I WISH (The Garden)

I wish I could grow you a Garden
Free of all dangers and care
Would there were just such an Eden
I’d plant you as deep as I dare

No serpents to slink in the shadows
No birds to hunt from the air
Neither wolf nor a fox to unearth you
From your Garden so happy and fair

But no more is there such paradise
Would for us both that there were
Then I’d free you with easy delight

With Blessings all freed of the curse,

But,

This world is all fang and all claw (kid)
So I teach you to sneak in the dark
To hide from the hungry great maw

That chews through your bones like a sark,

Stealth is the home you must now earn (learn)
If live on the Earth you might yet
If find any others like yourself
Then I hope it is quick and well-met

For I’d love to think of you thriving
Running and playing alive, but (still)
To live I must free you of myself, and
I hope you have learned to survive,

Though in this world I’ll likely

Never know.

Godspeed kid, I’ll miss you… Be Fruitful, and Multiply.

(a poem I wrote concerning the day I must release my field mouse back into the Wild. By the way I have turned the little field mouse I rescued into a literary character, Pooth, the mouse companion/animal familiar of the Wizard Alternaeus.)

CAIN’T YOU EVER JUST LET ME GO SOMEWHERE ALONG…

“Where ya going Word?”

“What’s it to ya Well?” Wordy eyed his friend spiciously over his shovel plate of cold beans.

Well smiled.

“Might wanna come along,” Well said right neighborly.

“Gol dangit Well,” Wordy said slapping his sides so that dust swirled up offin his breeches like sawdust in a grist mill. Some of the dust settled back in his beans but Wordy didn’t notice.

“Cain’t you ever just let me go somewhere along?!”

Well was patiently quiet a moment after Wordy’s antipenchant display. As he usually was when Word went off on one of his ineffectual tangential tirades. Then Well threw his head back and finished his drink before leaning forward and spitting out the swill-mash that had settled at the bottom of his glass. After that he straightened.

“So does that mean I’m coming witcha, or not?” he finally asked.

Wordy looked at Well as sasperated as a flied walleyed rout, and then shook his head slowly as if he had just watched a hell-bent bull pull loose from his plow.

“Oh git your damn saddle Well… I ain’t totin you on my back.”

from my Western novel, The Letter Men

A LITTLE WINTER

A LITTLE WINTER

A little Winter
Mixed in his Soul
Undone by sleeping hope
When roused at dawn
By a frozen sky
Painted by the same distant
Summer sun that shone
Upon his ancient race, godlike
In its promise of a fiery
Season still to fully rise
That comes to melt away
All pressured chill
The long night freezes
To his aching frame
When nothing but the past
Is harvest cargoed
In his hold to ship away
When seasons change
And tides do turn
With wine and oils in bursting
Urns that fatten promise
Blessed with gain when
Winds do favor once again
To sail away to summer climes
Where passing hardship
Past the Straits within himself
Is but a little Winter
Mixed in the memories
Of his soul and stored
Below the vacant decks
Where day does navigate,
And wheel and rudder makes
The long and cutting wake
Towards those unmapped
Harbors he has yet
To reach on open seas…

(Verses that occurred to me today at sunrise… have a Good Day Folks)

SON OF ROME, SON OF MAN

Marsippius stood forth.

“I would speak,” he said clearly.

Many in the chamber murmured uncertainly but Jhönarlk stood suddenly upon the base of his throne and then stepped down from it and approached. Not far from the Commander he paused and spoke softly, but also clearly.

“Then I would hear you,” he said.

Marsippius turned abruptly and faced the chamber. His voice was tired and hoarse with war, and with his recent agonies, but clear and cold with resolution.

“Though I am not of your number, and a Man, I come to you with a warning.”

“What!?” shouted a voice among the Eldevens, after barely a pause, but it was not clear who had spoken or his real intent in speaking. For some among the Eldevens hated the men, and the Basilegate in particular. But some perhaps respected them, or were even secret allies. It was difficult to know, so cryptic and veiled were the motives of most Eldevens to most men.

Marsippius scanned the crowd curiously, hoping to spot the one that that had addressed him, but could not fix upon who had spoken, so he addressed them all.

FF8CA1 PRESTER JOHN. /nLegendary medieval priest and monarch of Asia or Africa. Enthroned on a map of East Africa. Detail from 16th century atlas.

“You know well that I am not one of you,” Marsippius said, and though he spoke with the stoicism of the soldier and his hands remained at his side and did not move, still the earnestness of his words was the only flourish he seemed to need. “Yet I still come from a Free People’s with a High Christian Duty,” and again many among them murmured, deeply suspicious of the man’s god, religion, and ideas about Magic and Miracle. “Thus I say this to you, as long as you all wait for someone else to begin, no one of you will dare. And even if one among you may dare,” and his eyes seemed to shift over his shoulder momentarily back towards the Samarl, “then all his efforts will also be in vain as long as no other join him. To all peoples who have ever lived, on this world, or any other, comes danger, comes hardship, comes risk, and comes war. The time between these things may be long, so that one generation forgets even the nature of what it means to be threatened, or short, so that every new generation rightfully wearies of what must be done, and sacrificed, but eventually all woes and risks return to all peoples. It is only a matter of time; great, or brief. Do not ask me why this is so, I am merely a soldier, not a priest, prophet, or philosopher, yet that is the nature of things. Whether any of you like it, or not. And even those who are not soldiers know this truth, though they are loathe to admit it aloud for lack of public courage. Which we Romans do not lack, and never have, though we lack many other things you have apparently well-mastered.”

The chamber fell silent and yet the hall was constructed in such a way that the echoes of Marsippius’ words ran thrice more around the room so that even those to the very rear of the hall heard them all clearly.

“Yet your mastery is not in dispute. Your courage and your Manhood, if such a term applies to you, and in one great sense I think it does and may even unite your people with mine, however, are indeed presently in dispute. You lack deeds of courage consummate with your mastery of other matters.”

Marsippius paused and openly surveyed the hall and those assembled before him with some obvious and unstated admiration. Even the hostile Eldevens noted it.

“Though what will it matter if all you have achieved is squandered now by shameful passivity? Brought low and ruined by your own inaction; in a day, a week, a month, a year? Disaster is upon you, you know this, and likely war, and you well know this too, and all of your almost countless achievements; your art, your music, your culture, your cities, your farms, your families, your very happiness and future are now to be wasted not by your lack of ability, but by your lack of purpose, will, and public courage? You are still a very formidable people, all with honest eyes can see this plainly, and I would gladly call you ally, and even friend, and I would gladly do whatever I can to defend and strengthen you, yet I cannot save you, and Fate cannot save you, and prophecy cannot save you, and even God will not save you if you make no real effort of any kind to save yourselves.”

The hall was still, as well as quiet, though it was obvious to all that many in attendance were angry, and many others uncertain, though some seem swayed. Or at least swayable.

It seemed also to most that Marsippius had more to say, perhaps far more, but, being the soldier he was, and disdaining much talk he simply returned to his place and turned back in the direction of the Samarl and stood lightly at attention.

Many among the Eldevens, who often by both custom and habit talked at length, found this abrupt ending confusing, even bizarre, uncanny, and unnatural. But Marsippius’ efforts were at an end. He was a simple man, used to action and planning, he looked scornfully on much debate and indecision. As eventually all real men must.

Jhönarlk however instantly understood the hopeful gap the Commander of the Basilegate had opened among his own indecisive countrymen and the various races of the Eldevens assembled there. He did not speak immediately but let the man’s words turn themselves thoroughly throughout the chamber before he acted. And then the Samarl of Samarkand spread his hands before him and looked directly at Marsippius. He spoke not to the hall, but as one old friend might to another, though neither knew the other well.

“Son of Rome, and son of man, then, let us begin…”

from, The Basilegate/The Kithariune

ELK AND MOOSE HUNT

Elk looked at Moose who looked at Steinthal coldly.

Elk looked at Steinthal again and said, “Steinthal you are one of the most smart-mouthed son of a bitches I ever met. You know that?”

Steinthal half-smiled out of the left side of his mouth.

“Really?” he replied enthusiastically. “Thanks for saying. I feel like I never can really hear that enough so it’s always a lotta fun to know how that works when it does.”

Both hired men were quiet a moment. Too long for it to be just catch-up.

“You know it’s dangerous when it works like that too,” Moose said quietly.

“You don’t say,” Steinthal replied, also lowering his voice, but in a different way. “You guys are like Google without the built-in AI. A treasure house of old links running to nowhere. Maybe you should have come here with earpieces and implants instead of pre-programming.”

Elk and Moose’s eyes shifted subtly to Maugham who was watching Moose carefully. Very carefully.”

“You might also wanna know this smartass,” Elk said. “We’re both nearly as big as your man. But you’re not. Not even close.”

Then they both looked at Steinthal.

Steinthal half-smiled again but spoke directly at Elk.

“Well, since you’re obviously the smart one then there’s probably something you should know too.”

“Oh yeah?” asked Elk, shifting his weight heavily from one foot to another. “What’s that?”

Steinthal smiled again, but fully this time.

“He’s not ‘my man,’ so don’t fucking expect me to try and control him when you finally work up the manballs to start this thing.”

Suddenly a set of headlights went on up the street and a car engine turned over. The headlights were pointed in the direction of the four men. The engine was quiet and dropped immediately into an almost silent idle. But the headlights stayed bright.

Elk and Moose looked at each other frowning.

“You did bring the manballs to start this thing, right ladies?” Steinthal smiled pleasantly and it was easy to see his teeth in the backglow from the headlights. Then he thumbed back in the direction of the car. “If not I got some guys in the car with extra sets you can borrow. If you promise we can cut em back out again afterwards.”

Elk looked at Steinthal. Steinthal could see Elk’s breath streaming and steaming out of his nostrils, but he remained calm enough to not move. Muscle, sure, but professional enough to be something else too.

The four men stared at each other without speaking and without motion. Until Elk’s shoulders dropped a little.

“They’ll be another day Steinthal,” Elk replied. Then he looked at Moose and nodded almost imperceptibly. Both men started to turn but before they could Steinthal spoke.

“There always is boys. The question you gotta ask yourselves, though, is this; do you wanna risk it ending any other way than it did just now?”

Elk turned and looked at Steinthal again, then at Maugham. But neither man reacted. Moose just stared at Elk. Finally Elk turned away and started walking. Moose followed after a moment’s pause. Both their footfalls were heavy, massive even. But both sounded clumsy and loud to Steinthal. He could use that. He would use that.

When they disappeared into the dark and couldn’t be heard anymore Maugham stepped up beside Steinthal and spoke quietly.

“What now?” he asked.

Steinthal looked over at him.

“Now Maugham, it’s an Elk and Moose hunt. Wanna bag a coupla big ones?”

Maugham shrugged nonchalantly.

“I got nothing pressing at the moment,” Maugham replied.

“Good,” Steinthal replied nodding. “It’s always good to take em before they ever get back to the herd.”

Then Steinthal raised his hand and signaled for the car.

from The Detective Steinthal

I TRULY ENJOYED WRITING THIS SCENE. IT’S A FIRST DRAFT AND BEGINS IN MEDIA RES…

STUMP

Wordy jumped like he’d been bit by a cottonmouth.

“Hell Well! Whadidcha do that for?”

Well Peden stopped in his tracks, and looked at Wordy.

“Do what Word?”

Wordy stood up and brushed off some of the beer that he had tipped over when Well startled him. But most of it had flooded the top of the small table or had already sunk into his breeches.

“Come stump around that corner like that?” Wordy said loudly, still annoyed, and though he had righted his glass much of the beer had soaked his pants. “Looks like I pissed my britches.”

Well smiled genuinely a moment and then laughed out loud.

“It does at that. But what ya mean ‘stump?’ You mean ‘stomp?’”

“I mean exactly what I said I mean ya mull-berry dumb-lump. You was stompin. But you also come a sneakin. You stump up on me. What are ya, deaf? Stompin and sneaking at the same time. Stump. And when ya did that you also stumped me and then I spilled my drink! Dang it!”

Well thought for a second, then laughed again.

“Don’t ya mean ‘Jomp’ then?”

“What?” Wordy said confused.

“Well, if I come a sneakin and a stompin and that made you jump, then don’tcha mean ya ‘jomped?’Ain’t ya keepin up with yerself? Stomp and jump – jomped. Ya jomped Wordy. Ya got stumped, and then you jomped. Simple as that.”

