Meet Stygian

"There is no sun in Sodden.
'Ware the murk,
the dank dark earth,
the odd and awful fog -
where men have trod, and sank, and screeched
and each has frantic, thrashed and clawed 
the sucking, treacherous, murderous muck!
but none has ever 'scaped the bog.
There is no sun in Sodden."
      
      - A fragment on an ancient waystone marking the end of the marchlands between the King's country and the region of Meer.

The Cat sat motionless in the open. A light but depressing and steady drizzle was soaking its fur, but it paid no attention. It simply sat there and waited. This unusual display of resilience to wet did not go unnoticed. All areas of the Meer are watchful, even those left to themselves for centuries. And their guardians have very long memories.

Eventually, the Cat discovered that there was a figure resting against a stunted tree just on the edge of the surrounding gloom. He was wearing a burgundy coat two sizes too big for him which was patched in several places and missing buttons. A widebrimmed hat covered most of his face, but it was obviously reptilian. Scaly blue skin and grimy teeth are always a dead give away. He looked rather unpleasant. The Cat regarded him curiously for a long moment. Finally it said,

"Stygian."

The lizard-man grunted. "That's me."

"You haven't changed a bit."

"What're you doing in Bristlemeer?"

"A bit of a favor for a friend, actually. What do you say to a trip to Sodden?"

"Why did you come here? Sodden is in the other direction."

The lizard-man got up and turned to leave, but the Cat had somehow got in his way and he tripped and fell. It brushed against him and purred amiably at his cursing.

"Really? All right, it was a silly question. Sodden's a rotten place anyway. Not that I would know, of course. But there's something else I was going to ask you: what are you going to do about Candle Flame? Icarus has gone to find it, you know."

There was a pause.

"By Icarus, you mean the moth?"

"Exactly. It's a bit of a sticky business if the wrong person finds it. I'm sure you know what I mean."

Stygian scowled. "He's headed for Sodden right now, isn't he?"

The Cat grinned.

To Smithereens!

Writer's block is a common enough topic for discussion. I apologize in advance for anything of a cliche nature. I wish to draw attention to something often missed. 

Let us examine the phrase. I think the first word is straight forward enough. The writers in question are always tragically heroic, sometimes brilliant, and never given to exaggeration. The second word, on the other hand, is unfortunately chosen. What is a block? 

A) a fair to middling rectangular prism of some substance 

B) a rather ineffectual synonym for "parry" 

C) a french-canadian political party with a k attached. Alas, even the k cannot mask its true nature. But that is another story.

Obviously, none of these meanings are quite adequate to describe the deadly serious nature of writer's "block". They ignore the impenetrable fog of dense jungle, the frightening emptiness of vast and uncrossable deserts, the frigid isolation of deep space, all of which approximate the yawning chasm between pen and paper. I propose a rather stronger word:

Blockade.

Definition: a concerted effort to isolate a certain group of people from something of value to them. 

Friends, we are talking about acts of war. We are talking about all out seige. We are talking about nations. Doesn't it feel like myriad forces are conspiring against you? Like some superpower's navy has crammed the ports - the essential harbours for Ideas - so full of cannons that even doughty ol' Inspiration runs up the white flag? I am sure you will agree that "blockade" is a better term than "block". Even its greater length suggests less frequent usage: deliberation is exercised before employing so weighty a word. 

This new word's connotations also provide us with a mindset useful for returning us to our natural state of industrious scribbling. This is war. In the case of a rectangular prism, one might approach writer's block as a trivial nuisance to be hefted idly or turned over and over dispassionately. But passion is the key. Don't just escape writer's "block" - break the blockade! Burst free! Prime the guns! Blast 'em to smithereens! The longer you're trapped, the harder it is.  

PS I suggest a healthy dose of "The Medallion Calls" by Klaus Badelt for the extra-beleaguered. 

Family Breakfast

Here. Have a salutation, and let's get on with life. Today, because it suits me, I am the Story Teller. I'm in the mood to describe a breakfast scene. Some elements you will be familiar with; others may shock you. Perhaps you will find you care very little, in which case, you have my respect. It is not so easy to be perfectly apathetic. At any rate, I've gotten this far, so let us observe.

