I sit here now, on this last day of the year, contemplating my plans for the next. Not out of hubris, nor of desire, nor of necessity. The plans that I allude to mean little in my own life, and in the lives of those bound to me by ties of blood, oaths or friendship. No, it is out of a sense of responsibility that I make these plans.
The weight of my burdens bear down upon me this day. I know that there are many who depend on me to lead them, though I doubt if all of them truly care where or what I am leading them into. There are also those who wish for me to follow their leadership. I shall do so, of course, for such is the nature of the hierarchy of the world; had I been adverse to trailing behind these men, I would have left this path that I chose a long time ago. Yet, these leaders of mine may not fully appreciate the manner in which I choose to serve. Service can be a subtle thing, as my friend the Alchemist pointed out once, or it can be blatant and unyielding. Somewhere in between, in my opinion, is most preferable.
What is it that I owe to those ranked above me? And what do I owe those ranked below? What answers I have found, I have found wanting. I stumble along, leaving scattered pools of detritus amidst the eddies of chaos in my wake. My draught is deep, and the course I take is not free of hazards; should I be becalmed, it should take but the slightest of current to throw me upon the rocks. Will I founder, and spill my cargo of other people's hopes and desires into the surf? Or have the Fates another fate for me? I shudder to think of it.
But such is the way the mind works, in anticipation of the new Cycle. This is the reason why horoscopes and the petty predictions of psychics prove so popular during such times.
It is in times like this that I remind myself, usually through songs (and not those tied to the season, though there are some which would serve) of just how small my concerns are. The one that rises to mind, for some reason as yet unknown to my conscious brain, is Beth Nielsen Chapman's Sand & Water:
All alone I didn't like the feeling
All alone I sat and cried
All alone I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside
All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water, and a million years gone by
I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave
All alone I heal this heart of sorrow
All alone I raise this child
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow
And his laughter fills my world and wears your smile
I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come
Through the doors beyond the grave
All alone I came into this world
All alone I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water and a million years gone by
I first heard this song when I was traveling with my wife in Canada. It was from Calgary to Drumheller, when I was driving across the long, undulating landscape and my wife was so fired at the thought of seeing real dinosaur bones. I was somewhat amused; what were fossils but sand and water, and a million years gone by?
And where would we be, in a million years from now?
Against that, what are my workplans for the next year?
Monday 31 December 2007
Monday 26 November 2007
Smells, Part 2
The world has become a more tolerable place after breakfast.
The consumption of a bowl of curry chicken noodles has definitely improved my disposition, if the looks of relief among my crew are to be believed. It has also helped to mask the flavour that has been assailing my nostrils the whole journey to the place where I am employed. I did not think that such a small change would have such an effect on me, after all, it was merely a citrus scent that has been replaced by something more .... flowery. Thank heaven for spice!
Come to think of it, I suppose it should have been no surprise. Alchemy has always shown that the slightest change to a formula would give rise to entirely different results. Of course, the boil-a-frog theory also predicts that my discomfort shall pass as my nostrils become acclimatized to the new smell. Just as it has become accustomed to the pungence of the bleach I use to clean my bathroom, or the fetor of my daughter's soil diapers.
On that last item, I am pleased to announce that she is, for the large part, toilet-trained. I am taking no chances while she sleeps or when we go on long drives, of course. I have also learned to interpret her little dance-on-the-spot moves: swinging her arms means she is just enjoying herself, while stamping and twisting (unaccompanied by arm movements) means she need to pee. Ah, what a proud father I am!
It was just two weeks ago that she took part in a mini-concert with the rest of her playgroup; a chance for the nursery school to showcase what they have been teaching the children, and to reassure parents that our lucre has not been squandered. As I observed to the missus then, I could not help but notice how all of us parents were alike. When our child came up with her class to do their song and dance, our eyes were drawn to our daughter and our daughter alone! Had it not been for the modern conveniences like digital cameras and handphone videos, I would have absolutely no idea what the other children were doing during the whole time! And every parent suffered from that same narrow field of concentration.
