2019: Last Day of September, First of October

9/30/2019: Last day of September. At 5 AM or so woke up to the sound of rain, then dropped off again. Up about 6 AM, prayed, showered, dressed. Ready to start the wash and make chicken salad at 9 AM. My right "good" leg already acting up. So, did that, listened to GGACP [Gilbert Gottfried], ate turkey and cheese sandwiches, got Kam up at 10 AM, changed the wash at 10:30 AM, and again at Noon. A bit after 1 PM began the broccoli salad (sans cheese; another mix up). John called at 3 PM said he was coming over: he brought me some Pumpkin Delights (4 boxes!) that Donna had picked up, and some of his old shirts. Close on his heels the exterminator arrived. I started supper; Kam home a little after 4 PM after the exterminator had left. Made couscous and fish-and-broccoli pans. Susan got home at 6 PM with cheese for the salad. I went in at 8 PM but they hadn't eaten yet, but made Kam a corndog and some toast. Back in at 9 PM to clean up. At 10 PM rosary. Spent part of the day reading my old stories. Have already finished the first box of Pumpkin Delights; must take it easy.

 

10/1/2019: First Day of October. Wrote down dream about school test. Did devotions and catechism. Had breakfast at 9 AM. Went in at 10 AM; Kam was up and getting dressed. Took him out, brought the recycling bin in. Was inspired by the old "30 Days Has October" dream and now want to write THAT story. Made oatmeal cookies at 6 PM. Susan gave me some Halloween Peanuts action figures she found over the weekend; it included a Frieda I never had. Neat! Andy has had to haul cars this evening so it will be a while before I can wash up. It's 8:15 PM, and I think I'll pray the rosary now. It has already seemed like a LONG day.

As it turns out Andy cleaned up the kitchen after he ate. John answered my e-mails; he said they had taken their Halloween decorations out of the attic and were ready to set them up. I imagine that also means Uncle Silas.

Notes

I did write that story; under the name Aunt Jocasta. It is a Halloween tale published here on the blog. As for Uncle Silas ... he  has a long and storied history himself, fictionalized and also published here under the title Brother Silas.

 

"Death ... Walks ... Tonight!"

 Of all the crazy MGM cartoons that freaked me out as a kid, I can't believe I haven't noted Bottles before. In it, an old pharmacist falls asleep after he concocts some sort of poisonous potion. The nightmare that ensues makes me think he might have enhaled some of his own product. "Can you take it?" Also a couple of cartoons featuring a crow and a bookworm, facing monsters of their own.

MGM Bottles

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f_8MZ9t-OVg

The Bookworm

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igZGkSic1Uo

The Bookworm Returns

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk1L6_qMsk8

The Rings of Power, Season Two (Episodes Six and Seven) Doomed To Die

 

I am so tired of The Rings of Power. I mean I am tired of having to think of new things to say about it. They keep repeating the same kind of mistakes over and over again. Most egregious to the longtime Tolkien fan are the contradictions to the lore and to the spirit of the Legendarium. There are the slavish echoes and mockery of the Jackson movies. There are the putridities of style and phrase: one wonders if these scriptwriters can actually understand English or if it is just a series of sounds to them that they knock together until something sonorous but senseless emerges.

It confounds me when there are people who actually claim to like it. I can understand that there are people who don’t understand Tolkien, who maybe don’t understand real Fantasy, or even good storytelling. I can only imagine that they are entertained by a series of bright images and exciting sounds, like an infant that has a set of keys dangled in front of it. I understand viewership has been going steadily down; I certainly wouldn’t watch it if I didn’t feel something like the observer of a crime who is duty-bound to witness to the tragedy. But it is great fun to mock it and guess with almost uncanny accuracy what trite phrase will spew from the characters next, or what conventional stereotypical action will be played out.

It pains me to watch this stuff and consider what could have been done. What a good Tolkien adaptation could have been made at the same expense, or, failing that, an adaptation of any other worthy work, possibly at least four other worthy works. It is galling. 

Well, here is Wikipedia’s summation of the episodes we watched. It would be tedious to try to put the patchwork of events together myself, almost impossible, since they do not flow in any natural way. How they are assembled here presents them so that they seem far more logical and coherent than they are experienced.

