Right now I am reading a book on the Arthurian legend which deals extensively with the clash between Christianity and the pagan religions. It is a fictional book and so much of what happens isn't necessarily historical, but it got me thinking about religion a little more than I normally do.
Today I read a blog post on religion written by an atheist. About once a month I come across a post like this. They revolve around the everlasting debate on whether or not there is a god or gods. If you read enough of them you start to notice a pattern.
First, and most obvious, is the realization that most people are so firmly set in their beliefs that posts such as these set off some sort of explosion in their minds which forces them to quickly set about blasting each other not logically, but in a way which reminds me of elementary playground arguments. "You're dumb!"
"Nuh uh, you are! And you smell!"
Typically, these genius arguments come not from the original poster but from the follow up commenters, of which there are often hundreds. The amusing part is that they are usually trying to prove that their beliefs are more logical and intelligent without using actual logic or intelligence.
Second, as in this most recent post, they try to prove that the other side of the debate is more arrogant, which apparently, in their minds, translates into "wrong". It is here that you start to realize that the reason for these "debates" seems to have less to do with whether or not there is a god and more to do with winning. Most of these people don't seem to understand that you can't win, ultimately, without some kind of proof. The amusing part about this is that neither side has said "proof" and yet both sides constantly point it out is if they can win without it but the other side can't.
Third, the only group that seems to remain cool and rational through the whole debate is that of the Agnostics. Throughout the gnashing of teeth and throwing of rocks they simply affirm that both sides may be right and yet they may also be wrong. This seems to upset both sides more than true opposition and so the temporarily set their differences aside to achieve the total destruction of the fence sitters. Once the agnostics, eyes wide with amazement and incredulity, back out of the brawl the other sides return to their old alliances and continue to try to blast holes in each others' defenses.
Fourth, the tenacity and vehemence with which each side tries to prove the other wrong often causes the fighters to lose sight of the foundation upon with they stand. For the faithful, it is the use of Jesus as a weapon. The other side, knowing the Jesus is supposed to be a loving and forgiving character, is quick to point out the flaw in statements like "Me and Jesus are going to punch you in the face and burn your house down!" This is a dramatization on my part, but it seems that this is the gist of many statements thrown out in the heat of battle.
On the side of the Atheist, although many of them do not claim that label, it is the collapse of their foundation which is supposedly built on logic. They begin to fail quickly, even as their faithful counterparts do, when theory and logic are replaced by insults and anger. Come on guys, that's no way to win a debate. I was never in debate in high school, but I'd be willing to bet that you've lost as soon as emotion begins to play the leading role in your arguments.
This brings me to my fifth and final point. Both sides of the debate quickly become so entrenched in their opposing holes that they lose sight of this one ultimate truth. Neither side is willing or able to give the other what they are ultimately looking for. The faithful demand a leap of faith while their opponents demand proof. The faithful have no proof, and the other side refuses the leap of faith. This seems to have always been true, both sides seem to know it, and yet they continue to beat their heads against it.
Maybe in the end it just comes down to a difference in the way we are wired. By which I mean, do different peoples' brains simply operate in fundamentally different ways? Science has shown that they do, from person to person, which in most other aspects of life we find to be rewarding. Some people like to sit in cubicles crunching numbers all day while others feel the need to paint, to build, or myriad other paths in life. We accept and often reward these differences in our personal abilities and yet when it comes to our differences in theological belief we act as if there is only one answer, that there can be only one truth, one path.
The truth is that none of us have the answer, we are just hoping to find it or we're hoping that the answer we've already found is the right one. It's hard for people to admit that something they've invested their life in, much less their heart and soul, may not be the correct path. It's perfectly rational to want to prove that something you've spent so much of yourself on is not wrong. Is it not also rational, or at least hopeful, to believe that maybe there isn't just one answer. Maybe there are many paths to the truth.
On a side note but at least a little related, any of you who were hoping for more vampire books from Ann Rice can stop waiting around. Apparently, after many decades of being an Atheist, she has found god and has devoted her writing to the Christian faith. I'm betting that the rest of the vampire fiction genre was overjoyed to hear this.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Life
It's been cold the past few days. Luckily I got Bruce to fix the heater in my car a few weeks ago so scraping ice and staying warm haven't been as much of an issue as they were for the first half of winter. It's been kind of a strange winter though. It seams like it's been unseasonably warm for the majority of the past month or two. I'm not complaining though, it helps to keep the gas bill down when the heater doesn't have to work too hard.
