The Random Quill: a Prose Weblog

Medical College of Georgia Class Notes

2005-08-22T11:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, another new page (well, sub-site, really). Since I am a Ph.D. student at the Medical College of Georgia, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and publish my notes from class lectures on my site. I figure that, besides attracting Google hits, putting all my personal class notes online as they happen should be a good study mechanism. I can't guarantee I'll put everything up, but I'd sure like to.

This semester, I'm taking Responsible Conduct of Research (SGS 8011), Scientific Communication (SGS 8012), Biochemistry (SGS 8021) Molecular Cell Biology (SGS 8022), Introduction to Faculty Research (SGS 8040), and Introduction to Research I (SGS 8050). Not all of them have notes (or a good deal of notes, anyway), but whatever I write down, I'll try to put up. I imagine it'll be a help for other students, both graduate and undergraduate, as well as people just trying to find out miscellaneous bits of information (which may be contained in the notes, if you're lucky *grin*).

Medical College of Georgia Biomedical Sciences Class Notes

'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site

2005-08-01T18:18:00.000-07:00

“The Jabberwocky” is perhaps the most well-known, well-loved, studied, and revered piece of nonsense literature in the English language (well, ostensibly English, anyway), and perhaps in any language. While it occupies a relatively minor position in Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There (commonly referred to as Alice Through the Looking Glass), its renown has spread far beyond that single opening chapter (well, and Humpty Dumpty's later expoundification thereof.

Its popularity has resulted in its translation into a number of languages, including French, German, and yes, even Latin.

Since The Jabberwocky has always been one of my favourite poems, I've recently inaugurated a shrine to the work by Lewis Carroll (aka. Rev. Charles Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) in my Alice in Wonderland pages. I'm collecting various translations of the work, along with some of the more clever and less stilted parodies. Hopefully it will grow to be a decent-sized site (though I'm sure not rivaling the Ultimate Jabberwocky Site to which I link in the shrine), and it will at least be a repository for my own thoughts and writings on subjects Jabberwockian.

So, do me a favour and visit 'Twas Brillig, which I think is as apt a name as any for the enshrinement of the ancient scrap of Anglo-Saxon poetry, eh? (For more info on the "Anglo-Saxon" bit, visit the site and look at the Anglo-Saxon translation.)

Danny Doyle, Where the Blarney Roses Grow, and C.

2005-07-20T01:47:00.000-07:00

I've just put up a new bit of content over at the Sehr Gut Web Codex:Celtic.

Spirit of the Gael (Danny Doyle)

A didgeridoo. In Irish music. Did Celts even have didgeridoos? Well, no matter, because in some surreal way, it actually works. In 2002, Cracker Barrel Old Country Store released this fabulous recording by the distinctive vocalist Danny Doyle as part of their Heritage Music collection.

With a diversity of styles from the high mournful tone of "The Fields of Athenry" to the low melancholy of "Kilkelly", from the bawdy good humour of "When the Boys Come Rolling Home" and "Danny Dougan's Jubilee" to the heady adolecent excitement of "Where the Blarney Roses Grow", there's a song to cover every inch of ground that can be covered on Celtic instruments — plus a didgeridoo.

Celtic Music

2005-07-13T01:02:00.000-07:00

New page here! I just put together the beginnings of a Celitc site (including a bit about my favourite song of all time.

I’ve always loved Celtic music, especially that of the Irish persuasion. Now, I am only 1/16th Ulster Scot (Scots-Irish, Scotch-Irish), but I figure that gives me enough Celtic blood to have some right to the music, eh? After all, I’ve been told that Celtic blood takes precedence over any other comers . . .

While I adore the music, I have a great love for all things Irish (odd, since I have more an excuse for Scottish), and hope to transmit a bit of that love of the Celts to you. Enjoy!

Celtic Music at Sehr Gut Web

Sehrgut Anachronism: New Site

2005-07-08T17:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve just launched a new subsection of Sehr Gut Web: Sehrgut Anachronism (housing the Codex Anachronisticus: Sehr Gut). Here I&rsqou;ll be depositing all my anachronistic researches and pursuits.

Currently, the Codex is comprised of some ink-related recipes: namely the preparation of yellow dextrine (“British gum”) from corn starch, testing gum solutions for starch using iodine, and the preparation of a dextrine-bound Prussian Blue writing ink using Mrs. Stewart's Bluing.

In Memoriam America

2005-07-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

In memory of those whose dreams and schemes gave us this land, of those who died for the freedom that was America, of those whose blood watered the Tree of Liberty.

We have not kept your dream. We have abandoned your hopes. We have sold the freedom you died for us to have. We have failed you.

Forgive us.

In memory of that for which which once she stood,
In hope of that for which she yet may stand.