Wordy was speechless a moment and seemed annoyed again, momentarily anyway. But then a broad, toothy yellowed grin spread across his face and he said with real satisfaction,

“‘Jomp,’ as if sounding it out for the first time. “Say, I’m gonna write that down!”

Well looked at Wordy, then around the room. As if peering about for something. Wordy followed Well’s gaze ‘til it lit on him again.

“Whatcha gonna write it down with Wordy?”

Suddenly Wordy threw his hands up in the air exasperated.

“Hell Well!” he exclaimed. “Why do I have to think of everthang?”

Well laughed again.

“Beats me Wordy, but you’re fair to midlin at it.”

Wordy shook his head at Well. Well was his best friend but in Wordy’s opinion he sure was a lotta hard living.

“Whadda you want anyhow Well?” Wordy asked him suspiciously.

“’Bout what?” Well asked him sincerely.

Wordy threw his hands up in the air again and shook both fists at Well.

“’Bout why you stump me in the first place?!” Wordy shouted.

“Oh that,” Well said off-handedly. “I just wanted to see if maybe you wanted to get a beer.”

Wordy fumed and frowned at Well a second, then reached in his wet pants pocket and got two half dollars. He walked over to Well and pushed em both into his right hand.

“Yes, I wanna get a damn beer, and I had one til you come along and stump me!”

Then he kept walking. As he was leaving Well said,

“Whur ya goin Word?”

“Out in the sun ‘til my britches dry.” Wordy replied, as if the answer had been self-evident.

“Well, what do you want me to do with the coins?” Well asked.

Wordy stopped and looked at Well.

“Hell Well get us two new beers, and this time you tell that no count barkeep I want some decent headins on my tap. If I’m buying his swell he’s gonna give us decent headins this time!”

Then Wordy turned and kept walking.

Well looked at the coins. He thought that maybe Wordy had meant to say swill, then decided that maybe he had meant the beer was made with local well water. Beer-swill made of stagnant well water. Swell. Tasted like it anyway Well thought. But after briefly musing about that Well said,

“Yeah, I’ll jomp right on that Wordy.”

But Wordy had already hit the saloon doors and was stump-out by then, moving for mid-daylight to cool-off and dry out for a spell…

From The Letter(ed) Men (my Western novel)

(Post script: I keep a little notebook and a file for my wife’s “Wordisms.” For Wordy is based on my wife. And to be honest Wordy is one of my favorite characters to write. And write about, but especially his dialogue and “Wordisms.” He appears as a seemingly secondary or even minor character in my Western, the Lettered Men. But he’s not really a minor character as will be seen in the book.

 He’s seemingly a background character who actually ties together all the other major characters. In time anyway.

But as I said Wordy is in many ways, including the way he behaves and talks, based upon my wife.

Tonight I came walking around a corner to the bathroom after we got back from Anderson and my wife jumped when she saw me. I asked her why she jumped and in reply she said,

“Because you stump around that corner!”

I immediately knew it was a new Wordism and asked if she meant to say “stomp(ed)?”

She said, “No, you stumped. And I don’t mean a tree stump.” Then she explained what she meant by saying stump.

I laughed and said, “If my Westerns become as popular as I think they will then I’m gonna make you famous baby became people are gonna be reading your ‘Wordisms’ five hundred years from now!”

So, being immediately inspired I went and wrote this little scene with Wordy and Well Peden. In this particular scene I’m Well Peden, of course. Kind of out of step for me, to be the minor character in my own scene/story/novel but it fit so perfectly with this scene that I’m well pleased I wrote it that way.

Hope you enjoyed it, and found it funny [I had a ball writing it], and Good Night… and thanks for reading and your support of my writings and Work.)

SOME KIND OF EXCUSE

“That’s precisely the way the Real World works Maugham. What ain’t criminal is corrupt, and what ain’t immoral is amoral.”

Maugham stared at Steinthal thoughtfully for a moment. Then said,

“What about everyone else?”

Steinthal shrugged.

“What ‘everyone else?'” he asked.

“All the good and decent people?” Maugham replied.

One corner of Steinthal’s mouth turned up slowly but Maugham couldn’t tell if it was a smile, or a grimace.

“What?” Steinthal said. “You think they don’t know?”

Maugham looked at Steinthal again. Then he shrugged.

“Maybe…” he finally admitted. Then he brightened a little. “But then again, maybe they’re just scared.”

Steinthal looked up into the sky and sighed deeply, but Maugham didn’t feel like it was aimed at him. Then Steinthal looked at his friend again.

“Maybe, Maugham… Maybe. But what is that supposed to be, some kind of excuse?”


from The Detective Steinthal

EYE TO THE FUTURE

THE PAST FEW DAYS IN MY SCIENCE FICTION UNIVERSE

over the past few days I have been further developing/redeveloping my Science Fiction Universe, better classifying the players involved and the better defining the systems and societies and groups and organizations and individuals operating within it, as well sketching out timelines and the major events occurring in this universe and where those events occur.

To that end I have developed the following notes and plans for the Human Navies (space and stellar) in my universe and exactly how they will operate.

Below is an improved list of these organizations and players and their ships:

Stellie – common or popular name for any crew working aboard (any type or form or class of) space and star and planetary ships

Stellarne – common or popular for anyone working aboard a military or patrol type ship

Asterisk – colloquial term for any of the risks associated with or assumed by service aboard any type of space or star or planetary craft or station, uninsurable, and except for the military rarely compensated for in case of serious injury or death

Psychoids – general term for any of the psychological disorders or psychoses common to those who operate in deep space or for prolonged periods in space. Eventually most of these dissipate in lifers and tend to be uncommon (for reasons unknown) in Frontiersmen.

Pathocoers – general term for any of the somatic or physical disorders that occur over time due to prolonged exposure to deep space or to prolonged service in space. Some bodies eventually adapt to these spatial and temporal and positional and accelerative/velocity stressors, others do not and are either forced form service, suffer lifelong chronic disorders, or die as a result of daily living in space.

Ship Forms:

Cosmeres/Spaceships – ships operating farthest from human space and in unexplored regions beyond human Frontier(s); and much later a very small number of ships that traverse different dimensions, other realities, and into different temporal epochs – Typically these are Explorer ships or sometimes, though very rarely, during wartime, that number may include Warships. Ships operating in Extra-Boundary Space, Hyper-Field Space, Protospace, or in so called Cosmic Space.

Starships – ships travelling between or operating between/for human controlled or previously explored star systems, up to the Frontier. Ships that operate in so-called “Gray Space,” or within Boundary or Inner or Intra-Frontier space. See ship classes below. *

Planetary ships – ships which move between human occupied or human dominated planets, stations, colonies, bases, and facilities along long established travel and trade routes. Ships that operate within the well-established boundaries of Human Space, or within “Safe Space.” Within Inter-Frontier Space. These ships tend to be commercial ships, police craft, patrol ships, and transport ships.

Classes of Ships:

Explorers/X-Boats/X-Craft (explorer ships involved in exploration, science, research, development, and discovery both within and sometimes outside Human Spatial Frontiers) – armed (astatic) and unarmed (silent), ships may rnage in size form mid-range to small craft and even to stealth vessels

Patrol ships – armed, but swift and light

Battle/Conflict/Warships – heavily and experimentally armed, defended, armored, and shielded: battle lightest class, in squadrons of 10 or less, or in war in dispensillas, conflict mid-range in tandem with teams of 2 or 3, or in war to support conflict and Warships, warships largest class, heavily and experimentally armed, and armored, designed to operate singly and independently on long patrols, also designed to scavenge and scoop resources from space, unoccupied bodies (like explorers), and in war operate in wargroups of 2 to 4 with support vessels.

Commercial ships – unarmed or lightly or experimentally armed

Note: All explorers and battle/conflict/warships are of entirely unique and modular designs suited to those Actions most anticipated or expected of them (one of a kind ships), all patrol and commercial ships are of various standardized blueprints and designs with slight Captain or Commander modifications as desired or needed

The Astronautical Corp:

Astroceanic (pronounced as-troscenic by most or by civilians and civilian contractors, or astro-ce-anic by crew) – any ship or event or enterprise involving the Astronautical Corp.

Astronautical Corp – ships transported by armed explorers to worlds with oceans or liquid atmosphere where “subnautica” ships can be deployed to explore those environments. The crews of such ships are call astronauts.

The Curae:

The Curae – the Superpriests of the Future who lead the “Potter’s-Revolt” or Curare against human society

The Frontiersmen:

The Frontiersmen – explorers who operate alone or in very small teams in previously unexplored areas of the extreme Frontier (both in space and by campfall/planetfall), or well beyond the Frontier of human or known space. Such expeditions are extremely resource and capital and technology intensive and are usually funded by megacorporations or private interests or even sometimes by groups like the Curae, despite the fact that most Frontiersmen are anti-authority and hate oversight and often disobey assignments and orders and will even conceal or hide discoveries (like early American Frontiersmen, id est, Boone).

Frontiersmen tend to be highly trained (especially in science, survival, exploration, alien habitats, adaptive invention and innovation, and xenobiology) loners who learn early to forage and scavenge on their long assignments.

If a Frontiersmen is alone on assignment it is called a Soquest and he is said to be soquestered until he returns. If he goes to the same area more than once that is a Sequest and he is sequestered.

If he goes in a small team of 2 to 3 others that is a Commission and while so missioned this team is said to be committed. If it is a multiphased commitment to the same place it is called a Chartor, or Longstake.

Some Assignments can last a year or more and a few have lasted decades though the typical deployment is roughly six months, Solaterra Time (ST – seasonal conversion time adaptive to alien planets) or Solar Orbital Time (SOT – fixed) or Atomic Time (AT) or Astronomical Time (AST) which are standard Time Forms among future humans, though some Frontiersmen go Native even as to counting time.

Frontiersmen are typically deployed by Explorer Craft though some lifelongers or well-funded Frontiersmen design, develop, and have built their own delivery ships, beacons, living shelters, micro and orbital satellites, and other gear. A Frontiersman that expresses a desire to never return to human space is called an Exilean, one who goes Native is said to be “Occupied,” and one who disappears into the Frontier and whose real fate is unknown, even if suspected, is said to be “Bewildered,” or “Baffled.”

Although many other secondary and tertiary players and events are involved, and although larger issues do occur within my science fiction universe (religious, political, corporate, business, alien, military, scientific, technological, etc.) most of the stories set in my science fiction universe revolve around three main groups; the Curae, the Astronautical Corp., and the Frontiersmen. And around so-called “God Technologies.”

TODAY WHILE RUCKING

in my South-Western woods I noticed unusual trees of various kinds and, some having fallen, their remnant trunks. Often while hiking or rucking or walking in my woods (or in any forest or wilderness area) I will note things about what I encountered (animal or botanical life, geography, geology, etc.) and later convert those things into literary, poetic/song, or invention ideas.

(That is how my mind works, I see something and think, “what if that were different or altered in some way?” Also I often begin converting things like that into langauges/terms I have created or into code-forms.)

Today was sort of a combination of all three. Which also led me to 3 different literary ideas. Which I will shortly list below.

These three ideas will all go into my Kithariune novels about the Eldevens.

They also led me to another useful literary idea. The Eldevens are supposed to be considered very dangerous by men (and indeed can be) but their reputation in this regard is often overblown or misunderstood. They are dangerous, but not necessarily or intentionally malicious. But why would (some/may) men consider them so frightening and deadly? I’ve often debated why this might be.

Their appearance and abilities, of course, but today another idea occurred to me. The fleshwood example below.

Many men would consider them “flesh-wearers,” and dangerous practitioners of magic (they are) but things like “flesh-wearers” would be misunderstandings generated by things in their own language or by faulty/tricky translations in which the Eldevens wear flesh of trees, but men encountering them would mistake it for the flesh of men, or the flesh of other Eldevens. (Thus even generating tales of cannibalism.)

So men, on many occasions, fail to understand the Eldeven meaning of terms translated into human languages, or simply misunderstand what they see the Eldevens doing.