Our little house is still coming along nicely. It's gotten to the point where it finally does feel like our place, by which I mean that we've cluttered up almost every nook and cranny with stuff. I don't think that Mandi and I will ever be known as minimalists. The bathroom remodel is almost done. The tile is finished and I'm pretty sure there aren't any leaks, fingers crossed, so all that's left is a little paint and maybe cabinet or shelf. I remember now why I gave up on the tile installation career while I was still in high school. The next remodel project we are thinking about, just thinking mind you, is the possibility of turning the garage into a second living area as is common in our neighborhood. I'm thinking that it might do more for our property value as a living room than it does as a single car garage. We'll see. I'm going to have to acquire a lot more tools for that project to be a possibility. I'm also going to need some planning help. Building codes and whatnot are not my strongest area. Luckily I know a few people who deal with that kind of thing a lot. We have also found out in the last week that the reason all of our drains have been slow since we moved in is that the drain pipe from the house to the sewer is collapsing. This is a common thing, we are told, in houses from the era ours was built in, and we were starting to think that this might be the case, but it doesn't make the news any less painful. The plumbers are starting to really love us. This will be their fifth or sixth trip out to our house. The good news is that they assure us the new pipe will outlast either the house or us or both. Woo hoo!
So I'm looking for woodworking tools, preferably used but in good condition, if anyone has any or knows someone who does and is willing to sell. A chop saw would be great, a drill press, a circular saw, things of this nature.
Also, I've been thinking for the past three of four years of picking up an instrument and learning to play. I'm thinking this would be a good time to do is as I have more free time than I am ever likely to have again, and I could probably scrounge up enough money to get a decent used instrument. I've been leaning towards mandolin, dulcimer, violin, fiddle, or something similar. If anyone sees or hears of anything that sounds like a good deal let me know.
Work is going pretty well right now. It seems like the slow part of the year for us is coming to an end as I've had at least 10 new jobs come to my desk in the past few days. I'll be very busy for the immediate future. It's nice to see the work coming in as so many companies and industries are struggling right now. It is probably too early for the downturn to really hit us, but it hasn't hit yet and I am very grateful for that.
I think that's all the high points for what's been going on lately. As this post is based on reality, the next will probably be more fiction. Exciting!
Our little house is still coming along nicely. It's gotten to the point where it finally does feel like our place, by which I mean that we've cluttered up almost every nook and cranny with stuff. I don't think that Mandi and I will ever be known as minimalists. The bathroom remodel is almost done. The tile is finished and I'm pretty sure there aren't any leaks, fingers crossed, so all that's left is a little paint and maybe cabinet or shelf. I remember now why I gave up on the tile installation career while I was still in high school. The next remodel project we are thinking about, just thinking mind you, is the possibility of turning the garage into a second living area as is common in our neighborhood. I'm thinking that it might do more for our property value as a living room than it does as a single car garage. We'll see. I'm going to have to acquire a lot more tools for that project to be a possibility. I'm also going to need some planning help. Building codes and whatnot are not my strongest area. Luckily I know a few people who deal with that kind of thing a lot. We have also found out in the last week that the reason all of our drains have been slow since we moved in is that the drain pipe from the house to the sewer is collapsing. This is a common thing, we are told, in houses from the era ours was built in, and we were starting to think that this might be the case, but it doesn't make the news any less painful. The plumbers are starting to really love us. This will be their fifth or sixth trip out to our house. The good news is that they assure us the new pipe will outlast either the house or us or both. Woo hoo!
So I'm looking for woodworking tools, preferably used but in good condition, if anyone has any or knows someone who does and is willing to sell. A chop saw would be great, a drill press, a circular saw, things of this nature.
Also, I've been thinking for the past three of four years of picking up an instrument and learning to play. I'm thinking this would be a good time to do is as I have more free time than I am ever likely to have again, and I could probably scrounge up enough money to get a decent used instrument. I've been leaning towards mandolin, dulcimer, violin, fiddle, or something similar. If anyone sees or hears of anything that sounds like a good deal let me know.
