Friday Foolishness

 

Well, I was out on an early morning quest today, a serious quest, to ride the bus to Walmart and get a new glucometer, a bathroom scale, and some new tips for my canes. But while I was there I had lots of time until the next bus, and so of course I looked at all the action figures and the collectibles in the Entertainment section. And that's where I found this.

Now I had been looking at my Amazon wish list yesterday, seeing what I might get for my monthly entertainment expenditure, and feeling no compulsion to buy anything, book or DVD (certainly not at those prices). But now I thought here was something I must get, or forever regret the lost opportunity.

Now I have never watched a single episode of Murder, She Wrote. But to have a figure of Angela Lansbury, of Miss Price herself ... well, I couldn't pass that by, even if she had a kind of goofy expression. The company is Toony TV (NECA), so the sculpt is a little caricaturish. But having another action figure of an old lady ... it seems so deliciously inimicable (certainly rare) to the whole action figure oeuvre, which mainly concentrates on super heroes. 

So for $15.95 Angela goes into the Hoard (Hoard for Toys, Archive for Books). Whether or not I will ever open the package is a topic for some debate. I grow old, I grow old ... but not any more sensible.

Ollie's Owl

 

About a month ago or so, I gave my great-nephew Ollie an old Happy Meal toy from Bambi, the Great Owl. The other day, Kaitlyn sent me this picture with this comment: "Ollie sets this owl down in random parts of the house and sometimes I find him just sitting there staring at me. LOL" 

"Sure, I Bought a Code and Two Pair of Plans": Into the Archive

 

The Obesity Code, by Jason Fung, MD

Bought on the advice of one of my doctors; I got my copy for only $6, including shipping. I'm usually pretty skeptical about diet books. I've seen too many piles of them on sale at garage sales. I've certainly never expended any money on them. From everything I've heard, the only sure way to lose weight is to eat less and exercise. But the doctor advised this one. Now, I don't think doctors have any supernatural insight about these things.  But there were two things that make me more hopeful about this effort. One was that a casual flip led me to a quote saying basically,  all diets work and all diets fail. On any diet you'll lose weight at first, and then you'll hit a plateau. Deficit eating (of healthy and monitored food of course), in other words, fasting, will logically lead to weight loss. The other is that Jimmy Akin has been advising just such a fasting diet to visible results. 

Of course, I still have to read the thing, and then apply its' advice. And it's just the sort of reading that sends me to sleep. But I'm willing to give it a whirl.  "His name is Fung, Dr. Fung! Capital F, little u, little n, little g! Dr. Fung!"

P.S. I'm not counting this as my monthly book.

Well, Bless My Ash

I’ve been interested in the career of ‘William Ashbless’ since at least the last years of high school; I remember him being quoted in The Elfin Ship by James P. Blaylock. I learned much more about him, first in Blaylock’s The Digging Leviathan (1984) and then in The Anubis Gates (1983) by Tim Powers. They had created Ashbless in their college years in the early 70’s and had unwittingly had him as a major character in their novels, only finding it out when their editor pointed it out to them. Ashbless has appeared in various degrees in more of their works; Tim Powers in fact tries to mention him in one form or another in all of his books (sometimes as Ceniza-Bendiga) as a form of good luck charm.

I’ve been trying to get all of ‘Ashbless’s’ published works, and I have On Pirates, The William Ashbless Memorial Cookbook, and Pilot Light. But one item has eluded my grasp: Offering the Bicentennial Edition of the Complete Twelve Hours of the Night: 1785–1985, a prospectus for a non-existent collection of Ashbless poetry, published by Cheap Street Press in 1985. It is a tiny sliver of a thing, just a cover and a single sheet of paper, and only 100 copies, printed up as a joke and handed out for free at the 1985 World Fantasy Convention. I’ve seen copies of it going out now for in excess of $200, way out of my price range, especially for such a slight thing.

Still, I always kept looking around for a copy I could afford, so curious was I about the work. Imagine my surprise when I found it sold at an auction for $50. It was gone, of course, but there were pictures of it, clear as a bell, at least the poem part of it. At last, I could at least read it. I quickly downloaded the pictures and transcribed the lines for easy reading. Then I transcribed the text describing the proposed book, the description itself an interesting fiction. This was a little more difficult as it was printed on dark, sometimes folded, pages. But eventually I had the whole thing, more or less.

