I Hate to Repeat Myself

A friend of mine and I swapped a sentence each to make a story out of said sentence. He gave me "Molly and the Caterer." Take a few liberties with conjunctions and whatnot, this was the result:


There comes an hour when every man, every woman, every child and every dog must make an important decision. A great crossroads lies before them, a diverging of paths, a separation of ways. All their future prospects hang on this single moment. Some choose wisely and are met with success. Others choose more poorly and everything that follows thereafter is a disaster spiraling into a decent of unmitigated failure. Such a choice was now before Edmund Dotteridge. There it lay on the counter. Steak or Mince? True, Steak was nicer, but undoubtedly it would be mainly gravy with the few gaps filled in with one or two shavings of meat. Mince, on the other hand, might be fairly solidly filled with good meat, but who knew where the meat had come from, or what it was? And they always tried to sneak bits of veggies in: peas, carrots, corn, that sort of thing. It was a hard call. He chose poorly. Another thing about mince pies is the small white fragments of something that defies description that one occasionally finds in ones’ mouthful of pastry and butchered animal (presumably cow). Is it paper? Or plastic? Or the digestive tract of the animal? In the present case under the rigours of our examination, it was definitely paper. It was the first of the consequences of a bad choice, the first step in that downward spiral. As Edmund pulled it from his mouth, this truth began to dawn on him. But the second step was about to reveal itself. Something about the fragment caught his eye. He unscrunched it and saw written there in bold capital letters one word; one word of fate.

MOLLY

One word messages are always the most enigmatic, I find. Though I’ve never found one in my pie, I believe that distinction belongs to Edmund alone. Another thing that I’ve never found in my pie is that golf ball of fat I’m repeatedly told is in each and every one. However, I stray from my topic. Not unsurprisingly, Edmund was perturbed. “Eh, what?” quoth he. A feeling of cold nausea swept over him, like the time I found a fly peaceably doing the backstroke in my coffee.
“Egad!”
He rose from his seat with the wrath of a man denied his full sustenance, muttering complains under his breath. This wouldn’t do. A chap doesn’t unearth what might be considered by some as practically a novel from among the ingredients of his midday meal and just let the thing drop. Some one was about to get an earful. As I say, he rose and, carefully selecting the strongest words of reproof from his mental store, strode off in the direction of the bakery whence came his pie. But he had hardly gone two paces when fate, if you go in for that sort of thing, once more intervened. His gaze was cast heavenward, as if to seek inspiration from the clouds (cumulonimbus) for a more grilling turn of phrase with which to finish off his coming assault on the bakery, when his eye was arrested by a sight which made his jaw sag open an inch or two, his feet to falter, his breath to come in short, rapid gasps. In brief, his whole body was stricken with sudden paralysis. There had been a building going up in the area lately, no one really knew what it was for or who owned it, but there it was; and it was to this structure that Edmund now turned his face. It had finally been completed, and was having its signage painted. Across the front of the building was blazoned in bright, cheerful letters one word:

MOLLY

With the sudden perception of a sleuth, Edmund knew that this building was his destination, and not the bakery. What was the bakery, when there were buildings declaring their mollishness to the world? The bakery, one might say, was a mere footling waste of time Uttering a triumphant “Aha, aha,” Edmund changed tack, and hove off in the direction of said building. Five blocks away, he reckoned the building to be, seemingly so very close, yet that small distance was only to be crossed at his diremost, if that is even a word, peril. But such men, filled with the indomitable fire of adventure, mock at peril. A man I once knew told me a story of how he was eating a quiche, and enjoying it too, when he found within a message that filled him with fear. Along with detailed instructions, the message came with a nail file, a flashlight, a small crowbar and a tube of Colgate toothpaste. But upon setting out, my friend had come to the first busy road that came between him and his goal, and, observing the velocity at which the cars travelled and calculating the comparative speed at which he would need to weave between their fenders, his nerve failed, fear took him, and he collapsed in a blubbering heap on the footpath. Such is the fate of chaps who think they can get by on quiche. And to my knowledge, his beloved Molly is still locked in the tower from where she sent out a secret plea for help and rescue. But Edmund experienced no such weakening of the spine as he encountered a similar such road. With nimbleness that any given deer leaping about in the hills could have picked up hints from, he bounded across the street, scattering cars left and right. It was not until he had won across to the far side did an icy hand of fear grip his heart, a sensation somewhat like brain freeze, only not quite, as it deals with quite a different organ. A stray car careened toward him, swerved at the very last moment, narrowly missed a passing lamppost, and ended its wild dash in the river. It was not the close encounter with old man death that had Edmund thoroughly shaken, but what he had seen before the vehicle had plunged off the road and disappeared into the depths, its moistened driver swimming ashore with a lingering look in his eye that bespoke evil thought. As it had ripped past, Edmund had caught in the blur a word painted on the side of the car. Only one word.

MOLLY

He shook. He quailed. He dash well near fainted on the spot. But it was not quiche that feed this man, no, it was pie that filled his stomach, lubricating his mind and sinews. Edmund turned in the direction of the building, and raising his fist and shaking it with vigour, he cried out with all the fiery passion mustered in his soul: “Curse thee, O thou lady of despair! Verily, I say, even though the quest lead to my death, I shall pursue thee and uncover the secrets of thy mind!” Having lightened his soul, Edmund proceeded on his way, more wary now, and wiser. Determination was in his every step, and the blocks fell away. Four blocks to go. Three. Two. The building now took up nearly all the skyline, its many eyed windows frowning out across the city, its brazen signage still bellowing forth its monodeclarive – and that I know not to be a word – message. There are people whom I have met who would consider being only two blocks away from their destination as being as good as having arrived. “Two blocks?” they’d say, “Tchah! Nothing to it.” But this is not the soundest of philosophies. A veritable menagerie of things might happen to a person between here and there, no matter how close there may be. They might fall into a sudden hole. They might be mugged by a cucumber wielding bandit. They might be chased by a savage dog. The government might suddenly declare themselves a dictatorship; oil might be discovered in your backyard; you might be followed by an agent of a secret organization even as you read this; a member of the press might pounce on you from behind an unassuming billboard and demand an opinion on current events, and so immortalize your statement forevermore, but the appearance of your name and photo in the paper would let your enemies you have been avoiding for ten years know your whereabouts – a bittersweet situation. What I’m driving at is this: never assume the unassumable. And while we’re at it, don’t jump to conclusions. But I never intended to come over all moralistic. Here was Edmund, the light of fierce resolve burning bright in his eyes, his goal less distant than it had ever been, but did he assume safety? Did he allow his to shoulders sag and his feet to scuff, careless of his surroundings? Did he so soon forget his lesson at the road? Well, yes, I’m sorry to say he did. And that explains why he never saw the two men following him until they were nearly upon him. Now generally speaking, there is nothing unusually alarming about two men on the footpath behind you, unless they are policemen and you have recently committed a miscellaneous felony of one kind or another, which I trust you haven’t, or if the men are both wearing snazzy business jackets with one word embroidered on the left side of each.