Hence the Eldevens seem extremely dangerous to men by mistranslation and by misunderstanding, and by their alien habits, customs, and culture. A “misinterpreted” lethality and reputation for being dangerous greatly exaggerated by misapprehension. Similar to human experience in misinterpreting a healing woman (folk witch) or cunning man (village wizard) for/as a demonic worshiping witch or warlock. Anyway it was extremely good to go rucking today. For the past few days I’ve been hiking because I have a ruptured disc in my lower back and the hiking and stretching outdoors is helping me to recover. Not to mention the beneficial idea-generation.

Fleshwood (Symýs) – trees with a soft, flesh-like bark that can be carefully skinned from (remove too much and the tree dies, but some of the Eldevens cultivate the trees like food-crops, but to create “flesh-goods”) some of the tree and the resulting material/skins can be used to create a hard, leather like material that can be cured and treated in different ways to make carry-bags, clothing, strips and wraps, and even light, flexible armor. The flesh of the tree cannot be eaten as it is poisonous, but, the wood underneath, which is also soft and moist, can be eaten in emergencies for short periods of time, and the leaves are sued to make teas and medicines. The Eldevens call Fleshwood Trees and the “flesh” produced by them Symys. Symys is said to be normally durable but under certain circumstances it can disintegrate unexpectedly or easily and rumors persist that in rare circumstances it can graft itself onto the user effectively becoming their own flesh when worn or handled over extended periods of time.

Doomtrees (Limvlârņ) – trees cursed by sorcery or witchcraft which when a person or beast (named in the curse) touches the tree or comes within a certain proximity the tree crashes upon the victim without warning and without any sound other than that of a soft breeze. Doomtrees are often used as traps, ambush enclosures, or to prevent approach to a protected site. The Eldevens call doomtrees Limvlarn, literally, “accursed-limbs,” or kyl-fařth (slay-roots).

Loft or Trunkposts (Heftl-Oürl) – an Eldeven habit of treating and converting tree trunks into covert or coded signposts that reveal both the direction to and the distance to a given waypoint or destination. Such trunks are used most often and most especially in thick forests (though can be established anywhere) and are recognizable to most Eldevens, regardless of race (assuming they spend time out of doors). Such trunks are subtly carven and once treated using Elturgy they stand and last without decay for centuries. Some Eldevens are said to be able to “lay hands” upon such trunks and to mentally understand messages left there for them by others or to visualize and see the way to their destination and what might lay upon that path, especially if danger lurks upon the way. The Eldevens call these posts Loft (Yearl) or (Heftl-Oürl) Trunk-posts.

PERSONAL PRINCIPLES OF WEALTH BUILDING

SHAME…

Popular Science to Shutter Magazine After 151 Years of Publication

SO MY YOUNGEST DAUGHTER

TONIGHT I LOOKED AT MY LITERARY PRODUCTIONS (AGAIN)

by volume that is. For my Steinthal novel alone I’ve got 225 pages in scenes and must have a dozen different cases going at once. I’m gonna have to break em up into separate books of course. Lol. (And that’s not counting my two other detective characters.)

For my High Fantasy, The Kithariune I have over a thousand pages (maybe 1500) for my Trilogy, in scenes, chapters, research, notes, and dialogue.

About the same for my sci-fi books, and especially the Main Novel, The Curae.

For my pulp and espionage books I must have over 500 pages apiece.

Western, regional, frontier and historical novels, maybe the same.

I have written literally hundreds of articles and essays. About 500 songs or song lyrics. Thousands of poems, which I now have divided into 6 or 7 different books. Dozens of scientific papers, dozens of short stories, dozens of musical compositions, dozens of math papers, scores of mathematical formulae, coupla dozen children’s books, three young adult books, dozens of lectures and educational courses, and recently three presentations and courses for my Coaching business. Games I’ve designed, and programs, manuals and instructional works, informational books, business reports and papers, business plans, etc. Don’t even get me started.

Point is I’ve produced a shit ton of material over time.

If not for my kids and work (not blaming either, just saying they have in the past diverted or diluted my time, though my kids are worth it) and the publishing industry (which, a lot of people say they like my writings, but the publishing industry doesn’t, primarily I suspect because I am Christian and Conservative, since literally no one in any industry has ever told me I’m not a top-flight writer – but I’m tired of screwing around with that industry, and I won’t negate my own aims and morals and standards for it) I would already be hip-deep in published works.

(I mean aside from ghost-works and stuff I’ve done for clients, I mean hip-deep in my own stuff.)

But now my new businesses and investments are up and running and once they are self-operational I’m really turning full-ahead to my Literary and related careers (song-writing, invention, etc.) and in 2024 I self-publish like crazy.

I certainly have the material and with the AI I’m designing to do editing and arrangement 2024 should see me flush on the self-publishing markets.

So I’m off to the Chariot Races… like everything else from now on (business, investment, charity, science, exploration, etc.) I take the reins. Wish me Good Fortune and Godspeed.

And the same to you at whatever you tempt Fate at… or Work at to fulfill your Fate.

HUNTING IS DIFFERENT

THE ONE-MAN JOB

Maugham passed a uniform and a plainclothesman exiting as he entered Steinthal’s office. The officers and Maugham were equally surprised to see each other. Recovering from his initial shock Maugham nodded politely and the two other men, glancing up at Maugham’s enormous height returned the favor, but warily.

The plainclothesman stepped out of the way and held the door open for Maugham to pass before looking back into the room.

“This him?” the suit asked.

Steinthal, sitting at his desk raised his right hand and finger in acknowledgement. The man nodded in reply and shut the door behind him.

Maugham walked over to stand in front of Steinthal’s desk and asked, “What did they want?”

Steinthal glanced at Maugham and said, “Calling in a favor.”

“But I thought you didn’t have good relations with the cops?” Maugham continued.

“Big place, lotta cops.” Steinthal replied. “Besides, what others don’t know can’t hurt me.”

Maugham grunted and suddenly realized there was an open file laid out in front of Steinthal. He glanced at it, and seeing this Steinthal’s eyes also dropped to the file.

It looked like a rather hastily photocopied hardcopy of a case file. Or perhaps parts of it. Maugham didn’t ask but both he and Steinthal knew he knew what had happened, and why.

“No electronic or data trace,” Steinthal said flatly. “Maybe they got something on camera but I really doubt it. Knowing them. Probably copied unrelated material just to cover. I would have.”

Maugham nodded and grunted again.

“So what is it?”

“About a vic,” Steinthal replied. “But that’s not important right now.”

Maugham looked at Steinthal quizzically.

“What’s important is the killer,” Steinthal replied to Maugham’s look.

Steinthal tended to piss off professionals when he talked that way, purposely avoiding terms like UNSUB, or subject, or even suspect when it came to violence. Just “killer” or murderer” was all he would say. Drove the feds bonkers but he didn’t care. And as he liked to say, “Screw the feds.”

“Do they know who it is,” Maugham asked, thumbing back towards the door.

Steinthal shrugged.

“Maybe, you just never know with the cops,” Steinthal said cagily.

Maugham tilted his head sideways.

“Well, what about the Dick?” he asked becoming even more curious.

“Yeah,” Steinthal said. “What I don’t know about what he don’t know can’t hurt either of us either. And that’s true vice-versa too.”

Maugham was becoming agitated at Steinthal’s evasiveness so he kept at him. Maybe out of nothing more than aggravation.

“Well, if you’re not gonna tell me anything about the vic, then what about the killer. Do you think you know who he is?”

Steinthal looked hard at Maugham, as if weighing something in his mind. Whatever it was he was weighing, it seemed to tilt this way, and that, before settling out even.

“Maugham, I’m almost certain I know who he is.”

Surprised Maugham paused a moment.

“Well, what are you gonna do about it?” Maugham asked seriously, thinking he might be finally making some headway.

Steinthal glanced down at the manila file, straightened it, and then folded the cover over to close it.

“I’m going to hunt the mutha-fucker down, and kill him,” Steinthal said without bothering to look back up.

Maugham grunted and it sounded like he had just lifted a heavy weight successfully.

“So you definitely know who he is?”

Steinthal shook his head.

“Is anything in life really definite Maugham? But if I had to lay odds at table I’d say 100 percent. Probably more. Give or take a few points.”

Maugham nodded.

“Alright, who is it then?” he asked.

Again Steinthal stared at Maugham, almost uncomfortably, as if weighing something private in his mind. And again he weighed it awhile before he replied.

“Marcus Octavio Sodworth.”

Maugham heard the name clearly enough but just couldn’t place it. It seemed familiar, and he worked at it for awhile, but then he shook his head. Steinthal waited to see if Maugham could make him but then realized he wouldn’t.

“You may know him as Sod-Spot, or Spotty,” Steinthal said finally.

A look of surprise, and probably real concern passed across Maugham’s face.

“But Spotty is an enforcer for Sinaloa. And maybe Gulf.”

“Maybe,” Steinthal said.

“And he’s a killer,” Maugham said, as if discussing a very dangerous and proficient athlete.

Steinthal stood up in a very fluid motion and leaned across his desk as if about to pounce.

“He is,” Steinthal said. “But then again so am I Maugham. The difference being I’m not just a killer, I’m also a fucking Hunter. And killers don’t live forever around a fucking hunter.”

And as he said it Steinthal seemed to change in nature, and the look in his eyes became so sharp and so clear and so cold that even Maugham froze momentarily.

So Maugham was quiet a moment, and then said, “Let me swing by the house and get a few things.”

“No,” said Steinthal flatly and without any doubt in his reply. “No, you won’t.”

Steinthal glanced up and down at his gargantuan friend as if judging him impassively from a distance. As if choosing teams, and finding no one worth choosing. But then he softened a little.

“Maugham, you’re big, and you’re strong, and you’re good. No doubt of that. But you lumber, and you’re slow. And you’re sometimes loud. And most of all you’re big, and you bore easy. And I’m going to hunt. Hunting is different. You’re not the man for this job. As a matter of fact this is purely a one-man job. And I’m that man.”

Then Steinthal picked up the file, and turned, and walked to his pack and unzipped it and put the file deep inside.

While he did so Maugham thought about what he had just said. He was offended, and a little hurt, but he knew Steinthal had called it true. Maugham was indispensable in a stand up fight, and as muscle he shook even old oaks, but an on your belly snake hunt and a knife to the side of the throat in the dark, he’d be little help at that. And likely an open liability. You had to read people for what they were, not for what you wished they were. Steinthal was right, much as Maugham hated it.

“Dammit John,” Maugham finally said in frustration. “Well then, what do you want me to do?”

Steinthal picked up his pack and threw it across one shoulder. He walked by Maugham and as he did so he said,

“Go home Maugham. If I need you I’ll call you. But I won’t need you.”

When he got to the door he opened it and left it open. Wide.

“That’s it?” Maugham asked.

“No,” Steinthal said glancing back over his shoulder. “Lock up when you leave.”

Then Steinthal continued on down the hall towards the streets.

Maugham shook his head in disgust.

Before Steinthal hit the door to exit the building Maugham called out to him.

“At least tell me where you’re going?!” he asked.

Steinthal might have said something in reply, or perhaps not. It was hard to tell at that distance. But either way he was already gone…

(Tuesday’s Tale: I wrote this scene after watching a pair of “hunters” kill a male lion and then watching them attacked by another lion while taking “trophy pics” of their kill. Was it all real? I mean it is the internet after all… but if it was real then they were killers but certainly not hunters. Like most modern people they didn’t understand the difference at all, and if it was real, they’re probably dead because they didn’t understand the difference. Which disgusts me but also tends to infuriate me. And because he/they didn’t understand the difference the man probably got his wife killed, or at least mauled. But life is what it is and modern people are what they are. Anyway it reminded me of some events in my past and while lying in a hot bath to recover from an injury this scene for Steinthal and Maugham occurred to me and I got out and wrote it. Took about an hour and a half, lot slower than normal for me, but my wife walked in in the middle of it, so I couldn’t write smooth or clean until our conversation ended. Still, don’t think our conversation scattered my thoughts or hurt the scene any but that’s up to you. Hope you enjoy it, it’s a first draft, and if you wanna comment, do so.)

Coda: I subtitled this scene, the One-Man Job. Since I wrote a scene for Denn the other day also about a One Man Job (for a Woman) I just couldn’t resist…

Please Pray…

PLEASE PRAY FOR MY YOUNGEST DAUGHTER KES

IN FICTION EVERY MAIN CHARACTER

Is absolutely vital. As they are the ones who inspire the Audience/Reader to attempt and to Do Great and Important Things.