And now I faced a quandary. I wanted to post the thing, to share it with anybody who might be in my same position. After all, it had already been published, as it were, on the auction website. It wasn’t the complete thing; there were still unguessable (well, kind of guessable) lacunae in the text. And the value didn’t completely reside in the words, but mostly in the artefact itself, with its history and provenance, signed by both authors and William Ashbless himself (Powers and Blaylock both signing one part of his name). To own such a thing people would still need to buy it. I don’t think I’ll be doing any harm to any sellers, and certainly none to the authors, I hope; the pamphlets have long since passed out of their profit-grasp, though I’m sure they still have the copyright. If any one asks me, I will certainly remove it. Well, anyway, here it is, as far as I can tell.

The Twelve Hours of the Night

 

"Yonder the ebon sails approach, in sight

Of hells made brighter by comparison;

Under this dead men’s sky the sun god’s boat

Rocks on the tide that surges blackly from

Eternity, and ebbs dawnward despite

Rude parliaments of ghosts upon the shore

Intent on begging passage … What dread thing

Ghastly in form, is this, though, rising up

Hideous to behold, from this necrotic stream?

“Take me hence!’ cries Osiris, when the dire

Insatiable serpent lifts its ovoid head –

No more shall these shadows show obedience,

Though, to this ungerminating king,

Howe’er unhappily he wave his parts.

Even as he cries, in fact, Apep the snake

Grabs him upon the fundament; bites it

Right off his body, then spits it aside.

“Oh no!” Osiris does complain, and then

Osiris is himself spat to the shore.

Vanquished for now, grievous asunder bit,

Evolving piecemeal, stoic Osiris lies

Knowing it all before – and now content,

Implacable through this undignified

Division, to await reassembly."

-William Ashbless

 

ANNOUNCING

"In late December of this year the [International William Ashbless] Society will publish the first complete [version of The Twelve Hours] of the Night, to commemorate the [200^th anniversary of its author’s] birth. This historically important volume [has been anxiously anticipated by] scholars and reviewers ever since its announcement [about 4 words, including ‘at’?] the Society’s annual gathering in London.

ABOUT THE BOOK

"This deluxe edition will include an introduction [----------] and [--- --] annotations by the noted historian and Ashbless [expert William Hastings]. Besides being a published poet himself, [he is chairman of The] Eleventh Hour, the Los Angeles chapter [of IWAS]. [This is an excerpt] from his insightful introduction:

"Lord Byron once described the time [minor Romantic poet] [Ash]bless as “a damned improbable character”, [and the details of] Ashbless’ life are hard to establish. It [----------] born somewhere west of the Blue Ridge [ -----------] Craig County Virginia, in late 1785, and [in 1810 moved to England] where he spent most of the rest of his life. In 1811 he married Jacqueline Tichy, who died in 1839; Ashbless [was killed in 1846], presumably by some enemy out of his [colorful past]. Among [-----] his obscure works are The Twelve Hours of the Night. [3 words]

An Account of London Philosophers, and its companion volumes An Account of London Madmen and An Account of London Scientists. There is some circumstantial evidence that portions of these last [works] were actually written after his death, and Stevenson, in a letter to Henry James, cites Mayhew as a possible collaborator. His reasoning is [---in] at best.

"Included in this version will be the notorious “suppressed two-dozen [lines]” Hazlitt refers to in his essay “Two Inconsequential Poets.” First published in the PMLA in 1940, these are the flimsy basis of scholar Brendan Doyle’s contention that the science fiction writer Robert A. Heinlein may have borrowed from The Twelve Hours of the Night to [con]struct his famous short story “By His Bootstraps.” Brendan Doyle disappeared [under?] mysterious circumstances in England in 1983, though, and whatever basis he had for this theory seems to have disappeared with him.