 Episode 6: “Where Is He?” Celebrimbor focuses on making rings for Men. Annatar offers to take care of Eregion's administration and gives him a container which he claims to hold mithril. Outside the city, Adar tells Galadriel that the crown of Sauron's master, Morgoth, was able to destroy Sauron's previous physical form [another contradiction to the Lore: Morgoth’s crown was beaten into a collar with which he was bound and thrust beyond the Doors of Night]. He believes that together, the crown and the Elven Rings of Power could destroy Sauron for good. Elendil refuses to pledge his loyalty to Ar-Pharazôn and is sentenced to trial by abyss [the writers seem to think the Numenoreans, even the Faithful, consider the Valar to be some kind of gods and treat them as such; the Numenoreans were strictly monotheistic], in which he would be thrown into the sea to face a giant creature, the Sea Worm. Míriel claims the right to be tried in Elendil's stead; the Sea Worm spares her life and the Faithful hail her as the "Queen of the Sea". Tom takes the Stranger to a forest of dead trees where he is meant to find a magic staff. The Stranger has a vision of Nori and Poppy being threatened by the Dark Wizard and must decide between helping his friends and fulfilling his destiny [John has pointed out to me how this recalls Luke having to choose between training with Yoda and rescuing his friends; also we saw that Sauron suddenly has Force powers. This ain't Star Wars; this is supposed to be Middle-earth] . Galadriel realizes that Sauron has lured Adar's army to Eregion because he does not have one of his own. Adar ignores her concerns and begins the Siege of Eregion.

Episode 7: “Doomed To Die” The Orcs aim their trebuchets at the mountains beyond the city, causing a rockslide that blocks the river upstream and allows them to assault the city's walls on foot. Elrond comes to Khazad-dûm and asks Durin IV to send aid to Eregion. Durin IV decides not to when Durin III attempts to mine more mithril, which could awaken the evil that lives beneath the mine. As Celebrimbor creates nine Rings of Power for Men, he notices signs that he is trapped in an illusion (he uses the term 'Mister' Mouse. Surely it would be more tone appropriate for an ancient Elf to use 'Master'? It seems to me it would sound better. 'Mister' sounds more Hobbity) . He confronts Annatar, who ends the illusion and reveals that Celebrimbor has made the nine rings using Sauron's blood rather than mithril [there is no indication in the Lore that you need mithril to make a ring of power; Nenya is rather especially described as the Ring of Adamant and Mithril, while Vilya ‘mightiest of the Three’ is of gold. Also it is not a new idea, as I remember reading of a rejected script where Sauron does this to make the One Ring, a rather simplistic and primitive way of ‘infusing it with his power.’]. Elrond, Gil-galad, and the forces of Lindon arrive and attack the Orcs. That night, Galadriel escapes with the help of Arondir, who followed the Orcs' trail. The pair sneak into Eregion. Celebrimbor attempts to escape with the nine rings and finds Galadriel, who takes them while Celebrimbor stays to delay Sauron. As the sun rises, a small number of Elves outside the city are faced with a new wave of Orcs led by Adar. Elrond is disappointed when Durin IV does not arrive. Adar stabs Arondir [I almost cheered; enough with his physics defying acrobatics!] and takes Nenya from Elrond. [I wonder what he hopes to do with it. Nenya’s powers are described as healing and protection from decay. Maybe make the Orcs all better?]

There is only one episode left of this season of The Rings of Power. What fresh hell awaits? John predicts that Glug will betray Adar in a sort of Wormtongue/Saruman move; I wonder if Galadriel will have to barter the Nine Rings to get Nenya back. We shall see. The only thing that is sure is that it will not be good, “when so much bad has happened.” 

Dame Maggie Smith

 

Dame Margaret Natalie Smith CH DBE (28 December 1934 − 27 September 2024) was a British actress. Known for her wit in both comedic and dramatic roles, she had an extensive career on stage and screen over seven decades and was one of Britain's most recognisable and prolific actresses. She received numerous accolades, including two Academy Awards, five BAFTA Awards, four Emmy Awards, three Golden Globe Awards and a Tony Award, as well as nominations for six Laurence Olivier Awards. Smith was one of the few performers to earn the Triple Crown of Acting – Wikipedia

I would be remiss if I did not take some time to note the passing of Dame Maggie Smith at the age of 89 and to add my small dandelion to the heaps of tributes that are being piled on her at her passing. Her image began as an approachable, unconventionally pretty, spirited young lady, transitioning into a classy, gracefully aging grand lady with perhaps a sense of adventure, and finally blossoming into a sometimes haughty, sometimes warm grande dame; all these are underlined with a feeling of common humanity. These are, of course, generalizations. Her real acting range was far greater. The list of her roles is extensive, but here are the ones I have seen, with an asterisk* next to those I actually own.

