Clearance Cairn

We often compare the mind to a computer, nowadays: we process information, we save information in our hard drive, our neurons form a network…and should we find ourselves burdened with trivia, we attempt to delete it.

But one of the more traditional metaphors was that a mind resembled a field.  It was cultivated, like a garden, and ideas sprang up from the fertile soil of an imagination well-watered with reading, observation, and life experience.

There has been nothing to harvest from my mind-field of late, no matter how I rack my brains for it, so I reckon that something is preventing proper growth: neglect of planting, poorly chosen seed, stony soil, lack of light or water or air…hence this post, wherein I dig out a few rocks, hopefully, and assemble them into a heap of stones, and perhaps aerate this fallow field a bit.

~~~~~
To the great amusement of my housemates and friends, I occasionally issue myself orders out loud.  Sounds mad, a bit, but since orders must be direct and succinct, they almost always work.
~~~~~

I went to see Star Trek: Into Darkness again last night.  This is atypical; it’s odd enough for me to see a movie opening week, much less twice, much less thrice.

My roommate and I keep wondering why anyone lets Jim Kirk be in charge of anything.  He’s even more of a Gryffindor than Harry Potter.

~~~~~

Last weekend was my first comic-con.  Tomorrow is my first steampunk expo.  Tonight there shall be hasty costume-fashioning; fortunately said comic-con outfitted me with goggles, and as everyone knows, that fulfills the second law of steampunk (right after “slap some gears on it”).

Huzzah for the Salvation Army, and how much easier it makes the costuming process!

~~~~~

On reflection, this was sort of a nerdy week.

I love it.

~~~~~
Work, on the other hand, is going quite slowly this week, so slowly that I started a phone log out of boredom.  Each day I’ve answered, on average, 38 calls.  Most are dull, but this one wasn’t:

Can I talk to an attorney?  What’s the issue?  Well, it’s complicated.  Okay.  My in-laws own a house right next to theirs.  They added one of their sons to the deed many many years ago because he wanted to fix the house up, and he needed it for collateral – he was supposed to fix it up and pay rent.  We just found out that he didn’t do any fixing up at all - they don’t even know what he was using it for.  His ex-wife was helping him by getting a friend of hers to notarize it – and he abandoned his 19-year-old son in it with no electricity, water, or food.  The son went psychotic: he set the woods on fire, he set a Bible on fire, he said that the voices told him to do it.  He needs psychiatric help and someone took him to the hospital for treatment.  The dad wants to say it’s his house.  The grandparents are still on the deed; they never gave him the house – and the father somehow lied to the psychiatric hospital and got his son back and put him back in that house with no electricity or water.  He’s just in there alone with a pit bull the dad feeds gunpowder to, and we’re just wondering what rights the grandparents have with respect to the 19-year-old…

My first response is “Well, our firm can help with your questions about the deed, but I’m not sure we’re qualified to answer questions about psychotic breaks or pit bulls.”

My second response is “Kyrie eleison.”

My third response is something like “Ummmm, 19-year-old?  No matter how psychotic he is, he’s passed the age of majority.  Americans 18 and older are legally adults, but it sure seems like there’s this effort to keep ever-older people in a state of adolescence.  … …I wonder if the laws will change in the next decade on account of it.”
~~~~~

My youngest brother gets married a fortnight after tomorrow.  For all that I’ve been willing and waiting for this event for years, I am not ready.  For all the weddings I’ve gone to before, none of them increased my own family at the end.  I feel as though there is something I’m meant to say to them on this occasion, something significant, a poetic farewell to the single years before it, a greeting of the coming years of married life.