Naturally, I was also acting as a critic.
Item: motor-skills - within normal parameters;
Item: sense of timing - able to keep time with pre-recorded music;
Item: stage presence - constant smile and some mild flirting with the audience;
Item: understanding of the song - good for those in English, with occasional bloopers for those in Mandarin.
Overall performance: easily in the top ten percentile.
It helped that some of the others in her class were inept. No, I am not being harsh or biased against them. They were hopeless. Two boys did nothing but stand, staring blankly out at the crowd. Stage fright? Perhaps. Then there was the girl that hid her face in her hands and did not even try to acknowledge her parents. Clearly suffering from a bout of shy.
Is this how it begins? This comparison of genetic load? My child versus the rest of them? Where does this lead? Does this mean I have begun sliding down the slippery slope of 'how can you score lower that XXXXX in spelling? You must study harder' parental expectations? Am I becoming my father?
I hope not.
The consumption of a bowl of curry chicken noodles has definitely improved my disposition, if the looks of relief among my crew are to be believed. It has also helped to mask the flavour that has been assailing my nostrils the whole journey to the place where I am employed. I did not think that such a small change would have such an effect on me, after all, it was merely a citrus scent that has been replaced by something more .... flowery. Thank heaven for spice!
Come to think of it, I suppose it should have been no surprise. Alchemy has always shown that the slightest change to a formula would give rise to entirely different results. Of course, the boil-a-frog theory also predicts that my discomfort shall pass as my nostrils become acclimatized to the new smell. Just as it has become accustomed to the pungence of the bleach I use to clean my bathroom, or the fetor of my daughter's soil diapers.
On that last item, I am pleased to announce that she is, for the large part, toilet-trained. I am taking no chances while she sleeps or when we go on long drives, of course. I have also learned to interpret her little dance-on-the-spot moves: swinging her arms means she is just enjoying herself, while stamping and twisting (unaccompanied by arm movements) means she need to pee. Ah, what a proud father I am!
It was just two weeks ago that she took part in a mini-concert with the rest of her playgroup; a chance for the nursery school to showcase what they have been teaching the children, and to reassure parents that our lucre has not been squandered. As I observed to the missus then, I could not help but notice how all of us parents were alike. When our child came up with her class to do their song and dance, our eyes were drawn to our daughter and our daughter alone! Had it not been for the modern conveniences like digital cameras and handphone videos, I would have absolutely no idea what the other children were doing during the whole time! And every parent suffered from that same narrow field of concentration.
Naturally, I was also acting as a critic.
Item: motor-skills - within normal parameters;
Item: sense of timing - able to keep time with pre-recorded music;
Item: stage presence - constant smile and some mild flirting with the audience;
Item: understanding of the song - good for those in English, with occasional bloopers for those in Mandarin.
Overall performance: easily in the top ten percentile.
It helped that some of the others in her class were inept. No, I am not being harsh or biased against them. They were hopeless. Two boys did nothing but stand, staring blankly out at the crowd. Stage fright? Perhaps. Then there was the girl that hid her face in her hands and did not even try to acknowledge her parents. Clearly suffering from a bout of shy.
Is this how it begins? This comparison of genetic load? My child versus the rest of them? Where does this lead? Does this mean I have begun sliding down the slippery slope of 'how can you score lower that XXXXX in spelling? You must study harder' parental expectations? Am I becoming my father?
I hope not.
Smell
It is ten minutes before my meeting. I am hungry for want of breakfast. I have barely glanced through the weekend's reports, and what I have seen of my people's work does not make me particularly pleased with their performance.
Despite all of that, I cannot get one thing out of my head:
My wife has just changed laundry detergent on me, and I find this new smell on my clothes ... different, slightly disconcerting, and very distracting.
Despite all of that, I cannot get one thing out of my head:
My wife has just changed laundry detergent on me, and I find this new smell on my clothes ... different, slightly disconcerting, and very distracting.
Thursday 9 August 2007
Hunger
This is not a food blog.