MOLLY

Forgive me if I am becoming a shade repetitive, but as a matter of integrity I am bound to relate events exactly as they happened, I can’t just knock about fabricating a purely imaginary narrative. It must be the truth or nothing. Suffice to say, Edmund ran. Like the dickens.
“Ho!” cried one snazzy jacket.
“Hoi!” roared the other.
It has been observed by a certain humorous author that words such as “Ho” and “Hoi” are never really very easy to find a reply to, not that Edmund worried over much about making conversation. With the pair of snazzy jackets on his heels, he covered the remaining two blocks at a pace that would have left any selected cheetah standing. The building stood before him, its doors yawning wide. Edmund halted the doubt of fear bearing down upon him – dare he enter in? But as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the snazzy jackets were also bearing down on him. He plunged through the doors, and took his fate into his hands. There were plush carpets, mahogany wall panels, and rows of pictures on the wall of long gone executives dating, by the looks of them, from the mid 1700’s. A deep, imposing stair-case disappeared into the darkness of the floors above, and semi-clad works of art clustered around the foyer. Not that Edmund had the time then to notice any of these things, as he was too preoccupied in the task of disengaging himself from the broad waistcoat belonging the gentleman who had rudely obstructed his flight. For a moment neither person spoke a word, both having had the breath knocked soundly from them.
“Here, what’s all this?” exclaimed Broad Waistcoat, as Edmund’s two pursuers burst through the door.
“My pie! Paper,” gasped Edmund.
“What? Speak sense man!”
Edmund hastened to collect himself. He drew himself up, and eyed Broad Waistcoat with a frosty glare. “Paper! My pie.” He said, and he meant it to sting.
Turning to the Snazzy Jackets who stood panting at the door, Broad Waistcoat raised his eyebrows in cold inquiry. “I don’t suppose either of you two goons would care to shed some light on this lunatic’s drivel?” he said.
“Sorry boss,” stuttered one.
“We never meant…” stammered the other. “But we think he’s the One.”
“You think he’s the One? He’s the One, is he? And that being so, you have chased him the length and breadth of the city?” snapped Broad Waistcoat
“Well, I wouldn’t have exactly said the whole…”
“That’s enough!” Broad Waistcoat growled, “It remains that you did chase him.”
“Yes boss.”
“Is this how we treat our customers?”
“No boss”
At this point Edmund had sufficiently recovered. “Here, I say,” he said. But his comment earned no reply.
“The customer is king!”
“Yes boss.”
“And would you hound a king down dark alleyways and dim backstreets?”
“No boss. Sorry boss. But we thought.”
“I don’t suppose…” interrupted Edmund.
“No buts!”
“Yes boss, but...”
“Ahem!”
“Could I please get something cleared up?” said Edmund.
“Right then, be off with you,” said Broad Waistcoat.
“I do beg your pardon?” said Edmund, with a touch of offended incredulity.
“Oh, terribly sorry, I didn’t mean you,” said Broad Waistcoat, coming over all politeness, and laying on the honeyed tongue. “I meant these two goats here. You must forgive them; they’re just a touch exuberant in their methods, what with you being the One, and all.”
“Ah, yes, I was hoping you’d get back to that,” said Edmund, “What exactly is this One you keep mentioning, if you don’t think it too rude in my asking?”
“Why, you’re it.”
“Ah yes? But I mean what I am I then?”
“My dear old horse, you, and I know it would make your mother proud, are our very first customer.”
“Oh? Yes? I think you must have crossed the wires somewhere, you see I came here because there was paper in my pie.”
“Yes?” Broad Waistcoat said, as thought this were no extraordinary thing, an everyday occurrence.
This stumped Edmund a bit. “Don’t you find that a tad bit disturbing?” he said, flapping his arms about for emphasis.
“Should I?” asked Broad Waistcoat.
“Well, yes, dash it all. It’s disgusting”
“Ah, but you came,” said Broad Waistcoat with a knowing smile, like a father who smiles upon the innocence of his child.
“Eh? I'm afaid I don't exactly follow.”
“My dear, valued customer, it was an advertisement.”
“What!”
“Yes, we put our name where people are sure to find it, and require our services.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Well, your first pie was spoiled, so you came here to find another, more superior pie, or any other dainty you may desire, for you and your family and every special event.”
“Good grief! What on earth are you on about?”
“My dear chap, you are at Molly Catering Services. We cater for you. I’m Molly. Octavian Tiberius Herbert Molly. Mr. Molly. How many pies will that be?”

Mythopoeia Ankáia Part 1: Elmo Vranriman

Ere aught else was yet conceived there was Venaur, Lord of All, called Telúmono. And his thought went out thither into the Void, across the lonesome, unbounded regions of Nerethnimlo, and thence by his word sprung his beloved, the Vinyárni, his Holy Children. And they were three in number.