The V. I. P.’s (1963)* Miss Mead

The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie (1969) Jean Brodie

Travels with My Aunt (1972) Aunt Augusta

Murder by Death (1976)* Dora Charleston

Death on the Nile (1979) Miss Bowers

Clash of the Titans (1981)* Thetis

Evil Under the Sun (1982) Daphne Castle

The Missionary (1982) Lady Isabel Ames

A Private Function (1984) Joyce Chilvers

Hook (1991) Granny Wendy

The Secret Garden (1993)* Mrs. Medlock

David Copperfield (1999) Betsy Trotwood

Harry Potter (2001 – 2011)* Professor McGonagall

Gosford Park (2001) Constance Trentham

From Time to Time (2010)* Mrs. Oldknow

Nanny McPhee Returns (2010)* Mrs. Docherty

As you can see, she already an established presence in Fantasy films (which I consider within my bailiwick) but her run as Professor McGonagall through the  Harry Potter movies (persisted with even through a bout with cancer) has firmly cemented her image there.

There are other shows and films she will be widely remembered for, from the Dowager Countess in Downton Abbey to the Mother Superior in Sister Act (which I can only attribute to the British theatre tradition of ‘it’s a paycheck; just keep acting’). As Christopher Lee said, “Every actor has to make terrible films from time to time, but the trick is never to be terrible in them”. I have never seen her in a role she did not elevate.

Friday Fiction: There Is A Season (Part Two)

 

Parkis was a wiry man of forty or so, just a little shorter than Blake. His hawklike nose and thin lips always reminded the young agent of the unwrapped mummy of Ramses the Second. He set down a last box he was removing from a lower shelf and plopped down into a kitchen chair.

“Thank God you’ve come,” he puffed. “I just about needed a break.” He ripped off some nearby paper towels and mopped his dripping face.

“Sorry to interrupt you when you were busy, Mr. Parkis.”

“Don’t be.” Parkis gestured to another chair. “What can I do you for, Blake?”

“Nothing really, I guess. Just feeling antsy. Beating the bounds.” He sat down. The towering boxes were now at eye level. He couldn’t help but read their labels. “I never took you to be a survivalist, Kurt. What’s with all the supplies?”

Parkis shook his head, waving the hand with the towels dismissively.

“I’m not really, though I do have enough MREs to last me to 2021. And a back-up generator, and plenty of ammunition. But that’s all for emergencies. Be prepared, that’s my motto.”

“Seems to me that you’re prepared enough for World War Three and the collapse of Western civilization. What’s the deal?”

The wiry little man was finally catching his breath.

“Tell you what, son, get us a couple of Cokes out of the fridge there and I’ll tell you what happened to this poor old dude that left him the neurosis-ridden wreck you see before you.”

Blake grinned.

“I fear thee, Ancient Mariner. I fear thy glittering eye.” He got up and tugged the avocado-colored refrigerator open, withdrawing two clanking cold bottles. Parkis twisted the bottlecap off his and took two deep swigs, before he sighed and began his tale.

“It was 1978, a year you prolly can’t even imagine now. I was nine years old, and my family had been Jehovah’s Witnesses since ‘71.  Think of a childhood without Christmases and birthday parties. I think my dad only went along with it because it was so cheap. Well, that, and to humor my Mom.

“My Mom had left her hometown to come live in my Dad’s hometown, thirty miles away from any old friends or family she had known. Dad’s family was only slowly warming up to her. Imagine her delight when a kind stranger came to her door who seemed only interested in being her friend. Mom was just the sort of lonely pigeon the JW’s were looking for. If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.

“Not that I’m blaming Serena Luft for what she did. She was a genuinely friendly lady who had been caught in the same coils as Mom was and was passing it along, as these infections tend to play out. At the time it seemed perfectly normal, even heroic in a way. But I was a little kid. I had no frame of reference. What Mom said was right.

