Yes, I've been crazy busy and having trouble finding time for posting. I did find time to finally read two contemporary vampire classics that I'd been planning on for this Halloween: 'Salem's Lot and Anno Dracula. The former hit my horror button harder and the latter hit my Victoriana fanboy button harder, but I enjoyed and recommend both if you haven't gotten around to them. I am Legend will just have to wait for some other year. What did you sink your teeth into this year, my blood-thirsty ramblers?
1And the LORD spake unto Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt saying, 2“This month shall be unto you the beginning of months: it shall be the first month of the year to you. 3Speak ye unto all the congregation of Israel, saying, ‘In the tenth day of this month they shall take to them every man a lamb, according to the house of their fathers, a lamb for an house: 4And if the household be too little for the lamb, let him and his neighbour next unto his house take it according to the number of the souls; every man according to his eating shall make your count for the lamb. 5Your lamb shall be without blemish, a male of the first year: ye shall take it out from the sheep, or from the goats: 6And ye shall keep it up until the fourteenth day of the same month: and the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel shall kill it in the evening. 7And they shall take of the blood, and strike it on the two side posts and on the upper door post of the houses, wherein they shall eat it. 8And they shall eat the flesh in that night, roast with fire, and unleavened bread; and with bitter herbs they shall eat it. 9Eat not of it raw, nor sodden at all with water, but roast with fire; his head with his legs, and with the purtenance thereof. 10And ye shall let nothing of it remain until the morning; and that which remaineth of it until the morning ye shall burn with fire. 11And thus shall ye eat it; with your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and ye shall eat it in haste: it is the LORD's passover. 12For I will pass through the land of Egypt this night, and will smite all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and beast; and against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment: I am the LORD. 13And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are: and when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and the plague shall not be upon you to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt. 14And this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the LORD throughout your generations; ye shall keep it a feast by an ordinance for ever.’”
"Remember, O man, that thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return."
One of the greatest facts of human existence is mortality. Our mortal nature touches our yearning and our dreaming; our loving and hating, our creating and praying. Nothing human completely escapes the cold clay. Any mythopoesis that does not come, as far as it must within the limits of its art, to grips with the finite end of humanity is so far incomplete, imperfect, just as is any life that does not come to grips with it. This Ash Wednesday, I wish you nothing that I do not wish for myself. Death. And life.
ASH WEDNESDAY by T. S. Eliot (1930)
I
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?
Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.
II
Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying
Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.
Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.
III
At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.
At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.
At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.
Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.
IV
Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs
Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos
Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing
White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.
The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word
But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken
Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew
And after this our exile
V
If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice
Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.
O my people.
VI
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn
Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings
And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth
This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.
Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated
And let my cry come unto Thee.
The Presentation of Christ at the Temple by Hans Holbein the Elder
I got a kick out of Sword & Dorkery's post today, as if there were a group of hardcore liturgical campaigners for the Feast of the Presentation of our Lord Jesus Christ in the Temple, AKA The Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary AKA The Meeting of our Lord with the Prophets Simeon and Anna or CANDLEMAS out there to put down that blasted meteorological rodent once and for all! Man, if there were, that'd be the culture war for me to join! I hope we'd use spiked thuribles and aspergiliums: Take that, you buck-toothed varmits! WHACK!
On a personal note, this has been one of those days in my life were big things have happened coincidentally over the years: both tragic and joyful, so it remains a particular observance for me and for Mrs. Obscure. A Clerk in Oxford has had several recent blog posts that I recommend to increase your medieval knowledge or to simply enjoy the beauties of the day.
A Carol for New Year's Day Traditional English. Sung to the tune of "Greensleeves" since at least 1642.
1. The old yeare now away is fled,
The new year it is entered;
Then let us all our sins downe tread,
And joyfully all appeare.
Let's merry be this holy day,
And let us run with sport and play,
Hangsorrow, let's cast care away
God send us a merry new yeare!
2. For Christ's circumcision this day we keep,
Who for our sins did often weep;
His hands and feet were wounded deep,
And his blessed side, with a spear.
His head they crowned then with thorn,
And at him they did laugh and scorn,
Who for to save our souls was born;
God send us a happy New Year!
3. And now with New-Year's gifts each friend
Unto each other they do send;
God grant we may our lives amend,
And that truth may now appear.
Now like the snake cast off your skin
Of evil thoughts and wicked sin,
And to amend this new year begin:
God send us a merry new year!
4. And now let all the company
In friendly manner all agree,
For we are here welcome all may see
Unto this jolly good cheere.