Foremost among them was Víor whose eyes shone bright with a holy fire, for his mind was most akin to Telúmono’s own. Second to him came Áthru, and his thought ran deep and so his brow was lined with the care of many mysteries. Last came the Lady Mára, the most fair and most dear to her brothers. Her voice went forth in the sweet music of song, and the halls of Vínyoldë which Telúmono shaped to house his children, was filled with joy at the sound.
Once more Telúmono extended his thought into the Great Barrenness; and by the word of that thought was shaped Ankáia, the Lower World, for this he hung without the Paroth Ankáia, the arched window which looked out from Vínyoldë into Nerethnimlo.
For this was the shape of Arí, the Whole Worlds: Lebtámos was first and lay beyond all else, and it was the Outermost Void and truly Nothing, final and endless, until the day when Telúmono ordains to work anew the Worlds. Within Lebtámos, and yet not a part of it, was Vinyóldë, the Hallows of Telúmono and the Halls of the Vinyárni. And Vinyóldë encircled Nerethnimlo, which for a little while was the Inner Void, until Telúmono’s works filled it with light and life. Last was Ankáia, fairest and midmost of the Worlds.
Now, Ankáia was in shape like as vast, flat disc; and Telúmono clothed the new born world in trees and grasses and raised the massy ranks of mountains and cut the trenches of the sea upon its face, and breathed the first winds to stir across the wide spaces of the land.
He placed the beasts upon the land, and filled the sea with fishes and made the birds to ride the untamed air. And he made the Ilmáran, the fays of wood and mount.
And that Nerethnimlo would be empty no more nor without light as it then was, Telúmono fashioned the Skybarks, and set burning in each a great lamp to shine on Ankáia. And every ship was given to be piloted and every lamp to be tended to single helmsman each. The Arlóserri and the Ailósti they were called, the Greater and the Lesser.
Of the Ailósti, who were the lesser, there were numbers uncounted, and though Telúmono gave to each their own name, scarce few are remembered in the histories. But of the Arlóserri there were but ten and their names are held dear by all who watched the heavens.
There was Vrános, Watchman of the Day, his very sails and hull seeming to be alight with a glorious flame, yet never burning up. His lamp was Eilion, the greatest of all lamps. And there was Quë, his gentle wife, Mistress of the Night, for her lamp shone silver only when Vrános had lowered his fiery sails and passed beyond the rim of the world.
After her came Rástmu who dared take his ship in closer than any other to Vrános his lord. And also there was Silfeínyn of the Morning, second in beauty only to the Lady Mára herself. And there was Dindíol the Red-headed with his pale blade Draiglin; and doughty Lirósto; and Kilmárë with her shining garlands hung about her; and Tastúplë and his sister Tíntwiel; and distant Ilún, the last and least Arlóserrë. Indeed, some held that he was no Arlóserrë at all, but an Ailóstë.
All these were by Telúmono’s command set in their courses across the sky. And his work was good, and it was fair, but it was yet incomplete.
For when the Vinyárni saw the beauty of Ankáia they were enamored and sang of its wonder. And they said to each other; if only they might join together with their father in his labour and each add something to his work.
This pleased Telúmono well, for it was he who had first placed the thought in their minds. Thus it was that together they gave shape to the Three Races of Ankáia, the Rilthilan; and Telúmono gave them will and intellect and kindled life beneath their unliving flesh.
But when the Vinyárni had completed their work and saw how the fathers of the Rilthilan walked in gladness in the glades and fields of Ankáia, Áthru felt suddenly ashamed. For although they shaped the Rilthilan together, each race was formed after the particular thought of one Arvánë.
Thus Nibbû, father of the Ngóstili, and his wife Krâlmim were the product of the chief of Áthru’s thought. They were a stunted, moody folk, oft quick to quarrel and swift to find fault; he fancied them harsh, unlovely and rude – ill matched with the grace of Ankaia. And he cursed his hands, that they had fashioned an ill favoured people.
In truth, they were not as he thought them – they were not ugly; yet nor were they passing fair, not as fair as were the other Rilthilan, but they were hardy, able to endure greater feats of strength than their kin. They knew best the crafts of masonry and steelwork, being able to raise soaring towers or – through a craftsmanship that they alone learned mastery – they could hollow entire mountains to be cities for their people.
Those people who were sprung form the designs of Víor were the Quendíli, and Elmo and Ulmí were the first. They were a noble, beauteous folk, with mastery of the birds and beasts of Ankáia, and able to tame them and keep them to add to their joy or to aid in their work. For this people learned the art of growing things and how to cultivate the earth as they pleased.
As for the folk of Mára, they were the Cerástili, and were most lithesome of the Rilthilan, and were oft times mistaken by the other races for Ilmáran as they danced in the woods or along the strands by the sea which they loved most. Therefore they made for themselves worthy ships to ride the heaving surf and they sailed wither they would in the world.
And to these races Telúmono gave dominion and judgment over all things with Ankáia, bounded only by the path of Quë, the closest of the Arlóserri which circled about Ankáia.

More Poetry Not of My Own Making

Once again I thought the general public needing enlightening in the region of humorous poetry. Therefore I introduce Ogden Nash, who was the poet laureate of America's light verse. Anyhow, I think he's quite incredible, and so, apparently, did a great many other people. Some of his rhyming is rather on the fantastic side, if you follow me, and that is his beauty. I cannot say which is my favourite, so I have picked one, more or less at random. I will try to find the one about Columbus, which I reckon to be a real whatever the word is.

So Does Everyone Else, Only Not So Much

O all ye exorcizers come and exorcize now, and ye clergymen draw nigh and clerge,

For I wish to be purged of an urge.

It is an irksome urge, compounded of nettles and glue,

And it is turning all my friends back into acquaintances, and all my acquaintances into people who look the other way when I heave into view.

It is an indication that my mental buttery is butterless and my mental larder lardless,

And it consists not of "Stop me if you've heard this one," but of "I know you've heard this one because I told it to you myself, but I'm going to tell it to you again regardless,"

Yes I fear I am living beyond my mental means.

When I realize that it is not only anecdotes that I reiterate but what is far worse, summaries of radio programs and descriptions of cartoons in newspapers and magazines.

I want to resist but I cannot resist recounting the bright sayings of celebrities that everybody already is familiar with every word of; I want to refrain but cannot refrain from telling the same audience on two successive evenings the same little snatches of domestic gossip about people I used to know that they have never heard of.

When I remember some titillating episode of my childhood I figure that if it's worth narrating once it's worth narrating twice, in spite of lackluster eyes and dropping jaws,

And indeed I have now worked my way backward from titillating episodes in my own childhood to titillating episodes in the childhood of my parents or even my parents-in-laws,

And what really turns my corpuscles to ice,

I carry around clippings and read them to people twice.

And I know what I am doing while I am doing it and I don't want to do it but I can't help doing it and I am just another Ancient Mariner,

And the prospects for my future social life couldn't possibly be barrener.

