BelongingMy older sister's blog
Blibby's BlogMy little sister's blog
Gixxer For ChristMy brother's blog
Grantian FlorilegiumDr. Grant: literary, bibliophile, wordsmithy, and professor
Blog and MablogPastor and professor in Moscow, Idaho
A Proverb A DayShort daily expositions and applications of a Proverb
The Evantine AbbeyMy former landlord, self-proclaimed futilitarian
Roots by the RiverThe elder Wilson, providing practical encouragement to Christian living
Christus RexHe's masculine during the week and feminine on Sundays
Trozzort's TalesGot married, cut travel time to church by 75%
Blog of NashThe Nashes like football and their kids
Joy in the Journey
Has cute kids.
Pointyshoes87Those funny stories aren't made up
Filled With TruthAdventures and thoughts of a Christian country girl
Danger BlogSeeing the glory of God in the ordinary
Sacra DoctrinaTheology and family of Joel Garver
A MinorCommunity-oriented blogger
This Classical LifeYoung family living the classical life
A Cup of RichFellow Celto-phile
Sir JakeHe's happily taken
UnrivenThe writer, student, and Chicago style pizza lover
Gulf CoastalBeside the sea
The High PostClever Christian chaps, triumvirate of family men
Wittenberg HallDiscussing Christianity and beer
Weighing GlorySomewhere chasing his hat
Down To A Sunless SeaWhen Florida and Minnesota collide
Crash Into MeNo problems with authority
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Of An Evening In The Library
Francis sat back in an expansive cushioned armchair idly watching the steam dance over the unbroken surface of his tea and rise in whimsical tendrils. The chipped earthenware mug, inscribed with Latin text and some university's emblem - probably British - sat atop a low plain endtable, repositioned in front of Francis' chair and serving doubly as a footrest for his Oxford-shoed feet. The surface of the little table was piled on either side of the mug with various books, none of them his own: an Eco novel, a Buchan, a thin German lexicon, someone or another's Histories, an ancient worn Bible, and myriad months old historico-theological journals.
Books. The room was full of them - this was a library, a gentleman's sitting room - and their weighty venerable presence soothed him. The tranquil air of the musty room almost drowned out the quick merry voices of the women clustered in the other room.
Yes, there were books. Long bookcases stretched to the ceiling lined the walls nearly everywhere where there was no interrupting window, and in the few places where no shelf was present, one could glimpse the dark rosy paint of the walls in between cherry-wood trim. Where there was not red or brown, there was green.
Christmasey, as his girlfriend would say.
Glossy paintings of ancient battles and watercolor-ish portraits of either thinkers or authors - damned if one could ever tell quite sure which - hung listlessly in these spaces, calling to mind cares that had passed away. And the old leatherbound and hardback volumes on the bookshelves stood ready to serve as the waiting voices of these remembrances.
How one could ever do these voices justice and give them each a fair share of audience was beyond this young man. But if anyone had made a fair go at it, it was the equally venerable man seated ahead and to his left. Apt, fitting it was that he sat before a vast expanse of bookshelf, framed by ancient histories, Grecian epics and plays, and British literature of every period. A man of girth - well distributed, to be fair - the specially prepared chattel upon which he till recently dined was safely stored away in his stomach, and he was content to sit in His Chair and of the obligatory disposition to receive the young men who were the guests of the house that evening. For he was lord of the house. He sat regally, teeth clamped on the end of his pipe, lips parting quickly at intervals as he puffed lightly on the implement of the intellectual, sending fragrant tobacco smoke sailing gracefully upwards to the shadowy ceiling. Sharply descending and curving pipe stems were of his preference, they did not do a number on his clenching molars. He stared wide eyed toward - nothing, and if one did not know better, he would describe his expression as vacant. But it was for certain that his mind was turning, phrasing introductory remarks for what would become the evening's topic of conversation. Francis was glad to patiently wait for him.