"As a footnote, and flying in the face of common sense and of the reliable [---] account of Ashbless’ death in the Woolwich Marshes in [1846], there surfaced in Los Angeles, California, between 1935 and 1940, a [po]et named, preposterously, William Ashbless, who had clinging to [him] bits and pieces of evidence that suggested that he was Ashbless the Ro[mantic] poet, prodigiously old. A founding member of the Cahuenga [poets? school? school of poets?], his own literary reputation is, of course, fairly solidly established, [---]ly on the strength of his Amazon Moon sonnets and his long im[pene?]trable Rippling England Bleeds. He disappeared beneath the city [-- Rancho? Pa]los Verdes twenty years ago after a series of half understood misadventures.

"The notion of the two men being one and the same is, of course, [---]ess, as almost certainly, is the rumor that this false Ashbless has [resur]faced, and that a collection of recent poems is to be published in [the P]aris Review next year."

                             William Hastings, The Maze Shed

                             Eagle Rock, California May, 1985

A DESCRIPTION

"The definitive edition will be printed in hand set types upon pure linen paper handmade in France especially for the IWAS edition of The Twelve Hours of the Night. This volume will be bound in three-quarter levant with vellum over boards and vellum doublures. The books will be encapsulated in handcrafted mahogany drop-back folding boxes. The binding was designed and executed by world renowned binder Rummondo Hardcase whose fine bindings have been exhibited in the Louvre.

"There will be 100 copies of The Twelve Hours of the Night printed of which 90 copies are available to the public for L500.00. Remittance or inquiries should be directed to the nearest IWAS society chapter.

"Further inquiries may be made of the nearest chapter or branch of the International William Ashbless Society. I-W-A-S London/Los Angeles/Sydney. Printed in London."

Here is an interesting talk that goes into the Ashbless phenomenon in more detail; his character seems to have taken on a life of its own, spreading to other authors and works. I hope someday Powers and Blaylock will publish a complete collection of their work as Ashbless, including their student work. I hope it will be before either passes away, so 'Ashbless' has another chance to sign another book.

 

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

The Lord of the Rings: The Muster of Rohan (Part Four)

The Tale

The company come to the King’s pavilion; a small tent for Merry has been pitched next to it. The Hobbit is forgotten and left to himself in the general business of settling into camp. As dark as the night becomes, the shadows of the Dwimorberg, the Haunted Mountain, are darker still. Merry wonders about the name he has heard spoken.

‘The Paths of the Dead? What does it all this mean? They have all left me now. They have all gone to some doom: Gandalf and Pippin to war in the East; and Sam and Frodo to Mordor; and Strider and Legolas and Gimli to the Paths of the Dead.’ Among these gloomy thoughts he thinks (very Hobbit-like) that he is very hungry and wants something to eat, but he is suddenly summoned to Theoden’s tent, to serve as squire at the King’s meal.

In the tent a space with a small table is curtained off, and there Theoden, Eomer, Eowyn, and Dunhere sit. Merry waits next to the King’s stool, ready to serve, but Theoden is deep in thought. Finally he looks up, smiles, and bids the hobbit sit next to him as his guest, and maybe lighten his heart with tales.

But they all sit and eat and drink quietly, calling for no tale. Their hearts seem heavy. At last Merry musters the courage to ask the question that has been plaguing him: what are the Paths of the Dead? Where has Aragorn gone?

Theoden can only sigh. At last Eomer answers. Merry himself has walked on the first steps of the Paths of the Dead. ‘Nay, I speak no words of ill-omen!’ The road they have climbed is the approach to the door to the paths, away there in the Dimholt Woods. What lies beyond no man knows. That’s where Aragorn has gone.

Theoden speaks. No man really knows where it leads, but there are ancient legends. Tales say the Door leads beneath the mountains to some forgotten end. But no one has ever searched for them, except one. Long ago, when Meduseld was first built, Brego, the King then, held a great feast to hallow the Hall. Baldor, his son, made a rash vow (there was probably a lot of drinking) to pass the Door of the Dead. He did so a year later and was never seen again, never became king after his father.

Folk say the Dead Men out of the Dark Years guard the way and let no living man pass. But they themselves come out sometime, riding down the stony road like shadows, at times ‘of great unquiet and coming death.’