Yet every Secondary Character is also of enormous import as they are the ones who inspire the Main Character to attempt and to Do Great and Important Things. So in your Own Life, and in Real Life, always be the Main Character, but in the lives of others be a necessary and outstanding Secondary Character.

from Form and Function, The Literate Man’s Guide to Real Life

STONE IN MY SIDE

(THE BLOODSTONE)

There is a Stone within my side as great as all Golgotha
A Rock of Ages, and of eons lived in exile from myself
Lithos, peltast, it assails me still
Gravestone, great rounded block that seals away my inner tomb
It lingers on within me, pangs me by means no other men may see
Milestone of all my worst misdeeds, burden of all the Good I never wrought
Wet Whetstone of my Secret Soul, grinding boulder of Sisyphus alone
Pillar of what I might have been, monument of nothing yet
Marbled within me, of form uncut
Statued still in long repose, no Master but myself at Work
And I inactive at my task,

A stone weighs within me, harder than my coldest heart
Frozen neath the whitest moon whose surface is a crystal shard
So like the flint that pierces me,
Who shall cut this bloody gem from me?
The one that heavies out my heart, and feasts my flesh as if alive
By mass of what is lost to me, by bile to gall me, stone all calcified
Of blood a stupor, dried and vain, my veins collapsed to chiseled dust
Does circulate to fix itself upon the stone that grows and harries hard in me
To hammer I should go at it, to daily ring my utmost blows,
To crack, and score, and sure reduce this thing that parasites my Inmost Man,

To split that stone of bone, sepulcher of graven lots, expose its marrow soft and withered
Grind it down as it does me and carve that rock to fractured gravel
Sledge and batter, pummel it, yet it remains and bides like bronze
Fresh cast and hardened long in unsung seas

What if I surgeoned it by razor, spliced the flesh that harbors it, and then reached in to grasp it, slick as slime, yet hard as woe?

What if I but excised this tumor all of stone and pulled it from my bleeding self? I would and yet I know it has grown vessels, arteries to feed itself, all made of me for I have fed it even though I never wished, and thus it roots there where it grows, nested, certain of its place, unruined by my surgeries,

So there malingers still deep within me the minerals of my own misdeeds, an unchipped gem acursed of undone Goods, uncaring hard, all solid sharp, it weighs there still in pain and longing, dis-ease encased like pearls envested,

uncured by nothing until I Act…

THE ONE MAN JOB

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Or you.”

He looked at her but didn’t respond.

“I mean, look at you Denn. There’s literally nothing you won’t do. Seems to be nothing you fear,” she said almost desperately. She momentarily put both hands to her face and then dropped them again and looked down at the ground. “Most of the time I’m just so afraid. So lonely. So tired. There’s no one you need, but I need everyone.” Then her shoulder’s collapsed and she seemed to sag all over.

But Denn stepped forward and caught her and stood her erect again.

“Carole,” he said softly but firmly. “Everyone needs who they need, and I’m no exception. But you’ll never get over fear and loneliness through other people. Some things in life are just one man jobs.”

She sighed deeply and looked up into his eyes.

“I’m not a man,” she said softly, less desperate now, but still unsure of herself.

Denn smiled at her warmly, “That you aren’t my dear. That you aren’t. And yet that still doesn’t change any of the facts. Eventually you’re going to have to stand alone, if you ever want to stop being alone. And stop being so damned afraid all of the time.”

As he held her she seemed to want to move towards him, but he held her at a slight distance for a moment and then he finally released her. Almost as if to see what she would do. She didn’t move towards him, but she didn’t move away either. Instead she stared at his set face for a long time, studying it. He was tall, and his face was cut and hard, but there was also something very relaxed and open and human about him that maybe she had never noticed before. Fearless, but not without obvious sympathy. Height without arrogance, strength without cruelty. Demand without condemnation. Manhood without malice and calculation. She thought about this as a sort of flash of insight, and suddenly he seemed very alien to her, and to most other men she had ever known. And yet he also seemed very familiar. As if he had arisen from a long forgotten memory. But then she came to herself again, and she shook her head and said,

“Well then, will you stand with me?” The question was entirely sincere.

Denn nodded ever so slightly.

“With you Carole,” he replied flatly, though not coldly. “But not for you. With you is my job as a man, and as your friend, but for… well, it’s time you finally learned to do yours. And woman is no excuse in life for failing at a one man job.”

She watched him again, silently and reflectively for a moment, and then she sighed deeply once more and said, “Okay, Denn. I’ll do it your way.”

Denn nodded silently again.

“But what do I do?” she asked searchingly after a quiet moment wrestling with the obvious. “I mean, this is all so new to me. Where do I start?”

Denn smiled and pointed at her chest.

She mistook his intent.

“My blouse?” she asked puzzled.

Denn laughed freely at her question.

“Your heart my dear,” he replied when he finally finished laughing. “That’s as good a place as any to start, and the one place it might just stick this time.”  

(This scene was inspired by something an old friend said to me this morning, about most people in life being lonely and afraid, and seeking companionship and safety above all else (and why this makes them naturally unhappy) and my reply about it.

The story/scene involves my Pulp and Action/Adventure hero Denn Templemann and a girl he knows, and has known for a very long time, Carole Vange.

It is perfect subject matter for Denn and his Pulp stories as Denn fears almost nothing, and needs almost nobody (though he is by nature very sociable and gregarious, just not dependent upon anyone) and Carole, who fears almost everything and thinks she needs everyone, even those who are terrible for her. (She flits form man to man hoping to find one who will “save her.” I’m sure you’ve met females like that before at some time in your life.) And it also, as I envisioned the scene, touches briefly upon their on-again/off-again Romantic attraction and why it isn’t and can’t work with Carole as she is.

Denn is not typically Romantic in nature, as some of my other male characters are [Marsippius, Alternaeus, the Boy, etc.], for he more represents my more entirely pragmatic-romantic side. But like me he is also extremely Chivalrous, in a very antique or Medieval way. He represents, in me, Action-Oriented Romance and Problem-Solving Romance and Manhood-Romance, not necessarily erotic or devotional romance. This is how he handles Carole and how he handles females/women in general. Which tends to confuse most women, but Denn, like me, doesn’t actually care.

[I do have other Romantic and Chivalrous aspects in myself, as my wife can tell you, but if Action-Oriented Romance is what is most needed then again, as my wife and many other females can tell you, that is certainly what comes out first. Problem-Solving first, tra-lah-lah later. For I also, like Denn, have an antique sense of Manhood.]

So, with that in mind, and having wanted to write this scene for awhile but not knowing exactly how to proceed, when my buddy said what he said about other people it gave me an excellent opening. I hope you enjoy the scene and feel free comment if you so wish.

The “One Man Job” is, of course, an obvious play on words and meaning in the scene.)

THE THREE COMETS

had a sort of waking reverie right after arising from a nap this afternoon. It involved 3 Comets.

The first kept changing colors and shape and would appear and then disappear and then reappear elsewhere.

The second would change into different things, appearing as a comet, then a meteor shower, then what might have been a huge asteroid, then it looked like a stationary planet, then perhaps something artificial and then finally into a comet again. But more diffuse. More like a large, mobile gas cloud.

The third at first appeared to move in one direction, West to East, then it turned back upon itself and ate itself. But it did so in a large loop so it looked like an astronomical ouroboros.

These “comets” appeared one after another, though there was some overlap between the second and last as the third seemed to “come out of or erupt out of the second” as the second scattered and disappeared.

Immediately I wondered if it were some type of omen, but to be honest I couldn’t tell as usually an omen makes some type of impression or feeling upon me, usually in my gut or my chest area. Leaves an uncanny or ominous feeling or impression upon me. This was more like almost disinterested “observation from a distance.” (Whether that distance was one of space or time, or both, I don’t know.)

Anyway, after recording it I decided it/they should go into my high fantasy novels The Kithariad. Though I am also not at all opposed to using the same or a similar thing in my scifi novels…

THE LIGHT CHANGED

THEN THE LIGHT CHANGED

Both men walked on in thoughtful silence for awhile, each lost in his own thoughts.

Finally Maugham glanced over at Steinthal and said, “That was truly rough.”

“It was,” Steinthal said in flat response.

They walked a bit further, the quiet a soundless hum between them.

“And,” Maugham continued eventually, “pointlessly tragic.”

Steinthal nodded his agreement.

“Obviously.”

They continued on until the intersection and then paused to cross the street.

“You know,” Maugham said wearily. “For a second there I almost thought you were gonna have an actual emotion. I mean, aside from fury.”

Steinthal seemed to ponder that for a moment, as if from a great distance. Then he finally said,

“Well, Maugham, you know me and deep emotions…”

And Maugham nodded at Steinthal, and Steinthal nodded back. Each without ever bothering to look at the other, or even being sure that either understood why. It was just like that between them.

But, before the traffic cleared or the light waved them on Steinthal added,

“You know Maugham, on occasion, I do have a few.”

Maugham looked at Steinthal.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“An emotion other than fury,” Steinthal said glancing at Maugham, again without turning. “I just tend to keep em all stored with my soul in my Lich-box.”

And suddenly Maugham realized that, in his own way, Steinthal was probably weeping. Not out loud, but where it actually mattered.

Maugham thought back to the little girl’s body. He shuddered, and then was suddenly very tired again.

“Hell,” Maugham said out loud to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Steinthal breathed out heavily. “Just more fucking hell…”

Then the light changed, and they both walked on, and neither spoke again for a long, long time.

(First draft of a scene inspired by something my oldest daughter said to me with part of a remembered case I worked.)

I WISH I (WE) WERE ALIVE

I WISH I (WE) WERE ALIVE

I wish I were alive in ways I am not now:

An astronaut, an engineer, a builder of cities, a frontiersman
No shadows in day, no chill at night

I wish I were alive in ways I am not now:

A physicist, a mendicant priest, explorer who wanders all unknown lands
No dark clouds at dawn, moon always full

I wish I were alive in ways I am not now:

A Greek genius, entrepreneur, a Viking sailing the blue whale road
Clear sky at morning, red skies at night

I wish I were alive in ways I am not now:

Poet to make Homer blush, Man who stepped out of Time, Fleet Captain, the Invisible One, Pilot of the Dawn at the Night of No More

I wish I were alive in ways I am not now:

Happy Apostle of Christ, a young boy at play, Grandfather Christmas, the Wizard who dared, Inventor of Futures so Bright that they shone like the Rise of the Sun on a whole different world

And what prevents me from any of this?!

Only me, and

Me Alone

It is time I arose and became my True Self.

It is time I were alive in the ways I should Always Have Been… join me and we both shall Live

sunrise-over-mountain-range-and-clear-skiesDownload

THE BEAR, THE BOAT, THE SEA, AND MAN

THE BEAR AT THE BOAT OF THE VANQUISHED SEA

The bear found the boat of the new vanquished sea
The bed of the foam unplowed by the keel
No anchor was thrown, no motor did turn
No need to steer waters with waters all gone

The bear wondered hard how the strange ship had come
To a beach of slick sandings where seas were no more,
And what of the crew – abandoned like flotsam
Or shippage to somewhere the Oceans still roared?

The bear turned the hull and pressed on the timbers, but
The boat could not move on such sure vanquished seas
Yet still the bear stood there, aft of the port
That the boat could not make on now vanquished seas

Wond’ring too if men had all vanished
Deserting their Works like long vanquished seas…

WOULD THAT IN CONSUMING

“Drink this!” she said gaily, and perhaps a little too loudly. She handed him a fine-wrought yet small cup of some unknown metal. It seemed to flow into his hand as if it too were made of liquid, yet it also felt smooth, hard, and warm.

“He took the cup not unenthusiastically, for he had previously partaken of Eldeven wines on other occasions and knew them to be excellent and comforting. Even to the disheartened. Perhaps more potion than mere drink.

He sipped, and then drank more vigorously.

Then he help the cup in the palm of his hand, still feeling the peculiar warmth it seemed to radiate through the cup, or because of it, and stared at the remaining draught. It was almost weightless in his hand.

“Would that in consuming I would always far better account for that which most oft consumes me…”

She laughed. “Is that verse?” she asked good-naturedly.

He frowned quickly. “If you wish.”

Then he added somewhat moodily, “However do not mistake the report of a thing for the thing itself.”

He paused a short while before speaking again, still puzzling at the fine and almost arcane work upon the Eldeven cup from which he drank.