It is 7:15am. Good - nay, glorious! smells are wafting about, bouyed upwards by unusually lively conversation. The speakers are a family gathered around a home-made table. Golden, syrup drenched waffles grace every plate and there are large scraps of patterned paper scattered between cold glasses of milk and the occasional cup of orange juice. The next-to-youngest, fourth-from-oldest (but fifteen - already!) has forgotten her waffle, and the oldest, the boy (he prefers 'guy', and doesn't know what to make of 'man') is eyeing it and wondering how she got her priorities scrambled so. The mother eyes the oldest, in case he makes a move for the waffle.

Next-to-youngest eyes no one and tears hunks of paper from a box crammed with potential, not bothering to keep the wrapping intact. The crunching, scrunching, crinkling sound is to be reveled in - after all, this is a Birthday - but the voices soon overpower it. There is guessing to be done.

"It's gumboots. I know it... Yesss, I love these! Thanks Mom!"

"They weren't cheap. Guard them with your life."

"Open another one."

Next-to-youngest is handed another gift.

"Betcha that one's gumboots too."

A necessary part of the guessing game is to throw the opener off the scent. But Next-to-youngest is no fool.

"Yeah, looks like it could be the right size...if you were a mouse. Idiot."

Next-to-oldest says drily "Maybe it's a goat fetus. And you can grow it or something."

There is a brief silence. Everyone looks incredulously her way. And then hilarity breaks out. Next-to-youngest does indeed love goats. Luckily for all present, the wrapping falls away to reveal a christmas mug instead. Next-to-youngest celebrates, and the family is pleased that this is a good day for her.

Alone on the counter, on a vantage point at once near and far, the Story Teller chafes in impatience. There is food uneaten! And I want it. What is there to do but add to the noise? I meow urgently. I yowl a bit. I jump down from my perch and rub up against their legs and purr, to show how happy I am that they have finally noticed me starving to death, and that I will probably forgive them once they hand over the scraps. Ah, I can almost taste them - and oldest has lifted me up, up, towards the heady smell of syrup! and wait, no, we are moving away! Thumpthumpthump. We galumph down the stairs three steps at a time and I am hurled out the door mercilessly.

And that is life, is it not? True apathy is impossible. Love is a risk. Necessary, yes, but who can you trust? All for one...and that is all.
- Cat

Here be Monsters: What makes a Good Book?

I read an excellent story a few days ago. It's called Young Unicorns and written by Madeleine L'engle. It has nothing whatever to do with unicorns. I'm a bit puzzled about that actually, but it doesn't matter. This book stands out from the rest of L'engle's work, as far as I'm concerned. Something that defies description makes this a good book. Something about the unusual relationships between characters - about the odd but joyful family, about the importance of music and literature to them, about the unobtrusive and yet central disability (blindness) of one of the protagonists - made the flaws in the plot almost irrelevant. The ending was too convenient and almost hurried, and yet I loved the book. That hasn't happened to me for a long time. It's tempting to be flippant and say it comes from reading too many research papers and of course I'm bound to like something escapist after that much academese, but it's not that at all. 

What I want to know is: what is it exactly that attracts me to this book so much? And if I can pin it down, how can I use it in my own writing?

Today, I was re-reading an essay by J.R.R Tolkien on the nature of faerie stories, and realized Tolkien was searching for the very same thing that I am, only he was concerned with Faerie, and not the Primary World, as he calls every day "reality". Tolkien's essay shows that he really understands that elusive quality of the genuine faerie tale - of a story that doesn't require the willing suspension of disbelief (that would imply the need for a conscious decision!), but actually creates a secondary reality, something that demands description and at the same time resists it, by nature of its Otherness. I am explaining it badly, so if you haven't already, you'd better read the essay to see where I've mucked things up. It's called "On Faerie Stories".  

Now, I want more than ever to create a true faery tale. I fear for the Owl, the Moth and the Cat - they do not quite fit into true faery tales, not on their own. But they might be minor characters in legends or motifs in ancient snatches of half-forgotten songs which provide a depth to the deliberate vagueness of faerie tale history and setting. The beauty of Faerie seems to be in its ability to elude definition. We never know the whole story: Tolkien's elaborate world was never completely finished, and I don't think it ever would be. I think he was driven to create more and more (read his essay and you'll understand more why I use that word) precisely because of the simultaneously frustrating and enticing gaps in his world. The gaps make it infinite - and we need something infinite in any good faerie story. Some assurance that there is more, that this is not all there is, that we have not yet explored the entire world. 

