Candid Interview

The Mountain Commonly Called the 'Ivran Temple'

2021 Diary: Lots o' Bookses!

2021 Diary

 

7/16/2021: Up at 5:30 AM. Prayers. Shower. Cartoons (which I think have gone into reruns). Scrambled eggs for breakfast. Medicine. At 9:30 AM went out and checked the mailbox and found “Duck and His Friends” had arrived 5 days early, but “More Fool Me” hadn’t come yet as more or less scheduled. A long boring day. Why must I always call everybody, but no-one ever calls me? Started frying taters at 2 PM. Listened to Verlyn Flieger lectures on YT. Went in to clean up at 9:40 PM. No new plug [adapter for the AC] yet, so another hot night.

 

7/17/2021: Up at 6 AM. Prayers and then Bible, moving kind of slow. Shower. Then cartoons. Had Earl Campbell sausages for breakfast. Dressed and at 9 AM headed for FD, only to run into S&A heading home just in front of the voting building. They stopped and offered me a ride, and after A dropped S off, he came back and took me. Got diet Dr. Pepper Cherry (2 jugs), 3 bags pork skins and 3 packs diet vanilla wafer cookies. About 11:05 AM Kelsey called me and asked if I wanted a breakfast taco as she and Ryan had a spare. I said yes but I couldn’t eat the tortilla, just the contents. They were already here so I went out and we talked a bit. Susan came out (they had just returned home again - from the shop?) and told me she had just put a couple of books in my house. She also warned me (‘twas superfluous) that I couldn’t have tortillas. I went in and ate my tortilla innards then opened my books: Bone Adventures (came early, cover slightly damaged) and Stephen Fry’s More Fool Me (one day late, ex-library book). The Bone book was very simple (simpler than I thought); then I started the Fry. Been reading it all day with only the occasional break and now (as of 10:45 PM) am almost done and shall not try to sleep until finished. It seems strangely familiar (even discounting the retelling he does of the back story already told in his other 2 autobiographies) and I wonder did I read it as a library book and then forget it? As Fry says, perhaps that is the charm of a poor memory: every time you read an old book it seems new again. In the evening (about 8 PM) I took a break to wash dishes, make bed, etc. Pains in the legs all day. Making room on shelves an interesting task so the new books will be near their companions and writing them up on NOT. Finished Fry about 11:20 PM, so took almost 12 hours (with breaks) to read.

 

7/18/2021: Kenny’s Birthday. Awake at 4 PM after a hard time sleeping (too warm and right leg hurting); leaning toward not going to church, but who knows as the hour approaches?  Searched my Diaries and found out I DID listen to “More Fool Me” on YT about 2 years ago. Did not go to church, but prayed and read missalette. Day was basically nothing but eating, drinking, and slouching in the heat. Kelsey and Ryan visited, and I saw Kelsey for a bit. Andy brought me a batch of leftovers (including Panda Express) some of which I could eat. Watched the premier of “Monk” on MeTV. Waiting for 10 PM and the new Rick & Morty. (Saw it. Rating: Meh.)

 

7/19/2021: Prayers. Bible. Shower. Cartoons. The first half of the day was rather busy, with wash started at 7:30 AM. Went out at 9 AM and Susan was still here because Ryan T was dropping off Jade (hooray). Clothes in dryer, then checked the porch for mail. Stuff for Susan and some stuff for me: That Reminds Me, Feast of Stephen, Tomcat Murr, Classic Cartoon Christmas Too, and Jonathon Strange and Mr. Norrell [DVD]. Groceries delivered while S still here. Ryan helped bring in. Nap over noon; at 1 PM went in and checked: no cucumber salad this week. Read much of Randall’s “That Reminds Me”. About 2 PM Kelsey came over, and along with Kameron we watched Ponyo, a bit of Princess Bride, and then Kam played an exhibition game of Sly Cooper 1. Quite the feel of old times. Dug out and showed Kam the old “Monster’s Manual”. At 4 went in to make supper. A&S home by a little after 5 PM. Kelsey went home at 7 PM, just as we had a bit of rain. Went in to wash about 7:45 PM. They’re still prepping for the trip to the beach house tomorrow. I’m to have Ginger again (yay). More reading, then laid down about 9 PM.

 

7/20/21: Awake at 12 and felt I couldn’t sleep. Drafted a review of “More Fool Me” trying to pin down my feelings about Fry. He is like a frustrating friend who likes many of the things you do but for all the wrong reasons. Then I washed dishes. Then straightened house. Then watched a bit of JS&MR. Then took a shower and caught up diary. It’s 3:45 AM now, and I think I might just go ahead and say my daily prayers and do my Bible readings. Maybe by then I can relax until 6 AM.