Eowyn says in a low voice that in the moonless lights a little while ago ‘a great host in strange array' passed by in Harrowdale. Nobody knew where they came from, but they went up the road and vanished into the hill, ‘as if they went to keep a tryst.’ Merry asks why Aragorn would take such a way, but Eomer says if he hasn’t spoken to Merry about this, no living person can guess. Eowyn says that he looked older than when first she saw him, grimmer and older. ‘Fey I thought him, and like one that the Dead call.’

Theoden notices that his niece seems to need more comfort about the fate of this ‘guest.’ Aragorn is a kingly man of high destiny. There is another tale of when the Eorlingas first came to the country from the North, Brego and Baldor came up the Stair to the Door in search of a strong place for times of refuge. At the Door they found an old man sitting. He seemed like he had been tall and kingly once, but now as withered as an old stone. They thought he was dead, but when they tried to pass him into the Door, he spoke in a voice that seemed to come out of the ground.

“The way is shut … It was made by those who are Dead, and the Dead keep it, until the time comes. The way is shut.’ Baldor asks when that will be, but ‘the old man died in that hour and fell upon his face’. No other word have they heard about the ‘dwellers’ since that time. But maybe the time has come at last, and Aragorn may pass.

But how can anyone know if the time has come, unless he dare the Paths, asks Eomer. And he himself wouldn’t try it if all the hosts of Mordor were before him, and he were alone with nowhere else to go. Alas for Aragorn, that such a mood should take him; isn’t there enough war in the land and evil things abroad in the world without seeking them under the earth?

‘He paused, for at that moment there was a noise outside, a man’s voice crying the name of Theoden, and a challenge of the guard.’

Notes

Brego (‘ruler’) was the son of Eorl (‘earl’) and the second King of Rohan. Baldor recalls Balder, the doomed son of Odin in Norse mythology. It is Baldor’s skeleton Aragorn finds on the Paths of the Dead; his legs have apparently been broken by the ghosts so he could not escape. Brego was succeeded by his second son, Aldor (elder, alderman). Brego built Meduseld as the capitol of Rohan; it was ‘hallowed’ (made holy), or as we might say, inaugurated, by a great feast, when many oaths would be sworn and boasts would be made. Perhaps it was Baldor’s curiosity from their encounter with the Old King that led to his rash vow. Brego survives in the Jackson movies as a horse 'with a kingly name.'

• Ghost Hosts were seen as omens with connection to the Wild Hunts or Furious Rides of folklore. But instead of comprising completely supernatural beings they were seen as the human dead, and their intent was not always evil. During the English Civil War hosts were seen in the clouds that echoed a battle then being fought far away; observers could actually identify combatants they knew. “A story about a ghostly army that helped the British retreat during World War I became popular in Britain after the war. The story claimed that a British soldier called on Saint George for help, and then a ghostly army appeared and held back the German forces. However, there are no reliable contemporary eyewitness accounts to support this story. The story may have originated from a short story written by Arthur Machen in 1914.” 

Aragorn’s mood is several times called fey, as it seems to the people of Rohan. “Fey: fey • \FAY\ • adjective. 1 : marked by a foreboding of death or calamity 2 a : marked by an otherworldly air or attitude b : crazy, touched.” Fey is related to the term fay, or fairy, and is a Scottish word denoting something doomed or fated, and therefore partaking of a heedless nature, caring not for consequences. In old folklore fairies were sometimes referred to as fata, or fates; connections with Classical mythology and the Three Fates may have influenced the trope of Three Fairy Godmothers. Perhaps its relationship to the word fairy that has led it to be used as a term for effeminate or campy.

I think the image of the Old King before the Door of the Dead would make a fine illustration, but I can’t find one for it anywhere. If it ain’t in the movies, apparently, it ain’t anywhere. This scene in Theoden’s tent has the atmosphere of people gloomily telling ghost stories on the edge of doom.