On the other side of the room, back to a window and half his body aglow from the crackling fire in the wall at his left hand, sat another young man, hunched forward with a hand habitually cupped in front of a lighted match as he struggled to light a cigar. He succeeded at last, and, undaunted, tossed the extinguished match into the fire and leaned back with a heavy satisfied sigh, exhaling a large cloud of darkish smoke, a merry expression on his face and in his quick eyes. The firelight sent shifting shadows dancing across the left half of his body, inducing an odd visual sensation of crawling, moving flesh.
Like a spooky firefly, as Francis' girlfriend would describe the sensation.
This young man looked as if he would like to be quick to be the first to incite conversation. His name was Michael Lance, one with whom Francis first made acquaintance a couple of weeks ago through mutual internment at the University. Lanky and relaxed in demeanor, crowned with short fine unkempt blond hair, he preferred speech and tobacco over tedious classtime. He knew much and could converse intelligently for one who Francis was quite sure did not spend as much time in books as the rest of the university men.
Michael withdrew the cigar from between his lips and held it at eye level, squinting as he inspected the glowing red end slowly beginning to fade into ash.
"Do you believe in the Faerie? Fancy that elves existed, or satyrs, Green Men, and phoenixes?"
Words! A challenge! Edwin MacDougle snapped out of his trance and turned a narrow gaze sharply onto the speaker, mirth lighting his eyes. "Did exist? What, are we to operate beginning on an unfair assumption that they exist no longer - or are you rather stating your position right off?"
Michael drew himself up in his chair and settled himself more comfortably, ready with an easy reply. "Well, we must establish that such mythical creatures ever did exist before there is any point in wondering whether they might still at this time roam the world in some forgotten place."
"You call them mythical creatures... and what is myth?" Francis mused, eyes following a smoke ring from Edwin's tobacco pipe.
"A myth is a story of ancient origin and spectacular character sometimes thought to be true but lacking tangible evidence to support it," Michael offered.
"Spoken like a scientist," Edwin chided good-naturedly, "but one must take care to distinguish here between myth and fairy tale, or folk tale." With this caution, Edwin glanced from Michael to Francis, and took a few short puffs on his pipe before continuing. "A fairy tale is something told for story's sake, as an entertainment. But a myth, a myth is something more, something with a hint of antiquity and solemn historical truth. When something is labeled a myth, we expect that it is ancient rather than modern, and that somebody at some time took it seriously, that even a whole culture took it seriously. In ancient cultures, there was little place for writing. Events were not recorded as they are now, but rather passed from mouth to mouth, taking on the form of a tale. These ancient remembrances got passed along the generations, and eventually would become regarded as fanciful, something unimaginable to the current generation. But somewhere in the past, these tales, these legends, had some source of origin, and were real and significant enough to some culture to remember them and try to pass them along by means of oral recitation."
"I'm not so clear on the difference," stated Michael.
"A myth does not have to be spectacular, though it often is to people in distant, vastly altered ages, but rather something ancient and unauthenticated but thought to be historical; a legend. For example, the myth of King Arthur. They call it a myth now, but King Arthur was a historical fact, as ancient British historians Henry of Huntingdon and William of Malmesbury attest. He was an actual king and war leader in Britain."
"The Round Table, Merlin, and the prophecy of Merlin's return: all part of myth - or legend - or rather fairy tale?" inquired the wayward scholar.
With a creak the chair held Edwin's weight as he resettled himself. "They are part of the Arthur tale, they are myth, passed down with Arthur's name. Pumpkins turning into carriages and mice turning into horses are fairy tale."
But Cinderella herself, necessarily is not," offered Francis.
"Right," Edwin affirmed, feeling the soft trickle of progress. "Inspired by actual occurence, Cinderella is myth incorporated into a fairytale called Cinderella."
"Well and good, so Arthur is myth, is history, and not just a fairy tale. But how can you throw in and give parlance of belief to the more spectacular elements of his story when the mentioned historians speak nothing of them, and only give Arthur brief mention when he should be greatly acclaimed?" questioned the one wreathed in cigar smoke.
"People remember what they want to remember. Historical bias. A radical individual like Arthur was not popular with everyone, especially after his death. A historian praising a former king for whom the current king held no love would be folly for the historian."
"Why the common confusion and blending of myth and fairy tale?"