Work is going pretty well right now. It seems like the slow part of the year for us is coming to an end as I've had at least 10 new jobs come to my desk in the past few days. I'll be very busy for the immediate future. It's nice to see the work coming in as so many companies and industries are struggling right now. It is probably too early for the downturn to really hit us, but it hasn't hit yet and I am very grateful for that.
I think that's all the high points for what's been going on lately. As this post is based on reality, the next will probably be more fiction. Exciting!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Rain Queen
She steps into my path as if from nowhere at all.
I've walked this trail a thousand times, never a soul did I see. There's always a presence. The valley itself is a presence. It presses in on my mind as a constant reminder that I am, and can only ever be, a visitor to this place. That is enough.
The foliage sways, leaves dancing in the wind, rising and falling, never the same movement twice, and always a beautiful show. The colors in the canopy and across the forest floor are the colors of sunsets and fire, death and decay. The breeze goes still, the rustling quiets, and each tree drops a few more leaves to the forest floor. That is when I first see her. She is walking towards me on the same path that I travel. I think that maybe she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
She is almost as tall as me, though not quite. Her hair is the color of honey and sunlight, her dress seems to fade through all the colors around us but I never see it happen. It seems to change just slightly every time I look away. Despite the cold that sends chills down my spine, I find that she walks barefoot as if it were a summer day. She smiles at me and I find it hard to breathe. She can tell, and it makes her laugh, and the sound of her voice fills my heart to bursting. As she nears where I am standing, for I cannot move, a light rain begins to fall.
She takes my hand and asks me to follow her. We walk down the path I was on but soon we take a turn that I've never seen before. We walk for hours, talking of times to come and times long past. She tells me that we have met before, when I was a younger man, and I find it hard to believe though I know she speaks the truth. In her presence I feel young again. I remember things long forgotten, though I don't remember her. She says that she knows this, that it is to be expected for it is intrinsic to her nature, but that we have walked this path before. She hopes that it won't be the last time.
The world is changing, she says. There will be a clash of wills and it will change the world. She says that forces are rising, that a handful of players will be the impetus for the movement of many. She has had a hand in this. She is not the only one, there are others like her, and some of them are her allies. She says that there is a role for me to play in this. Events are coming to a head. I tell her I live a life of solitude, that I have had enough games of power for one lifetime, and that I wish no part in it. She doesn't try to change my mind, but says that I will come around of my own accord. We shall see.
We have come to a high meadow in the mountains and I find that I can see nothing that I recognize. I've spent half my life in these mountains, a good 25 years, and I could have sworn that I knew them all. She says that we have come a long way. I am growing tired and I tell her that I need a nap. She says she knows and that she will wake me when it is time. I ask her what that means but she doesn't respond. Soon I am asleep.
When I wake up, I don't know how much later, she is no longer with me. I am no longer in an unrecognizable mountain meadow, but in my own cabin many miles from where I met her. There is a fire burning cheerily in the hearth that I don't remember lighting. I decide I need to eat better before bed, or maybe drink less. There is an empty wine bottle on my table that I don't remember opening. I can see from where I'm sitting that there's something under it. It is a note with two lines of text in someone's flowing script.
"Good wine. Get the door.
Appreciatively, The Rain Queen"
Confused, I look up at my front door.
A moment later there's a knock.
I've walked this trail a thousand times, never a soul did I see. There's always a presence. The valley itself is a presence. It presses in on my mind as a constant reminder that I am, and can only ever be, a visitor to this place. That is enough.
The foliage sways, leaves dancing in the wind, rising and falling, never the same movement twice, and always a beautiful show. The colors in the canopy and across the forest floor are the colors of sunsets and fire, death and decay. The breeze goes still, the rustling quiets, and each tree drops a few more leaves to the forest floor. That is when I first see her. She is walking towards me on the same path that I travel. I think that maybe she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
She is almost as tall as me, though not quite. Her hair is the color of honey and sunlight, her dress seems to fade through all the colors around us but I never see it happen. It seems to change just slightly every time I look away. Despite the cold that sends chills down my spine, I find that she walks barefoot as if it were a summer day. She smiles at me and I find it hard to breathe. She can tell, and it makes her laugh, and the sound of her voice fills my heart to bursting. As she nears where I am standing, for I cannot move, a light rain begins to fall.