*****

July Fourth, Two Thousand and Five, a mere two hundred and twenty-nine years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, found America in the later stages of giving up freedom for security and finding she had neither.

In Memoriam

Retiring

2005-01-17T20:31:00.000-08:00

It is both a joy and a regret to announce the retiring of both Tome: the New Metre Weblog and The Random Quill: Prose. However, they have been replaced by Passage to Serendipity, since I got hosted (by Livia of relatedworlds.net). I am running PS on Blosxom, so all my weblogs are able to roll, category-wise, into one weblog.

I do hope to continue to receive your readership at the new location. All extant weblogs and posts will remain for archival purposes.

Meet me at Passage to Serendipity.

Loneliness

2004-12-29T06:16:00.000-08:00

Loneliness

There is in loneliness an exquisiteness which longs to be imbibed unadulterated, like absinthe without sugar. Some delicate flavour among the varied bitterness demands to be tasted of unenwrapt in words or harmony. A call to such an inception of pleasure ensues wildly from the struck gong of a lost half-chance and whips through my hair, wailing from the fenestrations of Never.

All Things Feminine

2004-12-29T06:13:00.000-08:00

All Things Feminine

There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is no shame.

I have an untoward gravitation, I think, towards all things feminine. No, not in the way that I am some girl-crazy kid, but merely in that women seem to make up a larger part of my life than they do for most men. You see, I would very much prefer being the only man anywhere in my life. It is much more pleasant, and pleasant nearly to a fault, to have anything — even the smallest task — done by a woman.

All beauty seems to spring from The Feminine — from the delicate inklings of nature: please do not misunderstand this as neo-Pagan goddess-worship — whether the clean design of a beautiful piece of architecture or a splendid poppy blowing in the wind, what makes something worth just sitting and staring at is always its feminine properties. The delicacy of the flower, the perfectly-arranged sweeping columns of some Parthenon in any country: all point to the beauty that is SHE.

The Feminine has always, as far as I can remember, held a strange fascination for me. There is that which running along after like a lost puppy is no shame. Indeed, I would be ashamed to not throw myself to the great Wind of Beauty. “From far, from eve and morning and yon twelve-winded sky, the stuff of life to knit me blew hither: here am I.”¹ To stand firm when such a mistress bids me crumble I find the greatest blasphemy; to fall at her word, the stuff of life. Careless of being crushed by such a force, I would ride high on the gales of Her mischance until swept into the face of Wonder, I live, crippled by sweetness, forever.

Above all, I am a follower of the Feminine. I am a worshipper of Beauty.

From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.

Now — for a breath I tarry
Nor yet disperse apart —
Take my hand quick and tell me,
What have you in your heart.

Speak now, and I will answer;
How shall I help you, say;
Ere to the wind's twelve quarters
I take my endless way.

— “XXXII”, A Shropshire Lad, A.E. Housman.

The Art of Good-bye

2004-08-27T00:41:00.000-07:00

The Art of Good-bye

or The Sixth of May

The astonishing finality of what just happened took my by a languid surprise. I was finished, now. After several definite conquests, executing a gesture (pleasant, at that) of mere friendship was immensely satisfying and filling.

No, ceremonius good-byes are my thing. I was going to say that they weren’t, but that would have been a lie. I suppose I really do adore the carefully-chosen words, the expertly-crafted last impression (which, skillfully-executed, can make a passing acquaintance or even an often-snubbed feel like he not only matters in your conceptions of the universe, but that he holds a special place within it), and the (in the case, usually of a very pretty girl) satisfied emptiness of spirit which accompanies it.
There is something worshipfull in a good-bye — no matter to whom it is spoken — and it cannot be treated lightly even to scorn one most deserving. Indeed, the power of a good-bye is at its best and most reverent when it is also necessarily insincere.

This was written on May 6, 2004. It is actually a combination of two journal entries related in idea.
Crosspost: The Random Quill and Harbour in the Scramble

A Broken Hero

2004-08-23T01:59:00.000-07:00

. . . Hugh’s body lying in a gush of slime and blood. . . . He lay on his back, both legs bent to the side, his face masked, effaced with blood. She tried to clean the stuff off his face with her hands, to get his nostrils and mouth clear, for he was breathing, a gasping shallow breath at intervals; but he lay motionless and his face felt cold. . . . He was broken.
— Ursula K. LeGuin, The Beginning Place