So of course nothing comes to mind.

~~~~~
3; 4.75; 3.85; 4.68; 1.60; 3.34; 2.78; 4.06; 3.6; 3.3; 3.4; 3.91; 3; 2.51; 2.15; 4.21; 4.21; 3.35; 4; 5.64; 5.75; 7.54; 4.37; 2.84; 3.15; 2.85; 2; 4.47; 4.38; 2.85; 5.19; 3.73; 3.13; 3.56; 5.12; 3.42; 2.92; 2.31; 1.88; 2.5; 6.82; 6; 6.13; 3.81.

This may look like a string of random numbers, but it is in fact amounts spent on each serving of a lunch made from scratch over the past few months.  The average cost of these 44 meals is $3.82; the six meals (not listed) with partly pre-made ingredients from the store averaged $5.04; and the average restaurant or takeout lunch cost $6.69.  As you might guess, I delight in rather anal-retentive precision.  Even if it’s generally accepted that making your own food costs less than having someone else make it for you, I like to have data to back it up.
~~~~~

Sometimes while driving I am gripped by wonderment and horror that I’ve been entrusted with two tons of metal, to drive when and where I will.  Not that I am a big fan of the TSA, or in favor of further government intrusion into daily life, but I don’t recall the licensing process as being that thorough.  Considering how much time I spend on the road, they hardly vetted me for this!  Good heavens.

In my less generous moments, the horror and wonderment focus much more on the other drivers who have been trusted with so much with so little cross-checking.

~~~~~

Neither need you tell me that we must take care of our garden.

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

A Word for Breaking Things

On Friday evening, I joined some friends to go see Star Trek: Into Darkness.  On Saturday evening, I set out to see Iron Man Three.  On Sunday, I did not watch any films, but found myself still searching for a word.

If you’ve seen either of these movies, or the trailers for them, or any of a hundred films similar to them, I think you will recognize the phenomenon: some explorers with tremendous firepower – or masked/unmasked heroes, or freedom fighters determined to mess things up – get in some kind of chase or brawl, and every object around is subject to be collateral damage.  These fictitious cities always have a heck of a cleanup job, and we rarely, if ever, see any of it.

Their souls were drifting as the sea,
and all good towns and lands
they only saw with heavy eyes,
and broke with heavy hands.

I need a word for the distressed wince that accompanies the destruction of something fair to see, whether it be a bank, a home, a car, a spaceship, a monument.

Portmanteaus are getting me nowhere (pulcringitude? fairecoil?); attempts to find an already-existent term lost me in the wilds of TvTropes for an hour.  Rereading of Eldred’s sorrow for the things that had been fair helps with quiet meditation but not with neologizing.

Like Thalia, I open the floor.  What would you call it?

Other than “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”

 

Magpie’s Nest

Last week, David shared a story he’d written, the prompt it was based on, and the contest that he won with it (well done, David!).  I read his story and the runner-up, but not before taking a look at the prompt and coming up with my own explanation for it.  It’s been too long since I’ve written stories (so please advise if it doesn’t make any sense), and it’s clearly too late for the contest, but I thought I’d share a little bit of flash fiction around.

~~~~~~

“Tell me again what we’re looking for.  And none of that ‘you’ll know it when you see it’ rubbish, please.  Remember I’m just the ride – there’s no way I’ll know it.”

“You will, though.  It’s a magpie – do they ever collect stuff that’s easy to miss?”

McNally shook his head, more in disbelief than disagreement, nearly tripping over the jutting roots of a corded elm.  “Remind me when the Prince told you all about his precious signaling magpie?  I suppose a service magnate’s son thanks the lowly spiders when he remembers who keeps his empire together, eh?”

Danny grinned ruefully; laying cable wasn’t the most glamorous job, but it’d made him privy to confidential discussions more than once.  Even in the castle – just last week he’d silently witnessed a tête-à-tête between Princess Annette and Corino, the vaguely princelike fellow from the odd country two quadrants over.  While he strung the replacement for Annette’s chewed-up wiring, she’d shown Corino the rabbits responsible and wrinkled her nose at his defense of bird ownership.  “I don’t care if it’s royal tradition,” she pouted, “they’re noisy and smelly and always try to bite me.”

“It’s not royal tradition in my quadrant; we’d never turn your rabbits away,” he’d smiled, sympathetic and condescending at once.  “But we are rather fond of birds and birdlore, and I imagine they’ll always be a status symbol of sorts.  We’re very careful how we pick them, as the choice is terribly significant.   Suggests what direction a man’ll go.”