She takes my hand and asks me to follow her. We walk down the path I was on but soon we take a turn that I've never seen before. We walk for hours, talking of times to come and times long past. She tells me that we have met before, when I was a younger man, and I find it hard to believe though I know she speaks the truth. In her presence I feel young again. I remember things long forgotten, though I don't remember her. She says that she knows this, that it is to be expected for it is intrinsic to her nature, but that we have walked this path before. She hopes that it won't be the last time.
The world is changing, she says. There will be a clash of wills and it will change the world. She says that forces are rising, that a handful of players will be the impetus for the movement of many. She has had a hand in this. She is not the only one, there are others like her, and some of them are her allies. She says that there is a role for me to play in this. Events are coming to a head. I tell her I live a life of solitude, that I have had enough games of power for one lifetime, and that I wish no part in it. She doesn't try to change my mind, but says that I will come around of my own accord. We shall see.
We have come to a high meadow in the mountains and I find that I can see nothing that I recognize. I've spent half my life in these mountains, a good 25 years, and I could have sworn that I knew them all. She says that we have come a long way. I am growing tired and I tell her that I need a nap. She says she knows and that she will wake me when it is time. I ask her what that means but she doesn't respond. Soon I am asleep.
When I wake up, I don't know how much later, she is no longer with me. I am no longer in an unrecognizable mountain meadow, but in my own cabin many miles from where I met her. There is a fire burning cheerily in the hearth that I don't remember lighting. I decide I need to eat better before bed, or maybe drink less. There is an empty wine bottle on my table that I don't remember opening. I can see from where I'm sitting that there's something under it. It is a note with two lines of text in someone's flowing script.
"Good wine. Get the door.
Appreciatively, The Rain Queen"
Confused, I look up at my front door.
A moment later there's a knock.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Update
It's been awhile since I wrote a post about books and, since there are few things that thrill me more, I think it's time I write another. I've covered a good amount of ground in my personal library and there are quite a few books I'd like to comment on. I can't remember which books I talked about last time, nor do I care to go back and look, so I'll just pick up where my fancy takes me.
It never ceases to amaze me how many fantasy authors not only can, but often do, develop completely new languages before writing their books. Knowing how difficult it is to even begin to learn a language, I find myself wondering if most of these authors were linguistics majors in college. I'm sure that at least a few of them were. Molly, Mandi's sister, loaned me an incomplete series written by an Australian (I think) woman, who's name I can't remember, but who's first book was titled "The Naming". It was good, as were the subsequent two, and I look forward to the next one. The amount of planning that the woman must have done is astounding. Aside from new languages, she developed support literature, fictional bibliographies, along with the usual maps, characters, magical theory, etc. This has to be one of the most daunting aspects to writing fantasy as opposed to contemporary fiction. It must be so much easier to write a story about North America in 2008 as opposed to just starting from scratch and developing all the details necessary to understand what you're writing about much less to make it believable and entertaining. (Run-on?)
This brings me to Science Fiction. (Not the same thing as Fantasy! Stop grouping them!) How much more difficult must it be to do all the things previously mentioned with the additional requirements of understanding advanced/theoretical physics/astronomy/technology? My mind shudders at the thought. If you ever see me write science fiction there will be lots of lasers, explosions, and weightless antics. String Theory there will not be. Unless, that is, my character says something like "Computer! Do stuff based on String Theory!" All joking aside, I just finished a series by Alastair Reynolds, a British astrophysicist, and it was incredible. He reminds me a lot of Carl Sagan, although a little less serious. As far as I can tell, which is obviously not very far, all of the science in the story was at the very least theoretically possible. He also went to great lengths to explain it to the reader while managing to make it seem like he wasn't explaining it at all. Very impressive and I'd imagine hard to do. I still felt dumb and there were more than a few points at which my mind was definatly bending in ways it's not used to. I think this is impressive if you keep in mind that I quickly and easily fall into stories about dragons and swords. My mind apparently has no trouble with that.
