On A Wonderful Trip To An Unusual Angle

 Yesterday I went on an unusual, unexpected trip to the floor. All had been going okay, if not wonderfully well, when I got up from my desk, turned, and suddenly found that my left leg was locked and unresponsive. After a moment or two of struggling to make a movement, I found myself slowly but inexorably headed to the floor, where I landed with a sickening shock right on my ass. 

Luckily my nephew Kameron was in the house with me, so I did not have to summon help. Not that he could help me physically (his strength is no match for my weight) but he could, in the best Lassie tradition, go for help. Unluckily his parents weren't at home. While we waited for one or the other to arrive, he kept me company and did what he could to keep me comfortable and run little chores.

Eventually my sister Susan got home, and together she and I managed to wrangle my inert corpse up onto the bed (which is not far from the desk), from where I was able to once more gain control of the puppet strings. Andy (having just got home from being on a job) stuck his head in, ready to help, only to find to his relief that I was doing alright, Kameron hung around another hour to make sure all was well.

One thing being on the floor reminded me of, was how much a part of my life was lived down there when I was little. A part that now in normal circumstances is another world. I was somehow reminded of how, when I was little, I could sit on the floor, bow my legs apart, and put the soles of my feet together, a feat that is now unthinkable in my condition. I thought of how little kids exist on this different plane, which is like another world, and how when adults descend to this level they are meeting them in their own world. I thought sadly how I would never meet our little ones in this parralel province, but remain like a distant gray promentary, a being that could never descend into epiphany in their youthful eyes.

My little trip to the floor was a bugger in more than obvious ways. It got me thinking, and that is rarely a comfortable thing. As it is, it also put me a little behind schedule in my blogging goal, so I thought it could make up a little bit for its unpleasantness as grist for a post.

On Gorb and Gorbos

Feckless Gorb

While most scholars agree that Gorb (or Feckless Gorb, as he is popularly known) was a real historical figure, living sometime in the uneventful years between the Settling and Berek and the Ogre Invasion, though it is sometimes jestingly asserted that it must have been his grandfather who kept the pilot logs during the Migration.

He is hard to pin down to a definite date, though, because Gorb has become a byword for a clumsy or thoughtless person. While some of the anecdotes connected to him are possibly actual incidents in his life, it would be hard to say which, as many tales and jokes became attached to him over time.

As a character, Gorb is never described as feeble-minded or crazy, but thoughtless, careless, or foolish in the extreme. He could be wise if he was paying attention or applying himself, but he never does. A gorb is inexperienced or unskilled; the term is applied to beginners or novices.

Gorb also gave rise to at least two popular sayings. One goes “Well, Gorb’s madra loved him.” The story goes that he was accidentally responsible for his mother’s death, and that with her last words she forgave him. The colloquial meaning implies that one may be enamored with one’s foolish actions, but they could lead to disaster. The other says that “Gorb is the only one remembered from his time,” meaning both that fame is not necessarily good, but also that it is anyway a form of immortality.

There is also a light form of comic poetry, called ‘gorbos’. The verses are short, seldom more than four lines long, with a loose but definite form. They purport to recount Gorb’s amusing adventures. The following is a typical example:

Feckless Gorb milked a billy,

Put the squeezings in his tea.

Took a sip, frowned, and grumbled,

“This tastes rather odd to me!”

 

Korm's Master

Illustration for the story Korm's Master (available here on NOT), the title of which refers not only to Belmok as the head of his department, but also the subject Korm is seeking to be Master of.

 

Mother Mayai's House

An illustration for an unpublished short story (at least unpublished here), The Choice. I've been a little cagey with it, as I'm not even 80% happy with it; it seems so damn allegorical, but it a way neither subtle, nor obvious, nor particularly entertaining. If it has a broad theme, it's how we must make choices in a world where things are not always what they seem.

The boy looked moodily into the fire. "But did I make the right choice?"

"Sometimes the right choice is just to choose," the man said wearily. "And you make it right, by choosing it."

Ballade of an Unforgivable Crime

BALLADE OF AN UNFORGIVABLE CRIME

 

Pray, my dear, whatever is the matter?

Those cupcakes were well past their use-by date.

That old soda was only getting flatter,

And those crackers growing musty in their crate.

That last banana slowly turning brown,

That cheddar cheese so quickly going green,

With selective cuts can still be gotten down,

That space cleared up, that little dish get cleaned.

On all your leftovers, that never do get eaten

And all your drink, that never does get drunk

A life like mine, that's marginalized and beaten

Can learn to feed on and to like such junk.

I live my life upon the leavings and the lees

As I hobble about on knackered legs.

But every crumb your justice counts and sees:

I'm sorry that I drank your dregs.

 

That bread crust no one eats that's turning stale;

The tomato got last month, that's heading south;

That Frito pie not quite beyond the pale;

Those potatoes that already start to sprout;

That grilled rice that's getting hard and dry;

Those ancient oranges that daily shrink and wither;

The beef broccoli that's gotten rather high:

Put all them in a bag, and send them hither.

Those pink chicken thighs, now blushing gray,

I still would hazard, but with some haste.

That avacado won't last another day.

Those chip crumbs shouldn't go to waste.

But for such presumption, gluttony, and pride

You like to take me down a couple pegs.

Now I your righteous judgement must abide;

I'm sorry that I drank your dregs.

 

Envoi:

 

Princess! About your castle I must go

Treading carefully, as if on agèd eggs;

Perhaps it's my blood sugar, running low,

But I'm sorry that I drank your dregs.

 

--First Draft, Sept. 10, 2016

Notes: At the time I wrote this, I was wholly dependent on my sister for whatever food I could get, which, considering my somewhat ... robust nature, never seemed enough. Written on the ocassion of finishing of a few ounces of flat soda. Nowadays, now that I can mostly supply my own meals, she has the opposite problem, getting rid of stuff no-one ever eats. "They always talk of me drinking, but never of me thirst."

Poor Old Fella

In the short story, Leaf by Niggle, Niggle is an artist who lives and basically dies dedicated to his art. All his community can see, however, is a rather footling and ineffective little man. Eventually, all his work is destroyed; his talent only bears fruit in the afterlife. I sometimes wonder if my own efforts will ever flourish in my lifetime; luckily I have two or three dedicated 'fans' who keep me going. And the work itself impels me. But I fear that will be the general summation of my life. 'Poor old Brer. What a waste of time and effort!'

Since Syndrome

In the Dune universe, the "Since Syndrome" is a psychological condition coined by the God Emperor Leto II. It afflicts his repeatedly resurrected Duncan Idaho gholas (clones grown from dead tissue). It stems from their profound disorientation, deep suspicion, and existential dread upon realizing how much the universe has changed since they last died.

I used to read the Dune series quite a bit. I have since (yuk-yuk) come to apply the term 'Since Syndrome' to my own disorientation, suspicion, and dread in the moments I realize how long it's been since a certain milestone. How long since I was in college; how long since Mom, Pop, or Mike died; heck, how long since I had a good iced raisen bar. I have increasing bouts of the Syndrome the closer it gets to my birthday. To bring it back around to the Dune franchise, how long since I got an action figure? They're why I started blogging at all. "The world I grewed up in is gone." As is even the world that produced that quote.