I make that statement up front because I shall be delving into Food at length. Having been tasked to work on a holiday - yes, I have been given substantial amounts of leave just to make up for this eventuality - and being separated from the rest of my colleagues who were unfortunate enough to share my curse, I find that I have been abandoned to my own devices regarding food. And since I am not permitted to leave my post, I am forced to rely on the goodwill of those about me:
Um, you going to get food? Yes? Good, can get some for me too? What do I want to eat? Dunno. What are you getting for yourself? Same thing, lor.
Yes, when begging for favours, ettiquette demands that you do not make too outrageous demands. Even when you are craving for something happy and festive, to go along with the holiday (WHICH YOU WILL NOT BE ENJOYING!).
Sigh.
What I really want is this as a starter. Followed by perhaps, this. And finally, for desert, a double scoop of vanilla ice-cream. Yes! Vanilla! Got a problem with that?!
I'm not a civil blogger when I'm starved of the things that I crave. Perhaps I am making it worse for myself by surfing all these food blogs. Then again, it is far better that thinking about my current situation:
Being a one-man contingency(!!!) is utterly depressing in itself. Even more depressing is the fact that you are sitting in a bloody windowless room with no-one but your terminal for company, when the rest of the country is having a bloody good time out on the bay. And that the head honchos in the Tech department has blocked all video streaming, so you can't see what the hell is going on out there. Big, bloody hell!
So what is a man to do? Switch off the part of my brain that concerns itself with work, and the near impossibility of something going wrong, for one.
But that brings my attention to another part of my anatomy. The stomach demands attention (since it is not getting food). So I dream about what I would rather be eating, instead of the fried hokkien mee that I am most likely to get in about a half-hour's time.
Sigh again.
So it's off to the food blogs. Hey, if I can't eat it, I can at least think about it. Then there are all those blogs with the wonderful pictures - not only think about it, I can now see what it looks like! BTW, the Traveler's Lunchbox is the bane of anyone on a diet. Take a look. See what I mean? Chocolate & Zucchini isn't very far behind either. Damn! My stomach's growling again.
Worst of all, there's not a beer to be had. Nor whisky. Nor anything vaguely alcoholic. Even my third favourite (and politically acceptable, on the basis of its caffeine content) is unavailable.
This is hell.
I make that statement up front because I shall be delving into Food at length. Having been tasked to work on a holiday - yes, I have been given substantial amounts of leave just to make up for this eventuality - and being separated from the rest of my colleagues who were unfortunate enough to share my curse, I find that I have been abandoned to my own devices regarding food. And since I am not permitted to leave my post, I am forced to rely on the goodwill of those about me:
Um, you going to get food? Yes? Good, can get some for me too? What do I want to eat? Dunno. What are you getting for yourself? Same thing, lor.
Yes, when begging for favours, ettiquette demands that you do not make too outrageous demands. Even when you are craving for something happy and festive, to go along with the holiday (WHICH YOU WILL NOT BE ENJOYING!).
Sigh.
What I really want is this as a starter. Followed by perhaps, this. And finally, for desert, a double scoop of vanilla ice-cream. Yes! Vanilla! Got a problem with that?!
I'm not a civil blogger when I'm starved of the things that I crave. Perhaps I am making it worse for myself by surfing all these food blogs. Then again, it is far better that thinking about my current situation:
Being a one-man contingency(!!!) is utterly depressing in itself. Even more depressing is the fact that you are sitting in a bloody windowless room with no-one but your terminal for company, when the rest of the country is having a bloody good time out on the bay. And that the head honchos in the Tech department has blocked all video streaming, so you can't see what the hell is going on out there. Big, bloody hell!
So what is a man to do? Switch off the part of my brain that concerns itself with work, and the near impossibility of something going wrong, for one.
But that brings my attention to another part of my anatomy. The stomach demands attention (since it is not getting food). So I dream about what I would rather be eating, instead of the fried hokkien mee that I am most likely to get in about a half-hour's time.