   When an author sets up a situation which has already been run to completion by dozens and hundreds of other authors, he is asking for trouble. Ursula K. LeGuin did so in her Beginning Place, a story which runs terrible risks of becoming stereotypical at every turn.
   The final operation of the plot, in which Hiuradjas (Hugh) and Irena are trekking from Tembreabrezi to the High Stair in an attempt to find and confront the mysterious fear which is controlling and destroying the little mountain town, seems at every turn to run a now-straight path to Standard Fantasy Plot 41-Q. However, at each apparent “out”, LeGuin craftily inserts a “not yet” which elegantly directs the plot in a new direction.
   When the climax arrives and the two face the monster, Hugh could have killed it with a single stroke and left. Now, as I read, I had been waiting for something to disappoint me: I had countless predictions for the outcomes of any situation. As I read on, it became apparent that if I were able to predict something, the odds were poor that it would actually take place: just like life. (And since Art imitates Life, I suppose that would make this book one of the few works of art within the entire Fantasy Literature genre.
   Well, surprisingly, Hugh does end up killing the monster with a single blow. However, in an unexpected turn (with which LeGuin is a master) he is trapped beneath the monster and left in an indeterminate state while Irena’s psyche is explored through her responses to the situation.

Philosophy: What Is an Artist?

2004-08-20T14:32:00.000-07:00

I am
a scribe
and a reader
and a poet
and an artist.
So I write
and I read
and I write
and I live.
2002

I wrote that, as you can see, quite a while ago, but it still holds true. I believe that one does not truly live, or get all of life there is, if one is not an artist in how one lives one's life. In trying to explain to people what I mean by “artist”, and why I feel honest in taking that title to myself, I usually use the following definition and illustration.

An artist is one who sets things as they must be, not as they merely can be.

   When I was taking a creative writing class in college, the instructor looked over our first papers and made some comments so we could change things before we turned them in for a grade. In my paper she pointed out two things, one “minor” and the other “major” which I would do well to change before turning the paper in.
   First was diction. She disliked the word “phosphorescent” as being too cold and technical. Her suggested replacement was “glowing”. Needless to say, since “phosphorescent” had to be there, and “glowing” was merely permissible, I left the word in its proper place.
   Second was point of view. My point of view character was unconscious in the last few sentences of the story, but rather than have him awake a captive, I switched point of view briefly to show him being taken an unwitting captive. Of course, she [the instructor] thought that a fixed point of view was absolutely necessary, so that too was to be axed. I left it as well in its proper position.

I received a C+ on that paper. Later in the semester, after she had often commented about how my writing tended to be gloomy and depressing, though not downright dark, I wrote a story which could be construed as happily-ending. Though pensive, it was not gloomy. For that effort I received an A+. If you were to ask me which story I am most proud of, and which grade I am most proud of, I would tell you that it is the first. I am more proud of the C+ I chose than of the A+.
Many people have told me I should have made the changes for her, and kept the originals for myself. That is not an artistic thing to do. An artist would, on grounds of artistic integrity, never put out something not how it was of a necessity, rather than how it was requested to be. And that, in my definition of the term, is an artist.

Crosspost: Harbour in the Scramble and The Random Quill

Philosophy: Vow of Silence

2004-08-15T23:07:00.000-07:00

or, Love is a secret thing.

. . . in all that divided them, in the distance that held them apart, there was room for desire without terror, there was room and time for love without effect, without penalty or pain. The only price was silence.
She was silent.
— Ursula K. LeGuin, The Beginning Place

   The price is silence, isn’t it? The price for desire without terror, and for love without penalty, is silence. Loving, without asking anything in return, is free. Only, you must be very careful to truly ask nothing in return, and that includes asking the loved to know of your love.
   One of the most difficult things to ask someone to do is to knowingly allow themselves to be the object of your dreams and affections. For love is above all a secret thing. Love does not display itself, and love overtly displayed is merely pride making use of another.
   Love is a thing which must always be acted upon. One cannot knowingly be loved and do nothing. When the discovery is made, one must choose to allow it or to disallow it. There is no way, no matter what the previous situation, to remain neutral: which is why it is such a grave demand to make of someone that they know that you love them.

If someone knows that you love them — and believes that you have a true and deepening love, rather than simple infatuation — it is very likely they will be taken aback. “Thrown for a loop” might be one way of phrasing it. In fact, whether their reaction ultimately will be accepting or not, a disappearance on their part may likely be in order. When she returns, it will be definite. If she does return, no matter what she may say, some degree of acceptance exists.

And to a heart that has broken the vow of silence, whatever little there is, is enough.