This makes me think of cartography. Maps were so much more exciting before everything was explored. "Here be Monsters" must have been scrawled with a kind of savage delight that cannot be found in familiar, printed place names, like "Aldergrove, BC." I certainly read ancient and modern maps with  different levels of excitement. Luckily, unlike cartography, in writing the activity of exploring a world does not make it finite (providing it is done correctly.) And Tolkien nailed it in his stories. 

Comma Splices

What are comma splices? I asked myself numerous times last week, looking furtively over my shoulder and hurrying away from suddenly menacing crowds of people. You never can tell which ones are elitists. Until they start frothing at the mouth.

"Advanced" Composition, English 374 brought out the worst in all of us. I might have been pounding the desk and spraying spittle along with the rest of 'em if I'd just known exactly what comma splices are. I'm a bit of a purist myself. In any event, one thing was clear. This was no trifling matter. I had to find out about comma splices. If looks can kill, then words must slaughter, and the kind of outrage I was witnessing included whole armies of words. And I might've been using comma splices without knowing. For my whole life!

What are comma splices? I asked myself again, as I wrote the opening lines to this post. If I admit anything, somebody'll have my guts for garters. And then a little tungsten filament in a little lightbulb over my head went "fwoosh!" and turned all incandescent. Because Google is your friend. And I'd forgotten about my old friend for a long time.

My friend Google tells me that my fears are mostly unfounded, and that Comma splices are when a comma comes and tries to connect two independent clauses that would be just fine on their own, thank you very much, and really don't want to be associated with each other besides. What they want is a good solid period separating 'em, or at least a real buffer-type word like 'yet', or 'so'.

The thing is, some of us elitists have gotten carried away and let these independent clauses be the bosses of us, 'stead of the other way around. Julius Caesar wrote "I came, I saw, I conquered." And you'll notice nobody told him to watch his comma splices.

Alive

Ahhhh.

I've finished a major speech and a sixteen page annotated bibliography, Ludovico Einaudi is tickling the ivories, and I'm alive.

Alive like gulping breath after breath of fresh, minus-something-degrees air that is one of the delicious ingredients of life. And exhaling it in big whooshes, like throwing hundred dollar bills in the air, because it's absolutely, one hundred percent, without-strings-attached free.

Alive like my cat sitting too close to the fireplace, eyes shut against the heat, enjoying every long second of blissful warmth.

Alive like being reminded of God's love in even the very smallest details of everyday life: the unexpected reminders that we really can trust Him.

Rex Murphy

Journalism and "news" have never been my thing. I read newspapers and magazines more because they're lying around than for any real desire to be reminded about the latest public outrage. If I see the letters "HST" (I apologize, dear reader), I flip the page. The same goes for Gordon Campbell. Letters to the Editor are vaguely interesting, and indicate slightly more intelligence on the part of the writers than say, Youtube comments, but in general, they aren't really worth reading either. There is always that danger of being sucked into the general idiocy yourself. After all, you could be reading Rex Murphy instead.

I don't really know who he is. Well, yes I do. According to the book, he's Canadian. On the downside, he's not a Christian, and he looks like the human incarnation of all the collective grumpiness of the world's old people:

In one sense, Mr. Murphy does the same thing as the papers by getting involved in public outrage at all. His best redeeming quality is more than that we can identify with him (because, secretly, we can't help getting emotionally involved in most arguments). He can write. When I picked up his book Points of View, it was in the same way I tend to pick up the local paper: disinterestedly. I flipped to a random section and started on what turned out to be the most caustic, witheringly sarcastic article I'd ever read. It was called "Air Rage? Nope, Just Another Fool." After a few more articles, I found that Murphy doesn't mince words. He rhetorically annihilates. I quote:

"Let us not prissify the world and life. Let us not confect dainty and trendy terms to 'explain' what does not need explanation. The loudmouth two rows in front of you berating the stewardess (please, not 'cabin attendant' - this is a plane, not a fishing lodge) hasn't got a 'condition.' And the lunatic who nearly side-swiped you is not suffering from 'road rage.' He's a little coward who's convinced that his car and anonymity morphs him into Clint Eastwood on wheels." (page 72)

Right (and often wrong), Murphy is at least clever and entertaining. And his stubborn resistance to political correctness (see section "The Politics of Language" for some great articles) is almost endearing.
I suggest picking up the book and beginning with "Cellphones" and "Is There a Gender Doctor in the House?" "The Blue Box of Paradise" is also worth your time.