          Did so and did not in fact wake up until 6:30 AM, having forgotten to set alarm. Andy brought Ginger over about 7:30 AM, and by 8 AM they were gone. Went down to take some recyclables to the bin and was just in time to catch the ordinary garbagemen emptying the other bin, so took it back. Made big patty (with 3 eggs) for breakfast. At 9 AM I went into the house and was just in time to see the mailman delivering another batch of books, this time “The Lore of Love” (which puts me one volume away from finally completing my ‘Enchanted World’ series), Padre Porko (an ex-library book of indescribable juvenile charm), Dear Me by Ustinov, a new Robertson Davies as Diarist, and “America at Last” being the diary of T. H. White’s visit to America the year before he died. A garner of riches, much of it unfamiliar work to solace my solitary sojourn. Finished viewing the first episode of JS&MN, read a bit in White, then took a nap. Ginger quite content in a patch of sunlight by the door. Awake again and went out to get the recycle bin at 11:30 AM.

          Find to my interest that both the White and Davies book cover an overlapping period: Davies ’59 – ’63 and White mostly ’63. Coincidentally, my birth year. White would soon be dead, and Davies continue until 1995. Looking into Padre Porko, I find that there is a bit of stunning parallelism: the fantastic Padre has an escaped bear with a collar scar raid his beehives at his hidden home! Shades of Elf and Bear, although the bear here is a ruffian. Now I am sure I’ve never even heard of this book until a year or two ago, and yet there are similarities enough to give me a decidedly strange feeling. It’s an odd thing to once again, as it were, have laser-guided books and not just whatever random approximations I can pick up here and there. I intend to get at least a couple of books a month now, depending on cost and availability. Took the Rotts in about 3 PM and will let them out at 8:30 PM or so.

 

          Read up to about half of White’s book. I can see why it’s not spoken of much; it has some very odd ‘race theories’ about the USA (c.1963). At 4 PM fed the pets. At 5:30 PM I buzzed my beard. That’s a little cooler. Let the Rotts out and a bit later turned the lights on. Finished reading White about 10 PM and then bed.

 

7/21/2021: Up about 5:30 AM; prayers and Bible. Cartoons. Turned off house lights, fed pets, checked pool. About 8:30 AM went out and picked up paper and a few bits of trash on the lawn. Waited on the porch and mail came a little after 9 AM. It included one book, The Elizabethans by A. N. Wilson. Watched Episode 2 of JS&MN. Ginger finally made her lemonade: an enormous pool in the bathroom. No poo as yet. Watched some Corey Olsen Signum University on the book JS&MN. Called Kelsey at 11:30 AM, no answer. Might just walk over to FD at 1 PM.

          John came over about 1 PM. He brought me a new phone, and he set it up. We had a good visit and talk, and I showed off my new books.  It rained briefly about 2 PM. He left about 3:30 PM or so. Kelsey hadn’t answered because she was mowing for Fred; she is mowing tomorrow as well but intends to come over and take me to town when done. Spent the evening watching JS&MN; it is so good! Better than when I saw it on YT. Magic with heart, and not a bad adaptation. Not in bed until after midnight.

 

7/22/2021: Up at 6 AM after a night interrupted with pain. Prayers and Bible. Cartoons. Checked porch for mail at 8:30 AM and it already came: for me , “Incidents in the Life of My Uncle Arly” and TLB “Gods and Goddesses”, which completes my Enchanted World series. Spent a lot of time writing a review of “America At Last”. Kelsey finished her mowing and came over at 2 PM and we went to Walmart. Just as we were checking out an enormous summer storm (totally unanticipated by me) broke out, with the worst lightning I’ve seen for years. Huge downpour. We made it back home and maneuvered her car into the carport and moved the stuff into the big house first. I bought her some soda, a DVD, deodorant, and now I fed her a couple of sandwiches as she hadn’t had lunch. She left to get Ryan about 5:20 PM; by then the rain had gone enough to move my stuff (which included new shorts) into the guest house. Slumped down in a haze of snacks and TV. 

Notes

What can I say. It was my birthday month, and I had a lot of 'wish list' to catch up on.

Let Sleeping Ogres Lie

An illustration from Episode Eight: Ravenglast, a script for my proposed series, The Wizard, the Prince, the Warrior, and His Son. Hakul and Lem try to kidnap Kwee.