“I think rather it the philosopher, mystic, and metaphysician in me,” he finally admitted. “Or perhaps I am but a frustrated soldier. Or priest.”

The latter remark may have been the more truthful he thought to himself, or perhaps they all were.

She smiled pleasantly, but also somewhat craftily and perhaps even knowingly.

“Is it not enough then to be a Master Poet among men?” she teased him.

Larmaegeon placed his cup upon the heavy, large feasting table with its unspun cloth of gold and dark silver filigree for needleless embroidery. He smiled in his own turn but it seemed more an inner musing than a pleasantry.

“Poetry is Mastery of Nothing. Except mere words. And words are absolutely nothing without a Mastery of Life to birth them. Otherwise words and verse both are but whispers upon the winds. Perhaps they go here, perhaps there, seen to bend this limb, displace that grain of sand, but other wise no one knows from whence they came or where they go. If they go. Otherwise they catch the ear of this wandering man, or that pleased lady, or travel out in time to light upon the fancy of some child yet unborn. But poetry is not mastery, so much as its echo. Art, without Manhood, is neither master of anything, nor does it master anything. And clever words are not achievements or Life, they are at best, and most often, the mere reflection of both.”

This seemed to both disturb and yet curiously satisfy the Russian Witch. Larmaegeon watched her eyes momentarily as they adjudged him, and then noticed that her reddish-blonde hair, though it shifted in colour and aspect often in the day, appeared as smooth and flowing and shimmering gold in the strangely steady glow of the surreal fires of the Eldeven hall.

Klura picked up her own cup and drank lightly from it, her eyes and quizzical brows peeking above the lip of her drink as if they looked at the Bard from a great distance, or from another time. She finished, lowered her drink, and spoke again.

“Do you then think so little of what you do, while so many others think so well of it?” she asked, but not teasingly this time.

“I do,” Larmaegeon replied instantly and without any hesitation. “I do think little of it.” Then he raised his cup again, saluted her and hers, and said without any irony at all, “And yet, my dear, I excel at it…”

Then he made a small bow and rose fluidly from his chair and having stood looked down at her.

“Excuse me,” he said, “I will indeed be poor company tonight. And that is entirely my own fault.”

Then he turned and walked away and towards the hall’s great doors and swung them open unaided by the guards, who watched him warily but without movement, as he silently departed the room.

Klura watched him go, his simple green wardrobe seeming to darken almost into a glistening black as he left. And then he was gone, and not even his restless shadow seemed a lingering memory at that moment to her. And yet, somehow, his words remained…

(This is a first-draft bare-sketch I wrote of a scene between the Welsh Bard Larmaegeon and the Russian Witch Klura as they were being entertained at the hall of the Samarl of Samarkand by the Sidh and Prester John [Jhönarlk]. It came to me this morning as I have been writing and working on several of my novels much of late. Even been composing a fair amount of poetry. I guess to be occupied of mind is to be occupied, if you’ll act on it that is. Anyway I have edited it once, for spelling so far but no farther. It concerns what Larmaegeon thinks of Poetry and his profession as a Bard, especially given recent events in the novel, and what Klura thinks of him [to a degree]. In one way you could call it a scene of Romance and in another a criticism and critique of both Verse and Romance sans Action. Or, yet another of my criticisms of the State of the modern World in the West. Which effeminately thinks that mere thoughts and words and wishes [filigrees and embroideries and pedigrees, or in modern terms information/journalism and memes and talk] fix or resolve the world. Or that those things alone ever amplify the true Good, or protect anyone or anything from actual evil…)

From the second novel in my High/Mythological Fantasy Trilogy The Kithariad (The Doom of Kitharia)

#novel #fiction #writing #literature #HighFantasy #poetry

IN THIS I AM ALONE

“In this I am alone,” Denn sighed to his old friend. “That I know what I know, and yet I cannot truly describe to you what I know, and I cannot truly know what you describe. All we can do is proceed into this thing together, knowing that no matter what else happens, as we go, that ultimately, we are also alone even in what we share.”

Fin sighed in his turn.

“I know Denn,” and Fin paused a moment before continuing, “but maybe that is enough, ya know. Or maybe… maybe it is enough for us.”

Denn stared off into space awhile but then he smiled warmly and clapped his old friend on the shoulder and turned to look at him.

“In this together then,” Denn replied to Fin, already starting to feel better and more hopeful about what was to come. “Alone, and yet together. Live, or die my friend.”

Fin too smiled, perhaps a little less enthusiastically, but smile he did.

“If it’s all the same to you Denn,” Fin said matter of factly, “I’d rather we all lived.”

Denn smiled again and then laughed out loud. He slapped Fin on the knee like they were both young boys and then he stood up enthusiastically and offered his hand. Pulling Fin easily to his feet Denn nodded curtly and said,

“How ‘bout we work at that then?”

Fin nodded back at Denn.

“Yeah, how ‘bout we…”

From The Adventures of Denn Templemann, The Man Who Went Alone Together

My Pulp Adventure novels for boys, young men, and old men

#novel #fiction #pulp #adventure

THE COLD PILLOW

Upon the cold pillow lies the restless head of man, whose disgraced dreams, which would, or should, be all of the Visions of God’s own making, are instead bent to petty aims and empty theologies of belief whose only achievement is the eternal and endless fracturing of themselves into ever smaller shards of doubt and despair (dispair, disrepair)

The cold pillow which should support the soul of man in his wandring sleep to countless other worlds and others times records no hope of all it sees or hears behind the slumbring eyes which cannot speak of all they know except in cryptic slivers neath the silvered moon.

(fragments of two stanzas of verse from a dream I awoke from… this also gave me an idea for a Theurgical pillow I intend to design and have embroidered with scriptures, images, Ikons, etc. to inspire New Dreams and Visions while I sleep… I intend to do the same for an Ancient headrest.)

THE REAL ILLUSION

THE REAL ILLUSION

The World is both Illusion and Real my boy. Yet more the Illusory Reality, I think, than the Real Illusion…

Alternaeus the Wizard to the Boy

from Alternaeus the Wizard

WIZARD, MONK, NUN, AND SOLDIER

MAGIC AND MIRACLE

I could not sleep last night, and so I didn’t. Instead I stayed up working and then tried to read myself to sleep but as I lay in bed trying to sleep this scene came to my mind. Considering it important enough to get up and write out without sleeping I did so.

For it encapsulates an argument and conflict central to my set of novels in The Kithariad. That being “what precisely is Magic (Theurgy, or Elturgy to the Sidh and Eldevens), and what precisely is Miracle (Thaumaturgy to the Greeks and Romans – to men), and can the two co-exist (I exclude Sorcery, Necromancy, and those forms of “magic” in this exchange – Ilturgy to the Sidh and Eldevens) and even amplify each other?

Yet as the scene occurred to me and as I wrote it out I also realized it was a good (perhaps excellent), if somewhat philosophical literary summation of my own definitions of “Magic” and “Miracle” in the Real World (and in some ways in reverse). Mayhaps, in developing and using the terms Elmanös and Iłdevic, it my most precise summation of what both (Magic and Miracle) are in possible Real World function(s). Although I will have to develop English terms for both Elmanös and Iłdevic as these are but imaginary and philosophic literary terms.

Anyway, this conversation occurs between the Nockma (what the Sidh and Eldevens would call a “Wizard” who is also a sort of priest of Elturgy) Maegör, and the Frankish Paladin Edomios, Vlachus the Armenian monk, and Luthemia Casela the Venetian nun. The rest of the Basilegate and its Roman commander Marsippius Nicea are either missing, presumed dead, or elsewhere on other business. The exchange is centered on what is the precise nature and what are the supposed characteristics of both Magic (Elturgy) and Miracle (Thaumaturgy)? The Eldevens have rejected Miracle, but the humans make a defense of it. The humans have rejected Magic but the Eldevens only trust it, they distrust and/or discount Miracle.

The conversation occurs because the Samarl of Samarkand has sent his chief Nockma to inquire, interrogate, and discover what the humans think of Miracle (and Magic), and why?

I like the scene, and the way it plays out, and think it lays out a good basis for the dispute between Magic and Miracle in the novels. A chief, but far from the only, theme.

If you wish to make a comment concerning what you think of the scene feel free. It is a first draft and concentrates entirely upon the conversation. I have as yet added no background or material illumination, just the conversation and the reactions to it.

For now though I must sleep.

Have a Good Day Folks…

ELTURGY AND WONDER

“There are two forms of Magic,” Maegör said. “The first we call Elturgy, which has many diverse and subtle meanings, but in this context means ‘Right Working,’ or, ‘Best Outcome.’ The second is Ilturgy, which means ‘Chaos,’ ‘Ruins,’ or ‘Worst Outcome.’ We as a people practice Elturgy, and this is claimed and promoted among all Eldevens. Although there are also criminals among our peoples and ranks who practice Ilturgy. But secretly and maliciously. Ilturgy is outlawed among us.”

Here Maegör paused to see what affect and effects his words had had upon his human listeners.

“However, in both forms of Magic there are two additional expressions. These expressions we call Elmanös and Iłdevic.

Elmanös means ‘Controlled’ or ‘Correct’ or ‘Directed’ or ‘Intentional.’ Iłdevic means ‘Chaotic’ or ‘Wrong,’ or ‘Accidental’ or ‘Ill-omened.’ Its ends are always malevolent even if the intent is not. So we eschew it.

Elturgy occurs in two ways. We Eldevens, or possibly even others, cause it to occur, by Elmanös, by directed and controlled means with a very specific intent, that the best thing happen in the best way. Yet, we also acknowledge that Elturgy may occur as if seemingly unbidden, when events or fate* align in such a way that the best thing occurs in the best way yet no certain cause may be attributed as to why or how this is so. This we also call Iłdevic but in this case we mean, ‘not by our own hands.’”

Maegör fell silent to again assess the effect of what he had said had upon his small audience of mortals.

All three sat silently awhile pondering the nature and aspect of what the Sidhelic Nockma had just disclosed. Suddenly Vlachus seemed to sense the suspicions of the Eldevens all too well, and yet he also simultaneously discerned a potential flaw in their reasoning.

“Could not the same be said of that which we call Thaumaturgy, or Miracles, or Wonders?” he said.

A curious and even surprised look passed across the Nockma’s face, but it was brief and momentary. He seemed to control it quickly.

Maegör shook his head, but it seemed to the two men and the woman not so authoritatively anymore.

“As you know, or at least have guessed” Maegör responded, “we call your Thaumaturgy by a different term. We name it Alilturgy, which means ‘unknown and untrustworthy Elturgy.’ For, as you have explained it to us, it may never be controlled. In fact it is completely out of your control. It may never be truly said to be Elmanös, its workings are capricious and wholly unpredictable. It may indeed be Elturgy, or it may be Ilturgy by another guise, but it is never Elmanös. It is always Iłdevic and so cannot be adopted by our people.”

At this Luthemia also seemed to grasp the conflict. Or, at least the conflict from the Sidhelic and Eldeven point of view. She spoke her insight.

“Maegör,” she began. “You say Thaumaturgy and Wonders are Iłdevic because neither men nor Eldevens can control such Wonders. At least I would say, ‘never fully.’ And this is true enough. Neither Mortal Men nor your kind can control Wonders. For Wonders arise from God, at need, or as warranted. Or as deserved. And all of those things are, as you rightfully say, out of our control. But far from out of the control and direction of God. For God is, to us, the very human source of the ‘best thing in the best way at the best time.’ Indeed the source of all best things for all. Whomever they are, wherever they are. So, if that is true, then by your own logic Thaumaturgy is not Iłdevic, it is simply uncontrolled by either of us. Yet its natural outcome is always Elturgic and very likely also always Elmanös. Even to us. It is in fact what you describe, the difference being it is not controlled by created beings, such as we, but by the Creator himself. It would in fact be the very Elmanic Elturgy of God, even if we are not subtle enough or insightful enough to immediately recognize that fact.”

Again a look of disturbance mixed with doubt and perhaps even esteem passed briefly across the Nockma’s face, but he made no response at the moment.

Edomios for his part sat silently in his own thoughtful moment but then began to slowly nod his appreciation of Luthemia’s very clever argument. The young Paladin, more physical hero and earnest combatant than meditative philosopher was nevertheless pleased by the lady’s response. It has been both civil, and graceful, and yet weighty for the matter being discussed. It had also not gone unnoticed by the Frankish knight that Maegör seemed now, if only briefly, far less absolutely convinced of the certainty of his own initial presumptions about Miracles.