The Ferryman

After England’s sunset blossoms orange and smoulders low,

walk softly through the forests where the lamp posts never grow.

Explore the quiet niches where the night flows thick and slow –

far from where the charcoal sky is all too brightly marked,

far from where the glaring moon is sadly white and scarred.

In the deepest pooled, cool dark,

skip a stone and watch it show

the depths of the unknown,

join me on the dock and dip your bravest toe –

we’ll soak our tired feet 

in friendship fully grown.

After England’s sunset blossoms orange and smoulders low,

when last days wilt away and dying, softly glow,

when it’s time to cross the Styx,

then sleep, and I will row.

    

Chapbooks and Poetry Slams

Today was unusually pleasant for a Tuesday. A semi-famous writerly type came and spoke in my English class for a couple hours. I'd heard about him, because he teaches at my university, and a lot of students raved about his excellence as a prof, but I didn't pay much attention until he came to my class. Then I realized the reports were pretty accurate. To make a long story short, he was an great story teller who'd done some interesting things.

My brain, traitorous creature, refuses to compile a witty summary of his exploits. In any case, he probably tells them best. I'll just content myself with latching on to some of the things he said. Apparently, "chapbooks" are becoming popular. As far as I can tell, a chapbook is just a compilation of writing, usually sold off the stage at poetry slams or similar reading events.

Sold off the stage. Madly inspiring or what?

Of course, going to a poetry slam would be hard if you don't like the idea of baring your soul to a bunch of artsy fartsy strangers. On the other hand, it's oddly fascinating. I can't tear my thoughts away from it. Entering a poetry slam has at least two benefits:
1) You meet people. People are interesting, and the connections you form with them can be the basis for your writing. You can hear or read their work, too.
2) You get feedback on your own work. You'll be able to scratch that ever present mental itch that wonders "Is my work good?"

I want to know what people think. I want to write something good. And I want to read what other people write, because it might be good too. I'm not only talking about finished products. The rough, unpolished stuff of notebooks (most writers have one, I think) shows the great diversity in the ways that people think.
How do people categorize the world? What do they choose to communicate? Which words are attractive to us, and why? It's fascinating stuff, especially in its infancy - in notebooks, chap books and poetry slams.

Triumphant Return

The Owl and the Cat were in a stunted evergreen debating the meaning of narcissism when it happened. 

"Nar-cis-sism n. 1. A psychological condition characterized by self-preoccupation, lack of empathy, and unconscious deficits in self esteem." said the Owl. 

"I - " said the Cat, but its reply was obscured by a thunderous fanfare of trumpets and stringed instruments. Unnaturally black clouds roiled overhead and huge drops of rain began smashing to earth. 

The Cat was dumbstruck. The Owl hooted happily. "You're flabbergasted! Ah, let me savour this sweet, sweet moment. Did you know, victory has the most extraordinary taste? No, of course not. Let me tell you about it! It's like ambrosia - liquid bliss with just a hint of something...hmm...how shall I describe it? It's like grapes, only much more powerful. Maybe watermelon..." It gloated in this way for some time. 

The Cat ignored all this and groomed itself in silence. After a few minutes the two creatures noticed it really was quiet. The fanfare had ceased. 

Finally, the Cat said "Perhaps - ", but it was once again interrupted.  The Owl could not contain itself - it did a little shuffling dance. The Cat licked its paw in sublime condescension.

"Behold!" bellowed the interrupting voice from above. "I am Icarus the Mighty, and I have been to the Candle Flame - and lived."

As they looked up, the Moth flapped majestically onto the Owl's branch. For a moth, it had remarkable presence. One wing was tattered and singed black; the other bore mysterious markings that looked as if they might be arcane. Around its body was a swordbelt and a fine cloak, and its eyes were shining. 

"How do you manage to bellow?" the Cat asked after a short pause.

Fall and Autumn.