I thanke my master and my dame,
The which are founders of the same,
To eat and drinke now is no shame:
God send us a happy new year!
5. Come lads and lasses every one,
Jack, Tom, Dick, Bess, Mary and Joan,
Let's cut the meat unto the bone,
For welcome you need not fear.
And here for good liquor you shall not lack,
It will whet my brains and strengthen my back;
This jolly good cheer it must go to wrack:
God send us a happy new year!
6. Come, give's more liquor when I do call,
I'll drink to each one in this hall,
I hope that so loud I must not bawl,
So unto me lend an ear.
Good fortune to my master send,
And to our dame which is our friend,
Lord bless us all, and so I end:
God send us a happy new year!
I have said it before. Undoubtedly, I will say it again: Tolkien's On Fairy Stories should be required reading on more than one reading list, but it should be at the top of the list for mythopoets. If you are not familiar with his theory of eucatastrophe, then I highly recommend getting hold of the lecture in some form and digesting it thoroughly (and for greater reasons that that this blogpost will assume a familiarity with it). In his epilogue, he included a statement on the faith that underlay all his work. For in the end, eucatastrope was both the spring of his creativity and his thought, and also the deep hope of his life.
I would venture to say that approaching the Christian Story from this direction, it has long been my feeling (a joyous feeling) that God redeemed the corrupt making-creatures, men, in a way fitting to this aspect, as to others, of their strange nature. The Gospels contain a fairy-story, or a story of a larger kind which embraces the essence of fairy-stories. They contain many marvels--peculiarly artistic, beautiful, and moving: "mythical" in their perfect, self-contained significance; and among the marvels is the greatest and most complete conceivable eucatastrophe. But this story has entered History and the primary world; the desire and aspiration of sub-creation has been raised to the fulfillment of Creation. The Birth of Christ is the eucatastrophe of the Man's history. The Resurrection is the eucatastrophe of the story of the Incarnation. This story begins and ends in joy. It has pre-eminently the "inner consistency of reality." There is no tale ever told that men would rather find was true, and none which so many sceptical men have accepted as true on its own merits. For the Art of it has the supremely convincing tone of Primary Art, that is, of Creation. To reject it leads either to sadness of wrath.
When I consider the general notions of what Christianity is about that are popular currency in the world today, and especially in America with which I am most familiar, whether those notions are entertained by Church people of various stripes or by the people who despise them, I am tempted to conclude some very unflattering things. But then I remember that, despite my supposedly informed upbringing, I held similar notions. These notions tend to center on a cluster of Sin, Faith (a rather peculiar notion of what faith is, honestly), the Death of Jesus, and the Bible. Having been raised with this cluster in a version of its popular configuration, Christianity failed to make sense to me well into my adult life, until during my second graduate degree program in the field of religion, a professor assigned a little book from the fourth century: On the Incarnation of God by Athanasius of Alexandria.
This book revolves around the axiom that God became human so that humans might become divine. The axiom is rooted in the New Testament and the key to the Nicene Creed. If, this Christmastide, you find yourself wondering why a Galilean peasant and his fellow Jewish followers so transformed the world with a story that took the Mediterranean world by storm, consuming and displacing other stories and cultuses on an empire-wide and then a global level, I am not aware of a way to be more helpful when it comes to reading material than to recommend Athanasius' On the Incarnation (that, and skipping the chapters that are diatribes against Jewish conversationalists). It is free in an old and difficult translation, and cheap in a new and easier translation. Both normatively and descriptively, I would argue that it provides in a compact volume a formulation of what the Christian mythos and ethos are all about.
Wishing you all the blessings of the season,
Theodric
Looking for something that's seasonal but flies your geek flag? Check these out. A friend of a friend knows him. Pretty cool, eh? Anyway, he's Myles Pinkney and I hear he's a good guy as well as a talented artist.
Today is the feast day of St. Nicholas (either absorb the shock that it is not the 25th or join me in the Nicholas Propaganda Force), and I wish you joy of the day! One of the most popular post-biblical saints of all time, and still as an adult, he is one of my all-time favorites. (I'll tease mystics and Jungians by mentioning that I had a big dream in which he appeared a couple of years back.) The guy has a society, a center, and a village in Finland for postal and tourist purposes. The figure of Santa Claus is perhaps the most popular individual figure subject to ongoing mythopoesis, and so I'm with C.S. Lewis here: he could show up in a piece of fiction or game in your future. Did I say could? Should.