Rest in Peace, Dame Joan

 

Having previously noted the passing of Maggie Smith and Angela Lansbury, it is incumbent on me to also speak of the passing of Joan Plowright, another great Dame of the British theatre. Here is what Wikipedia has to say about her:

“Joan Ann Olivier, Baroness Olivier (née Plowright; 28 October 1929 – 16 January 2025), commonly known as Dame Joan Plowright, was an English actress whose career spanned over six decades. She received several accolades including two Golden Globe Awards, an Olivier Award, and a Tony Award as well as nominations for an Academy Award, two BAFTA Awards, and a Primetime Emmy Award. She was made a Dame by Queen Elizabeth II in 2004.

“Plowright studied at the Old Vic Theatre School^[2] before acting onstage at the Royal National Theatre where she met her husband Laurence Olivier. She acted opposite him in the John Osborne play The Entertainer on the West End in 1957 and on Broadway in 1958. She earned the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Play for her A Taste of Honey (1961). She won the Laurence Olivier Award for Filumena (1978).

“She made her film debut in an uncredited role in Moby Dick (1956). She later won the Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actress – Motion Picture and was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actress for Enchanted April (1991). She was BAFTA-nominated for her roles in The Entertainer (1960) and Equus (1977). She also acted in the films Uncle Vanya (1963), Three Sisters (1970), Avalon (1990), Dennis the Menace (1993), 101 Dalmatians (1996), Jane Eyre (1996), Tea with Mussolini (1999), Bringing Down the House (2003) and Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont (2005). She also voiced roles for the children's films Dinosaur (2000) and Curious George (2006).

“On television she was nominated for the Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Limited Series or Movie and won the Golden Globe Award for Best Supporting Actress – Series, Miniseries or Television Film for her role in the HBO television film Stalin (1992). She retired from acting due to macular degeneration in 2014. She made her final filmed appearance in the documentary Nothing Like a Dame (2018).”

In short, we are running out of British actresses of a certain age, classy nature, and stern adorability. Joan Plowright’s first movie appearance was an uncredited role as Starbuck’s wife in Moby Dick,

but the first place I ever saw her was as Viola in Twelfth Night.

She was appealing as the elderly widow Mrs. Fisher in Enchanted April, who finds a new life in making young friends.

She uplifted The Spiderwick Chronicles and was equally good in Tom’s Midnight Garden.

Come to think of it, she was equally good in these Fantasy films as a friend to the kids, a granny who hasn’t forgotten what it means to be young. I’m sure she’s equally good in more ‘serious’ roles, but this is how I mostly know her. I have Twelfth Night, Enchanted April, and The Spiderwick Chronicles on DVD, and I would really like to get Tom’s Midnight Garden (I’ve seen it on YouTube).

The 2018 BBC show, Nothing Like a Dame, sets up a conversation about acting and life between Joan Plowright, Maggie Smith, Judi Dench, and Eileen Atkins, all Dames of the British Empire.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=96h8-4Obfhg

2020 Diary: The Last Days of January

1/22/2020: Woke up way early to the sound of dripping rain, and knew I was in for a gray one. Prayers, catechism, Bible (got to the end of Acts), rosary. Had to do the ‘in and out of the house’ and watch out for mud game all day. Made Kam eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Gloom intensifies when I find out Terry Jones just passed away. Napped – more like hibernated – from 11 AM to 2 PM. Made supper (pork chops, sauerkraut, baked sweet potato, and parmesan green bean). And so on etc. with ordinary details – ramen, Flintstones, DW shows. Some meditating on starting Chapter Four.

 

1/23/2020: Read much as taken. PCBR. Made Kam’s breakfast, got him off early (10:16 AM). Weather bright and clear, but ground still muddy. Worked on notes for American Prometheus (AP, from now on), and wrote about a page. Indications that the new Picard show isn’t so good story-wise, no matter how pretty it looks or how many itches it scratches. Made chili, noodles, and corn on the cob. Might as well note here that for the past few weeks my neck has been really sore at the end of the day, stretching down to between my shoulder blades. Arthritis? Meningitis?

 

1/24/2020: Up pretty early. PCB. After wavering a bit, got dressed and left a little before 7 AM and went to get Powerball. Came home; rosary, then Perry Mason at 8 AM. At 9 AM made Kameron bacon and a grilled cheese. Started my ramen, then left it to soak to await the exterminator at 9:40 AM. Got Kameron on the bus at 10:15 AM. Checked the pool; not running so called Andy and he told me how to shut it off. Came in and ate my ramen (with peas), watching the end of Monster Zero. Now 11:20 AM.