Crosspost: Random Quill and Harbour in the Scramble

Things Which Are No Waste

2004-08-12T16:11:00.000-07:00

   Some things I can do without doing: I'm sure there are some things which are a genuine waste of time. However — and this list may reveal to you something of my temperament — there are certain things which I do not think, however untimely they may be, I could ever classify as true wastes of time.
   Reading a book is one. No time spent reading would I ever call a man into account for, even had much loss occurred because of it. Reading, and in a general sense, learning is in my view one of the truest acts in which a man can engage, since it makes use of the very faculty which separates him from the animals: reason. (My apologies to Aristotle.)
   Writing is kin next to reading, and provides for learning and improvement in much the same way. Writing not only fits when something as pragmatic as learning is to be shown, but as well it is an art, I would say, above all others. Though a painting can very nearly tell a story, no two people will see the same story. Though a piece of music may carry the heart on high emotion and low; be it never so well-played, two men will hear two different songs. I do not mean to say that by writing I can produce an identical impression on two different men, but certainly I may come closer to it than an artist of any other medium.
   Another thing which is no waste is time spent with nature, wheter in the roaming of woods and deserts or the watering of a garden. Again, like learning, the self-betterment which such provokes is worth, I think, more than anything which may be missed because of it, whether it be supper, or a train, or a thirty-thousand dollar bequest. (My apologies to a wise philosopher.)
   Time spent with a beloved I was going to say is no waste. However, that is neither strictly nor consistently true. Very many times, too much time spent with a loved one may destroy what time apart would build up; and too much doting may make for accidental bitterness towards the one doted upon. No, as cold as it may sound, time spent with one's beloved has a far greater danger of becoming a waste than does time spent alone with nature and nature's God, and even than time spent with Estella and Miss Havisham — as cruel as they are.
   There are certain needful things: things without which life, lived for its own sake, would not be worth the paper it would be printed on if a biography were to accidentally be written about such a life. There are certain things which are no waste, and if I don't hurry, I may miss them instead of dinner.

Crosspost: Scraps, Harbour in the Scramble, and Random Quill

Travel: Chippewa Square, Savannah, GA

2004-08-06T23:05:00.000-07:00

     James Oglethorpe gazes south from his permanent residence in Chippewa Square. Daniel Chester French placed the Spanish Invasion there forever in his eyes. You see, Oglethorpe is weathered bronze, French is long dead, and the Spanish are only in the statue's cold bronze memory.
     To the General's right is the First Baptist Church of Savannah. During the Civil war, while every other church in the city was being used for hosptial duty, First Baptist saw itself become the only house of worship available to “Savannians” of any creed. “Baptists, Catholics, Presbyterians, Blacks, Whites,” as Harry put it. I suppose race was very nearly a religion in that place at that time, though, wasn't it . . .
     “Are you Catholic or Protestant?”
     “Protestant,” I said. Baptists are not actually an historical Protestant denomination, having never been affiliated with or part of the Roman Catholic Church; but I decided that particular history lesson had little place there, and let it be.
     “You probably sing a lot of hymns, then?” As I affirmed, he went on, “Lowell Mason wrote his five hundred hymns from that church.” That was something I did not know. A prolific and beloved hymnwriter (q.v. “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” and “My Faith Looks Up to Thee”), was actually a member (in fact, the chorister and organist) of Independent Presbyterian, rather than First Baptist (this I found on further study). I had no idea he was even an American. That shows how little of even the history which should matter to me I know.
     Next on the slate was North. Independent Presbyterian stands there, stone and imposing as ever it has been. Actually, that is one of the interesting points of its story. It has not always been stone. In 1889 (Harry thought it was around 1870 or ‘80), the original church burned. Its replacement was erected in stone, really precluding (in my opinion) the possibility of a second trial by fire.
     A second point of interest is the marriage of President Woodrow Wilson, a devoted Presbyterian. Actually, that is a first point of interest, since his marriage to Ellen Louise Axson took place in 1885, four years before the fire.
     Moving around the square to the east, you'll see the Savannah Theatre, the oldest continuously-operating theatre in the United States. True, during a dark time (artistically speaking . . .) in its history it was a movie theatre. However, it is now a live theatre hosting true performing arts on a regular basis. (Sorry about the little rant there: I feel rather strongly about art.) Now, in the grand tradition of giving a story for each location, let me tell you about Charles Coburn.
     It's not exactly “rags to riches”, but have you ever had a friend tell you they work in the film industry, only to find that they are ushering or sweeping at the local theatre? The actor Coburn got his start that way. Beginning as an usher at the Savannah Theatre, Coburn eventually rose to become its manager. Once managing the company tidily, he decided to open his own play on his premises — you get to do that if you own the theatre. Moral: If you can't act, buy a theatre so you can cast yourself for any rôle you please.

There you have Harry and what he told me, beer on his breath. (How does one come to have beer on one's breath at ten in the morning, anyway?)

Crosspost: Scraps and Random Quill

Writing: Funerals and Poetry

2004-08-04T14:08:00.000-07:00

Now, you have to understand something of a writer and an artist. Something of the melancholic temperament in general. But, the idea first. I'm at work, and just got a labwide email that an employee's mother died. It contained the death notice from the Augusta Chronicle:

AUGUSTA, Ga.- Graveside services for Mrs. M___ D___ D___ of 1229 __th Street will be held 11 a.m. [date removed] at Mt. Olive Memorial Gardens. Survivors include a daughter, V___ D___; two sons, G___ E. D___, R___ I. D___; three sisters, R___ H___, O___ Spears, B___ D___; four grandchildren and one great-grandchild; a host of other relatives and friends. The family will receive friends from 7-8 p.m. today at the funeral home. G. L. Brightharp & Sons Mortuary, 614 West Avenue, North Augusta, S. C.