“So our lives went on, with the embarrassment of going house to house peddling grotty little magazines and with meetings to regurgitate our ‘studies’ three times a week. But then 1978 rolled around.

“1978 was one of those years that the Organizing Body had targeted for the start of the Great Tribulation, the beginning of the end of the world. It wasn’t the first such boondoggle that they’d had, and it wouldn’t be the last. Everybody had crammed into the Kingdom Hall that night, ready for anybody who was a member of the hundred and forty-four thousand chosen ones to be wafted up to heaven. When the evening passed and nothing had happened, we were all a little disappointed.”

“Now is the time, perish the earth,” Blake intoned, quoting an old comedy sketch. He smiled. “Never mind, lads. Same time tomorrow. We must get a winner one day.”

Parkis frowned.

“It wasn’t funny to us at the time. Anybody who wasn’t a chosen one had to spend the next seven years of hell on earth, smiling faithfully through plagues, famine, and persecution until we were deemed worthy of rescue. Anyway, the point was, to be prepared for this time of trial Mom had put aside a box of canned goods – one little box to last a family of nine for seven years.

“As it was, we ended up eating the whole thing in one night during a real disaster, the flood in ’81. But by that time, we had drifted out of the JW’s, as they had not quite lived up to what Mom had expected. They have a lot of turnover that way, even without the regular apocalyptic snafus; they tend not to talk about such things. They prefer members to look forward to things that might be, unburdened by their record of things that have been.”

He took another drink and waved his hand around at the boxes.

“Anyway, the only thing I took away from all that trauma was the desirability of being ‘disaster ready.’ Every year I buy a new year’s worth of supplies and haul the oldest off to some soup kitchen or homeless center or other. You caught me in the middle of my yearly inventory.” He grinned. “Kind of like a squirrel, rotating his nuts.”

Blake was curious.

“Have you ever had to use any?”

“Oh, from time to time. Not a whole lot. But I tell you, there have been times, especially when some President has been juggling around with foreign policy, when it’s been a great comfort knowing it’s there. Say, would you like a box of …” he squinted his eyes at a label. “Dehydrated beef stroganoff?”

Blake laughed.

“No, thank you!” He drained the last of his Coke. “Donate it to a worthier cause." He got to his feet. "Well, if you don’t have anything … extranatural going on, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

“Drop by any time.” Parkis stood up, stretching. “I suppose I got one other bit of fallout from my time in the JWs. They had no recourse when something extranatural happened to them.  Lots of other people use crosses and holy water, and sometimes it helps, depending on what’s going on. JWs got none of that. If something evil is attacking you, that’s your fault for not being pious enough, according to them. Every time I help somebody out through the Bureau, I prove ‘em wrong.” He sighed. “ You’ve got one thing right about that Ancient Mariner stuff. It does help to talk about it.”

Notes

Well, I'd hoped to be finished today, but there is at least one more part of this story planned. Though I knew what I was going to write all week, I only sat down to it this morning. It probably needs to sit a while and get some rewrites.

Herlathing: My Poetry

 

HERLATHING

 

I walked alone in an autumn wood

Along many a twisted way,

And my thoughts as on I wandered

Like the woods were old and gray.

 

The sky was gray like an iron helm

And the earth was gray with leaves

And a little wind like a dying breath

Stirred the branches with unease.

 

There was a smell in the fading woods

Of earth and smoke and rain.

All at once there came the sound of hooves

Pounding the forest lane.

 

Faster and louder down the path

They drew near where I stood,

But never a steed or rider

Came down the lane in the wood.

 

Nearer and nearer the hoof-beats drew

And I stood aside in wonder.

The sound galloped past and a lightning flash

Split the wood with thunder.

 

Down poured the tempest with roaring wind

And lashed the trees with rain.

I fell to my knees on the forest floor

And groveled there in vain.

 

As quick as it came, the storm passed on

And I rose to my feet in dread.

Through the wind-struck woods now dark as night

I rose and away I fled,

 

Thinking with fear not of the storm.

I ran back up the path

In fright of the unseen thing that flew

Before the lightning's wrath.

Notes

Herlathing is another term for a supernatural Wild Hunt, a rout said to be led by various characters in various places, from Odin to Herne the Hunter. The name comes in this instance from King Herla, a 'fairy' king; he may be the origin of the term 'harlequin'and is perhaps related to the so-called 'Erl King.'.  