Did I tell you that the prospects for my future social life couldn't be barrener?

Heck, lets go for another...

The Purist
I give you now Professor Twist,
A conscientious scientist,
Trustees exclaimed, "He never bungles!"
And sent him off to distant jungles.
Camped on a tropic riverside,
One day he missed his loving bride.
She had, the guide informed him later,
Been eaten by an alligator.
Professor Twist could not but smile.
"You mean," he said, "a crocodile."

The End of the Beginning is Nigh

For those of you who care, it seems to me that I am only a few paragraphs - or even sentences- away from completing the rewrite of the first part of my Mythopoeia (one day I really should look that word up to make sure that it does mean what I think it means, I must find Tolkien's poem by that name) which will make it, I think, its fourth revision in just about as many years. I am excited about it, like no one else possibly can be, that is why I write this post. I will try to get it done tonight - that is, finish writing it. Then I have to put it together (it is on three different files on two different computers) print it out, check the names, have it proof read (thanks Mum) and then probably come up with a new concept that needs to be incorperated, and so start over again.
I warn you, it is the same story as here, only with new names, new concepts, and more words. To take one example, the cheifest, the world it no longer called Handaion, but Ankaia. That's An-keye-a (as in eye, which you have two of) not An-ka-ee-a.
I had best be getting on.....

Twelve Red Roses

I found this languishing in a forgotten folder on my computer today. Like most of my stuff, unfinished, but as I can't remember what was meant to happen next, if I ever knew, I don't think I'll get it completed. Sorry about the change in fonts, I can't seem to fix it. It complains about something or other in the Html when I try.

Someone was at the door. Expressing my frustration by means of a series of onomatopoeic exclamations, I shut my book with a resounding clap (it was a 400 page hardcover), rose from my chair and made for the door. Hastily putting on my “about-to-receive-an-unknown-guest” face, I opened the said portal to find an impatient courier upon the step.

“Sebastian Teach?” he snapped, daring me to be anyone else.

“That’s me,” I stammered.

“There’s a bouquet of flowers for you – sign here.” He thrust a technological do-hickey at me.

“A bouquet of what!”

“Flowers.”

I signed. He snatched the whatchamicallit back.

“Flowers?”

“Yes, flowers.”

Observing the conversation to have stagnated, the courier pitched a large, cellophane entombed bouquet at me, leaped into his van and roared backward down the drive. A little old lady with a walking frame shook her fist and hurled bloodcurdling oaths at him as he narrowly missed running her down.

I hurriedly shut the door before my ears were scorched off at the sound of her profane cursing and examined the unexpected garland. There were twelve red roses – blood red.

Who could they be from? A morbid thought hit me like an icy snowball of compacted fear and horror. A girl? Never! “Doesn’t the Post Office screen anything?” I suddenly found new meaning in these words of my sagacious friend Calvin.

In feverish anticipation I drew the customary card from amongst the carmine petals. Tentatively I read the flourished inscription – at least, I tried to. These flowers can't be from a girl, I mused, they might be an incomprehensible barrier to understanding at times, but never so unintelligible as this. There was one word – pistachio.

My mind reeled and staggered in a merry Bacchic dance. I was not used to such enigmatic mail. Voting papers were nothing in comparison.

Beneath this word was a series of numbers that resembled a phone number somewhat. Acting contrary to my nature, I reached for the phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Hello. It's Sebastian Teach speaking, I've just received twelve roses and your number was on the card so...”

There was a gasp on the other end and the sound of someone conversing excitedly in the background came thru the earpiece.

“Are the roses red?” they asked.

“Well, yes, but...”

“And violets are blue. We'll be there in half an hour.”

“What? I just want to know...”

But they had hung up. All I could do now was to wait.

They came in black cars, black suits, black glasses and patriotic ties – all twelve of them. I could swear they stepped from their cars and walked to the door in slow motion. The tallest addressed me.

“Morning,” he said in a voice that reminded me of an elephant seal (don't ask), “Ruben's the name – not my real one – but that's the one you'll call me by.”

He seemed a nice sort of chap. Grabbed me by the collar and chucked me in the car.

As we drove along we passed a red headed youth executing an amazing bicycle stunt over an elderly lady's car. You could tell he was well practiced. But Ruben was unmoved.

“The Boss wants you...."

A Question

The other day I received this email from Simeon:

If T and E multiplied by T = Book

And if F and A multiplied by E and D = Sent

Then what does T and O multiplied by I and C =

a, Boat

b, Poison

c, Phone

Answer plus reason please!!

When I finally figured it out I gave my answer and reason in the following manner:

H. and W. were walking down the street, avoiding puddles and deep in conversation.
"Let's review the facts of the case, my dear W." said H.
"Yes," replied W., "I confess that it all appears to me as nothing but a muddle."
"This morning at 9 o'clock the body of T. was found in the City Library with a book in one hand and a phone in the other. The librarian, Miss E., had the misfortune of finding the corpse and, she claims, the book in his hand was Boat Sense, an exceedingly dull book only of interest to aspiring boaters."
"Yes, yes, that's all clear."
"Well then, this is where you must follow me closely. The janitor, a certain Mr. T., - no relation to T. so far as I can gather - who came when he heard Miss E. scream, holds that the title of the book was The Sent of Poison. But this must surely be a mispronunciation, and he must have meant the book was The Scent of Poison by the well know novelist F. A. Boat."
"Which could account for Miss E. mistaking the title of the book," interjected W., "She would have seen the Scent and the Boat and being in a state of confusion, what with the dead body and all, jumped to conclusions and..."
"My dear W., it is you who are doing the jumping. You always are too keen to think the good of everybody. No, she did not mistake anything. You are forgetting, as you usually do, that in T.'s other hand he held a phone. And that the last number to be rung on that phone was a cellphone number belonging to an individual from the city. From this we can deduct that Miss E. was clearly covering for a unknown party, who for the sake of simplicity we will call X. Now, as you can imagine I saw this as an obvious clue. Elementary, in fact. And it has led me to suspect that Mr. E and Mrs. D of the Multiple Textual Omissions Society are not at all what they claim to be. It fact, from a faxed editorial sent to me by a friend, my suspicions were proved to be correct. From this we were quickly able to round up most of the gang. T. was already accounted for, the sad victim of the jealous rival for the hand of Miss E. O. and I. I found at the nearby cinema engaged in the dubious activity of throwing popcorn at the screen. And C. was cornered in the Rental Fiction section reading a work of more than usual atrocious sentimentality. The only one who was missing was the culprit himself, X. It was at that moment that I remembered that today was Monday, and not a public holiday at that. Therefore, with all haste I caught the tram to the quay and arrived just in time to see X's escape boat sinking into the inky depths carrying the murderer to a ghastly, but not altogether unjust, death."
"You astound me, H." cried W.
"That may be," replied H., "But we are still left with the question of the murder weapon. Was it the boat, the phone, or the glass of sherry left on the library table?"
"But I would have thought it was the book," started W.
"No, W. Why can you never see? It was the sherry. It was poisoned."