The message sparked an immediate, odd compulsion to attend the graveside service. Then the idea: "These notices are in every newspaper everywhere. Whenever I want, I can go to a funeral." Like I said, you have to understand something about an artist. My attraction to a funeral is not flippant. I'm not going to crash a party. It's not dark (Goth-style), or a fascination with death. It's merely a writer's need to absorb real-life circumstances as experience upon which to base his interpretations of life; for a writer has the responsibility — not that I necessarily agree with this situation — given him by those who do not wish to interpret life themselves, to provide an interpretation of life and its circumstances. I have been blessed by not having funerals come into my life often on their own. My maternal grandfather, a distant friend Michael — years after I knew him — an elderly lady from my church, and two friends of my parents whom I hardly knew are the only funerals I have ever attended. So don't think it strange if a sombre and reverent stranger shows up at the graveside of one of your friends or loved ones, paying his respects to someone he never knew. He is merely experiencing the human condition, and is a "scout" of sorts for all whom his work will reach. He is a writer. Crosspost: Scraps and Random Quill (Posted on Scraps Monday, July 25, 2004.)

Travel: Solomon's -or- Soda Fountain Bloodlines

2004-08-01T16:58:00.000-07:00

   And the place where I now sit, the Gryphon Tea Room, has a little personal history of its own — it and the Armoury across the way. You see, Harry is a "Savannian", as he puts it, throughly and thoroughly. That's where the history comes in.
   The Gryphon was once — and not too long past — Solomon's Drug Store, owned by the old Savannah family, aptly enough, the Solomons. This was one generation ago. Another generation past (Harry's parents) Solomon's was still here; but the generation prior to that (his grandparents) drank their sodas at Solomon's four blocks North.
   Three generations of Harrys, growing up at Chatham County High School, going to Solomon's for sodas with their sweethearts, and dancing their graduations at the Armoury. (See? I told you the Armoury was part of it.)
   And here I sit, paying nine dollars and twenty-eight cents for a potful (or two, since I got some more water) of good white tea and three of the best cinnamon-pecan scone (none of these Starbucks things pretending to be scones) that Victoria probably never could have gotten; with the old soda fountain (which looks oddly like a four-poster bed missing its curtains), converted to a platform at which you might hold a high tea, staring at me from the mirror.
   Cannonballs, soda jerks, and nervous, giggling, uncultured (oh, it makes me sick to think of it!) high schoolers — now mostly tourists and pseudo-artistes telling themselves they're cultured.

My goodness! How will I be able to eat potato chips and pretzels after this?

Travel: Aiken to Savannah Travelogue/Missive

2004-07-31T09:16:00.000-07:00

3:10 am
My goodness! Nearly a half an hour late. tsk tsk. That would never have been permitted in sunny CA. I just caught the 2:40 am bus from Aiken, SC to Columbia — at nearly 3:10 am. Even Mussolini made the trains run on time . . . How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, is laid for your faith in His excellent Word.

4:50 am (ex post facto)
That was interesting! A thirty-one-year-old black man (please don't take this as racism, but merely reporting!), who I have the slightest suspicion is “not all there” just came up and started talking to me. I was working on my computer at the time, teaching myself cascading style sheets. I use PageSpinner for my web design, and even my weblog posts (I post by email, mostly, and don't have any other way to preview posts), and it has a great learn-by-example section. I do seem to digress often, do I not? Anyway, he was talking to me, I was nodding and "mm-hmm"ing while I worked. The reason I suspect his faculties is that he didn't seem in the slightest to notice what I was doing (i.e. not giving him my undivided attention).

7:30 am (ex post facto)
I don't know how I did it, but I got a good three hours of sleep on that bus. Twisting, curling, etc., etc., but I slept. Once I woke up, however, I couldn't get back to sleep. Back to CSS . . . My CSS learning project is going to be a deliberate creative work in its own right: poetry in which each word (or at least many words) link(s) to another poem. It's going to be one of those midget site-in-a-square type of artsy things.

12:11 pm
As I write this (and the previous two posts), Savannah begins doing her best to drench my computer and I. I had better post this and be off.

Crosspost: Random Quill and Scraps

Story: "Mist and Fog" by Butch Sollars

2004-07-30T05:08:00.000-07:00

Originally on Mosaic Musings.