Over the past few years it seems like I've been hearing non-stop about Bill Bryson. Everyone, and I mean everyone, seems to be reading or have read Bill Bryson. This Saturday I found out why. While visiting the old bookstore I went through almost every section, as I usually do, but this time, surprisingly, Bryson kept popping into my vision. He was in Science and Nature, Travel, General Fiction, Writing, Classics, and everywhere else I'm guessing, though I stopped there. Apparently the man sits down once a week and thinks something like "Deep sea jellyfish? Why not!" More surprisingly, he seems to do it well. I think they've all been best sellers, they've all been suggested to me by at least one person, and no less than three people have loaned me a book by him. (I'll read and return them soon. I promise!) I've almost finished "Notes on a Small Island" a book about a solo trip he took around England and he manages to make it interesting and funny, even though you have no idea what he's talking about most of the time. It seems that the voice inside his head sounds a lot like the one inside mine. Take from that what you will. Let's just say that I look forward to reading the rest of his books.
On a sadder note, for those of you who haven't heard, Michael Crichton passed away a week or so back. For those who have only seen his movies/tv show, don't judge him based on those. If you've only read his most recent 3 novels, don't judge him on those either. Everything that came before "Timeline" was, in my humble opinion, impressively well done and interestingly unique. No one else wrote like he did, at least not that I've found. I was hoping, and he had hinted, that his next book would be more of a return to the type of novel he was writing 10-15 years ago. Sadly we'll never know. Regardless, he was one of my favorites and respectfully, he was one of the authors that made me love reading early on. I still remember reading "Congo"(I even made a diorama) in Mrs. Reagan's 5th grade reading class when I was supposed to be reading "Shiloh" or something along those lines. He will be missed. Also, if anyone wants to buy me the rest of the books he wrote under John Lange, you can find them on Barnes and Noble's used and out of print section. That would be greatly appreciated as they will now be exponentially even further outside of my price range. All interested parties can shoot me a comment and I'll let you know which ones I have. Predictably they're the three cheapest and easiest to find. Maybe we'll get lucky and his publisher will bring them out of retirement with a new printing like they've done with every single journal, note, thought, and doodle of Tolkein's. The market is obviously there.
That's all I have for now.
It never ceases to amaze me how many fantasy authors not only can, but often do, develop completely new languages before writing their books. Knowing how difficult it is to even begin to learn a language, I find myself wondering if most of these authors were linguistics majors in college. I'm sure that at least a few of them were. Molly, Mandi's sister, loaned me an incomplete series written by an Australian (I think) woman, who's name I can't remember, but who's first book was titled "The Naming". It was good, as were the subsequent two, and I look forward to the next one. The amount of planning that the woman must have done is astounding. Aside from new languages, she developed support literature, fictional bibliographies, along with the usual maps, characters, magical theory, etc. This has to be one of the most daunting aspects to writing fantasy as opposed to contemporary fiction. It must be so much easier to write a story about North America in 2008 as opposed to just starting from scratch and developing all the details necessary to understand what you're writing about much less to make it believable and entertaining. (Run-on?)
This brings me to Science Fiction. (Not the same thing as Fantasy! Stop grouping them!) How much more difficult must it be to do all the things previously mentioned with the additional requirements of understanding advanced/theoretical physics/astronomy/technology? My mind shudders at the thought. If you ever see me write science fiction there will be lots of lasers, explosions, and weightless antics. String Theory there will not be. Unless, that is, my character says something like "Computer! Do stuff based on String Theory!" All joking aside, I just finished a series by Alastair Reynolds, a British astrophysicist, and it was incredible. He reminds me a lot of Carl Sagan, although a little less serious. As far as I can tell, which is obviously not very far, all of the science in the story was at the very least theoretically possible. He also went to great lengths to explain it to the reader while managing to make it seem like he wasn't explaining it at all. Very impressive and I'd imagine hard to do. I still felt dumb and there were more than a few points at which my mind was definatly bending in ways it's not used to. I think this is impressive if you keep in mind that I quickly and easily fall into stories about dragons and swords. My mind apparently has no trouble with that.