Sigh again.
So it's off to the food blogs. Hey, if I can't eat it, I can at least think about it. Then there are all those blogs with the wonderful pictures - not only think about it, I can now see what it looks like! BTW, the Traveler's Lunchbox is the bane of anyone on a diet. Take a look. See what I mean? Chocolate & Zucchini isn't very far behind either. Damn! My stomach's growling again.
Worst of all, there's not a beer to be had. Nor whisky. Nor anything vaguely alcoholic. Even my third favourite (and politically acceptable, on the basis of its caffeine content) is unavailable.
This is hell.
Friday 20 July 2007
Harvests
A friend has shared his experiences regarding study and examination priorities recently. I admit freely now, that I was similarly afflicted with single-mindedness. I too, studied Alchemy, though I abandoned it quickly enough, once I felt that I had sufficient knowledge for my purposes. Numeromancy I tolerated for two years, ere I cut myself free of that drudgery. It was Druidic Studies that consumed my nights and days, though I will be first to admit that I no longer apply what I have learnt at my present post.
Truly, many of my colleagues have wondered (aloud and loudly in my presence) why I had chosen that specialty to begin with. After all, I had long ago intended to return to my place here in the Watch, before I left for my studies. My answer has been, remains and in all probability will remain, that I had chosen thus for the sake of Art.
For clarity, I mean Art, not The Art. It is Leonardo, Rafello, Gaudi, Rembrandt, Edward Burne-Jones and their Brotherhood that has inspired me for most of my life. Music is a great comfort, of course, and food is a pleasure in itself. But the paintings, and other works, of these Masters that make my heart beat a little faster, make my breath catch in my throat, and bring a tear to my eye. Once I sought to join their ranks, but I have learnt that this ambition far, far outstripped what meagre talent I possessed. Nevertheless, I have knelt for four years, as the Indigo Girls have sung, prostrating myself to the higher mind, though certainly not for the sake of that singular piece of paper. At least, that had not been my primary purpose.
Some have argued that I should have studied Art then, rather than the Mysteries of the Druids, had I been so enamoured with it. Yet, I knew myself better than most men know themselves, even at a young age. To force deadlines and regular peformance upon myself was to slowly but surely erode what love or interest I had in any particular subject. I enjoyed my small triumphs and lofty goals in that field to impose any regiment upon it. Hence I chose something else:
Druidic Studies involved some practices that border upon necromancy, but this same discipline allowed me to gain much knowledge regarding the structure of the bodies of animals, and in relation, understand the corresponding bits and pieces of Man. While I was strongly attracted to this, I came to find myself fascinated with plants, how they related to their environment, and how did they produce growth using naught but air and water? My quest for this knowledge came upon me quietly, and quite by surprise. After all, most of my time had been spent in drawing small but detailed diagrams of common, and not so common plants, that exist upon this isle, and learning to differentiate them. A chance to practice my art, at least. This practice also gave rise to other chances, in another sense: a great many acquaintances learned of my skill and took pains to borrow my diagrams to make copies. I like to think that I loaned them out regardless of fear or favour, but the truth was that more women than men borrowed my work. My wife, indeed, was one of those who approached me with greater frequency than others.
Our courtship was a cautious thing: I was not certain if she was merely be friendly because of my art, or was my art merely an excuse for her to become more friendly. I was young, of course, and the difference made a difference to me then. Were I able to give advice to my younger self, I would have told me to get over it, and just enjoy the moment. And her company, of course!
Looking at it all, one might say that the harvest that I received for my efforts did not disappoint:
Primus: I got my paper, which mattered to my family and helped to open doors where I was employed. It was not so much what one studied, but that one had studied, after all. The Service has a mysterious and convoluted logic in its hiring methods, no doubt a result of its equally complex and somewhat inscrutable history. (One can often learn what took place and how it took place, but not exactly why it took place that way.)