Wideo Wednesday: Fantasy is Fun

 

Substitutionary Locomotion 

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

With a Flair

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8V5OrGOeTRw

Higitus Figitus

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uimyetd3PNo

Zap the World

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

Stonehenge

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N4NTXWz4cMw

The Best Song in the World

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xy5S8s6rTH0

Diggy Diggy Hole

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytWz0qVvBZ0

The Age of Magic

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsOeHuevNMk&list=PLrfu1mNqTP1al7W7m7jDTQnDFd_DK_Y5x&index=40

Fantasy is fun and funny, both funny ‘ha-ha’ and funny ‘peculiar’; this is often what first draws people, when children, to the genre. One cannot deny the humor of, say, The Hobbit. It is carried over into the much more serious The Lord of the Rings, especially around the hobbits, who can be seen as a link between more modern attitudes and the legendary world in which they move; the dissonance of which provides a more subtle humor, as well as a bridge between outlooks.  

Especially when one is a child, the idea of magic, where wishing meets reality and wishing wins for once, is quite appealing, an idea that makes the heart light. People who mistake Fantasy for so-called real life ‘Magik’ find that their search ends in blasphemy, loveless eroticism, animal sacrifice, hardness of heart, and futility. They have not comprehended where the true power of Fantasy lies and are trying to use it to scrub their portholes. The use of Fantasy is to ease our burdens inside and help us to bear them with hope.

But young kids (and kids at heart) know how to use Fantasy instinctively, even satirically, deprecatingly, to help take off the curse of the label of ‘Escapism’ while still tapping somehow into the heart of the thing. I find ‘fantasists’ like George R. R. Martin are not writing real Fantasy, just books with dragons, magic, and knights. There is an essential spirit lacking. Perhaps it is fun.

The Lord of the Rings: The Passing of the Grey Company (Part One)

The Tale

We return to the time and place Gandalf and Pippin parted with Merry. The hobbit joins Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas. They are all ready to ride. They will go with King Theoden to Edoras, who, after the Nazgul sighting, wants to leave right away under the cover of night to oversee the muster of the Riders of Rohan to go to the aid of Minas Tirith. But he is not sure if that is his road.

Legolas and Gimli declare that they will go with him wherever his way takes him, and Merry begs to go along too. He doesn’t want to be left behind like baggage. Aragorn thinks he will be safer with the Riders. Merry recalls he did promise to tell the King all about the Shire. Aragorn thinks it may be long before Theoden sits in peace in his house to listen to tales.

The company departs; twenty four horses, with Legolas and Gimli riding double on Arod and Aragorn and Merry on Hasufel. The King’s Company have not ridden far past the Fords of Isen when they hear a band of horsemen approaching. Theoden calls a halt and they wait. Aragorn dismounts and stands at the King’s side. Merry feels more like baggage than ever. If there is a fight, what can he do? He can’t flee heedlessly into the wild fields, to be lost again. ‘He drew his sword and tightened his belt.’

They can see dark shapes approaching in the moonlight, horses and riders, spears glinting, uncountable in the dim light but no less than their own company. When they are fifty paces away, Eomer calls for them to halt and asks who rides in Rohan? The pursuers halt, and one man comes forward, hand held open in token of peace. Rohan, did he say? That is good news indeed. They have been looking for Rohan.

Well, you’ve found it, Eomer replies. But none ride here except by King Theoden’s leave. Who are you? ‘Halbarad Dunadan, Ranger of the North I am.’ They are seeking Aragorn, son of Arathorn. They heard he was in Rohan. Aragorn joyfully cries that he has found him. He rushes forward and embraces the newcomer. This is a welcome if unexpected surprise!

Merry is relieved. Not need to die defending the King yet. He had feared some last trick of Saruman. He sheathes his sword.

Aragorn introduces them as kinsmen of his from the North. Halbarad says there are thirty with him, all that could be gathered quickly, but also the sons of Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir ride with them. All are here to answer his summons.

Aragorn replies he sent no summons, except in thought, wishing they were here. He asks Theoden if they may ride with his company, and Theoden gladly agrees. If these kinsmen are anything like Aragorn, they will be ‘a strength that cannot be counted by heads.’

As they ride together, Elrohir (Elrond’s son) tells Aragorn that his father sends this word of advice: ‘The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead.’ Aragorn replies that he’ll really need haste before he takes that road. They will not speak more of it under the open sky.

