapped within this thread,
forgets fore'er eternity.