What direction a man’ll go.  What direction will he go when he’s not quite of age, throwing off his official tech to test his homemade devices more thoroughly?  The green shadows of the Reserve, obviously, the same place he’d find and raise and train his secret pet to do curious things with technology.  The same place he’d hide from the power and the responsibility soon to weigh him down…the same place that…

Danny stopped short.  McNally carried on a full dozen yards before noticing he was gone, and swung around to see his friend staring at a mass of colorful cords, curious metal brackets, and mysterious sockets scattered in the brush.  Danny’s eyes stayed fixed on the debris, as though to avoid the cracked egg and the single bloody wing a few feet away in the undergrowth.

“Dan?  Danny, hey, talk to me.”  McNally grabbed at his shoulder, but Danny remained frozen as he tried to discern what it meant.

He knew the prince was concerned about his new position come the Service Lord’s abdication to return to his workshop: those whispers had gone around for weeks.  More sinister voices whispered that such a young magnate would be an easy target for packet thieves and pirates, and less shadowy foes besides.  He’d seen that the prince was obsessed with his flying hotspot of a bird, loved it enough that he’d do something truly stupid before letting it suffer harm.  Said hotspot and its bizarre nest of wires had been ripped in pieces.

And the broken egg beside it looked to be none other than a cuckoo’s.

We are rather fond of birdlore…

Danny cursed the qualms that had kept him from more effective eavesdropping.  Not that Corino would have boasted of choosing a brooding parasite as his status symbol, especially to the girl who could prove a vehicle to pushing her brother out the proverbial nest.

McNally’s eyebrows flew up as Danny bent to pick up the bloodied wing.  “Cuckoo attack,” Danny murmured.  “The magpie could tell that wasn’t her egg, and the adult cuckoos – they – well, you see what they did when she rejected it.”

…the choice is terribly significant.

“Let’s go,” Danny said dully, turning to go.  “We’ll have to tell the Lady.”

“Tell her what?”

“To be careful what she says to Corino if she doesn’t want her webs to go the way of the magpie’s nest.”

The Consolation of Mediocrity

Sometimes, it’s overwhelming to look at the mountains which other authors, past and present, have scaled.  There are heights of prose I will never reach, beautiful stories which I did not write, and twists of thought my mind would never formulate.

What is perhaps the best response is the difficult one: to read more, to write often, to practice the craft, to risk saying something that will upset others, to confess what will tear at my own heart.

But the easy response is to find someone who wasn’t necessarily very good at composition, and kept doing it anyway, and console myself that so long as I do write, I can’t possibly be worse.

With that in mind, let me present William Topaz McGonagall.  He was a Scottish weaver, born in 1825 or thereabouts, who at age 52 felt led to begin writing poems.  Some he recited as entertainment for his friends; some were published on handbills or in books; some got him thrown out of a pub for their quality.  His slavery to masculine rhyme, repetitious vocabulary, wretchedly wrenched syntax, and terrible rhythm contribute to the extreme badness (I wish I had a stronger word!) of his verse, and all this does not take into account the themes he favored: disasters, deaths and funerals, temperance, moral tales, and the like.

I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t been mentioned before here at the Club, as Thalia first introduced me to his work, and his 200 Poetic Gems remain as entertaining now as they were to contemporary audiences.  See McGonagall Online for further information, if you like, or just try reading the following aloud with a straight face:

Women’s Suffrage

Fellow men! why should the lords try to despise
And prohibit women from having the benefit of the parliamentary Franchise ?
When they pay the same taxes as you and me,
I consider they ought to have the same liberty.

And I consider if they are not allowed the same liberty,
From taxation every one of them should be set free;
And if they are not, it is really very unfair,
And an act of injustice I most solemnly declare.

Women, farmers, have no protection as the law now stands;
And many of them have lost their property and lands,
And have been turned out of their beautiful farms
By the unjust laws of the land and the sheriffs’ alarms.

And in my opinion, such treatment is very cruel;
And fair play, ’tis said, is a precious jewel;
But such treatment causes women to fret and to dote,
Because they are deprived of the parliamentary Franchise vote.

In my opinion, what a man pays for he certainly should get;
And if he does not, he will certainly fret;
And why wouldn’t women do the very same?
Therefore, to demand the parliamentary Franchise they are not to blame.