For those outside the U.S.A., this Thursday is our Thanksgiving holiday. Though I will feast upon turkey and other traditional fare this day, I am especially giving thanks for you, my readers. For all of you who have commented, followed, referred, linked, or otherwise encouraged, inspired, or informed me: Thank you. May you share in the plenty.
Barbara Allen Kneeling in Sorrow by Edwin Austin Abbey
A happy Martinmas to you all. That is, today is SaintMartin of Tours' feast day. This day always brings to mind a traditional Scottish ballad I learned in high school (text below courtesy of the useful Bartleby.com.)
Of course, there are different versions of the ballad, with different lovers in different times of the year, such as in this video. (And it inspired even more, such as this song by Johnny Cash, with blog-relevant lyrics!)
I'll close today with the first picture I ever saw of Martin of Tours. (Thanks, Mrs. Lewis and the DMA!) In this depiction, one can easily imagine him as lover before he became a churchman.
Remember, remember, the fifth of November: The gunpowder, treason, and plot.
I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Who all our there uses political coups (failed or successful) and conspiracy theories (true or false) in their story lines? I've found them to be a great element in games and stories, bringing with them tension, suspense, and getting caught up in events and powers beyond one's control. They also provide one with an opportunity to identify with causes or reflect on the problematic of political causes.
¡Feliz Día de los Muertos! This is the kind of holiday (All Souls Day in other cultures) that seems to those who are outsiders to Mexican culture to be a strange combination of the festive and the morbid. If it wasn't real and you made it up, some people would not find it believable, I am sure. If you are not familiar with the holiday and its imagery, do an image search or check out this site. (Of course, you can get your discursive fix over on Wikipedia.) Mythopoets should not be afraid to take inspiration from real life to develop the holidays appropriate to the cultuses of various religions, and some should be sufficiently over-the-top to stand out while fitting the figures or themes under consideration.
The Day of the Dead reminds me of my favorite scene in M. A. R. Barker's The Man of Gold. Below are two pages from that scene to put you in a morbid mood. If you haven't read or don't own a copy of this first Tékumel book, and this scene doesn't convince you to fix that, nothing will! In the scene, the protagonist is taken to the temple of the god of the dead to behold the liturgy of his worshipers.
Did Crystal Frazier make the mask kit? She did make this self-portrait.
Heh, heh: Paizo is giving away an Andrew Hou goblin mask. Download it, print it, assemble it, and put it on. You can wear it while trick-or-treating tonight or just stay home and wear it while reading my latest Lolth postthat Blogger refuses to feed. Happy Halloween, you candy-grubbing little pyromaniacs.
Kelly O'Donnell, my college DM, wrote a short piece on one of the recurring villains of our campaign for his creative writing class. I loved the piece then, and I still do. After being lost for many years, he happily uncovered the only known surviving copy recently. With some minor revisions, he has agreed to allow it to appear here as one of the blog's special Halloween treats. Thanks, Kelly!
There's only a week left until Halloween. If you're going to celebrate the holiday right, it's time to get things together. If you've been putting preparation off, it's time to get busy!
Announcements
I've got a couple of special features coming up on the blog to celebrate the season, so be sure and check back through the next week for their arrival.
More Getting Ready
In a perfect world, I would carve some jack-o-lanterns, get a new costume, go to at least one adult Halloween party, and a Halloween game session. All of these look unlikely this year...again. Oh the joys of underemployment (adjunct faculty = legal slavery). I will probably end up just accompanying a couple of nephews on their trick-or-treat round, which is nice, but leaves me a feeling a little bit like someone who has prepared a month for an anti-climactic ending. Enough moaning.
I'm still working my way through my published reading list, and will be adding some updates about it, but in the midst of complaining about American Horror Story, my colleagues have insisted that I watch The Walking Dead. Zombies (hungry zombies? lesser ghouls?) are not my favorite monster, but I watched the first episode since the full-time faculty told me not to show up at lunch today if I failed to do so. Man, it is grim and gross. Especially gross. And while it's not my favorite of the genre, they definitely have some of the methods of good horror story-telling down: not revealing too much at the beginning, withholding information, building tension, and so forth. While they do end up showing lots of zombies, that is a rule that it would seem especially hard to adhere to in the zombie movie, which depends in its most essential nature on fear of the crowd. Based on the first episode (and the confidence of its fans), this looks like it has a better chance than AHS.