Aragorn asks Halbarad what he is bearing. It is a tall staff with a furled black cloth bound with many thongs. It comes with a message from Arwen, Lady of Rivendell, Elrond’s daughter. ‘The days now are short. Either our hope cometh, or all hope’s end. Therefore I send thee what I have made for you. Fare well, Elfstone!’ Aragorn now knows what it is. He asks Halbarad to hold it for him for a while yet. ‘And he turned and looked away to the North under the great stars, and then he fell silent and spoke no more while the night’s journey lasted.’

Bits and Bobs

The Grey Company is of course the name given to Halbarad, the Dunadan Rangers, and the sons of Elrond, cloaked in Elven-grey, as they ride to Aragorn’s aid. Halbarad might mean (hal high + barad tower) in Sindarin. Elladan means (el elf + adan man), referring to his mixed heritage through Elrond to Earendil; Elrohir also means (el elf+ rohir knight, man); the brothers were twins, just like their father Elrond (who chose to be Elven) and his twin Elros (who chose to be mortal), first King of Numenor. This makes them distant relatives to Aragorn. They too will have the choice whether to remain Elven or to be human.

Aragorn says he sent no summons; who actually called the Grey Company will be revealed shortly. The Paths of the Dead are mentioned as a possibility; such a name of ill-omen is not good to speak ‘under the open sky.’

Merry begins his journey towards courage to stand in battle; he has been courageous before, but not in this particular way. We are reminded of Arwen, not mentioned since Rivendell; she will come to play an increasingly obvious part in Aragorn’s path of destiny, not least by inspiration. Arwen calls him Elf-stone, ‘Elessar’, which will become his kingly name, after the green and silver brooch Galadriel gave him in Lothlorien.

Arwen’s use of ‘Fare well!’ as two words reminds us of the origin of the word ‘farewell’, not simply as a way of saying goodbye, but as a wish that one will travel (fare’) safely (‘well’) and to a purpose.

Into the Archive: A Comedy of Injustice

I suppose this one is really on me: on my greed, my folly, and my haste. This will make the fourth copy of Jurgen I have bought.

The first was the terrible paperback by a publisher that thought of it as an erotic classic; the second was a cheap Dover reprint (though it came with all of Frank C. Pape’s illustrations); and then there was the rather plain volume from the Storisende edition. I came across this copy on eBay while I was researching prices for Cabell books, and it caught my attention. Fifty dollars? That was much cheaper than the $100 that it had been going for. Illustrated? Who could that be by, other than the great Frank C. Pape himself?

Well, it could be by Ray F. Coyle, that’s who, and if I had slowed down a bit and done a little more research I might have realized it. Ray Coyle was a short-lived (1885 – 1924) artist whose work in pen and ink has been compared to Aubrey Beardsley. Not a style I’m particularly fond of. Only when I have one of those black hardcovers by McBride with pictures by Frank C. Pape can I finally stop buying Jurgen.

The Real McCoy (Not McCoyle)

It’s not like it’s even my favorite Cabell (that would be The Silver Stallion), nor do I reread it often. Although it might be Cabell’s most famous book, its reputation is, indeed, a little embarrassing.

Also arriving today was the copy of The Monk by Matthew G. Lewis that I had been considering. A little battered, but inexpensive and serviceable; it only needed a little care to make it presentable.

But the gem of the day must be Tiffany Aching’s Guide to Being a Witch. Put together by Terry Pratchett’s daughter Rhianna and Gabrielle Kent, an author of juvenile fantasy, and copiously illustrated by Paul Kidby, it’s a beautiful little book in both a slipcase and a book jacket. I’m wondering exactly where it fits on Terry Pratchett’s dictum ‘no more Discworld when I’m gone’; it seems to be a kind of a gathering of everything he wrote about Witches on the Discworld compiled into a sort of a scrapbook, just put together a little more seamlessly into the form of, well, a written guide (rather than a novel or a story) by one of the characters within that world. I imagine there must be some kind of new writing not by Terry to segue everything together. “I could not wish it undone, the issue of it being so proper.” Or at least, proper looking. It’s surprising to realize Terry Pratchett has been gone for almost a decade.

September 24: A New Haiku for Fall

 

Blissful and dying,

Old cicadas are singing:

‘Serene, serene.’