Secundus: I gained the perspective that I so greatly desired. My art improved because of it, I like to think. Ironic, of course, that I seldom have the time to pick up my brushes. I have learned to differentiate between good and great art, particularly in popular cultural works from the Empire of the Sun, the Fragrant Harbour and parts of the Middle Kingdom. It has enriched my life, if naught else.
Tertius: I have gained the company of a lovely woman, who has, in greater or lesser portions, tolerated my eccentricities over the past decade (more if you count our courtship), and borne me a lovely daughter. A more obstinate, mischievous and happy child I have not seen. But not a great surprise, when I consider my own childhood, and that of my wife.
A bountiful harvest indeed.
Truly, many of my colleagues have wondered (aloud and loudly in my presence) why I had chosen that specialty to begin with. After all, I had long ago intended to return to my place here in the Watch, before I left for my studies. My answer has been, remains and in all probability will remain, that I had chosen thus for the sake of Art.
For clarity, I mean Art, not The Art. It is Leonardo, Rafello, Gaudi, Rembrandt, Edward Burne-Jones and their Brotherhood that has inspired me for most of my life. Music is a great comfort, of course, and food is a pleasure in itself. But the paintings, and other works, of these Masters that make my heart beat a little faster, make my breath catch in my throat, and bring a tear to my eye. Once I sought to join their ranks, but I have learnt that this ambition far, far outstripped what meagre talent I possessed. Nevertheless, I have knelt for four years, as the Indigo Girls have sung, prostrating myself to the higher mind, though certainly not for the sake of that singular piece of paper. At least, that had not been my primary purpose.
Some have argued that I should have studied Art then, rather than the Mysteries of the Druids, had I been so enamoured with it. Yet, I knew myself better than most men know themselves, even at a young age. To force deadlines and regular peformance upon myself was to slowly but surely erode what love or interest I had in any particular subject. I enjoyed my small triumphs and lofty goals in that field to impose any regiment upon it. Hence I chose something else:
Druidic Studies involved some practices that border upon necromancy, but this same discipline allowed me to gain much knowledge regarding the structure of the bodies of animals, and in relation, understand the corresponding bits and pieces of Man. While I was strongly attracted to this, I came to find myself fascinated with plants, how they related to their environment, and how did they produce growth using naught but air and water? My quest for this knowledge came upon me quietly, and quite by surprise. After all, most of my time had been spent in drawing small but detailed diagrams of common, and not so common plants, that exist upon this isle, and learning to differentiate them. A chance to practice my art, at least. This practice also gave rise to other chances, in another sense: a great many acquaintances learned of my skill and took pains to borrow my diagrams to make copies. I like to think that I loaned them out regardless of fear or favour, but the truth was that more women than men borrowed my work. My wife, indeed, was one of those who approached me with greater frequency than others.
Our courtship was a cautious thing: I was not certain if she was merely be friendly because of my art, or was my art merely an excuse for her to become more friendly. I was young, of course, and the difference made a difference to me then. Were I able to give advice to my younger self, I would have told me to get over it, and just enjoy the moment. And her company, of course!
Looking at it all, one might say that the harvest that I received for my efforts did not disappoint:
Primus: I got my paper, which mattered to my family and helped to open doors where I was employed. It was not so much what one studied, but that one had studied, after all. The Service has a mysterious and convoluted logic in its hiring methods, no doubt a result of its equally complex and somewhat inscrutable history. (One can often learn what took place and how it took place, but not exactly why it took place that way.)
Secundus: I gained the perspective that I so greatly desired. My art improved because of it, I like to think. Ironic, of course, that I seldom have the time to pick up my brushes. I have learned to differentiate between good and great art, particularly in popular cultural works from the Empire of the Sun, the Fragrant Harbour and parts of the Middle Kingdom. It has enriched my life, if naught else.
Tertius: I have gained the company of a lovely woman, who has, in greater or lesser portions, tolerated my eccentricities over the past decade (more if you count our courtship), and borne me a lovely daughter. A more obstinate, mischievous and happy child I have not seen. But not a great surprise, when I consider my own childhood, and that of my wife.
A bountiful harvest indeed.