Vlachus though smiled widely, and not without some degree of inner satisfaction. The Myrelaion monk had for some time now been suitably impressed by the Venetian nun, and her admirable capabilities, but his appreciation of her intelligence and mind continued to grow daily in her company. At first the monk had even wondered why the Basil would even include her in the number of the Basilgate but perhaps diplomacy was far from her only vital function. However Luthemia’s reply had also shown him another way to proceed and he immediately seized upon it before the Nockma had a chance to give retort against Luthemia’s clever claims.

“Is it not entirely possible,” the monk said raising his right hand in a sort of half-realized and reflexive Blessing towards the Nockma, “that our disputes over your Magic and our Miracles are but a sort of mortal misperception of both. Is it indeed, not entirely possible that our Wonders and Wonder-Workings are but the Elturgy of God?”

Edomios nodded enthusiastically at this and almost blurted, “Yes! A Greater and Higher form of Elturgy!”

But Luthemia seemed to read his mind before he spoke and looked seriously at the young Paladin and shook her head solemnly to silence him.

If Maegör noted this silent exchange he made no obvious sign of it for he seemed entirely enwrapt in the moment by what the Armenian monk had suggested.

Again he made no immediate reply but looked curiously at the hand gesture Vlachus had made when speaking, so that Vlachus dropped his arm again. Then the Nockma looked down at his own hand and in an almost causal and off-handed way briefly imitated the same gesture.

“What is this you did as you spoke?” asked the Nockma. “And what purpose does it serve you?”

Vlachus said flatly as if confused by the behest, “It is but a Blessing.”

“And what is a ‘Blessing?’” Maegör asked the monk curiosuly.

But it was Edomios who responded.

“It is the Elmanös of men,” the knight said firmly, as if in no doubt.

And Vlachus and Luthemia both smiled. To be so young and so inexperienced the young Frankish warrior struck them both as canny and Wise.

Then Maegör nodded in silence and stood awhile looking at all three.

“I will report what you have said to the Samarl,” said the Nockma quietly. “Yet for the moment all we have discussed must remain a secret between us. Do you understand?”

All three nodded their silent assent.

“Very well then,” Maegör concluded. “You are honored quests of our court and are free to wander at will – with proper escort. However I adjure you not to speak on matters of Elturgy or of your own Thaumaturgy unless bidden so by the Samarl. To all others give no reply, or evade these subjects with the same sort of craft you herein displayed to me this evening.”

Vlachus answered for them all.

“It will be done exactly as you request.”

Maegör frowned as if measuring the probable truth of the reply, but then nodded his approval of Vlachus’ answer and then turned and exited the chamber without further reply of his own.

Vlachus turned and looked at his two companions.

“We acquitted ourselves well I think,” he said smiling.

Edomios also smiled and nodded his stolid and Stoic soldierly agreement. Luthemia also seemed outwardly pleased and yet both her nunnish and womanly instincts told her the matter was far from settled.

“I wish Klura could have been here,” Luthemia mused. “Perhaps she might have offered some further insight.”

Yet Edomios did not truly like the “prophetess,” whom he considered wild and barbarian and unpredictable, and Vlachus distrusted the supposed Rus witch and so both men looked at each other dubiously wondering what the nun meant by such a vatic remark…

#novel #Magic #Miracle #fantasy #writing

THE OPHIOLATRY

(extract from the short story The Ophiolatry. Since I am seeking publication for this it is only an extract. See the Explanatory Notes at the end…)

I had agreed to meet with him at the Ophiolatry because of the anonymity and privacy it afforded us both. Given the subject matter we had agreed to discuss and the several items we had to decide upon.

Originally designed for the ancient worship of serpents the Ophiolatry now served as little more than a secluded and abandoned museum of snakes and related creatures for the academic amusement of poignantly specialized college students seeking a career in the questionable study of reptiles.

Except by appointment, however, it was rarely occupied and almost never guarded. Mainly because there were no longer any living reptiles inhabiting the place. So there was need for neither security nor animal tender. Only the necessary attendance of the occasional fortnightly groundskeeper to ply his lonely trade as solitary groundskeeper. Yet even he would be absent tonight, as was precisely our plan in agreeing to rendezvous there.

Instead then of living beasts the halls were filled with other content, equally ominous, but entirely harmless, such as antique paintings and student sketch drawings of snakes and lesser reptiles of all kinds. Yet other and even more impressive art also embellished the halls. Including some very impressive statuary ranging from the ancient Greek representation of Laocoön and his sons being devoured by the Sea Serpents, or of Herakles mortally battling the Hydra to the more nearly modern, such as Siegfried slaying the dragon Fafnir with ringing Gramr. And beyond these there was a spectacular Basilisk cast in gilded bronze, and a small snake combed Cockatrice forged of what appeared to be rustless iron with small pearls for eyes and with a gem-dusted forked tongue.

The entire inner structure of the walls of the central hall were all coated in a greenish hue (produced perhaps by some phosphorescent substance – I did not know as I was no habitué, and it was night) that vaguely shone in the waxing moonlight, and gave them all the appearance of reflective and segmented ophidian scales. I readily concede that my imagination may have been heavily taxed but I could have also easily sworn that night to any magistrate so inclined to hear my tale that the walls did undulate unnaturally and without objective cause. Eventually I had to look away from the walls and towards my feet to avoid a surge of pressing nausea.

This singular effect however was redoubled in the inchoate lunar light by the surreal floors, which seemed to glow with the waving innate luminosity of some monstrous mythological fish. The only break in this peculiar floor design was what appeared to be a large black hole in the center of the central hall, the Opiolatry being encased by a ring of seven outer halls of varying geometries with the inner nave of the place, the largest and most spherical of all the halls, being the central one. This large hole was likewise surrounded on all sides by an ornate and engraven golden railing, yet this railing also had a gate large enough to allow entry and passage by a single man. And oddly enough, it seemed to me, that gate had been left entirely open.

Curious at this odd turn and happy for a new point of focus for my confused senses I walked to the railing and stood at the gateway peering into the hole beneath. It was still utterly dark for the most part, and cold, and smelled dank and moist, yet it seemed at regular intervals to softly breathe as if almost alive. Instantly it sprang to my intuitive imagination that I stood upon the lip of some occultic oracular pit, such as the one in which the mistress of Delphi choked upon, while noxious gases emanated continuously from the crack of some dark and toxic underworld into her eager nostrils to fire her own omened visions and dreams.

The moon had just begun to creep above the glassy central dome to slightly illuminate the pit below me. As a result a quickening beam of light began to move swiftly across the bottom of the pit as if a searchlight seeking a fleeing villain. And then I heard s slight flutter behind me and out of instinct rather than reason I dropped to my sinister knee and rolled to one side. I then felt a rush of air, then heard a brief but earnest shout, and finally a short scream followed by a sickening thud. Realizing what had happened I moved back to the gateway and peered down again into the pit. There lay Joseph Halloway, self-proclaimed esquire and supposed agent of the crown, the man I had come to meet, partially but quite effectively broken upon the marble floor beneath, one leg twisted backwards at an obscene and seemingly impossible angle, one elbow fractured in the most gruesome and bloodied compound manner.

I then instantly surmised that he had intended this horrific fate for me for some arcane and indecipherable reason and thought to ask him why he had made such a malign attempt before rendering him what aid I might. Yet before I could even speak I suddenly saw something monstrous and malevolent slither from one corner of the pit now that the moon illuminated much of the chamber in a faint argent glow…


#shortstory #horror #pennydreadful #mystery #extract

EXPLANATORY NOTES: I wrote this as part of a short story contest. I’m glad I did as this prompted me to write the first short story I’ve written in weeks. I’ve just been involved in so many other things, investment, invention, etc. that I’ve had no time to write. Anyway he contest concerned writing a flash fiction piece, and to be honest, I sat down and earnestly began to labor towards that intent.

Not long into the story however I realized I could not fulfill those (contest) requirements. The story had already become far too large for flash fiction and, indeed, may yet grow. This is, after all, but the once edited first draft. I was however told I would have probably won the contest except I exceeded the requirements in length.

It is based upon an idea I have had percolating in the back of my mind for several weeks now, maybe months. Combined with an homage piece I have meant to write for some time now as well.

This story is also a period piece, think, if you know them, of tales along the lines of a Penny Dreadful. For that is my exact intent in the execution.

A Penny Dreadful, combined with a retelling of an old Conan story, combined with a revising of the myth of Laocoön and the fate of his sons.

You may consider it a horror story, if you wish, and it might be, or as a period piece, it is, or a mixed genre piece. I consider it more a brief mediation upon the nature of human evil. Mixed with natural and even preternatural evil.

There is also a small bit of alchemical imagery included therein but that is mostly by happenstance. It was not my intent; I only noticed it in the re-reading and editing of it.

Finally I should say that the term Ophiolatry is an antique term for the pagan worship of snakes, however I transformed the word into a noun to stand for a Museum of the Serpent. Then used it in a second sense, as a verb to describe how when a man plans secret evil against another he actually ends up assuring that same evil will consume him.

Anyway I hope you like it.

If you did and wish to comment then let me know what you thought of the story and how you gauge the quality of the language I employed. Again I meant it as a 19th century period piece and as a sort of modern rewriting of the Penny Dreadful.

As I said… enjoy.

And goodnight folks.

THE SPIDER CREPT *

The spider crept upon the dame
Who danced upon the ground
And lost within her own refrain
Did hear no spider sounds,

Those Webs of Wonder – gossamer
Those hook-ed, crook-ed fangs
Did salivate to see her writhe
And thus he did abound

With many plannings high and low
For spiders stake all plots
The weather never truly tells
It could be cold or hot;

Yet eyes aplenty, fractured too
May see what we do not
When spiders creep on hairy limbs
To tie us all in knots,

I bet you wonder what’s my point?
The moral of this tale
I do not say – for is there such
A Heaven kept in hell?

I know how though, and know it well
For spider showed me this
He creeps and leaps while good men sleep
To weave his traps complete;

So if you hear him as he stalks
Then listen at his loom
For there he measures out those things
That most will not assume,

And if you see him you will watch
Him seep upon his prey
Warning never those he hunts (haunts?)
No executions stayed

For, you see

The spider crept upon the dame
Who danced upon the ground
It is a very ancient game
That we do all allow…


#Hollywood #society #sexcrime #poem #culture

* Someone posted this image about Hollywood. It made me think back on something and inspired this poem. But maybe I’m not really talking about spiders, or Hollywood. Maybe I’m talking about something else entirely… but probably also Hollywood.

PHOELEM’S ROOM

(extract from the short story Phoelem’s Room. I am seeking publication for it so this is only an extract.)

“In the heart of every man there is a door so small he may neither enter nor exit it. Nor may anyone else.”

Gogul Gukarin

Phoelem lived between all the known worlds. And among all the not known ones. In a sciamachic room he never left. In a way he never dared vary.

It was a very small room. Barely big enough to allow him to change his mind. Since, once determined upon something he never actually ever did change his mind he thought his room quite accommodating and spacious. But to you or me it would have been a puny and miserable prison. Probably, though if Truth be told I don’t actually know you. So that’s really just an assumption on my part.

Anyway, this room had a door. A small red one, barely a foot and a half in height and maybe half a foot across. There were many things just outside that little door but Phoelem never saw those things. Not even once. Or, if he ever did, he never recalled them. It had been so long ago since he had used the door.

It was a red door, or yellow, or maybe golden, or perhaps wooden, or perhaps all of these, he was fairly sure of that, though by what means he knew this he also could not recall. Maybe it was the one from whom he had procured the room that had told him this. Perhaps not. He could not recall.

In any case he never used the door. If anyone knocked he refused them entrance. If he ever had a desire to open it, just, say, out of curiosity, he quickly quashed such an absurd and anxious thought. The Door was plainly visible from inside the room as well, and so just as obvious within as without, but Phoelem never saw it. It was all-wall to him.