Diary 2019: Seasons Change

9/21/2019: Up at 6 AM and wrote down 2 dreams. Fed Socks; he looks mankier than ever and is dropping clumps of fur. I'm afraid he can't have long, and what time he's got won't be pleasant for either of us. Today would be the best day for writing. I don't have to go anywhere and have plenty of food. I could finish the chapter. Let's see what happens. A rainy, even stormy day predicted.

So I showered, dressed, and did morning devotions (by which I mean prayers and reading the catechism), and opened the bathroom window and door. Swept house. Played WWF and watched Disney shows. Researched the lyrics for the Toymaker's Song in Disney's Babes in Toyland and finally after fifty years know what it says. At 10:30 AM I made ramen with crackers. It rained a bit. Socks is out in the house [by which I meant not penned up in the bathroom]; I noticed he had what looked like blood running out of his eye so I cleaned that up. For the first time in months, with the house open, I can smell the earth and trees, and really hear the crickets and birds. I just looked out the door at 11:15 AM and saw at least 4 hummingirds at the back porch feeder. I really do not feel like writing just yet. There is a tinge of mortality in the air, melancholy but not sad; for everything there is a season.

Noonish Andy came in and said I could have the rest of the chicken salad and the bananas. He was going to mow down in the bottomlands. I ate the chicken with crackers, then got Socks some more cat food. Kam called me to grass the dogs at 5 PM as S&A were off to see a movie.  Had 5 chicken planks and ramen for supper. Dipped in and out of "Logan", and "13 Ghosts" is on tonight. Finished my Rosary at 7:30 PM. No writing at all today, instead took it easy.

 

9/22/2019: Alarm rang at 6 AM, after a night at the Dream Wars; I set it again for 6:30, but got up at 6:20. Straightened the house, got dressed, and out the door by 7 AM, forgetting to cut my nails and write down a card for Gloria if she still wanted to get those shoes over. Went to church, and spent a little time worrying about if I should go to the restroom, but that never happened. A good service. I actually sang loud enough that I could hear my own voice, and didn't hide behind a pillar. Today is the harvest festival. Heard the news that the bell tower was struck by lightning during the storms, and, after being fixed for only 2 weeks, are out of order again. Hopefully it is only the electrical system, which can be fixed without too much trouble. Left out the front door today and shook hands with Fr. Greg. Found an L-wrench on the road on my way over. Got in and triumphantly went to the restroom without an accident. Today is also Bilbo and Frodo's Birthday.

Made my second box of stuffing and ate the rest of my chicken planks with creamy pepper sauce. A little after 12 noon Andy came around and said that Gloria was here. I gave her the candle[?] and took the bag of shoes (also some shirts). When I took them in I saw right away that the shoes were too small. A couple of the shirts look wearable.  Took a nap until almost 3 PM. What do I do with these shoes now? Maybe the shop near Dragons Loot.

This weekend is really going by fast. Just as I was finishing my ramen for supper (7 PM), Andy brings me out 2 leftover Whataburgers (about 1/3 of each) and 2 halves of Quizno sandwiches with about a bite taken out of each. Lovely, but I'm already a bit full. It was raining as well; I think he came out in the only 5 minutes it was actually raining today.

Today my pop culture intake consisted of The Nolstalgia Critic's comparison of The Ten Commandments vs. The Prince of Egypt, slices of Joseph: King of Dreams, Miriam Margoyles on The Graham Norton Show, Episode 1 of Vicious, Ben Shapiro Sunday Special with Kennedy (MTV). No football, no Emmy's. Laid down at about 9 PM, prayed my rosary, then off to sleep.

 

9/23/2019: Up at 6 AM, back from a bout of the Autumnal Dream Wars. Awoke with the idea that all my life I've been a skimmer, not really totally engaged with anything. Not writing, not faith, not any job, not seeking a mate. My life has been getting a meal in a comfy corner, diverting my attention, and basically waiting for it all to end while I play my life by ear. This is a dark, seasonal thought. I have made commitments enough to get a book published (but have you pushed it enough? comes the dark whisper) and join the Church (are you only going through the motions? the whisperer asks. Where are the big FEELINGS?) Shut up, I answer. I've got a Monday to face. There is much to do.