An Agony in Twenty-Nine Fits

Once again the West Coast shows itself up. One doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at this homicide of the decorum of grammar. This document is the actual information sheet our local "National Kiwi Center" hands out to visitors. I suppose they figure that as we get a lot of tourists through, they wouldn't know English that well anyway, so why bother in making it comprehensible? The numbers correspond to the exhibits in the building.

Fables for the Frivolous

These, in my humble opinion (and here is where I can voice that as much as I like), are dashed clever poems. The fellow has (some hundred years ago) reincarnated a number of Aesop's fables as poems, and as the wider public didn't know what they were missing out on, I saw fit to post one of my favourites. Thus, I present you with:

THE ICONOCLASTIC RUSTIC
AND
THE APROPOS ACORN

By Guy Wetmore Caryll

Reposing 'neath some spreading trees,
    A populistic bumpkin
  Amused himself by offering these
    Reflections on a pumpkin:
  "I would not, if the choice were mine,
  Grow things like that upon a vine,
  For how imposing it would be
  If pumpkins grew upon a tree."

  Like other populists, you'll note,
    Of views enthusiastic,
  He'd learned by heart, and said by rote
    A creed iconoclastic;
  And in his dim, uncertain sight
  Whatever wasn't must be right,
  From which it follows he had strong
  Convictions that what was, was wrong.

  As thus he sat beneath an oak
    An acorn fell abruptly
  And smote his nose: whereat he spoke
    Of acorns most corruptly.
  "Great Scott!" he cried. "The Dickens!" too,
  And other authors whom he knew,
  And having duly mentioned those,
  He expeditiously arose.

  Then, though with pain he nearly swooned,
    He bathed his organ nasal
  With arnica, and soothed the wound
    With extract of witch hazel;
  And surely we may well excuse
  The victim if he changed his views:
  "If pumpkins fell from trees like that,"
  He murmured, "Where would I be at?"

Of course it's wholly clear to you
    That when these words he uttered
  He proved conclusively he knew
    Which side his bread was buttered;
  And, if this point you have not missed,
  You'll learn to love this populist,
  The only one of all his kind
  With sense enough to change his mind.

  THE MORAL: In the early spring
  A pumpkin-tree would be a thing
  Most gratifying to us all,
  But how about the early fall?

Read more here

The Lord of the Rings in Sixty Seconds

Now this is funny

A Synoptic History Part 1

Update 4/10/08: If you have not already read this, don't bother starting now. I have very nearly rewritten it all, replacing a lot of the names. I mean to post it in smaller portions next time, in a couple of weeks, perhaps.

I've called this Part One for a reason, however the other parts to come are still rather sketchy - even in "synoptic" form. (Of the Rise of the Quendilli; Of Ereston Irchamilon; Of Ingold and Ingram; Of Adinnir Drakesbane; Of Loquendon and Oedis; etc.) You'll just have to try your luck with the names. And please don't anyone mention "The Silmarillion" - those of you who know what that is.

Of the Creation of the Lower World and the Great Enmity

First there was Venaur, called Telúmono, Lord of All; and from the word of his thought sprung his beloved, the Arváni, named his Holy Children. Of these there were three. Foremost among them was Víor, the Lord of Light; second to him came Athrú, Lord of Darkness – for in those first days ere time was yet counted, darkness was pleasing and night held no fear, for fear had not then been conceived. Last came the Lady Mará, and most dear to her brothers. And they dwelt together with Telúmono in Vinyóldë.

Erelong, Telúmono fashioned that which he called Hándaion, the Lower World, for he hung it without Vinyóldë, in the Void, and made a window looking down upon it from his throne. This world he clothed with trees and grasses and raised mountains and cut seas upon its face. He placed beasts and birds on the land and fish in the waters; and he made the soulless fays of tree and mount.

And the Void he filled with the greater and lesser Seraphs, the Arlússindi and the Ailostí. The lesser seraphs were numberless, and none have learned all their names; but of the Greater were only a few, and their names are recounted in all the histories. There was Vrános the Watchman of Day, ablaze with a great flame and chief of all the Seraphs; and there was his wife Quë, gentle Mistress of the Night. Also there was Rastmú who dared to pilot his ship closer than any other to fiery Vrános; and also bright Silfeínyn of the Morning, fairest of all; and Díndiol the Red Headed; and doughty Lirósto; and Kilmárë with her shining garlands hung about her; and Tastúplë and his sister Tíntwiel, and distant Ilún, last and least among the Arlússindi. All these were set by Telúmono in their courses across the sky. And his work was good, and it was fair, but it was yet incomplete.

For when the Arváni saw the beauty of Hándaion, they were enamored and sang of its wonder. And they said to themselves that if only they might each add something to this work. Therefore they came to their father and asked that they might join in his labour together with him.

This pleased Telúmono, for it had been his own thought that he had placed in their minds. Thus he decreed that they three should each of them shape a man and from that man would come an entire race; and under the unliving flesh of these new men, he himself would kindle life.

But when the Arváni had fulfilled their task, and saw how glad were these fathers of men as they walked in the glades of Hándaion, Athrú felt suddenly ashamed. For though the men of his brother and sister were fair and oft merry, his was short and grim and quick in temper. He fancied them to be harsh, unlovely and rude; creatures ill matched with the beauty of Hándaion. And so he cursed his hands, that they had fashioned these malformed people.

In truth, they were not as him thought them – they were not ugly, but nor were they passing fair – but they were hardy, and skilled in craftsmanship. Yet they seldom cared to fashion small, delicate things, but would fainer raise soaring towers and fine cities. They were named by Telúmono the Ngóstili, the Stalwart Folk.

