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.

The Dreamlord's Dilemma

“That is true. There is no marriage for the maker of dreams, because he is perpetually creating finer women than earth provides. The touch of flesh cannot content him who has arranged the shining hair of angels and modeled the breasts of the sphinx." - Miramon Lluagor, in The Silver Stallion by James Branch Cabell.

Elf-Wenches

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n2rsi3HCf4k

 

The Brothers of July

The Brothers of July

(To the tune of "When Johnny Comes Marching Home")

 

Here's to the brothers of July,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's to the brothers of July,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's to the brothers of July,

Who joke and play and never say die;

And all their birthdays

Are bunched up in July.

 

Here's little Yen just gone fifty,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's little Yen just gone fifty,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's little Yen just gone fifty:

Nifty, unthrifty, a little bit shifty;

And his birthday's a mirth day

For the brothers of July!

 

Here's jolly John at fifty-three,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's jolly John at fifty-three,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's jolly John at fifty-three,

Picking and penning and all can agree,

That his birthday's the first day

For the brothers of July!

 

Here's poor old Brer at fifty-five,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's poor old Brer at fifty-five,

Hurrah! Hurrah!

Here's poor old Brer at fifty-five,

Gimpy and gray and barely alive,

And his birthday's the worst day

For the brothers of July!

 

--July 24, 2018

Galt, A Guard in Morg City

Galt, a middle-aged guard at the barracks in Morg City. From the story, Sergeant Roth. There is a councilman Galt in one of the episodes in The Wizard, the Prince, the Warrior, and His Son. What? There can be more than one Galt! It's quite a common name 'round these parts.

Mora Madra, Mama Mia!

MORA MADRA

The very old pages of ‘Ortha Lore’ mention the Fathers and Mothers of the Races. Mog Gammoth’s spouse is called Mora, and there is little more mentioned about her. I now feel I can say some more about Mora.

The odd fact is that, in Ortha, there are few written legends about her, not because of her insignificance, but because of her importance, and her living closeness in Morg lives. While Mog Gammoth is ‘everybody’s grampa’ (which is more or less the translation of ‘gammoth’), Mora’s full name and title is Mora Madra (which is closer in meaning to ‘mommy’ than the simply biological term ‘mother’).

Morgish reverence for Mora is an open secret, but seldom discussed. While kings (elected executives) among Morgs and the humbler office of witnesses are obvious stand-ins for Mog himself, they are mere underlings or substitutes and liable to criticism. Any and every Morgess who conceives shares directly in the ‘office’ and aura of Mora and has the title ‘Madra’. Mog Gammoth is seen as somewhat remote, if all-seeing; Mora is there, in some sense, in every mother.

This has led to a code or tradition among the Madra, more strictly enforced than any written law. It is only really understood by them. It concerns not only a kind of ‘pecking order’ and its rules, but also a balance between personal ambition for your family and the good of the realm. Whoever is the public face of the family, the Madra is the true head. In effect, the Madras of all the families are an unofficial but most effective Senate. Each Madra, of course, values her own family most highly, and will try to apply the rules to them as favorably as possible.

Among male Morgs, their ignorance of the precise parameters of this code has led to an excess of caution and counter-reaction. If worried that what they are doing might offend the Madras, they will stop, think, and proceed very cautiously before doing so, or try to lie about or hide such actions entirely. No Morg will insult another’s Madra, partially because that is to insult Mora and all Madras, even his own, and partially because it is a deadly insult that requires blood. No one will judge another who is following the dictates of his Madra.

Mora Madra herself shares somewhat in the nature of Orathil (Mother Ortha/Earth), but specifically and much more personally for the Morgish race. Orathil is the strict balance of nature, ‘red in tooth and claw’, mother of Ogres as well as Morgs, of storms and harvest. Mora is Mommy, standing between you and a rather stern grandmother, occasionally sneaking you a secret cookie. May she bless us all.