Phoelem abnegated on every possible occasion in every manner permitted. And he permitted himself a very wide range of Spartan limitations indeed. So permisquious was he in his personal desuetudes that he never knew a singular occurrence to prompt him to act otherwise.*

Other than the use of his Oculoom. The Oculoom itself was a most unique and exceptional device, one of countless such artifacts Phoelem kept stashed in a small treasury beneath his bed; which also served as his reclining chair as well as his study and his library and his kitchen and his toilet. I have already informed you that he was Spartan in his habits, have I not?

It was an odd device, this Oculoom. At once spherical, yet angular, both twisted and concave, straight, large, insubstantial, bulging, miniscule, solid yet nebulous, numinous, ordinary, surrepent, warm to touch yet frigid in operation – a regular tortus of improbabilities. And it was all his.

Indeed it may have been the only thing he owned which he ever truly desired to use, or which made much use of him. Or any use of him. But perhaps I get ahead of myself with that diversion in the story. So I’ll continue with our primary narrative unabated or distracted if you don’t mind. Thank you for your indulgence.

Suffice it to say that Phoelem made much use of the Oculoom. Some would even say that he became the Oculoom, or vice versa, or “non-sequitur inquesta” one might proclaim from the available evidence, but that matter is still open for autopsy, and again, not for me to say. After all I only work here and merely record what I discover. Or cannot.

In any case what is the Oculoom and how does it function? This is most perplexing to define, for the Oculoom was part crystal ball, part musical instrument, part loom, part self-fulfilling prophecy, part alchemical offal, part preponderate, part portent of things to come, part hegira, and part “scientificus delirium.” There are, no doubt, many other such fantastic working parts involved in its many varied operations but I am no technician, as the Greeks would say, I am but a humble scribe of what is not to be and has probably never been…

END EXTRACT


#shortstory #fiction #magicalsurrealism #fantasy

FRESH TO THE WORLD

In the center of a man
Lies an unconquered boy
Fresh to the world
Illuminated by God

No matter his age
A dream like an oar
To push him away
Through the Oceans of Life,

On the frontier of a man
Dwells a wild reckless beast
Invisible to all
Illustrated by joy

A hoard of spent treasures
As new in their making
As gold in the minting
That mined them so fair,

In the mind of a man
Move the thoughts of a Titan
Restless in motion
Unchained in his loss

A castle – such vast palace
To claim all the creatures
That measure his conscience
‘Gainst the Wyrd of his Ways,

In the heart of a man
Keeps a count of his future
Aimless Intention
Bound to Ambition
A Marriage – a Calling
Enthralled to the end;

In the hopes of a man
Joined to time and his ventures
Is the strength of his labours
Untarnished by cost

A Tower unweathered
Built once, then forever
To stand at the passage
Where his Fate then is lent,

In the soul of a man
Does the ghost of Lost Heavens
Still haunt the Long Tables
Where the Feasts once were made

Yet the boy never wonders
At the stars or the thunder
For he is unconquered, still
Fresh to the World…

poem #Boy #Youth #Manhood #Writing

Poet’s Note: last night my wife and I had sex. Afterwards I felt like a young man again, and in many ways like a boy. Oh, I never really feel my true age anymore, but this was especially invigorating.

So as my wife slept I got up and wrote this poem.

I hope you enjoy it.

Have a Good Days Folks…

Tacitus and the decline of ancient Roman education

biblonia

The Roman historian Tacitus (c. 56 – c. 120 AD) is well known for his sharp, even-handed criticism of his own society. In his histories, annals and other works, he makes no secret of his deep sense of decadence and decline that Roman society and culture, at the height of its Empire, had attained. Writing in the reign of Emperor Domitian, he looks back, in eloquent horror, on Nero’s horrific rule and on the lives of the first Roman emperors. His tone is not moralistic, but incisive, akin to what Horace, almost a century before him, had described as Italum acetum, meaning Italian mordacity, but literally Italian (non-balsamic) vinegar – a typically Roman feature.

In his Dialogue on Orators, Tacitus sets up a disputation between three men on the question whether oratory had declined since the Republic. Towards the end of the work, there is a discussion about the decadence…

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THE GOTH GIRL HAS RABBIT EARS

I started this short story last night after a day-long adventure yesterday with my youngest daughter. She was the inspiration for the story although the main character has been changed around quite a bit, and is really a composite character. This part is the first draft of the introductory section though I shall not post anymore of the story here because I plan to finish writing it and then submit it for publication. Probably, given my other work-loads, in the next couple of weeks.

The Goth Girl Has Rabbit Ears is a phrase I now apply to my youngest daughter and I am thinking I will use it here as both a stand alone short story, and as an on-going idea(l) in my youth/young adult series of books entitled The Totally Random Childhood Adventures of Sweet Katie Awesome.

I hope you enjoy this introduction and that the story interests you.

Have a good weekend folks.

THE GOTH GIRL HAS RABBIT EARS

Her boots were parade issue patent-leather black, her pants were deep sea wine-dark, her blouse was sable and silver and see through near her navel, her hair was jet-black, tousled-curly and plentiful, stretching half-way down her back and partially gathered like an uneven inky crown in a sprouting fountain atop her much-troubled calvaria, her eyes were coal-deep and banners of baffled boredom, her face and arms were sugar-pastry white (they would have been her habitual pasty-white but her father had made her spend at least one hour a day outside over the past week – she insisted she hated that as it unnaturally tanned her), her nails and toes were all painted like raw, dusty slate, except for the one on each hand and foot that was jaundiced yellow, and her blood red lips matched the sanguine, thrice-inscribed rough-cut crystal talisman she wore around her neck.

She also sported a silver-smooth moon amulet on her right wrist and the remains of her grandmother’s old rosary on her left forearm (wrapped tightly there like an antique torc) to ward off those tiresome and insipid boys who thought she “looked cool or sexy.” Sometimes it even worked. To her amazement, her delight, her disbelief, and, of course, her typical regret.

Of all things that she found most distasteful though she hated above everything else to have adventures (as her father liked to call them). How bourgeois and burgher-like she would proclaim any time anyone other than her old man even dared mention “an adventure.”

“I am legally obligated to kill you,” she would nonchalantly exclaim to everyone else “if you even suggest such a thing in my presence.”

Her second favorite declaration at the suggestion of an actual adventure was to look languidly side and slow-eyed at the offender and to announce, “Now we’re gonna fight.” She never did of course, out of an old-fashioned sense of religious and dutiful disinterest. But she did entertain the thought often in her imagination. It made her want to smile and to train for hand to hand combat, though she was very careful to never attempt those things either.

Nevertheless, secretly, and deep in her arcane soul of souls, she loved adventures. She would never admit that out loud to anyone else, or even much to herself, as she disdained the very thought of what to her was “so common.” For her primary mistake in life thus far was to blindly assume that most people like have adventures. Or that they had any interest in them at all. Almost no one does. Not real ones anyway. However she was sure, given her experiences with her father, and a few of her friends, that everyone loved to seek out and execute adventures. And the thought of that made her very uneasy. After all she did not ever want to intentionally appear bourgeois and burgher-like.

She thought, in her obdurate mind of minds, that raves and ecstasy parties and urban slam poetry contests and week-long, anemic semi-political/semi-philosophical Goth vampire games, and hole-in-your-clothes midnight club gigs, and a general disdain for all normal human society just naturally qualified as either a real adventure, or as some kind of higher substitute for the basic human enterprise. Obviously, as you and I know, they are and do not. But she was young and jaded and searching for the cracks in reality and still eating lotus and had attended public school. Much like most modern kids. So you can fairly allow her some leeway if you wish. I did, and still do. After all she’s not a half-bad girl, just a Goth one. And I am her father, whether she likes that or not.

Yet she did have one particular problem which was continual with her and never failed to vex all her personal quests mightily. For, you see, this Goth Girl had rabbit ears.

Now what are Goth Girl Rabbit Ears and what does that phrase even mean when you say it like that you might understandably ask? Well, I could simply tell you and then you would say, “ah-ha! How quaint and clever for a Goth girl!” And you might even be right. But that would never do the phrase any real justice, nor would it in any way truly explain all of the underlying and invisible implications involved. There are many by the way.

So instead I will weave a tale of her for you, much as a lonely nocturnal spider weaves a waiver’s web in the silent night so that when dawn arrives and the sun rises just above the horizon and the dew is still visible to all you can yet see every thread as if it were covered in thick and colorless but transparent honey. The honeyed webs of what has already been written but not yet said. You might say. As the ancient Greeks might have also said. And probably did, even if it went wholly unrecorded. For such threads are both the tightly-woven tapestries of all our old childish nightmares, and the prayers by which we trap and catch the unknown future in ourselves.

And this girl had rabbit ears. So, you see, she heard it from afar and knew it was coming…

Anastasia, Dora, and Sophia – The Resurrection, Gift, and Wisdom of Love

Anastasia, Dora, and Sophia – The Resurrection, Gift, and Wisdom of Love

Last night I entered my first chapbook of poetry for publication. To the Emrys (and I am a member of Emrys, and like and recommend the organization) chapbook contest.

I have never before entered a chapbook (or any book of poetry though I have finished three long books of poetry – over 250 pages each – and probably have material for two or three more) so this was my first entry in that regard.

But using my new marketing and submissions technique I have now submitted over 30 (not counting this book which consisted of twenty poems) separate pieces of literary work, mostly poetry so far, but a short story as well. And that’s just in the past two weeks.

In the hopper to submit in the near future I also have several short stories (mostly science fiction, literary, and children’s stories), loads of poetry, some completed books, various articles, some inventions, two business plans, some scientific papers, a few essays, song-lyrics, and complete songs and musical scores.

As I said my new technique is working out very well indeed as I am submitting for publication at least one work per week-day, sometimes up to five or six per weekday. (A coupla days I was traveling and could not submit.)

As far as this small book is concerned, and they set the compositional and publication standards or it would have been far longer, because it was so compact I decided to make it entirely a book of Love Poetry, though my definition of “love” might be different from that of the norm. There were romantic pieces, Italian sonnets, classical poems, ancient styles, free verse, and even a song for the concluding piece. It was mostly geared towards romance and courtly love, but also included darker pieces and some erotic poetry.

Anastasia, Dora, and Sophia (using the Greek variants of their names) is titled for my wife and two daughters, all of whom have poems in the book, though it also includes far older works, running all the way back to some love Sonnets I wrote in high school.

Anyway, if I win (and I feel that if I don’t that I damn well should, but it is not for me to dictate the tastes of the judge/judges, that’s their call) then I get a grand and a week at a writer’s retreat (apparently expenses are included) in the Appalachian mountains near Greenville (I’m assuming it’s up nears Traveler’s Rest or near the state line).

Never been to a Writer’s Retreat before. To me that would be the very best part of the prize. I would hope it would be a little bit like visiting a monastery (which I really like to do).

Also I like this thing of submitting through Submittable (and most of my entries have been through Submittable). Makes it very easy to track and manage them. Though I handle my end through a loguebook.

One last thing. Yesterday I really racked up for my own library. I bought Libraries in the Ancient World (which should be very helpful with my historical novels generally speaking but especially with the Kithariune) which I got from Robert Jordan’s old personal library. I have purchased many titles from his personal library which I have often mentioned elsewhere. They were also displaying some new volumes of his dealing with ancient history, math, physics, etymology, and even two volumes on Renaissance and Ancient swordfighting techniques (taken from the manuals) which I am anxious to get my hands on and which I think will improve my own swordfighting and maybe even close-in combat techniques.

Then I went down to 2nd and Charles where I got some useful materials and then, in their free bin, scored big by getting the Norton Anthology of English Literature, the Concise Anthology of American Literature, a huge Webster’s Thesarus (which used to be housed in the Navy Library in San Francisco), another Anthology of Ancient Literature (these should all be helpful in my career as an author), three books in Spanish (I’m finding it so easy to read Spanish nowadays that I just decided to take it up as another reading language), The Everything Prayer Book (which looks like it could be useful for my Aesic and Theurgical practices), Food Chemistry (again, helpful for Alchemy, Medicine, and Theurgy), Physical Chemistry, Stryer’s Book on Biochemistry, and Zubay’s textbook (which included the separate Student Solution’s Guide) on Biochemistry.

Although Physics and Epigenetics remain my chief scientific interests and preoccupations my longtime interest in chemistry and biochemistry has returned recently with a vengeance. So I am looking forward to reviewing these books as soon as I can. Probably after the kids get off to college.

Greenville sure has some excellent bookstores.