Mará's people he named the Merdili, for they loved the oceans of the world and its heaving surf, and the wide northern skies, therefore they took their homes beneath the seas.

To the last race, those of Víor, Telúmono gave the name Quendili and it is with them that this history is chiefly concerned.

Now, to these three races Telúmono gave dominion and judgment over all things within the spheres of Hándaion, bounded by the path of Quë, who sailed closest of all the Seraphs to Hándaion; but this pleased Athrú illy. He loved the new world dearly – dearer than he ought, nigh covetously – and desired that he and his brother and sister should govern it as their house. But this was never in Telúmono's purpose.

Therefore Athrú thought to make himself a new world to be his home; so he took himself to the underside of the disc of Hándaion – called Úngothon, the Nether-hells – were nothing lived, save the sightless, formless shadow-fays, to whom Athrú gave their visible shapes in return for their service.

But the bodies he gave them were terrible, like those of great spiders; and like spiders, they wove gloomy meshes of web that barred-out the daylight shed by Vrános. They were the Mim-Úthrioth, bound by oath and strange love to their master.

Neither was anything else he fashioned fair, but always his designs would go astray and result in forms of dismay – dark and twisted towers, blasted trees, and poison lakes, dead cities of shriveled gardens and empty windows. But never could he imitate the gift of life that was Telumono's alone to give, though he tried unceasingly.

In the midst of Úngothon, Athrú set a great forge – Talquóro he named it, for upon it he smelted the materials from which he sought to fashion his realm. But as the fires of Talquóro grew hot and burned fierce, of a sudden they leaped forth and burned Athrú's hands as he worked there, so that they pained him always and hindered him in everything. Thus was his own curse worked out.

And so his shame and jealousy grew and he came to hate Hándaion with malice as strong as his former love, because he could not copy it. Moreover, it came upon him to employ all his cunning to secretly turn the designs of Telúmono awry, for in the defeat of the work of his hands and fruit of his mind he greatly envied the power that his Father wielded.

Now, long ere his fall into darkness and jealousy Athrú had seen the beauty of Silfeínyn, Morning Star, and had wedded her, and had had many children by her. These children were, for the most part, of the same mind as their father, ready to follow his will. One alone among his off-spring still fainly sought Telúmono's favour; Óchë he was named. But he was scorned by his brothers and sisters, and because he oft spoke against their father and would have thwarted much of his malice, they bound him in the nets of the Mim-Úthrioth, and there left him to torment.

Athrú's first move to further his ambition against Telúmono was to send out into the world of Hándaion these children under the fair seeming guise of lords and ladies bearing gifts and teaching wisdom and knowledge to the Three Races. Some he sent even into the heavens to deceive the very stars that could see the gates of Vinyóldë from the rail of their bright ships.

And to all who would harken, Athrú's children whispered discontent and spoke of freedom from the fancied constraints of Telúmono, promising a new and better power would rise in his place; and everywhere they went they won over countless thousands by these lies and the trickery taught them by their father.

Of the Three Races, the Ngóstili were ever the readiest to listen and learn from the children of he who had shaped them, for they forgot that it was not Athrú who had given them life, but Telúmono, therefore they turned aside to worship Athrú, and with them many of the Quendili were also deceived; for both these races desired autonomy.

And among the Arlússindi they won over Tíntwiel and also Ilún, who was flung the furthest out in the heavens, and who desired most to take the place of Rastmú by Vrános' side. And many of the nameless Ailostí they won also; and thus were the heavens thrown into disarray.

But among the Merdili they found no welcome, for those people of the sea were content with their lot and they saw through the lies of Athrú's messengers.

Such black treachery as Athrú's could not long remain hidden, and when the darkened mind of Tíntwiel came to be known to Tastúplë her brother, he and and Díndiol, fearing to go to Telúmono with such evil tidings, came first to Víor as he sat in Vinyóldë and told him of all that was passing in Hándaion by Athrú's design.

And at the telling of their tale, Víor waxed mighty in wrath; and he threw himself down upon Hándaion in the dreadful fury of a thousand tempests to see himself how things went. And as he came he gathered to him all the scattered Seraphs who would still heed his summons.

But even as they came Vrános set in the West of Hándaion, and as he passed beyond the Odán Echirímunt – the mountains which encircle the world – Athrú led forth his dark army in tumultuous clamour to overturn Vrános in his fire-ship and to put out his light. And thinking to usurp his place, Ilún, captain of Athrú, drew his sword and slew Rastmú as he sought to defend Vrános his lord; the first and most terrible of all deaths in Hándaion.

But this deed was beheld from afar by Víor, and he perceived in that moment all the evil his brother had wrought in the world; and he hurled himself with all his following into the battle. Thus the first of the great wars to rend Hándaion – the War of Brothers – was joined.

In that battle Úngothon was destroyed, the fires of Talquóro were quenched, and the webs of the Mim-Úthrioth were torn asunder, and Óchë the Faithful was freed from his bondage. Hándaion was riven in two and all the seas ran together into one place, severing that world into two great continents. And Athrú was utterly defeated, though in the fight he dealt Lirósto a grievous wound in his side. But he was finally taken; and bound in the same webs that had held Óchë fast, was thrust into Cûrleigon in the outer void, his prison of unyielding adamant, there to remain until the ending of the age.

And Telúmono gave this judgment also: that Athrú was banished forthwith from Vinyóldë and fated to one day lose all he sought and whatever he gained, and in the end to be finally destroyed along with all who served him. And the Ngóstili and the Quendili were cursed with mortality for choosing to follow the lies of Athrú. Yet Telúmono swore also an oath that he would not forever abandon them to their doom, but that they would one day be saved, and whosoever trusted in that oath would regain their immortality in the end. But ere that day's dawning, he turned the world over to the servants of Athrú to do with as they pleased.

At the uttering of this doom, Mará, who had alone sued Telúmono for her brother's forgiveness, cast herself in grief from the doors of Vinyóldë and ever after strayed in the skies above Hándaion, her tears shed for the lost world oft wetting those very lands below.

But to faithful Óchë was given the place of Rastmú by Vrános' side. And for a little while their was peace.