I have finished the second novel in my October Reading List, Avram Davidson and Grania Davis' Marco Polo and the Sleeping Beauty, thus endingthe Asian half of the month. I quite enjoyed it, although it didn't make a very good choice for a Halloween reading list. Still, it allowed me to put the two Mongol novels I had together. It has a good deal of elements both from fairy tales and from Oriental mythology that I enjoyed. The basic set-up nothing is tried and true, and nothing you haven't heard before: Your lord has acquired an ancient map with mysterious clues, and it is your job to lead a company to find the X it leads to. But this is one of those novels where it is not so much that the heroes accomplish anything, but more so that things happen. The unlikely heroes are driven along by even more unlikely events.
The real question: how did Baen's Neal McPheeters get Charles Bronson to pose for Kublai Khan!?
By the way, does anyone know what it is going on with Troll in the Corner? I have been trying to access the site, but I keep getting some kind of error.
Another Halloween Recommendation
Readers will know that I have been doing things to get myself in the Halloween mood this month. (See in particular my posts on my Halloween reading list.) But here is another recommendation for getting your spook on: Amy Sturgis' blog, Redecorating Middle-Earth in Early Lovecraft has been peeking out at you from my Linkography (at right) for almost the entire existence of my blog. If you have never noticed it and given it a click, this is the month to do so. Every day, she is doing a countdown to Halloween with a suitable subject, links, and literary excerpt.
By the way, today is the birthday of my college DM, creator of the longest running campaign I have ever had the pleasure to be a part of. Happy Birthday, KA! Here's to a long life of friendship and creativity!
Triple Threat Tomeful Tuesday Triumph touted by Theodric the Alliterator!
MINOR SPOILERS BELOW
Yes, forgive me, I got carried away. This is just a note that the first book of the October read is complete, all 467 pages of Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's 1981 novel of her recurring character, Count St. Germain. The cover art and back blurb lead the reader to believe that the whole thing is set in China during the time of Jenghis (her preferred spelling) Khan's invasions. Not even half the book is, which came as something of a shock. St. Germain flees China as it is crushed under the Mongol's boot. His flight through western China and Tibet takes up a good chunk of the book, and then the final section of the book is set in Northern India, in a small Hindu Raj under the Delhi Sultanate. If you have not gotten your fill of Thuggee from Gygax's Death in Delhi or from Spielberg's Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, you would not have know it, but Path of the Eclipse has you covered.
In spite of the curve-ball, I enjoyed the book. Vampire lore probably doesn't have any new twists that can be put on it at this point, though I imagine that back in 1981, Yarbro's attempts to put twists on it still seemed pretty fresh -- not as fresh as it would have before 1973, but still before the endless baroque alternatives we have been presented which at this point made freshness impossible. Maybe my definition of Horror needs its boundaries re-surveyed, but it is hard for me to think of this as Horror. I'd call it, Dark Historical Fantasy. I don't plan on keeping it in my library (which is bursting at the seams), but I don't think I'd mind picking up a further St. Germain novel to read in the future.
Fanart of Jake Wyatt after Craig Thompson. See link below.
Read the NPR fantasy/sci-fi top 100 and its accompanying flowchart? Didn't find anything new or arresting therein to whet your fiction appetite? Take a look at Bud Webster's response over on Black Gate for some suggestions. For that matter, am I actually directing people to Black Gate? Their blog is a must-read by my lights for anyone interested in the subjects of this blog, and I hope to reward all their great work by subscribing one of these days to the magazine. If by any chance there is anyone that doesn't check Black Gate's site regularly, I encourage you to do so. Theirs is one of the sites that I can count on to regularly feed the mythopoet within. (Yeah, I know, he's not that far down. But still.)
The Siren's Call recommends some spooky and fantastical circus stories.
The New York Times reviews a book on the other Michelangelo -- Caravaggio. A dark and fascinating character in every sense of the word, dark. And yet, brilliancy broke through here and there, even in the darkness of his art. Not only of interest in and of himself, he'd also make a great inspiration for a mystery story or for a particularly gritty character.
If you are still looking to stock up on reading for Halloween, I recommend taking a look at this Top Gothic Books list. Rarely do I see any contemporary pieces of so-called horror fiction that I think hold a candle to the gothic classics.
If you are looking for something in the graphic novel department, Craig Thompson's Habibi promises to be a visually striking tale of suffering and love that capitalizes on the beauties of Islamic art. I've never heard of the author/artist before, but his website sure makes the book look enticing. As always, I'd love to hear from you any feedback or additional recommendations. Happy reading!