 

1/25/2020: Chinese New Year. The Year of the Rat. PCBR. Went in and made omelet, and I think I’ve finally got into the groove again as it turned out well. For lunch made my last box of spaghetti. For supper had a ramen, corn, and ground turkey dish. All day reading conflicting reports of how ST: Picard is, and I must say I’m leaning toward the negative view, if only by the analysis of the appearance of ‘magical technology’ and ‘narrative’ over our old-fashioned ‘barely possible tech’ and ‘story-telling’. Chill and gray weather. All day balancing ‘a dollar for the collection tomorrow’ against ‘one package of cookies right now’ dilemma; the lateness of the hour has finally removed it from consideration. Don’t really need it as food but have a yen for something sweet.

 

1/26/2020: Woke up about 1 AM from a dream; I think I have my next short story now: The Reunion. Got up to write it down and worked on my Dream Diary a bit commenting on my dreams of late. They have been different; even, measured, even when strange or full of problems. Almost 2 AM now; must try to sleep again.

So up, PCB, and off to church, where R. It was a graceful day. Came home. After Susan called to ask about chili powder, I went in and got a slice of cheese and a nutty buddy. In the evening Andy brought me a garippe; after I ate the meat (not a whole lot), I made a broth from the bones. This was all the food I had today. Wrote about a page today on “Reunion”. Read some ghost stories. Tried to sleep off most of my waiting, but not really hungry per se.

 

1/27/2020: Up at 5:30 AM. PCB; before 8 AM Andy asked me not to do my wash just yet, as the washing machine is leaking, and brought me a banana. Listening to the GGACP eulogy episode about those who passed away in 2019. Hearing everywhere about Kobe Bryant and his daughter passing away in that helicopter accident. He was a Catholic. Made Kameron an apple today for breakfast and had my ramen. Just as I took him out to catch the bus the roofers came over. Checked the pool and turned off the pump because it wasn’t working. Made the broccoli salad. About 1:30 PM started my wash and finished by 3:30 PM. Grassed the Chis twice, at 2 PM and 4 PM. Started a Lexicon for Bob’s Book 2 today; 4 pages. Made supper: fish rings and couscous. Flintstones, some DS9 today, all the DW Shows. Made Kam grilled cheese at 8 PM. Rosary. John sent a wonderful picture by Morgandy today in the Maus style.

 

1/28/2020: Up at 6 AM (slept late – ha!). Took a shower. PCBR. Went in at 9 AM, peeled Kam an apple. Made ramen for my own breakfast; added an egg. Got Kam off to school at 10:10 AM. Brought the recycle bin in. “Miss Angie”, Kam’s bus driver, came out and asked if I could meet the bus Friday to take Kam’s food basket in. Sent Kris Jerome information for my W-2.

Well! A day of dipping in on House and DS9 and DW shows, and not much else (except reading some John Aubrey on Wiltshire). At 1 PM I went in and got a ramen and the last crumbs of Fritos. Started supper at 3:30 PM; sausage, cabbage, and taters. Kam home at 4 PM. Took my food out and ate. A little before 5 PM the Rotts raised a ruckus, and I went out to find a couple of bearded policemen coming out from behind the sheds. Their car was drawn up in the driveway. They said they had been chasing a fellow, that he was caught, and sorry to disturb me. After they left, I went around and checked the garage, the ticket booth, and down by the creek, then waited outside till past 6 PM to tell Susan and Andy what had happened. In the meantime, watched the sun go down and the trees blowing in the evening wind, and two raccoons coming from opposite sides of the yard to meet in the middle in the tree over the shed to have a fight. Came in and worried about petting the cats after they had got their medication (flea spots). Bed about 10 PM.

 

1/29/2020: Woke up about 4 AM from a rather purgatorial dream of wandering a parking lot through the night, waiting for the sun to rise or to get a ride. Felt glum, so decided I was up and started to say my prayers. I almost immediately felt better, and only got better and better as I read the Catechism (and finished it!), then a couple of chapters in the Bible (Romans). It’s now about 5:20 AM and I’m dressed and ready to give writing a shot.