And so an age past, and a thousand years of captive malice lay dormant in Athrú's heart; and he escaped from out of Cûrleigon, even as Telúmono had foreseen. And as the gates of Vinyóldë were forever barred to him, he came to Hándaion thinking to regain his power there and once more take up his dark sceptre over all the lands. But he found things little to his liking, for although in his stead Ilún had rebuilt Úngothon and rekindled the fires of Talquóro, and many of his former servants had gathered there to await his return – or had found darksome holes and hideaways in Hándaion, safe from the wrath of Víor – Athrú found that Tíntwiel had abandoned him, and in contention had raised herself up a mountain in the midst of the great sea and had enthralled there under her power two of the kings of Hándaion and all their people with them. These kings were Nímro of the Ngóstili and Khúro of the Quendili; Thrall and Bondage; and by their hands she had fashioned herself a false paradise named Torodíor Găth, a snare to unwary mariners who ventured too near her realm. For although the land seemed fair, upon the mountain top was built a tall tower and a gold dome – a heathen temple to herself, within which was daily offered a sacrifice of mortal blood. She was the queen of sorcery and witchcraft and necromancery.

And so Athrú hated her, as he hated Telúmono and the three Races, and plotted her destruction and the destruction of all the world.

By this time many of the Ngóstili and the Quendili had lost all remembrance of his former evils, for in their mortality they had many of them become weak-minded and ignoble, and this Athrú worked to his gain.

He issued a summons to all the Ngóstili, calling them to Ilábtoron – the easternmost continent of the two in Hándaion– and claimed their fidelity by saying he was their sovereign lord and maker, and as such they were bound to serve him. As of old, many Ngóstili heeded his words and those that followed him to Ilábtoron were named the Chorochán, for he fed them upon his hate, and they became truly foul and grotesque, even as he had first thought them.

But a few still recalled the tales of his ways and refused to again listen to his lies; and so they remained in the west, in Vuintoron; and they were the Úlethoch, for they were separated from their kin.

And He set the Chorochán to work making great engines and armories as to ready them for battle against the Quendili and Úlethoch, and so destroy or enslave all the peoples of the world and cling to his mastery of Hándaion, defying even the final curse of Telúmono.

Alien: A Response

I wrote this in response to my friend's assertion here that we should not rule out the possibility of the existence of aliens.

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

No, I think we can rule out the possibility of aliens altogether. Where do they fit in with God's plan? Where is the biblical allowance for them? True, we might say that about many things - birthdays, computers, and other things the Bible doesn't mention. But if there were alien life forms, this other race of beings would have to be damned in the fall of man. They Bible says that as a result of Adam’s sin "We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of child birth right up to the present time" (Romans 8:22) God holds them accountable for our sin?

And what of their relationship to their Creator? If they were cursed by the fall of Adam, are they saved by Christ’s coming to earth as a man and dying as a man to redeem man save them also? Or must He come to Mars in the body of a Martian to bring the Martians salvation also? Of course not, “For Christ died for sins once for all” (1 Peter 3:18).

Could he have created them at a later date, or an earlier? No, “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1) And if you believe in six day creation, as I do and I know you do, Andy, here is the “beginning” of the first day. Then six days later “Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in their vast array. By the seventh day God had finished the work He had been doing; so on the seventh day He rested from all His work. And God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because he rested from all the work of creating He had done.” (Genesis 2:1-3) So if God made aliens, as I see it, He would have had to have done it in those six days, they would have to come under the curse of Adam, and Christ’s death as a man would have had to save them from God’s wrath. Does this agree with the Bible theologically? I may not have made myself very clear, but Andy, you at least know the context within which I am arguing.

Another point, isn’t the search for alien life spurred at least partly from the fear of man “being all there is”? We are corrupt, perverse, immoral, degraded. Humanity presents a grim picture to the most optimistic of people – those who are optimistic hope we’ll get better, we’ll find world peace or make poverty history. Only the completely deluded are content with humanity as it is right now.

Who would want current man to be the pinnacle of evolution? Those who search for extra-terrestrials want to find them because if man was “it”, there is no hope, for man would be the highest rational power in the universe.

But man isn’t “it”. He isn’t the highest power. If by “aliens” we mean “rational beings other than man” they do exist. But they don’t inhabit some distant planet, nor will billions of dollars find them.

The Bible speaks of angels, of demons, of Satan, and of course, of God. Man is not alone.

Just a couple of youtube videos I thought were rather neat. The first needs no introduction - Jerry Lewis & Lord of the Rings. The second is a Paul Colman song, before he became a Newsboy - back in the PC3 days - set to Lord of the Rings. Good music, good movie.

Another Reason to Revile Against the Foods Festival

Is this bumper sticker an official document? Do They mean to confirm the low opinion some people have of the citizens of the West Coast and promulgate - in the minds of those certain persons of malicious inclination - our illiteracy? Not that we're all so incompetent in that field - I hope. But, I mean, come on! If the Wildfoods Festival wasn't bad enough already...
What's the bet I committed some defamatory error or other in this denunciation, and condemned myself to endless ridicule.

John Piper is Bad

A defamatory video? Watch and find out....

Mission: Implausible

Exterminate Yous - All of Yous

Like the meaning of life and absolute truth, English speaking people are globally searching - often subconsciously - to find a Plural Third Person Pronoun. We all know there should be some solution within the reach of mortal man - it screams to be found - and in this modern era we have attempted to fill that void with misconceived and faulty answers. The most infamous of these is the repugnant word “Yous”. It has spread throughout our society, infiltrating even one of the highest and most respectable paragons of our culture: the television advertisement.

Also like meaning in life and truth, the answer can be found in that which modern man has cast aside as obsolete and antiquated. Our forebears made wide use of the Personal Pronouns “Thou” and “Ye”, but to hope that we could return to this form of language, however practical, would seem to be more than could be asked of this ever-advancing generation.

Unlike meaning and absolute truth, in language at least we can happily compromise. I suggest we take our language deftly and deliberately into our own hands, modeling a new word of reasonable respectability to fill the vacuum left by the exclusion of the more archaic Personal Pronouns and to finally exterminate that unacceptable, unrefined and undignified word. We must cast it from our linguistic presence - our great and noble society depends upon it.

The Work Camp, part 3: The Continuing Story

Part 1 / Part 2

'Here, what's this then?'