I've never liked the word Autumn. It sounds pretentious. I can't even think it except in a snobby British accent. The word Fall is better, much earthier, muddy and simple: an outdoors word. You can jump in it like a puddle.
Here's something a little silly, like puddle-jumping; something real, something Fall-ish. There is nothing sweeter than getting successfully from A to B at top speed in rotten weather. I wrote it today (with unusual exuberance).

Warhorse

Toqued, jacketed, coccooned in a construct
(roarings and rattlings, aluminum and rubber tires, immunity to Storm: a Vehicle)
I hurtle through the minor tempests of 8th avenue,
      Sudden Deluges -
the sky -
the Atmosphere
fling themselves at me -
they are dashed to pieces!
roiling clouds of vapor boiling behind juggernaut dump trucks engulf me -
they are repulsed.
Droplets creep through cracks in armor, droplets seep through traitorous vents:
(open
shut
openshutopen
shut.)

In my wake, there is Diaspora, a displacement, a scattering of leaves
(vibrant scraps of orange, yellow tatters, threads, shreds: Tree-garments)
I am Quixote on Rocinante,
we are indomitable, inextinguishable, indelible,
we have triumphed, victory is ours,
we have won the day, we have won!
               -----------------------------
I really should've been working on homework, but I can't focus when I have a good idea.

The Cataphract

I was thinking about the word cataphract. It is a good word. Makes me think of steel and leather and the smell of horses. It comes from the greek kataphraktos which means "armored" or "completely enclosed". (Citational nod to Wikipedia. Thanks.) Cataphracts were shock cavalry. I wrote this fictional letter from one old veteran to another:

"Nikephoros, 

I have been thinking about things.

Duty. Order. Unity. The soldier's gods are deaf and dumb. And they do not save from corruption. This city is mad. Justinian is mad. We are all mad, and the empire bathes in gold and blood and splendor. We are savage. Never mind the Hagia Sophia, or the Code. The real symbol of the empire is the spathion.

Do you remember Belisarius, before they took his eyes? He had...vision. You saw it better than I did, before we trampled the Sassanids at Dara. Crushed them under the weight of discipline, horses and steel. He was a fine commander, but just as mad as the rest of us, in his own way. You were right. Discipline and Duty are harsh deities. They marched us in circles. Ah, but what a dust we raised - you remember the dust! It caked everything. We brought it from one end of the empire to the other. I can still taste it.

How is Italy? I heard that you retired. That must be fine - I wish you were at my back, here. Procopius has been stirring things up in the palace, but somehow the little piece of camel dung manages to stay out of trouble. The empress turns a blind eye to him, and Justinian, well...You know what he's like these days. The imperial backbone is splintering. I do not know what to think. What have we fought for?

It is very late, and the candle is guttering out, so I will give my secretary a reprieve. Take care of yourself, my friend. Because the empire will not.

Charsios."

And here is a poem fragment I wrote quite a while ago about the same subject, but from a much later point in Byzantine history. The letter would be dated somewhere around 550 AD. I wanted heavy internal rhyme and fairly strict rhythm for the poem so that it would reflect the Empire and all things ordered and imperial. And it should read with increasing rapidity until the exclamation "Byzantium!". Hopefully I accomplished that. There may be more verses coming. 




Our shattered spears will glint no more,
nor bleary eyes collect a crust
of wind-borne rust red Turkish dust -
from dust we must return to dust -
The unjust blind and bury us
Byzantium!
Remember Belisarius!

The Moth's Return

Here is a little bit of a story that popped into my head:

"Do enlighten me." said the Cat to the Owl in a voice which suggested it actually had very little interest in being enlightened.

"Light!" exclaimed the Moth, who had just returned from the Candle Flame, and the Owl turned its head deliberately around and stared very hard at the Moth. It trembled.

"I-I only thought - I just thought that maybe I'd heard..."

"Obsession," said the Owl, "is a thing which I detest." It paused and glared irritably at the Cat, which had begun washing itself in a very undignified way. "Dignity, and a sense of kairos, of knowing what to say and when to say it, are regrettably rare character traits. Particularly in certain insect and feline species, they are not often brought to li-" It eyed the moth. "to that familiar and...illuminating species of energy which travels at unimaginably high velocities." The moth quivered.

"Careful." replied the Cat with some amusement. "You'll set Icarus off again." It stretched fluidly and yawned.