Over the past few years it seems like I've been hearing non-stop about Bill Bryson. Everyone, and I mean everyone, seems to be reading or have read Bill Bryson. This Saturday I found out why. While visiting the old bookstore I went through almost every section, as I usually do, but this time, surprisingly, Bryson kept popping into my vision. He was in Science and Nature, Travel, General Fiction, Writing, Classics, and everywhere else I'm guessing, though I stopped there. Apparently the man sits down once a week and thinks something like "Deep sea jellyfish? Why not!" More surprisingly, he seems to do it well. I think they've all been best sellers, they've all been suggested to me by at least one person, and no less than three people have loaned me a book by him. (I'll read and return them soon. I promise!) I've almost finished "Notes on a Small Island" a book about a solo trip he took around England and he manages to make it interesting and funny, even though you have no idea what he's talking about most of the time. It seems that the voice inside his head sounds a lot like the one inside mine. Take from that what you will. Let's just say that I look forward to reading the rest of his books.
On a sadder note, for those of you who haven't heard, Michael Crichton passed away a week or so back. For those who have only seen his movies/tv show, don't judge him based on those. If you've only read his most recent 3 novels, don't judge him on those either. Everything that came before "Timeline" was, in my humble opinion, impressively well done and interestingly unique. No one else wrote like he did, at least not that I've found. I was hoping, and he had hinted, that his next book would be more of a return to the type of novel he was writing 10-15 years ago. Sadly we'll never know. Regardless, he was one of my favorites and respectfully, he was one of the authors that made me love reading early on. I still remember reading "Congo"(I even made a diorama) in Mrs. Reagan's 5th grade reading class when I was supposed to be reading "Shiloh" or something along those lines. He will be missed. Also, if anyone wants to buy me the rest of the books he wrote under John Lange, you can find them on Barnes and Noble's used and out of print section. That would be greatly appreciated as they will now be exponentially even further outside of my price range. All interested parties can shoot me a comment and I'll let you know which ones I have. Predictably they're the three cheapest and easiest to find. Maybe we'll get lucky and his publisher will bring them out of retirement with a new printing like they've done with every single journal, note, thought, and doodle of Tolkein's. The market is obviously there.
That's all I have for now.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
A Mountain Night
The wind fell like an avalanche down the slope of the mountain, winding its way through the rustling Aspens that sounded, to the discerning ear, of the roar of a far off applause. As this tumult reached the valley it began to swirl the remnants of last year's fall in gusts and eddies, some of which found their way to, and their demise in, a small campfire burning youthfully against the force of the encroaching darkness. The fire burned in a small meadow carved by the spring in wetter times and surrounded by the slowly quieting Aspens as the fuel for their encouraging wind finally set over the mountaintops. In the plains beyond it would be light for hours yet, but here, up in the nest of the gods, night had always settled early. Up here, in the realm of the beasts of the darkness, life begins to stir from it's slumber. The noises of their awakening, hunting, dying, can be heard by anyone who will listen, but there is only one nearby. He sits by that campfire, slowly feeding it fuel, clad in the black of the night and the spidery blue tattoos that mark him for what he is. For him this is a place of rest, nothing will break his peace here. Sometimes the larger of the nights hunters will stop to consider, if only for a moment, this solitary man who seems such easy prey. But even the most deadly, with their hearts full of menace, pause at the edge of this man's vision. There is a warning there, not seen, nor heard, but felt in the marrow of their bones. This one is off limits. This one is not to be hunted.
The man sits and waits, as he has many times before, for the watcher of these mountains to come and meet him. In her own time, as always, the watcher enters the circle of light cast by the fire and seats herself across the fire. For a time they are silent, each reveling in the beauty of the night. Their spirits are kindred, if not their races, and they find it difficult to talk of the things they must, that they've always known were coming, in a place such as this. But necessity looms, as is often the case, and their pleasantries come to an end.
"Wanderer, why have you come?" she asks.
"To seek council with the Watcher." he replies.
"Your heart was conflicted in its purpose when you first arrived here. What now are your intentions?" This is not exactly a question, and they both know it, but in his answer she will find hers, and it is here he must be careful.
"My thoughts remain conflicted, though less so, but the battle in my heart has been resolved. I have accepted my task and I intend to complete it in the manner expected of me. I have chosen to start here because I have an affinity for you and for this place. I will need your help." His eyes, black as the night all around them remained fixed on the fire as he spoke. For a time there was silence as she considered his request. On the surface he did not ask for much. It was not his way. But over the many years they had known each other she had learned to hear the words he didn't speak. She could see that this quest would go further, by far, than even he suspected, and that he was afraid. She decided to grant him his request, in her own way.