Boom

     The sound of a heavy drum drifts across the body of water striking the sides of the mountains invisible in the dense cloud of dew. The fog swirls and mingles with the morning mist creating a moving sliding veil shrouding the creators of the heavy beat.
     No birds sing this dreadful morning, no loon cries for its mate. Instead, the solitary haunting reverberation seeks to suck the very soul from the depths of the startled listener as it weighs heavily on the air.
     A faint clanking can be heard as the haze swirls and reluctantly parts to reveal three warriors in heavy armor striding forward, each carrying banners high above their heads. Each banner reveals a form more terrifying than the previous. The first banner, all in white with a blue sword sewn as if thrust through the cloth. The second banner, black with a shield of blue and white radiating what little light can be reflected. The third and final banner consists of a blue background, blazoned with a large brown griffon fierce in its stance, eyes of brilliant red sapphires, wings gilded in gold fully erect on its back.. Oddly, the banner is placed on the crossed poles upside down.
     The steady beat of the heavy drum continues, as in the distance an eagle cry sounds harsh and condemning. Yet the sound appears as if expected, for no one pauses as the procession continues to appear from the gloom. A woman steps forward, head held high. Her dress a white clinging shroud of pure fabric, that forms to the shape hidden within. Her long hair, with touches of grey, lays upon her shoulders, as if weighted down by burdens to numerous to understand. A small delicate crown has been placed on her head, although resplendent it does not distract from the object in her grip.
     Firmly clenched in her hands is a large sword, similar to that on the banner. Only this sword is made of metal, deep blue in color. Topped by a handle as large as her face, the tightly wound leather, is stained with the sweat of many battles. No nicks can be seen in the blade, however the handle implies the hand that used it, carried it often.
     Following the women, comes eight men carrying a large platform on which is a king, signified by the crown on his head. Grey hair and beard belie the age of the person lying there, but one can tell he is not of great age. His chest, arms and legs are encased in linen, but the power that once radiated from the man still emits as if he were very much alive.
     Faint music can now be heard as the procession continues moving forward with each step in time with the drums oppressive thud. As the mist parts once more, the entity responsible for the resounding thumps strides forward. Followed next by a large gathering of men and women, each dressed in shrouds of white, blue and black. Nowhere is there a hint of silver or gold to be seen. No armament, no weapons of any form. Upon reaching the lake, the group pauses and watches a large flat boat drift to shore from out of the murky blanket covering the now rippling water.
     As the woman steps onto the craft the body is placed with reverence in the center behind her position. The faint music builds to a crescendo as the veil of despair parts again to reveal a plethora of bright colors - reds, greens, gold, and silver. This last group wears no blues or white, or gray of any shade. As they arrive they start to blend in with the others as the body is placed at the feet of the woman on the boat.
     All sound ceases as the eagle gives a final cry, and a lone figure emerges from the dense cloud. This figure carries the banner seen earlier, only now the banner displaying the griffon is hung properly, right side upwards.
     A final figure steps forward, abruptly parting the curtain of moisture as surely as if the sword he carries had been used as a knife. This man is tall, taller than most in the group. His head is bare displaying black hair, and fierce penetrating green eyes, shrouded by thick eyebrows. Power emits from his body as if he is a source of energy. This feeling of might throbs and pulsates; radiating everywhere, the energy seems ready to ignite anything combustible. The strength is every bit as awesome as the body laying on the boat, with one exception, this man is very much alive.
     He steps slowly forward to the woman and hands his sword towards her, as she in return hands the blue blade to him. Slowly, he brings the hilt of the sword to his mouth and places a kiss where the leather caresses the blade.
     “Today, you are King.” States the woman, as he thrusts the blade into the midsection of the gown she is wearing, killing her instantly. She collapses across the body on the boat as the current pulls the craft away.
     “Goodbye mother, you served my father well.”
     “Away!” Bellows a voice from behind as flaming arrows arch upward and then down into the bodies and craft as it disappears in the mist, a fading glow. No sound is heard from the crowd, or from nature herself.
     Suddenly, the clouds part above the young prince and a bright shaft of sunlight encompasses his form. Stunned, the group falls to their knees and as a single voice declare to the figure still standing, “Long live King Aeson.”

Special thanks to the author for his permission to host this story at The Random Quill
© December 2003 Butch Sollars
Posted as an unpublished work on Mosaic Musings.