Therefore let them gather, and demand the parliamentary Franchise;
And I’m sure no reasonable man will their actions despise,
For trying to obtain the privileges most unjustly withheld from them;
Which Mr. Gladstone will certainly encourage and never condemn.

And as for the working women, many are driven to the point of starvation,
All through the tendency of the legislation;
Besides, upon members of parliament they have no claim
As a deputation, which is a very great shame.

Yes, the Home Secretary of the present day,
Against working women’s deputations, has always said- nay;
Because they haven’t got the parliamentary Franchise-,
That is the reason why he does them despise.

And that, in my opinion, is really very unjust;
But the time is not far distant, I most earnestly trust,
When women will have a parliamentary vote,
And many of them, I hope, will wear a better petticoat.

And I hope that God will aid them in this enterprise,
And enable them to obtain the parliamentary Franchise;
And rally together, and make a bold stand,
And demand the parliamentary Franchise throughout Scotland.

And do not rest day nor night-
Because your demands are only right
In the eyes of reasonable men, and God’s eyesight;
And Heaven, I’m sure, will defend the right.

Therefore go on brave women! and never fear,
Although your case may seem dark and drear,
And put your trust in God, for He is strong;
And ye will gain the parliamentary Franchise before very long.

A Gymnosperm by Another Name

Here is a poem by C.S. Lewis.  It’s one of my favorites, kept in a folder to be deployed when necessary.  I’ve posted half of it before, back in 2011, but recent days have demanded that I bring it out again, so I thought I’d share it around.

Gymnosperm comes from the Greek for “naked seeds,” so there you have it.  Whether Lewis had conifers in mind or not, I can only wonder.

The Naked Seed

My heart is empty. All the fountains that should run
With longing, are in me
Dried up. In all my countryside there is not one
That drips to find the sea.
I have no care for anything thy love can grant
Except the moment’s vain
And hardly noticed filling of the moment’s want
And to be free from pain.
Oh, thou that art unwearying, that dost neither sleep
Nor slumber, who didst take
All care for Lazarus in the careless tomb, oh keep
Watch for me till I wake.
If thou think for me what I cannot think, if thou
Desire for me what I
Cannot desire, my soul’s interior Form, though now
Deep-buried, will not die,
— No more than the insensible dropp’d seed which grows
Through winter ripe for birth
Because, while it forgets, the heaven remembering throws
Sweet influence still on earth,
— Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes
Still turning round the earth.

 

Here’s the thing.  My heart doesn’t feel empty.  It’s full of thoughts, of considerations, of half-filled timetables, of a plethora of worries: my job, my car, the friends I don’t write to, the friends I do write to, my parents’ health, my brother’s wedding, etc., etc., etc.

But it isn’t full of what ought to fill it, this heart of mine.  The longing and the love which should fill it and flow from it: they are a mere trickle.  To borrow another of Lewis’s metaphors, the gas tank is empty, or else full of the wrong thing.  I can feel the transmission seizing up, or whatever it is that transmissions do when something’s wrong.  Slipping, I suppose.  Not getting into the correct gear and getting stuck in neutral!  That is surely me this past fortnight (or two, or three).

Lewis is, as always, more eloquent than I; in this poem, he is also more hopeful than I tend to be.  Who will save me from this heart full of death?  Thank God for the heavens remembering when the seed forgets!

Mighty Mead-Glee

It has been so long, friends, since we’ve had a review of anything but a book on here.  Sure, there was a play review in January, and a poem review last May, but nearly a year has passed since we last shared a review of beverages.  This should be remedied, so grab a glass and a seat while I tell you about last Saturday’s Meadfest.

On hearing that the B. Nektar Meadery of Ferndale, Michigan was having a mead-tasting festival, several friends and I decided to conduct ourselves thence.  I was put in charge of all Beowulf references, and packed my Chickering accordingly.

þa wæs Geatmæcgum         geador ætsomne
on beorsele         benc gerymed;
þær swiðferhþe         sittan eodon,
þryðum dealle.         þegn nytte beheold,

se þe on handa bær         hroden ealowæge,
scencte scir wered.         Scop hwilum sang
hador on Heorote.         þær wæs hæleða dream,
duguð unlytel         Dena ond Wedera.