As a little sidenote while I was looking through the free books an old man came up to me and complimented me taking note of my beard. He asked me how I kept it “tamed” and so well groomed. I told him I really didn’t, it just sorta grow this way and occasionally I trimmed it. (He had a nice beard himself, longer than mine but thought mine nicer.) Anyway we talked beards awhile, made some jokes, I thanked him for his comments on my face and he went on his way. I enjoyed that. Nice fella.

Well, I’d best get at it myself. Stayed up until 0300 working and so got a late start. Lots to do today though, and since it’s only gonna be in the 80s I’m gonna see if I can get Sam to run today (he’s already trotting, and at 13 I’m proud of that but I also think he might be able to run again). Also, given the moderate weather I’m gonna pull my chainsaw out today and see about clearing some land.

Have a good day folks.

LONG LIVE – THE KING IS GONE

LONG LIVE THE KING IS GONE

“Long live, the king is gone
Dark nights, an empty dawn
Where now do I belong – without him?“

 

These lines were running through my head and being sung operatically by a huge crowd and by one man in particular (who had an excellent baritone voice) as I awoke from a dream this morning.

 

My Aesic practices, my practice of Theurgy, and of Raja Yoga, my Psikonic exercises, all have had a very good effect upon my both my dreams and my overall creativity. My dreams especially have again become quite detailed and numinous.

 

Anyway, although the dream was actually about a king I couldn’t help but feel that both in the dream and out of it (on waking) that the song was a metaphor for Christ.

 

This shall make the beginning of a very good choral section for one of the scenes of the libretto I am writing for one of my operas.

By the way I have this particular opera (the one below) by Purcell in my personal music library. I quite like it, especially given it’s age and the time period of its composition.

The vocals and music in my dream were quite different and far darker, stronger, and more melancholy, but still it made me think of it.

Classical anti-classicism

biblonia

For the ancient Romans, the past was dominated by Greece and Greek classicism, just like the Renaissance and most of our modern period were dominated by classical antiquity. In fact, our modern love affair with the classical past and classical authors starts with the Paduan scholar and poet Lovato Lovati (1241–1309). He wrote:

‘Do you despise him [the courageous, classically-minded poet] because he believes that one must follow in the footsteps of the ancient poets or because he subordinates a discourse well-formed with metric rules suited to its subject, lest the word becomes the predominant concern and the subject perish? Or because he mocks the verses of rhythmic compositions [modern poetry for Lovato, medieval for us] where rhyme distorts the meaning?’

Quod sectanda putat veterum vestigia vatum,
Despicis aut metrica quod cogit lege decentem
Sermonem servire rei, ne principe verbo
Res mutata cadat? Quod textus metra canori
Ridet, ubi intentum concinna…

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Zeuxis, Parrhasius and the London tube

biblonia

The painting contest between Zeuxis and Parrhasius is well known. Pliny the Elder recounts how the 5th-century BC painters competed for, one might say, photographic realism:

‘[Parrhasius], it is recorded, entered into a competition with Zeuxis, who produced a picture of grapes so successfully represented that birds flew up to the stage-buildings; whereupon Parrhasius himself produced such a realistic picture of a curtain that Zeuxis, proud of the verdict of the birds, requested that the curtain should now be drawn and the picture displayed; and when he realized his mistake, with a modesty that did him honour he yielded up the prize, saying that whereas he had deceived birds Parrhasius had deceived him, an artist.’

descendisse hic in certamen cum Zeuxide traditur et, cum ille detulisset uvas pictas tanto successu, ut in scaenam aves advolarent, ipse detulisse linteum pictum ita veritate repraesentata, ut Zeuxis alitum iudicio tumens flagitaret tandem remoto linteo ostendi…

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THE FOUR INHERENTS

Last night and during the early morning hours (from about midnight until 0200 local time) I collected and collated all of my major papers and notes (on the subject of psychology) and began outlining the skeletal form of the Four Inherents, which will be my meisterwerk on psychology.

During the week I tend to primarily (not always, but primarily) work upon my novels, short stories, poetry, songs, musical compositions, and business and entrepreneurial projects. I also tend to travel, train (physically and for skill improvement or acquisition), and socialize, and clear land during the week.

But during the weekends I tend to recreate, tend my estate, and work on my inventions, scientific experiments, practice Theurgy, and work on my non-fiction writings.

Lately I have been doing a lot of work on the weekends on what I call my Seminal Works (my primary written life-works, in this case my non-fiction works), such as: the Anassanon (theology), Empiricum Experimentalis (science, technology, innovation, invention), Genius, Muse, and Enthusiasm (literature, music, and art), Apographics, The Great Enterprise (business, investment, capitalism, economics, and entrepreneurism), the Chimerikon (politics and untruth), the Theophilos (a series of instructive and pragmatic works on Christianity and modern man), Cure and Eminence (health, medicine, and physicks – in the ancient sense), the Didactions (self-education and the life-long Renaissance Program), the Holon (philosophy), and of course, the Four Inherents (psychology), which I am discussing here.

I will of course write other books covering the various fields of psychology, such as a book I plan on my own Theory of Personality (going back to my days in college and my work with a Russian psychologist), and Cure and Eminence will deal directly with psychology (in part), while many of my other works (such as the Holon) will indirectly touch upon psychology as warranted.

But The Four Inherents will be my magnum-opus in the field of psychology.

That being said you will find the skeletal contents outline of the book below (as I now envision it), though that will no doubt change over time as I add things to the book and better arrange and organize it. This is just the first draft of the Table of Contents.

Have a good and productive day folks. And enjoy much success.

_______________________________________________

THE FOUR INHERENTS: PSYCHE, SOMA, NOUS, AND PNEUMA

The Human Inherencies

Pneuma
Soma
Nous
Psyche
Nature
Character
Personality
Behavior

The Drives of Man

Arête
Kratos
Thumos
Telos (Teleos)
Exousios
Virtues
Liturgos
Theurgos

Disease and Disorder

Psychological Disorder
Psychological Disease
Psychopathosis and Human Psychopathogens
Diagnosis and Diagnossos

Personality: The Conditional States and Their Outlooks and Influences on Human Behavior *

The Subnormal Person
The Normal Person
The Abnormal Person
The Supernormal Person

Sthenosos and the Psyche

Sthenotic Psychology
Sthenotic Somation
Sthenousos (The Sthenotic Mind)
The Sthenotic Psyche
Sthepneumos (The Sthenotic Spirit)

Epipsychosos and Psychological Self-Manipulation

Epipsychosos
The Epipsychic Man
Auto-Didaction
Auto-Didaction as a means of Beneficial Self-Manipulation
Epipsychosos as a means of Self-Advancement and Self-Improvement
Meaning and Action/Activity

The Reality and Weight of Human and Psychological Evil

Ghosts of the gods (Ghosts of Dread Flesh)^

The Archetypal Imperative

Intelligence and the Psyche

Mnemonics and the Mind

Genius and the Polyman

Behavior and Nature

Traits and Influences

Wyrd and Fate

Manhood and Womanhood

Human Happiness

Man as a Created Being

Man as a Self-Made Creature

Psychological Self-Discipline and Self-Possession

Psychotherapeutos *

Biopsychosis: Reliance and Refinement

Theopsychosis: Expectations and Limitations

The Theonic Impulses

Theosos
Apotheosos
Individualization

Christopsychosos

The Construct of the Human Being

The Hypopolinic and Hyperpolenic Influences

The Weltanschatten: the World-Shadow
Urbanis: The Corruption of the Urbanized Man and his Corrupting Worldview of Life
Strenuosos: The Strenuous and Virtuous Life and the Rural Man
Ambiversion: The Desirable State of Personality
Poliperversion: The polis and politics as perversions of the true Nature and States of Man
Sociosis: the Enslavement of the Individual to the Group and to Society
Sanscivilis and Vero-Civitos: The Social Impulse as a counter-civilizing motivation, and the Nature of True Civility in the Self-Possessed Individual
Chivalry and Charis
Malignosis: The juvenile tendency of mankind and of modern men to become enamored of malignant and homicidal and suicidal psychological states, societies, philosophies, and political impulses
Auto-absorption versus Self-Realization: the pathetic and bathetic self-absorption of modern men versus the benevolent impulse to Self-Realization
The Ancient Man, the Medieval Man, and the Modern Man as Psychological Types
Self-Improvement: assets, liabilities, and the detrimental effects of pop-psychology on the individual and upon society
Psychoptropics and the Serpentine Underbelly of the Psychiatric Chemical and Drug Culture

Methods of Altering and Improving the Psyche

Gamos (marriage of the Psyche to High Endeavours, Objectives, and Virtues)
Gamosos (gaming the Psyche)
Athletopsychosos (training the Psyche)
Mythopsychosos
Objectivization (objectivising the Psyche)
Active and Passive Psychomanipulation (the active and passive self-manipulation of both beneficial and malignant psychological traits)
Histyriopsychosos (the historical and lifelong development of the Individual Psyche)
Psikonics
Analytic and Forensic Methodologies
Logical and Mathematical Methodologies
Philosophical Methodologies
Religious Methodologies
Epipsychosos

The Real Superman

The Psychological Equations and Useful Orders of Human Behavior

 

THE GHOSTS OF DREAD FLESH: Ghosts of the gods

THE GHOSTS OF DREAD FLESH

I know I’ve probably mentioned this before but the older I get and the more I study ancient and pagan myth (and I’ve studied them since I was a teenager, and a lot in college when I majored in religion and philosophy) the more firmly convinced I am that myth was not a religion or religion at all (certainly not as we think of religions) but was actually proto-psychology and in some rare cases, primitive observations on natural phenomenon (proto-natural-science).

All of the pagan “gods and goddesses” were far too human to be anything other than psychological (psuche – soul, as the Greeks would say) observations upon human nature and the human soul. Plus all pagan “gods and pantheons” tended to behave abysmally, at least from time to time and as the mood struck them, with even the chiefs of gods being immoral at a whim, or at the very least amoral. And the more “moral gods” were almost universally relegated to background or secondary positions of no real power (other than that of cunning and craft). Precisely why Socrates could not believe in the gods and preferred his conception of God.

No, the ancient pagan gods were all soul-gods, that is to say “human gods” not spiritual gods at all, as we would think of God.

(That meaning a Real God who supersedes his Creation and who supersedes human behavior by being absolutely moral. Though the Norse gods and goddesses tended to be far more moral than let’s say the Greek or Asiatic ones and I think that to a large degree this was precisely because of the fact that they knew they were doomed and would be called to account at the Ragnarök. They knew they were limited in lifespan, they had no illusions that they were either omniscient or omnipotent, and they knew they would be eventually destroyed and replaced. It was hard-wired into their very prophecies and that kind of thing tends to often act as a governor against immorality – intentional malignance, and against amorality – not caring one way or another.)

When pagan myths were not proto-psychology they were observations on natural phenomenon and on things that could not be explained by a very limited proto-science, such as Chimeras.

No, over time I’ve come to realize that the ancient and pagan gods were real alright, and are still real, just not as really having anything to do with religion or the spiritual or God at all. They were real as proto-psychology, not as religion, and later and even today they have been largely absorbed into modern psychology as archetypes of human behavior and as exemplars of the human soul. But not of the Spirit. They are the Ghosts of Dread Flesh, not the Holy Ghost.

And this is why I think, that relatively speaking, they were later so easily overturned by and replaced by religions (like Judaism and Christianity and even to some extent by Hinduism and Buddhism – though Buddha himself was an atheist, so again, it depends very much upon your definition of “religion”), and that is because, as much as I like and respect the Psyche, it is very small and limited in relation to the Spirit, and to God.

The gods were absorbed into psychology (which still serves a very important function, just not a religious and spiritual one), because in fact, that’s what they were – soul-gods, and replaced by God, the Spirit-Lord, against whom no soul-god can really compete or is really qualified to compete.

Just as no man can compete against God, he can only ally himself with God and seek a beneficial relationship, or reject and rebel against God.

(I’d go ahead and turn this into a decent essay but I’m pressed for time right now with my novel and with my other works. Maybe later. Though I may also turn this idea into a lecture, and/or add the concept as a chapter to be included in my Meisterwerk on Psychology, The Four Inherents.)

SLOTH SLAYS

“Fear murders the mind, but Sloth slays Soma.”

(“Sloth slays the body.”)

From Human Effort