Story: "Keeper of Lights"

2004-07-29T20:12:00.000-07:00

   A chandelier hung, suspended from the darkness above, swaying gently with the weight of a mouse that had climbed down the chain. The mouse went over a crossbar to the inmost ring, and clambered pertly along. It stopped and mounted the nub of a tallow candle and began to nibble at it sparingly.
   A torch mounted in a sconce on the sandstone wall cast its flickering light through the rotunda. A carpet blanketing the cold floor beneath the chandelier was marked with a sun-moon having sixteen rays. The sun-moon smiled beneficently up at the mouse, and wished for its company.
   There was a slight draft in the chamber, which came somehow from the stairwell near the torch, and from the depths below the house. Every time it swelled, it would lend the torch-flame a new vigour. The torch, fed by this uprising, flared high, and probed even the height of the dome. The cedar-wood beam from which hung the chandelier stood thick and imposing from one round wall to the other. Higher up, and faintly, could be seen an encircling balcony, hemmed by broken and decaying rails.
   The torch, when dancing higher in the draft, also opened the far side of the room, otherwise swathed in shadow. Set in the curved wall was a handle. It was painted black, but the brass knob showed through in places, and attracted the glimmer of the torch.
   The handle governed a door, curved also, like the wall, and also of sandstone. Beyond the door was a twisted hallway. It was lighted at intervals by torches, dimmer than the one that lit the rotunda. They gave no warmth to the walls, but rather made them the more chill by their contrast; and their light merely cast a pall over the stone. They perfumed the air with the scent of pine-pitch and oil, and underlaid it with the burning oakum used as wicking.
   At the end of the serpentine hall was a stair leading up. It was of the spiral sort, and was dotted with torches intended to illumine it. They were out. They were out, or they were never lit, for they were as cold as the dark stone walls. A trickle of water made a path down one wall, sparkling in the near-darkness with the dim light from below, and giving the feeling that, as it went up, the staircase plunged deeper underground and below the foundations of the house.
   Perched atop the ultimate step was a door, oak, and strapped with iron. Surprisingly, it pushed opened easily.
   Through the door was a room filled with pillars and replete with mirrors of silver, polished, but blackening. Scattered among the pillars were brass lampstands. Each stand held a tall taper with a dancing orange flame crowning it. These lights were reflected even from the ceiling, and from the round pillars, and, dancing still, filled the room. It was like being in a starry night, rather than merely observing one, as polished plates all around the room made the few lights legion.
   Between two pillars could be seen, by a light infinitely dimmer, broken and decaying rails. They marched about the edge of a balcony edging the vast divide. Out of the field of stars, and between the guardian pillars, was the balcony. Around the balcony, across the gulf which contained the mouse, was a room, small, and lit only from below and across the vast chasm.
   Within the room was a man everlastingly old. He lay on a crude wooden cot, with no pillow, blanket, or bed. He rose quickly and greeted me.
   "Good, good, my boy. Just follow me, now. I'll only take a minute."
   He stepped out of his room and onto the balcony, rounding that great, dim, well. Its timbres creaked beneath him in a way I had not noticed before. He entered the Hall of Pillars and proceeded to extinguish each flame, cupping his soot-blackened hand behind it, protectively, and destroying it with a dry, rustling puff from his pursed lips. Soon every star was dead, and I had to follow him by ear. When he reached the stairwell, he made a dismayed cluck.
   "Dreadful, dreadful. Leaving doors open, dreadful thing," he muttered.
   I followed him down the winding stone decline, and into the twisting hallway. As he came to each torch, he laboriously snuffed it with a large brass bell produced from his immense robe. We reached the door at the end of the winding corridor, and he pushed it open.
   The mouse was still feasting on the chandelier's tallow. The old man stepped into the rotunda, and walked across the rug to the valiently leaping torch. He looked at it a moment, then placed its life, too, within his brass bell. At last, there was complete darkness.
   "Don't know what the fuss is about light anyhow," he said. "Beastly substance, light."
   He pattered back across the room to the door, and stepped into the hall. Just before he closed the door, he said, "Dreadful, dreadful. Don't know what use light is to anyone, anyhow."
   He closed the door, and the only sound heard was the mouse. Frightened by the fallen darkness, it tried to find again the crossbar and chain. First one foot slipped, then another, and then the mouse obeyed the summons of the sun-moon. There was silence.

This piece is featured at Mosaic Musings.

Story: "Those Eyes"

2004-07-29T20:09:00.000-07:00

   Alone on the deep mahogany paneling hangs a small, plain frame of polished oak. Enclosed within those straight walls is a maiden with eyes which hold more than innocence. Eyes which seem to know you from beyond the simple confines of paint and canvas.
   Within your soul, you know that there is more than naivéte — those eyes know so much because they have seen the world, and remained unsullied. No lie could be told to this girl, or she would know it before it were half uttered. One moment's glance stretches on, and becomes a full appreciation and insatiable desire. Suddently you know you can never be happy without her.
   A knothole in the side of the frame draws attention to the perfection it is called upon to contain and protect. The strain of its duty shows upon its careworn grain. For true perfection — and not mere unspoiledness — needs no protection from imperfection; rather, the imperfect must be protected from the ravagings of perfection.
   Somewhere far, a key rattld in a snow-frozen lock. Finally, the door was pulled and pushed open. Presently a tweed-decked man with a black-green beret carried his empty goblet into the hall, traces of red still clinging in its bottom. He examined the portrait, as though seeing it for the first time: the unblemished face, the smooth canvas — those eyes!
   A sound of breaking glass. Two tears appear in this vision of happy loveliness, with no trace of flesh beneath. A small chip the clour of the bloom on a young girl's cheek falls to the sea wich is an interwoven world shown within the carpet.
   "Those eyes! Those eyes!" the old man shrieks, reduced to a simpering indignity on whom the esquire's tweed was no more graceful than a beggar's rags.