Thursday 19 July 2007
Quiz
I had promised myself to make an effort at polishing my swords, so I had to keep myself awake long enough for my daughter to go to sleep. Don't want her wandering into the room with naked steel and polish strewn across the floor, after all. So I found myself going through a handful of blogs - just the usual suspects. In one of them, rather well-known for comments on books, I found the quiz below. It was one that I have known about but had not taken yet. So .....
Discworld: Which Ankh-Morpork City Watch Character are YOU?
Ha! Was there ever any doubt?
Discworld: Which Ankh-Morpork City Watch Character are YOU?
Ha! Was there ever any doubt?
Tuesday 17 July 2007
The Road Goes Ever On
I have just been reminded that I am due to make a journey, to the Beautiful Land, no less. Not of my own account do I travel there. Indeed, I do not lightly travel - loads of luggage! That's the way I do it! It is a flaw in my character, I suppose, and quite besides the point. The crux of the matter is that I have been tasked to make this voyage. Which means work there, and more work when I return. Not to mention the work that I would have done had I not gone.
A deluge of work awaits.
Sigh!
A deluge of work awaits.
Sigh!
So to the State of Virgins I must go. From all that I have heard, there is absolutely nothing to do there, and nothing to see. Well, the last is not exactly true: there is some exhibition of sorts, pertaining to the uprising against the Sceptred Isle. A decisive battle, it is claimed. But I shall not let my spirits be uplifted by this small thing, for fear that I shall be dissappointed as I usually am, by the loud claims and bombast of the Eagle people.
Nor do I expect other recreation. All I can pray for is a suitably endowed library. And perhaps, some(?) alcohol. I wonder what are the rules regarding drunkeness? I shall have to find out before I go.
Boredom, in all likelihood, beckons.
Double sigh!
But wait, there is one more nail to hammer home: the period that I am to be away coincides with my wedding anniversary!
I fear my wife shall not look kindly upon me when I break this news. Those of you who were witnesses to that happy(?) event shall undoubtedly remember that this year marks the tenth that I have been wed. I have been planning for some small celebration - provisions have been made to have my sister babysit. Now, it seems all has gone awry. What good can come out of this now? I am despondent.
Pray for me, my friends.
Beyond sighing.
Objects of Desire
A moon ago, when my coffers were suddenly flush with the largesse of the Hegemon, I found myself wandering the stores of the City, staring at what trinkets they had to offer. Indeed, it was a good time to peruse their wares, for there was some collusion amongst the storekeepers to lower their prices, in anticipation of the proclaimed rise in taxes. People were out in droves, seeking to spend their coin ere it was taken away.
It was at one of the many shops that lined the King's Road by the Old Beach, when the flash of honed steel caught my eye. Like many others who profess a love of the Arts Martial, I have always been susceptible to the lure of metalwork. Long swords, in particular those of the style of the Empire of the Sun, have ever been my weakness. So when I saw what was displayed in the window of that shop, I found myself striding within, even before I was aware of it. The message had missed my mind altogether, traveling from eye to feet in a moment.
The youth who tended the store was courteous and his welcome grew warmer still when my knowledge of weapons became apparent. The Swords of the Sun Kings were popular, and recent works by popular authors had only increased their desireability. We had a rather animated discussion regarding the strengths and weaknesses of those blades described in these works, particularly the massive two-handed swords: one wielded by a certain white-haired villain while the other, with a black blade, that belonged to an orange-haired student. Having replicas of these weapons available in the shop only encouraged our exchange, of course.
But in the end, I could not be diverted from my original purpose. As I have stated before, the Swords of the Sun Kings were my weakness. Three weapons did I remove from their stands and brandished to measure their length and weight. The heaviest of the trio was also the shortest. It had a thick blade, though it was not as wide as those of the other two. The second had a blade of folded steel, which I hold to be the most beautiful. The last, however, was unique in the fact that it did not have a guard.