I brought Chapter 4 (The American Prometheus – hereinafter AP) up to page 5 today. Kam off to school, no problems. Breakfast- ramen with an egg. Lunch – made a sort of stew with a little chunk of meat out of the freezer, leftover cabbage and taters, and made a gravy with milk and flour. It was delicious. At supper made pork chops and brussels sprouts, baked sweet potato, and parmesan-encrusted green beans. Swept the kitchen porch. Kam went to church and when he came back had eaten snacks and didn’t want supper. Continue to read Aubrey. Bed about 9:30 PM.

 

1/30/2020: Morgandy’s birthday today. Up at about 5 AM, PB, then caught up diary. I had awakened from a dream of working with a hoe straightening up the end of Nanny’s driveway, chopping up weeds and breaking sandy clods. A vague remembrance of discussing something with a woman (not anyone I could identify) before that. Somebody won the Powerball last night, so I don’t have that as a temptation this weekend. Made Kam an apple for breakfast and got him to the bus; pretty cold today. Ramen for my breakfast, then a nap at 11 AM, where I had a dream again about Nanny’s house, where I was passing between the different parts of the apartment and hearing people that I wanted to avoid moving from part to part. Finished my ten pages and sent them to John; while at email found out that Kris Jerome had sent me a tax form for my ‘royalties’, which if I read it right shows I got a little less than $2 more after my initial payment. Sigh. I don’t think I’ll have to file.

While I was writing, I realized I didn’t have to tell everything right away but can keep feeding facts as I go along; i.e., don’t reveal all Frobisher’s history with Franklin. Also stop writing ‘almost’, ‘just’, and ‘seeming’. Sent my pages and the idea for a one-panel comic to John; didn’t hear back from him all day, but he did take the day off from work to take the family to the Snake Farm and the Gristmill.

I was rather bad in that I took a few Oreos at lunch, but pickings are rather thin here at the end of the week. For supper made chili, noodles, and corn. Later made Kam a grilled cheese. At 6 PM said rosary.

Fred Banbery Style

  

1/31/2020: Up about 5 AM to write down Picard dream. While at computer went over sites; searched illustrator Fred Banbery (Paddington, Hitchcock). Prayers; Bible. Took a shower. Saw end of Shaw’s Caesar and Cleopatra. Spent time looking at reviews of Ep.2 of ST:P. Now 8 AM. Today I am scheduled to meet Kam when he gets off school and carry in his crate of groceries, and to make chicken, rice, and broccoli for supper. With any luck, John will be by with $20, which right now I feel I could spend entirely on cookies.

I keep thinking that I must be somewhere on the autistic scale; my childhood experiences seem to support it. My social awkwardness, my uncontrollable fidgets, my obsessive collecting.

Ramen for lunch. About 3:30 PM made the rice and broccoli. Went out and waited at the oak for Kameron about 4 PM; I should note that after clouds in the morning it was a nice clear day. Kam arrived and I carried the food bin in for him (I think it was especially heavy today. No chicken thighs like we had hoped, so I started baking the breasts on top of the rice. That took until 6 PM. The stuff Kam brought back wasn’t what at all what I had wanted: two enormous hard heads of cabbage, a bag of white potatoes, three big cans of ‘pork meat’ (Irish stew, anyone?), a bag of tiny oranges, 4 bags of sausage patties, 2 bags of white rice, 2 enormous bags of pistachios (oh, my teeth!). I just wanted peanut butter and brown bread.

I took the pork meat, a bag of pistachios, and a bag of rice; also took half the oranges. I ate the oranges right away; they were tasty but tiny and hard to peel. Ate four sausage patties, then opened a can of pork meat. A little bland and greasy, but with pepper tolerable. It’s obviously a mixer, so the next can I’ll have with potatoes. I mixed some of the broccoli rice with the leftover ‘gravy’, and it was good.

In the evening got e-mail from John that he couldn’t bring over the $20 until Monday, so no cookies just yet. But I do have supplies for the weekend, so thank the Lord for that. I only hope I don’t eat up the $20 before next weekend. That’s on me. Rosary about 10:30 PM, then to bed.