Then a bench was cleared,   room made in the hall    491
for the gathered Weders   standing in a troop;
the courageous men     took their seats,
proud in their strength;   a thane did his office,
carried in his hands     the gold ale-flagons,
poured bright mead.     At times the scop sang,
bright-voiced in Heorot;     there was joy of warriors,
no small gathering     of Geats and Danes.  

þær wæs sang ond sweg         samod ætgædere
fore Healfdenes         hildewisan,
gomenwudu greted,         gid oft wrecen,
ðonne healgamen         Hroþgares scop
æfter medobence         mænan scolde
be Finnes eaferum,         ða hie se fær begeat,

There was tumult and song,    melodious noise,     1063
in front of Healfdene’s    battle-commander;
the harp was plucked,   good verses chanted
when Hrothgar’s scop    in his place on the mead-bench  
came to tell over   the famous hall-sport
of Finn’s sons    when the attack came on them…

I shared these lines of the mead-hall, along with various diverting kennings, until we reached our destination.  We were not immediately certain, on doing so, that we had reached it.  The rosy lenses of our expectation sought the promised tent and musicians and honey-drink on a grassy knoll amid a few trees.  Even if the grass were a bit much to hope for, Ferndale is known locally as a chic and trendy hotspot, so we were surprised to find ourselves in a janky parking lot between the brewery and its industrial neighbors.  It struck us as the mead-tasting no one had ever heard of.  Michelle, conductor of our chariot, reckoned that our Hipster Quotient had skyrocketed, to which our friend Adam remarked “Man, I knew I should have worn tighter jeans!”

Huddled against the brisk breeze, our crew meted out beverage tokens to try 11 of the varieties available and recorded our impressions at the tables and folding chairs standing in for mead-hall benches.  The wind whipped our cups over if ever we were careless, and the sun, overly concerned by the possibility of bothering us, kept hidden.

Against such a backdrop, the meads were welcome.  Some had been brewed to resemble an IPA beer in mouthfeel and strength; others had a thicker, more traditional texture; still others had had fruit or spices added to impart different flavors.  Here are our notes:

The Beer-Like (served on draft)

Lager-Style mead: sweet but not oversweet, no bad aftertaste.  PCS approval.

IPA-Style Evil Genius: Lightly carbonated mix of honey and hops.  “Nose of wine, taste of Kool-Aid.”  “That really just tastes like I ate a field of flowers.”  Grapefruity.  Like unto Jerome more than Ambrose or Bernard.

Necromangocon – made with mango juice, honey, and black pepper.  Very bubbly.  Smells of mango, tastes peppery.  Peculiar.

Apricot Cardamom – fascinating and strange.  Very tangy, spicy, not hard cider-y.  Smells more like apricot than it tastes.  JCS approval.

Zombie Killer – technically a “cyser,” or blend of honey and apple cider, with tart cherry juice added and light carbonation.  Apricot tang; very fruity.  Like a Lambic beer.  “Sparkling black cherry juice” (which I misheard as “carrot juice,” and was instructed to buy an ear trumpet for reasons both practical and sartorial).  JCS approval.

The Fruity

Wildberry Pyment – Made with clover honey, shiraz grapes (pyment = mead/wine mixture), and wildberry concentrate.  This last made it slightly like cough syrup.  Very winey.  Blackberry jam.  Ooof da.  Increasingly hard to drink.  Sweeter, peppery?

Unicorn – smells like different cough syrup, different fruits.  Less sweet.

The Traditional (or thereabouts)

Rainbow – sweet, traditional smell, but drier taste; a field of delight!

Orange Blossom – less like syrup; Kool-Aid with chalk.  Smells light; floral.

Wildflower – very sweet, thicker, more traditional, yeasty, field-like.  JCS, MH approval

Episode 13 – orange blossom/buckwheat honey mead, aged in a bourbon barrel.  Curious to smell; sweet, then quite smoky to taste; thicker in mouthfeel with a toasted vanilla aftertaste; almost meaty, the way buckwheat can be; and “like unto whiskey-flavored gelato.” PH approval, enough to buy a bottle of it.