"Because people, most people, do not want to grant such wondrous stories quarter and acknowledge their slightest plausibility. Green Men and elves are unimaginable in today's society. In modern man's scientific, humanistic mindset, one cannot give credibility to something no one can see or witness," Edwin replied, with a hint of disdain.
"Well, it would appear hopeless to change their minds then. No one sees centaurs or the like anymore," lamented Francis.
Edwin exhaled smoke harshly. "Oh, even if they saw they would not believe. The Lord Jesus performed miracles repeatedly in the sight of the crowds, and still they would not believe. Even his closest friends the disciples were too forgetful and doubtful. Their hearts were hardened and minds blinded. So today errant, self-exalting man's hearts are voluntarily hardened. Even now, some of these creatures are reported to be spotted: a Green Man was sighted by someone in the English countryside. Momentary glimpses. Yet even those who are permitted these swift revelations do not believe what their eyes witnessed when they wake up the next morning, dulled by sleep. They make embarrassed excuses and explain the event away. Others do not report their sightings of an instant at all, fearing mockery and explaining them away to themselves before they hardly draw breath. Short are men's memories, and things that ought to be remembered are swiftly fading from this world."
Michael appeared skeptical and ready to raise some objections, but Francis spoke first. "And why are they passing away, assuming they really exist," he asked, scratching the brown beard that ran along his jawline.
There was a pause for a moment, and from the other room we heard a sound from the women bordering on cackling.
"All things have their time. Time and the world revolve in their sovereignly determined cycles. Ages pass, new ages dawn. Creatures grow old and few, then disappear all together. Others are strengthened and grow numerous. The old things move away to make room for the new. Men have existed ever since the sixth day of God's creation. The Age of Men has dawned in the last millenium. The world is ours alone, to destroy or rebuild."
"Where do the creatures go?" Francis muttered whimsically.
"We know not their times, and so we know not their end."
"That's easy, they die. If we're going to assume that they once lived like every other creature, we'll assume that they died just like every other plant, animal, and human that has ever walked, er, drawn breath, er, lived." Michael claimed.
Edwin grinned good-naturedly at the young man. "Yes Michael, plants neither walk nor draw breath."
They are the furniture of the world, as Francis' girlfriend would say.
Undaunted, Michael continued. "Only crazy Romantics and people who like to indulge in alterably variated fantasies believe in such things these days. The intelligentsia scoff. Are you so ready to cast aside what reason tells us?"
"You indulge the label of intelligence that the worldly-wise give to themselves. Live in the present, try to establish the future, revel in man's past accomplishments, scoff at history and the metaphysical! But the Romantics - many of such are the ones who see the world for what it is on a fuller, grander picture. Modern man is like one wearing blinders who can see neither right nor left nor behind, only hearing the voices of the masses that drive him on, telling him what his reason prompts him to believe. Romantics are like those without blinders, who can see behind in the past with a fresh perspective."
"You mock modern man, and well you may be right in this, but your disagreement with them does not necessitate a belief in mythological things. It appears ridiculous."
"It is rather like faith. Religion appears the same way, ridiculous and unfounded, beyond man's reason. But I believe, and such a worldview and philosophy allows for the existence of things not seen today, but witnessed by ancients of the past and carefully preserved in story, in the hope that future generations would not forget."
"Well, I am not fully convinced of the reality of the mythological. I know, can one ever be? Maybe I'll find that belief in the mythological was wrong after all, but it is a small thing. What did I lose? It was a firing of my imagination, and in that there is more value than flat denial." Francis took his leave and wandered off to collect his woman.
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 E l s e w h e r e
Scientists find bugs that eat waste and excrete petrol (link added 06.16.08)
Crude oil is being created from genetically modified bug excretions.
Read it
Pringles can designer buried in his work (link added 06.03.08)
Designer of the Pringles can was cremated and his remains kept in a Pringles can.
Read it
P o e t r y
Contented Wi' Little, And Cantie Wi' Mair - Robert Burns
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought;
But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught.
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the Deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae!
Come Ease or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain,
My warst word is:- ' Welcome, and welcome again!'
S t o r y
R e a d i n g / R e a d
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