 

Notes

PCBR is short for Prayers, Catechism, Bible, and Catechism; I was reading the Catechism straight through, which was an interesting experience and answered a lot of questions I hadn’t even thought to ask yet.

I’m not sure at this distance what ‘Reunion’ was about. Maybe it exists under another name; perhaps I just dropped it. The Goldfire Questers? Bob and Daisy? ‘American Prometheus’ was the story about Benjamin Franklin as Frankenstein. It hasn’t been finished, to this day; it got too involved and sprawling, almost a book in itself.

Lot about food here; January was always a rather bleak month. It still is. But it was harsher in those days. I wasn’t getting social security yet, to get my own groceries. Kameron was working for a church pantry at that time, and they would give them supplies that were about to expire. I could eat pistachios – by grinding them up with a mortar and pestle.

I had been hopeful about Picard, but I learned better as time went on. The Star Trek rot was setting in.

The Shadow Library: Ficciones

 

Ficciones, by Jorge Luis Borges. I remember as far back as the late 70's - early 80's Mike had a copy of this book, this edition. Later on it kind of fell apart. I think (though I am not 100% sure) that he gave it to me. What I might have done with it, God knows. I remember reading it, anyway, and liking it well enough, but it just wasn't the brand of fantasy I was looking for at the time. I see there is an anthology now with all of Borges' collected short fiction for $17 or so. I'm thinking about getting it.

The Gods of the Copybook Headings (1919) by Rudyard Kipling

 

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

by Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,

I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

2

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

3

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

4

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

5

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know." 

6

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

7

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;

But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."  

8

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four–

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

9

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

10

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,

The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Notes

 

In Rudyard Kipling's poem "The Gods of the Copybook Headings", the "Gods of the Copybook Headings" represent the fundamental truths of human nature and the importance of timeless wisdom. 

Explanation

• The poem's title refers to the proverbs and maxims that were printed at the top of copybooks used by 19th century British schoolchildren. 
• The poem's speaker argues that these moral statements are relevant no matter the time or place, and that disregarding them will lead to failure. 
• The poem critiques political idealism and false promises of peace, abundance, and equality. 
•  

"Stick to the devil you know" means it's better to stay with someone or something familiar, even if you don't like them, because the unknown could be worse; essentially, choosing to deal with a known negative situation rather than risking a potentially more negative one you're unfamiliar with.

Key points about the phrase:

"Devil" represents a negative person or situation: It's not meant literally, but as a metaphor for something unpleasant you're already familiar with.

"Know" signifies familiarity: You may not like the current situation, but you understand its downsides.

Implies caution towards change: This phrase suggests that changing to something new, even if it seems potentially better, could lead to worse outcomes.

Friday Fiction: Fiction of the Mind

 

1/24/25: Awake at 3:40 AM. I was having a dream: Colonel Potter had received a selection of little jars of different kinds of pickles; he didn’t care for them himself and was going to share them out. Winchester began bragging about how his mother was a judge at their local produce fair and how their family always had superior taste discrimination; he had used to help her. It all devolved into a pickle identifying contest between ‘me’ and him. Potter was judge (he knew what kind they were) and the best out of five won. There were some tense moments, but I was not good at it; Winchester beat me handily. On the last pickle I almost had it, it had a tang because (it turned out; Charles knew) it was made with apple vinegar, but I guessed “Polska Wyroby?” and bombed out. Winchester was quite smug about it.

For a while I was making it a habit of recording many of my dreams, but I have fallen out of the practice. This one seemed unusual enough for me to record in that it is almost like it could actually be one of the more light-hearted episodes of MASH. I haven't been watching the show any more than usual, but it's been running on MeTV in a four episode block daily. Also I had bought a little jar of 'hot' Whole Spiced Polish Style Dills that I had to have my nephew sample just to see how he'd react (he liked them). So there, perhaps, are the seeds of this dream. Who was 'I' in it? I seemed to be myself (it was certainly from my point of view) but if I were going to put it in a script 'I' would probably have been B. J. or Hawkeye.