                                             Gamen eft astah,
beorhtode bencsweg;         byrelas sealdon
win of wunderfatum.         þa cwom Wealhþeo forð
gan under gyldnum beage,…
“Onfoh þissum fulle,         freodrihten min,
sinces brytta!         þu on sælum wes,
goldwine gumena,         ond to Geatum spræc
mildum wordum,         swa sceal man don.

                        The glad noise resumed,                 1160
bright-clanking bench-music;    wine-bearers poured
from fluted silver.    Wealhtheow came forth,
glistening in gold, …
“Accept this cup,     my noble lord,
gold-giving king;    be filled in your joys,
treasure-friend to all,   and give to the Geats
your kind words,   as is proper for men…

I Expect a Guardian!

Book Group Thing has started back up, and with
it, a stream of winding discourse on more diverse topics than our ostensible subject, Lewis’s Cosmic Trilogy.  A tangent on book-thievery and book-reclaiming prompted me to bring up Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis, which is Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone in Latin.

“How did the translator render the spells?” wondered my fellow bibliophiles.  “Some of them are already in Latin, yeah?  How do they get set apart as spells?”

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much to the characters, does it?” said I.  “Instead of thinking of the spell as Nox, they just say, Night!  Or [instead of Expecto Patronum,] I EXPECT A GUARDIAN!”

Which prompted a bit more laughter than I expected, and more thought on the Patronus Charm than is typical.  Not everyone reading is a Potterite, so here’s a brief description: a Patronus is a sort of offensive shield, a silvery animal-shaped guardian which is the corporeal form of a happy memory or thought.  It launches itself at both Dementors and Lethifolds, holding them at bay if not driving them off.

There are several occasions where Harry or other characters conjure a Patronus; the spell’s use becomes ever more frequent in the later books, as war descends and Dementors appear more and more often.  I wanted to focus on three particular occasions of Patronus charm use:

- In the maze Harry goes through to reach the Goblet of Fire, he meets a Dementor-shaped Boggart.  Driving it away isn’t quite the same as driving away a real Dementor, but the mechanism is the same: he concentrates on getting out of the maze and celebrating with Ron and Hermione, something that hasn’t happened, but which he hopes for.

- During battle in Deathly Hallows, Harry attempts to conjure a Patronus but cannot summon up any happy thought whatsoever.  Luna prompts him with “We’re all still here; we’re still fighting.”  It costs him more effort to conjure than it ever has before, as the situation is so grim, but Harry’s Patronus still bursts forth to stand guard.

- Harry uses one to drive away a lot of Dementors near the end of Prisoner of Azkaban.  In his words, “I knew I could do it this time, because I’d already done it – does that make sense?”  In this event, he focuses not on a happy memory, nor a positive thought, but on his certainty that the Patronus will save him because it already has in his other-time’s experience.

Dementors as Rowling wrote them aren’t a foe we ever meet with; that said, it is Monday again, and we have our own battles to fight, be they e’er so humble.  Where a happy memory may not get us through, our hopes may; perseverance may; or faith may, the assurance about what we do not see.

There are occasions, even in the Muggle world, when our happiness is drained away, when we feel as though we will never be happy again.  What happy memory or hope is your guardian against Dementor-like feelings?

Coffee & Philosopher Kings

My eldest brother and I work at the same firm, and as such are placed favorably for the sharing of lunch, or jokes, or mild whinging over silly callers.  Occasionally, one of us will have planned well enough to have time to visit Dunkin Donuts on our commute; invariably, we buy two coffees, that the delight thereof may be shared and the morning brightened for both of us.

Having arrived ten minutes late today, amid the damp chill of not-quite-spring rains, I noted that it was the sort of day that made Dunkin Donuts coffee look even better than usual; most unfortunately, Peachy noted, that made it the sort of day when said nectar is impossible to procure.

Without the totem of caffeine to fix upon, we then were very easily led astray to discussions of other matters: cameras, court dates, and Kantian imperatives.  We pondered the extent to which Peachy is a monarchist within an American democratic-republic situation.  He really wishes for philosopher kings, but the trouble with philosopher kings is that anyone worthy to be one…would not wish to spend his days being one.  Desire of such an office precludes worthiness to fill it, as an especial need for coffee precludes obtaining it.

On the bright side, should we ever find a worthy person, we have just the vehicle for his morning libation.