This piece is featured on Mosaic Musings

Story: "Death and the Hermitage"

2004-07-29T20:07:00.000-07:00

   I hated him. His very presence was offensive to me, so when I knew Death would come for him, I did not tell him.
   Ask me not how I knew, for it seemed as in a dream; I knew, but had no recollection of discovering. It was as though I had always known. I was expecting it, and could hardly keep calm while I talked with him, and called him "brother."
   Every word the sallow face spoke, every bob of the white-wooled head, brought with it a joy of knowing I would soon never have to see that head or hear that cringing voice again.
   At mealtime, in the Great Hall, I kept watching him — sharp-eyed as a child — watching for the faintest sigh of poison or of illness. He laughed and joked with the rest, and sat soberly as stone when the Master entered; and in all, survived.
   My secret knowledge was nearly driving me mad, by now; for I knew beyond a shadow of suspicion that he ought to have been dead, now day was so far spent. I wandered the corridors of the hermitage until late in the night, my candle the only gleam or sign of vigil. Then, as I rounded a corner, I saw a huge, black-robed figure duck into a doorway. The cowl was empty, and the whole robe was filled with nought but shadow. There was a silver gleam I knew to be a sickle-blade at his side.
   His chamber was fatefully two doors from where I stood frozen. I turned toward it, and then glanced back over my shoulder. Near Death's chamber stood now a grotesque of a bull: huge, tawny-black, head lowered before disproportionately immense shoulders. It looked at me with a gaze so terrible and expectant that I turned away.
   "Brother, brother!" I called, pounding his oaken door.
   "Brother!" again.
   The door opened, and, suddenly speechless, I realized I was about to kill this man I called "brother;" the man I slyly named "friend." Somehow, hoarse-voiced, nearly dumb, I directed him to the chamber down the hall. He could not see the Death-bull. Somehow, I knew before I ever roused him that only I could see it. As he entered the room, the bull snorted once, stomped a hoof, and followed him inside.
   I heard a shuffle, a cut-off cry, and then silence. Cautiously, I walked to the door, and entered.
   There, lying gored on the stone before me, lay this man, the man I most despised. His blood flowed gently, freely from his chest, and I watched it. I was now the only one left to despise; I was the hateful.
   Now consumed with sorrow, I looked up, and was filled instead with terror. I backed up, trying to leave by the door; but there was no longer a door. In fright, I spun around, but faced only a wall.
   Sobbing, I sunk down. I heard a snort, and the stomping of a hoof. Looking back, I saw the bull trotting slowly toward me.

This piece is featured on Mosaic Musings

Photo: The Cross

2004-07-29T18:57:00.000-07:00

This is a crucifix from the Paulist Center, actually a Catholic organization in Boston. It's refreshing to see a victorious Christ rather than the usual dead Christ which is usually on a Catholic crucifix. The Holy Spirit emblem is intriguing as well. Someday I will write from this picture . . .

Cross
Originally uploaded by CelticWander.

Link: parasols: a notebook

2004-07-29T07:29:00.000-07:00

parasols: a notebook

This is one of the truly good weblogs. I don't know what to say, other than she is a fantastic writer, whatever she turns her pen to. Check out the laylock homepage as well. Just read. I can't do it justice. Crosspost: Scraps and Random Quill

Music: On Pied Pipers

2004-07-28T15:30:00.000-07:00

   Music has a strange power, there is no doubt. A pied piper is not so far off from reality, I think. I am listening to a Celtic song called "Seacht". I don't know where it gets its strange power, but I find it permeating my mind. It is a physical presence in the air around me, exerting a strong, steady, and pleasant pressure on my head.
   Music has an odd way about it. I was getting ready for church, and sat down to listen to the song. It has me transfixed. It is so relaxing, I can feel my mind letting go of stresses and cares. I don't know how it is working, or why. I don't even understand the Gaelic, so I have no idea what the song is about. ("Seacht" is too common a Gaelic word to find the lyrics of the song online.)
   And the moment is gone. I spoke and was spoken to, and I am released from the spell. Such a strange magic . . . I will definitely listen to this song again.

Crosspost: Scraps and The Random Quill