I desired them all, I will freely admit. But I was loath to purchase all three, and not because of the paucity of my purse. Indeed, the generosity of the Hegemon had been great this last moon. However, my time was limited, as was the amount of space that was readily available in my rather meagre room:
Weapon-steel was hard to maintain, requiring a substantial amount of care and work to maintain them in their bright, polished state. They needed to be cleaned daily, and coated with oil or wax after each cleaning. Possessing two other swords of weapon-grade steel, I knew that I could, at most, upkeep one more blade. Thus, I found myself agonizing over which of the trio I should buy. Those who know of my other interests will see the reference to another swordsman, who also happens to be a pirate. Fortunately for me, I do not suffer from his inability to navigate even the simplest of towns.
Eventually, I made my decision. The latest of my acquisitions now graces the shelf next to its brethren, waiting as they do, for a time that I may fulfill the purpose for which they were made. Like any true swordsmen, I am resolved to meet death and mete death. But I also hope that such a time shall never come.
But which of them did I purchase, you ask.
Well, I shall reveal that shortly....
It was at one of the many shops that lined the King's Road by the Old Beach, when the flash of honed steel caught my eye. Like many others who profess a love of the Arts Martial, I have always been susceptible to the lure of metalwork. Long swords, in particular those of the style of the Empire of the Sun, have ever been my weakness. So when I saw what was displayed in the window of that shop, I found myself striding within, even before I was aware of it. The message had missed my mind altogether, traveling from eye to feet in a moment.
The youth who tended the store was courteous and his welcome grew warmer still when my knowledge of weapons became apparent. The Swords of the Sun Kings were popular, and recent works by popular authors had only increased their desireability. We had a rather animated discussion regarding the strengths and weaknesses of those blades described in these works, particularly the massive two-handed swords: one wielded by a certain white-haired villain while the other, with a black blade, that belonged to an orange-haired student. Having replicas of these weapons available in the shop only encouraged our exchange, of course.
But in the end, I could not be diverted from my original purpose. As I have stated before, the Swords of the Sun Kings were my weakness. Three weapons did I remove from their stands and brandished to measure their length and weight. The heaviest of the trio was also the shortest. It had a thick blade, though it was not as wide as those of the other two. The second had a blade of folded steel, which I hold to be the most beautiful. The last, however, was unique in the fact that it did not have a guard.
I desired them all, I will freely admit. But I was loath to purchase all three, and not because of the paucity of my purse. Indeed, the generosity of the Hegemon had been great this last moon. However, my time was limited, as was the amount of space that was readily available in my rather meagre room:
Weapon-steel was hard to maintain, requiring a substantial amount of care and work to maintain them in their bright, polished state. They needed to be cleaned daily, and coated with oil or wax after each cleaning. Possessing two other swords of weapon-grade steel, I knew that I could, at most, upkeep one more blade. Thus, I found myself agonizing over which of the trio I should buy. Those who know of my other interests will see the reference to another swordsman, who also happens to be a pirate. Fortunately for me, I do not suffer from his inability to navigate even the simplest of towns.
Eventually, I made my decision. The latest of my acquisitions now graces the shelf next to its brethren, waiting as they do, for a time that I may fulfill the purpose for which they were made. Like any true swordsmen, I am resolved to meet death and mete death. But I also hope that such a time shall never come.
But which of them did I purchase, you ask.
Well, I shall reveal that shortly....
Monday 16 July 2007
More Distraction
Only half done, thus far. Yet, in the midst of it all, I find myself wondering at the sort of music that has caught my attention over these last few years:
The Middle Kingdom series, wherein some traditional pieces of music were 'translated', for want of a better word, into something more suited to western tastes. The result was quirky and somewhat soothing. It was like watching The Avatar and its variant martial arts references, or a version of The Monkey King dubbed in irreverant street American (English would have been too rigid, I think).
Any road, the music of the series, together with Howard Shore's LOTR music, sit in the same compartment of my matrix, rubbing elbows with Hans Zimmer's Gladiator, Harry Gregson-Williams' Kingdom of Heaven, Tan Dun's Hero, and the songs of Dead Can Dance. An unusual combination, however one looks at it.