"Place your hands in mine, Wanderer." As she spoke she moved her hands, palms up, into the heart of the fire. It was proof of his faith in her that he did so without question. As her hands closed on his the flames roared and the fire grew until their arms were obscured by flames up to their elbows. Out of the corner of his eye he could see shadows, great hulking shapes moving through the woods, circling the pair at the center of the circle. The roar of the flames increased and he could see droplets of sweat forming at the Watcher's brow just before a flash, bright as day, erupted between them. A moment later the fire went out, now only a mass of burning embers, and the Watcher slumped over with exhaustion. The Wanderer examined his arms and found them unharmed, not a hair was singed, and yet they were different. The blue tattoos were now a blood red and the shapes had changed. New lines intersected the spirals and swirls creating symbols that looked like glyphs or some kind of ancient scrawl. He could make no sense of them but knew there was a meaning to each one. He looked up from his arms to see that the beasts had gone, all but one, which was now seated on its haunches ten paces from the pair. He still could not make out what type of animal it was. His gaze returned to the Watcher who had seemingly recovered from her draining effort and now sat up straight to gaze at the Wanderer.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I have given you a mark that bonds us together. It emanates from you a sort of call to the beasts of the mountain to aid when help is needed. It is merely a request, not a command, and will work only in the mountainous areas." she glanced over at the beast and spoke in a language the man had never heard before. The creature seemed to understand and, through a series of growls and barks, spoke to her in turn. "This is Darkfoot. He is a mountain wolf and has separated himself from his pack to ask a boon of me, and you."
Confused, the man replied "what could he want of me?"
"His race is more intelligent and perceptive than the common wolf, and as such they seem to have a, knowing, of things that even most humans do not. I believe that he sees a need in you, or perhaps in your path, that he feels he is needed for. He has asked to join you on your quest. His kind do not normally ally themselves with humans. Quite the opposite honestly. Regardless, I believe he could be a great help to you if you will accept his offer."
"I believe at this point that I'd be a fool to turn down any offer of help. Please tell him I accept."
Instead, the Watcher leaned over and touched the man lightly on his temple. "You can tell him yourself. I think you'll find that you'll now have no problem communicating with each other."
She was correct. Whatever she had done, words spoken by man or beast seemed to translate themselves in the opposite's mind. The noises were the same, but the meaning was clear. Soon after his conversation with Darkfoot the Watcher took her leave and disappeared into the forest. The Wanderer curled up to sleep for a few hours with the mountain wolf standing watch. The next day would begin a long journey, the end of which was unclear. The Wanderer did not sleep well.
The man sits and waits, as he has many times before, for the watcher of these mountains to come and meet him. In her own time, as always, the watcher enters the circle of light cast by the fire and seats herself across the fire. For a time they are silent, each reveling in the beauty of the night. Their spirits are kindred, if not their races, and they find it difficult to talk of the things they must, that they've always known were coming, in a place such as this. But necessity looms, as is often the case, and their pleasantries come to an end.
"Wanderer, why have you come?" she asks.
"To seek council with the Watcher." he replies.
"Your heart was conflicted in its purpose when you first arrived here. What now are your intentions?" This is not exactly a question, and they both know it, but in his answer she will find hers, and it is here he must be careful.
"My thoughts remain conflicted, though less so, but the battle in my heart has been resolved. I have accepted my task and I intend to complete it in the manner expected of me. I have chosen to start here because I have an affinity for you and for this place. I will need your help." His eyes, black as the night all around them remained fixed on the fire as he spoke. For a time there was silence as she considered his request. On the surface he did not ask for much. It was not his way. But over the many years they had known each other she had learned to hear the words he didn't speak. She could see that this quest would go further, by far, than even he suspected, and that he was afraid. She decided to grant him his request, in her own way.
