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.