Got dressed, did my devotions, and at 9 AM started the wash; did another load after that of the shirts Gloria gave me. Made the chicken salad for S&A, then cut Kamerom apples. Listened to GGACP [Gilbert Gottfried's Amazing Colossal Podcat]. At 10 AM went and got Kameron up and out the door. He gave me his bean, bacon, and cheese taco. At noon changed loads and had my ramen with the chicken broth and bread. Spent the afternoon with YouTube shows and turned on the AC at 1 PM. Made the broccoli salad and called S when I found there was no cheddar cheese.

Socks is looking VERY poorly and slow today, especially by evening. I fear he is on his way out. My right leg has been very painful today as well. At 4 I grassed the Chihuahuas and fed the outside cats, then made supper (salmon pinwheels and couscous). Took my couscous in and mixed it with ramen. Waited until almost 7 PM for S&A to get here with the cheese. Watched "Miss Hokusai" on Netflix. Went in and cleaned up at 8 PM. Put Socks up for the night and finished the movie. Part of today has been a memory quest about kochkaese, or 'cook cheese'. Time for a rosary, then bed.

But before I could go to bed, Socks died. He had been having a rickety evening laying on the couch; I noticed he had passed some liquid (peepee? drool? stomach stuff?) so I cleaned it up and moved him into the bathroom on a towel. While I was praying the Rosary (and during my first decade, which was with the intention - with the help of Sts. Francis and Gertrude - for, if not healing, and least an easeful passing for him) he made a little call. I went in the bathroom and he seemed to be going out. He had made one last poop on the towel. I cleaned it up and moved him and the towel into the shower. When I checked on him about 30 minutes later he was gone.

Into the Archive: Treasures New and Old

 

The Collected Poems of J. R. R. Tolkien, Three Volumes Slipcased, Vol. I 1910 - 1919, Vol. II 1919 – 1931, Vol. III 1931 – 1967, Edited by Christina Scull and Wayne G. Hammond (William Morrow, An Imprint of Harper Collins, 2024)

I had ordered this at the beginning of September, knowing that I must have it. It arrived today, two days early; quite fitting as it is the 87^th anniversary of the first publication of The Hobbit. Tomorrow is so-called Hobbit Day, Bilbo and Frodo’s Birthday, dedicated to celebrations and reading Tolkien. I know what I shall be reading.

The Collected Poems is just such a book as I have dreamed of since middle school, only much more complete. Then I could only imagine the poetry from The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Adventures of Tom Bombadil; these volumes have much more. Not only are there various variants of poems that have already been published, there are seventy poems that have never been printed before. Copiously curated by Christina Scull and Wayne G. Hammond, a team of Tolkien scholars known for their erudition. The books themselves are almost elvishly beautiful, with silver-blue spines and creamy white covers, each decorated by one of Tolkien’s own ornate drawings of stylized trees. Each has a blue ribbon bookmark. The first volume is 445 pages, the second is 976 pages, and the third is a whopping 1501 pages. They have no individual dust jackets; the slipcase protects them all. I almost fear to handle them with mortal hands, but that’s the kind I’m equipped with.

I have only just dipped a toe in so far; I do not even know if they include the so-called Long Lays of Beleriand, the complex and lengthy poems that tell the stories of Beren and Luthien and the Children of Hurin. I look forward to many fine hours of finding out. ‘Tis the season … for Tolkien.

Update: I just realized that Volume I seems so short because it has an Introduction and a Chronolgy that is XCI (91) pages long before the actual poems and Arabic numbering began. That makes it closer to 546 pages long.

I should include here that I also already got The Fantasy Book by Franz Rottensteiner (Colliers, 1978) in the regular mail today. It was very nostalgic to riffle through it again. It certainly brought back memories of high school. But I always thought that the cover was rather unfortunate.

Just What the Doctor Ordered

Samuel Johnson and Peter Ustinov have always been two enthusiasms of mine, as a quick search of this blog will show. Imagine my delight this morning to find, completely by accident, an episode of Omnibus, broken into eight parts (each about 10 minutes long), hosted by Alistair Cooke, which was an adaptation of The Life of Samuel Johnson, featuring Peter Ustinov in his 1957 television premiere. He won an Emmy for this performance. I can think of no better wedding of actor and subject; I cannot believe I never thought of the possibilty myself. 

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLG9HnbiEj7sXqf28oSCYh-wgf6X1fDClv