The grating voice came from behind the van. I wheeled around to find myself confronted with a swarthy, sweaty, crude-looking man who wore an oily moustache – more like Stalin's than Hitler's – and smoked a fetid smelling “roll-your-own” of dubious ingredient. He wore a colourless military cap slung at a slovenly angle and decorated with what – at first glance – looked like badges, but were in reality beer bottle caps. And not just Tui, but Speights, Heineken, Stella, Monteiths, Tasman Bitter, DB Canterbury Draught and many more.
At his side, tied to his belt by means of a cheap, third-world-country-manufactured green garden twine, was an empty Tui bottle. No, maybe the bottle wasn't empty after all. It was half-filled with what looked like bits of shredded coconut....
“It can't be!” I thought to myself. Choking back the rising nausea, I identified the bottle's contents – bitten off ends of finger nails; and perhaps even toe-nails – that large, thick sliver on the top (I could just make it out through the black glass and peeling label) looked as if it could once have belonged to a big toe. Needless to say, it didn't make things look overly hopeful in the way of constructive hobbies and pastimes in my new home. If the guards had to resort to fingernail collecting as an amusement, what did the detainees do?
Standing behind my new acquaintance, like one of the gargoyles on the old cathedrals in Europe – before they'd been destroyed – was my old friend, the Limper. An ugly leer of ugly intent decorated his ugly face.
I drew a sharp breath of consternation and frustration. “Now I'm for it,” I thought, “No chance to find Kit now.”
The new man spoke again, his voice was certainly not subject material for the romantic poets. “This won't do,” he rasped, “A male detainee walking free in the woman's camp? What's his number? Who's the dipsomaniac responsible for keeping him 'safe'?'
'Not thinking of running off were we lad?' he croaked at me. 'In these parts we don't take none too kindly to folks who go putting themselves forward. You're at Camp Kaiapoi now, and if you start any monkey business, then my name's not Superintendent Kronckendolf if I don't make it your hell. Understand? Good.'
'Hell? Dosen't he know that's a real place?' I tried to think up some suitably bitting remark, but was interrupted in what I confess is a unbelievably difficult exercise and not to be undertaken by those apt to be caught on the proverbial hop. Hopping is an entirely different form of work-out altogether. A milk of a different ilk.
'Here, Harry!' the repulsive superintendent gasped at the Limper, 'Get this boy back in the van with the others. He'll come to no harm there, I'll see to that personally.'
'Right you are, chief,' the Limper shrilled.
They made a good pair, the Limper and the Superintendent – a soprano and a wood-saw. A perfect duet.

Back in the bus with the other male prisoners, I tried to shrink inconspicuously into one of the back seats.
'You just come an' sit up the front with us, kid,' came the rasping command, 'I want to keep my eye on you.'
'Curse it,' I muttered, wondering if the circumstances would excuse me if, just this once, I used a much more potent expletive than was usually heard to issue from my lips.
The superintendent shoved me roughly into the chair next to him. As I hit the seat (bad springs – with the foam padding bursting through the faded coverings) my hand touched something small, hard and lumpy clinging to the underside of my chair. Why must they always stick their chewing-gum there?

One of the guards gave me a toothless, unsavory grin. Or was it a smirk? It's a peculiar thing that you become so distracted in times of trial by the smallest details such as application of word definition.

'Well now, me bonnie lad,' began the Superintendent. 'Bonnie...' he repeated, running the word over his tongue as if he relished the taste. That word has a distinct flavour of horse-radish to me – bitter. Over the coming weeks I was to learn that 'Bonnie' is synonymous with humiliation.
Chuckling in perverse delight – a sound not unlike a heavily asthmatic sheep – the Superintendent leaned over to the Limper. 'Where's Bonnie here staying?' he asked. The Limper grasped at a muddy Adidas backpack, from which he extracted a battered clipboard. Muttering the alphabet under his breath, he ran his finger down the list: 'Smythe, Andy; Admitted April 23 '07, No. 0065219, Sector 12, Block C, Hut 511.'
They already have everything planed, even down to the date I would be “admitted”. How long have they been watching me? How long has my name been on on their list?
These thoughts and more darted through my mind.
'What say we relocate him over to Sector 13, eh? We'll put him up in a nice, special place.' The asymmetrical leer returned to Limper's face as he heard these words. Across from me the other guard's eyes widened in excited anticipation.
'Sector 13, Hut 666, that's were we'll put you up in.' said the Superintendent, committing a gross prepositional solecism. 'You superstitious, Bonnie?'

The whinny of Limper and the drunken gulp from Toothless mingled with the incredible imitation of farmyard animals with respiratory trouble pushing furniture over concrete emitted from the Superintendent.

An Ordinary Boy

This is as far as my imagination took me on this venture, only the introduction of an mock E. Nesbit book. I have no idea what would have followed thereafter.

Michael Attwood was not like most storybook children you might read about. For starters, he was not an orphan. No, both his parents were living and were in the best of health, with neither in any risk of suddenly falling ill, dying or even disappearing. Nor was he an only child, he had three other brothers and two sisters. All four of his grandparents were still very much alive and preferred things to be left just as they were, thank you very much. He had no indulgent, bachelor uncles nor any solitary, dowager aunts, which is not to say that his aunts and uncles were not kind or caring, they simply had enough children of their own to worry over. He knew almost everyone he was related too and it was clear that none of them had any great treasures or fortunes, hidden or otherwise. He had not uncovered any dark family secrets, for there were none. His father, like his father before him and his father before him, was a dentist, with little hope of changing the tradition. They lived in a fairly new house with little to speak of in the way of attics and basements, or even wardrobes for that matter. The nearest lake was a full fifteen miles away, the nearest wood, even further. The truth of the matter was that the only thing that really stood out and labelled him as a storybook child was his full name: Michael George Thomas William James Leroy Richard Henry James Peter Ernest Attwood. And none of these were too peculiar, excepting, perhaps, the repetition of the name “James”, but that is what happens when you are the eldest child and your parents are set on honouring all their uncles and fathers. What galled Michael especially about the whole business was that he had all those names and he could not make an acronym – a word using each of the first letters from each name – out of them. Not enough vowels. Despite all this abnormality for a storybook child, Michael Attwood was one and he did have the most amazing of adventures, which involved none of his family but all of his names.