The Boar Hunt: A Confessional Penitence

THE BOAR HUNT

 

A glory falls on castle walls,

A fair white tower afar descrying.

Blow we now our hunting horns

And hear the tower loud replying.

 

We come from a far-off land.

Coming from hunt we're homeward hying.

Blow we now our hunting horns

And hear the tower loud replying!

 

For there came a wild mad boar

And left our wheat downward lying.

Blew we then our hunting horns,

And heard the boar's voice replying!

 

Long we sought the roaring boar

Till we left it wounded, dying.

Blew we then our hunting horns,

And heard the echoes loud replying.

 

Tired we now are coming home

The castle walls espying.

Blow we now our hunting horns

And hear our home replying!

 

--from external evidence, about 1976-77.

Okay, I wrote this in middle school, when I was besotted with Mediavelism, or rather the strange Victorian take on the period, here especially Lord Tennyson. I have only made one or two 'corrections': I mainly wished to preserve the cringey feeling of it as looked back upon. The slight icing of AI generated illustration might be the most appealing aspect of this time-hardened cow pie. A roaring bore, indeed. But as a very wise magical dog once said, "Sucking at something is the first step towards being sorta good at something."

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.

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.

As They Say in Ortha: Part Two

Ortha-Graphy Part One: As They Say in Ortha

Ortha Docs: #2930!

Getting a Move On

Our Motto

A Half-ast Answer

And, yes, everyone uses this picture to illustrate the news story.

The latest real news in Tolkien Studies – as opposed to all the hraka spun from Netflix ‘adaptations’ – is that one of the minor mysteries of The Lord of the Rings books has finally been answered – sort of. What was the ‘Tree-man’ that Halfast saw striding through the borders of the Shire? A Huorn? An Entwife?

“A newly discovered letter written by J.R.R. Tolkien to Jenny Hall on February 28, 1966, has settled the debate over the mysterious "walking elms" seen in the Shire. Tolkien confirmed that these towering figures were indeed Ents—not Entwives—secretly tasked by Gandalf to guard the region.

“The letter sheds new light on the lore of Middle-earth, proving that the ancient tree-shepherds were patrolling the borders of the Shire while the hobbits went about their daily lives. Furthermore, Tolkien added a handwritten footnote revealing that Treebeard actually knew much more about Hobbits and the wider events unfolding in Middle-earth than he let on to Merry and Pippin.”

The reason I want to say sort of is that yes, it was written by Tolkien himself, probably, but how canonically should it be considered? The man had a habit of ‘thinking out loud’ as he was writing, as it were, spinning ideas as they came to him. Some were later rejected as their viability came into question. “What did Treebeard know and when did he know it, and if he knew it why was he so elaborately cagey with Merry and Pippin about it?” Why did Hobbits seem to genuinely surprise him?

Still, something new to the Lore is always welcome and encouraging. Perhaps one day we’ll even have a specific letter about whether Balrogs have wings – if the question was ever even posed to him.

Going Back to Ortha

BACK TO ORTHA [A la Paul Simon]

 

I’m going down to Ortha

Gonna hang with Roth and Korm

Gonna drink me some Loraleid

And be chillin’ with my Morgs

Gonna walk through Morg City

Take in a tavern or two

See the Library at Tronduhan

As we’re walkin’ through the school.

Yeah, I’m going back to Ortha.

Back to Ortha.

 

Dunwolf will do his magic

Or Koppa if he’s not there

We’ll check out the Domain of Doors

and maybe Drang’s old lair

There in Ortha.

There in Ortha.

Might visit Master Belmok

Or King Thron in his prime

Maybe old Mog himself

Depending on the time

When I go to Ortha.

Go to Ortha.

 

[Chorus] I’m going down to Ortha

To hang with Roth and Korm

Gonna drink some Loraleid

And be chillin’ with my Morgs

Back in Ortha.

Back in Ortha.

 

The Wolf-shades and the Ogres,

The Woses and the rest,

The Ghamen and the Ivra,

I’ll give ‘em all my best

When I visit Ortha.

I visit Ortha.

If there’s a way, I’m on my way

I shall not hesitate

To take the paths past sun and moon

To that land that we create

That we call Ortha

We call Ortha

 

[Chorus] I’m going down to Ortha

Gonna hang with Roth and Korm

Gonna drink me some Loraleid

And be chillin’ with my Morgs

There in Ortha.

Yeah, going back to Ortha.

Have a time in Ortha.

Meet you there in Ortha.

See you back in Ortha …

I published this here before, but now I've got this peachy-keen new pitcher to go with it, and the tune John used Suno to make for it is going through my head.