"Dignity - " said the Owl again, a little huffily, but the Cat interrupted.

"I am the soul of Dignity. Don't lecture me. I am Cat."

"But kairos..."

"Don't use Latin. It's all Greek to me. Besides, I know exactly when to say what should be said - "

"Which is more or less whatever pops into your head. And it is Greek." grumbled the Owl. The Cat took no notice.

"- and I have decided that now is a very good time to say a few words." And it promptly sang this song:

(Insert Cat's song here)

------------------------------------------

Thoughts? I have vague ideas of the Moth, Icarus, as a timid pilgrim who has gone to the Candle Flame and survived. I don't know why there are an Owl and a Cat. But I want the cat to sing something. Because in those days, cats could sing. It's very difficult to come up with a suitable rhyme, because I want it to sound like an old song.
Hmm, maybe Icarus hasn't been to the Candle Flame yet. Perhaps he's on his way. Anyway, when he returns, I want him to be fierce and terrible and use words like "wroth" and "forsooth". Both the Owl and the Cat will be subjugated. Ah, there are too many questions to answer all at once. Is setting important? Are there other characters? What is the Candle Flame - no, who is the Candle Flame? What is the point of the story?

Estuaries Happen

Can Time become Place?

Sunrise and sunset are places. They are estuaries. At Day's end, while the sun runs errands on the other side of the world, ink seeps over the mountains and through the tired trees, in small ripples at first, and then more quickly in waves. It washes through Agassiz, floods Chilliwack, drowns Abbotsford and Aldergrove, drenches Langley in its spray, soaks Surrey, and splashes Vancouver: a few cities on the sometimes stormy coast of Day. And it is beautiful. We inhabit only the shallowest part of the littoral zone. The alien stars swim in Deep Night like phosphorescent fish in the Marianas Trench, and sometimes the Auroras put on a flickering light show that softens the harsh edges of reality. When shoals of clouds drift by and obscure it, I blink and remember something I once wrote:

Times like this,
The words stay wound tight in my head.
I find myself hunched over old guitar strings
And unravel their language instead.
Under the soft dark of ending days
Thought is worth so much.
On the reels of instant replays
I trace the places God has touched.


Sometimes, I am immersed in Night for a long time. There are a lot of places God has touched, and the harder I look, the more I find. Bright spots of fierce joy, Job 42 moments, warm areas of gentle comfort, trials, disappointments and reassurances. Then of course, there is morning. It seems a pity to sleep; to miss the sun's fiery return. On occasion, I stay awake. When it does come back, the darkness ebbs and drains away, leaving tide pools of black in the strangest places. Morning searches them out and dries them up one by one, because the Day is a place more for doing than thinking, but I know that the sun will always have more business on the other side of the world. 

After Eleven

It's that time of night. I cannot shut off my mind and sleep. A whole day just went by at breakneck speed, and now it's time for instant replays.

Ah, here's the first one now, and I realize I've lied. The morning wasn't breakneck at all. If I had synaesthesia, I'd say it was dull white and crumbly, with a bit of anxious mixed in. Not much happened. It took me four hours to write a five minute speech.

Here's another: I interviewed one of my favorite teachers from high school for a composition project, but it turned into a regular conversation. We talked for an hour and a half about speaking in front of a class, about motivation in teaching, good students and bad students, and people who don't want to learn. It brightened the edges of the day to a cautious happiness in silver.

Another: I gave my speech. It was less than stellar. I sat down sweating, wondering why I couldn't just tell these people what I'd tried to say. Then in the break, one of the ladies in class came up to me. She was a great speaker. She said, "Hey, James. That was great." and she smiled a real smile. I know she knew it wasn't great. She meant it was great that I went up there and tried. And that the world wasn't quite the sick green I imagined.

And one more: I drove home and on the way all the colors of the day were churning slowly. I thought of how strange it was that small moments have so much impact. When I got home, I checked facebook and  read my friend's thoughtful post. I drank a heavenly glass of milk. My cat came and sucked up to me so I would feed it. The colors churned some more.

Now, I'm here, and I can't find a color, or even any two, that really describe the day. Instead, I think it's a combination of two songs:

"Speaking a Dead Language" and "Sunny Day", by Joy Williams. Maybe every day is a different mix of both. I don't know. You might have to stir the contents of each day for a while to find out. But I know I've never ever had a day completely without a touch of real smile, or a cautious happiness in silver. I see God's love in that.