"Place your hands in mine, Wanderer." As she spoke she moved her hands, palms up, into the heart of the fire. It was proof of his faith in her that he did so without question. As her hands closed on his the flames roared and the fire grew until their arms were obscured by flames up to their elbows. Out of the corner of his eye he could see shadows, great hulking shapes moving through the woods, circling the pair at the center of the circle. The roar of the flames increased and he could see droplets of sweat forming at the Watcher's brow just before a flash, bright as day, erupted between them. A moment later the fire went out, now only a mass of burning embers, and the Watcher slumped over with exhaustion. The Wanderer examined his arms and found them unharmed, not a hair was singed, and yet they were different. The blue tattoos were now a blood red and the shapes had changed. New lines intersected the spirals and swirls creating symbols that looked like glyphs or some kind of ancient scrawl. He could make no sense of them but knew there was a meaning to each one. He looked up from his arms to see that the beasts had gone, all but one, which was now seated on its haunches ten paces from the pair. He still could not make out what type of animal it was. His gaze returned to the Watcher who had seemingly recovered from her draining effort and now sat up straight to gaze at the Wanderer.
"What did you do?" he asked.
"I have given you a mark that bonds us together. It emanates from you a sort of call to the beasts of the mountain to aid when help is needed. It is merely a request, not a command, and will work only in the mountainous areas." she glanced over at the beast and spoke in a language the man had never heard before. The creature seemed to understand and, through a series of growls and barks, spoke to her in turn. "This is Darkfoot. He is a mountain wolf and has separated himself from his pack to ask a boon of me, and you."
Confused, the man replied "what could he want of me?"
"His race is more intelligent and perceptive than the common wolf, and as such they seem to have a, knowing, of things that even most humans do not. I believe that he sees a need in you, or perhaps in your path, that he feels he is needed for. He has asked to join you on your quest. His kind do not normally ally themselves with humans. Quite the opposite honestly. Regardless, I believe he could be a great help to you if you will accept his offer."
"I believe at this point that I'd be a fool to turn down any offer of help. Please tell him I accept."
Instead, the Watcher leaned over and touched the man lightly on his temple. "You can tell him yourself. I think you'll find that you'll now have no problem communicating with each other."
She was correct. Whatever she had done, words spoken by man or beast seemed to translate themselves in the opposite's mind. The noises were the same, but the meaning was clear. Soon after his conversation with Darkfoot the Watcher took her leave and disappeared into the forest. The Wanderer curled up to sleep for a few hours with the mountain wolf standing watch. The next day would begin a long journey, the end of which was unclear. The Wanderer did not sleep well.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Move through the darkness as swift as its currents, swirling and spiraling, upward and down, catching glimpses that flicker like flashes of light of the noise and the madness as you pass it by. In the darkness it's safer. No one can see. The raging explosions of life that overflow and spill out of the light are muted, subdued, and drained in the night. It's quiet. You can think in the dark. No one screams in your mind, and your mind won't scream back. The darkness in patient. It breathes. It takes a slow step. If you embrace it you can see more. Your eyes and your mind adjust. People take off their mask at night. The lovers of light will flit around on beams of headlights and streetlamps, fabricated day, on their way to dimly lit bars, fabricated night. Some people don't like the real thing. It can't be controlled like the fabricated. It wasn't designed. It isn't planned. It just is. It doesn't care who wins or loses. It doesn't even care how you play the game, because there is no game. There's only the dark, and there's comfort in that.
Sometimes things just blow up in your face.
Sometimes you do your best, try to be the person you think you should be, and for some reason that's just wrong.
Sometimes the whole day, or week, or month, just doesn't seem right. Something is bothering you and you can't figure out what. Little things take pieces out of you day after day. Work harder. Work faster. Do it better.
Sometimes the mountains seem too far away.
Am I just hungry? Tired? No? Then what the hell is it? What is this itch I can't scratch?
What am I missing? Sometimes I feel like I just keep missing.
Sometimes I feel pissed off all the time.
So that's the way it is. Fine. Take a deep breath and move on.
Try to avoid the same mistakes.
Try not to set yourself up for this kind of shit.
Moving on.
Sometimes you do your best, try to be the person you think you should be, and for some reason that's just wrong.
Sometimes the whole day, or week, or month, just doesn't seem right. Something is bothering you and you can't figure out what. Little things take pieces out of you day after day. Work harder. Work faster. Do it better.
Sometimes the mountains seem too far away.
Am I just hungry? Tired? No? Then what the hell is it? What is this itch I can't scratch?
What am I missing? Sometimes I feel like I just keep missing.
Sometimes I feel pissed off all the time.
So that's the way it is. Fine. Take a deep breath and move on.
Try to avoid the same mistakes.
Try not to set yourself up for this kind of shit.
Moving on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