... and now, finally, I can go to bed, and sleep.

Transportation Inspiration

My Series IIA Land Rover was assembled in 1967 AD. Twenty three years later, the empire of Egypt was founded I was born. Twenty years after that, I write to you about our brief and turbulent relationship.

When it comes down to it, the Ancient Relic is really ugly, but in a strangely endearing way. Something about the round British lights and the boxy aluminum body (that's right, no paint) gives it a superior place in my heart to the disgustingly sleek vehicles of 2010. It is equipped with four gas gauges, one of which is functional; two major levers that look like the Big Red Button you're not supposed to push; and many smaller controls that probably were raided from an old biplane. The heater also is currently broken, and the air-conditioning comes in the form of vents under the windshield.

I kid about the plane controls, but it would actually make sense, because at the dangerously high top speed of 120 km/h, it feels like I'm taking off. In fact, I drive by the Abbotsford Airport four days a week...

Control Tower: "Series IIA, you are not cleared for take off, I repeat, you are not cleared for take off."

Me: "What?"

Control Tower: "Disengage your foot from the gas pedal! You are not a plane!"

Me: "WHAT?"

I wouldn't be able to hear it over the rattling, you see. Oh yeah, and I don't have a radio, though it is fun to pretend. I can't listen to the Peak 100.5 so I have to make the music myself. I sing nearly everywhere I go. This song by U2 is a great driving song. "Donald, Where's Your Trousers?" (some Irish song) is great too.

Here's my vote for driving the Rover. I freeze to death in the winter, suffocate in the summer and curse every pothole that rattles my teeth, but I'm right there in the moment, not missing anything. The road is a more intimate place.

PS Most of the credit for keeping it running going goes to my dad, because he helped me fix everything that went wrong.

Losing My Head

I've never progressed beyond the initial thrill of completely, recklessly losing my head.

It's little things at first, like when a small smile becomes a sunrise, and when I remember a laugh can be the best sound in the world and then I figure it out, and then it's an inexorable Eureka that fills me up to overflowing, and my cynical side vainly groans "here-we-go-again" but I can't hear over my surging heart 'cause it's in my head and it's the throbbing beat to a wild, tumbling melody of a song that reminds me of her and there's fiddles and guitar and my own voice singing besides - and how can I keep all that to myself?

So I tell her.
And I want to ask if maybe she's heard the musical riot and dance thrumming in my head and in my lungs and all through me and if maybe she likes that it's for her -
Only I never quite get there, because even over the thrilling, I can hear her hesitate, and maybe-God-is-teaching-me-contenment-but-haven't-I-learned-it-Lord? and oh, I've given away too much, too soon.


The music never fades out nicely. It is all breaking strings and sloppy decrescendos and badly tuned violins.
But it does fade.
Is it God reminding me over and over that He comes first? That love is commitment, and not just excitement?
Probably.
I wonder - is He also preparing me to really value Someone He approves of, who does understand, and loves that the ridiculous boyish turmoil mucking about in my head is just for her?

If not, there is always heaven, and there'll be a whole different Eureka there that lasts forever, and how can you read that and not feel better?

'"Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth." The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.'
             --Psalm 46:10, 11

In which the author regrets a grievous error

Blast.
I've spelled it wrong. It's tulgey, not tulgy.


The name is important for two reasons.
1. It is a place in a nonsensical poem. This blog is a place for a lot of nonsensical and random ideas I have.

2. It is more than it appears. Think about it. It's the last resting place of the infamous Jabberwocky, sans la tete. Where were the equally infamous Bandersnatch and the JubJub bird? Why did some son of a madman seek out the Jabberwocky and brutally decapitate it? Highly suspicious, if you ask me. Here are my thoughts:

"Blown up?!" the Jabberwock exploded,
Vexed and sore afraid
"They'll pin this one on me,
or 'Wocky' ain't my name!"

"Aye," affirmed the Bandersnatch
In slithy, dulcet tones.
"These are dreadly, darksome times.
I shall tell the Jubjub bird-
You go on alone!"

PS I fixed the blog title. The world can stop holding its breath. All is well again.