It will probably get worse.
The Middle Kingdom series, wherein some traditional pieces of music were 'translated', for want of a better word, into something more suited to western tastes. The result was quirky and somewhat soothing. It was like watching The Avatar and its variant martial arts references, or a version of The Monkey King dubbed in irreverant street American (English would have been too rigid, I think).
Any road, the music of the series, together with Howard Shore's LOTR music, sit in the same compartment of my matrix, rubbing elbows with Hans Zimmer's Gladiator, Harry Gregson-Williams' Kingdom of Heaven, Tan Dun's Hero, and the songs of Dead Can Dance. An unusual combination, however one looks at it.
It will probably get worse.
Wednesday 11 July 2007
A Quiet Distraction
For the last six days, I have been feverishly compiling every single scrap of music that I possess, scribing all into a portable matrix. Why I have begun to do this, and for what purpose, remains a veritable mystery. Am I driven to this madness for want of suitable diversion at work? Have I singled-out this particular part of my life to clear of clutter? Or is this merely reaction, against a sudden realization of age and a need to make sense of the chaos that had dominated the decades past?
I have found, though the activity of these last six days, that for all that my musical taste has altered over the years, there are a few constants: I enjoyed soundtracks immensely as a student and continue to enjoy them now. Nanci Griffith was the one country singer-songwriter that I admire, and her songs are still relevant to me now. Tori Amos, Alanis Morissette, Suzanne Vega. These ladies attracted me to their music with their passionate, and painful, lyrics almost two decades ago. I have listened as their styles changed and I still find their lyrics evocative and provocative. Enya and Loreena McKennitt both sooth and inspire me. Painting or drawing to their work seems to bring out greater passion and hunger in my work. But my favourite remains unchanged, to this day, some thirty years after I first heard what I deem the scariest piece of music in my youth: Wuthering Heights. Kate Bush has never failed to surprise me. Or scare me senseless. Or lull me into a hopelessly romantic mood.
I cannot explain the last. Perhaps this is the reason why most of my friends consider me somewhat insane.
I have found, though the activity of these last six days, that for all that my musical taste has altered over the years, there are a few constants: I enjoyed soundtracks immensely as a student and continue to enjoy them now. Nanci Griffith was the one country singer-songwriter that I admire, and her songs are still relevant to me now. Tori Amos, Alanis Morissette, Suzanne Vega. These ladies attracted me to their music with their passionate, and painful, lyrics almost two decades ago. I have listened as their styles changed and I still find their lyrics evocative and provocative. Enya and Loreena McKennitt both sooth and inspire me. Painting or drawing to their work seems to bring out greater passion and hunger in my work. But my favourite remains unchanged, to this day, some thirty years after I first heard what I deem the scariest piece of music in my youth: Wuthering Heights. Kate Bush has never failed to surprise me. Or scare me senseless. Or lull me into a hopelessly romantic mood.
I cannot explain the last. Perhaps this is the reason why most of my friends consider me somewhat insane.
Wednesday 20 June 2007
Chocolate
I am eating far too much chocolate for my own good. Of course, I have tried to offset the ill effects with greater amounts of physical exercise and a higher degree of restraint at mealtimes. Still, it worries me that I am gradually sliding down this slippery slope into addiction: quite frankly, my brain refuses to work without suitable gastronomical stimulation, and chocolate is the handiest food substance to keep around.
Sigh.
Sigh.
Wednesday 13 June 2007
The Labyrinth
Sting's Songs from the Labyrinth plays as I scribe this, bringing me back to another age. A more romantic age, some claim, an age of wondrous letters and songs of love. I will not gainsay them. Perhaps one's heart dwells upon love and desire when one must wait months for a reply. Perhaps inspiration's hammer strikes often and true when one has the luxury of mooning away one's afternoons. Perhaps the heartache of loss hurts more deeply when the nights are long and lack diversion. Perhaps I am merely feeling overwhelmed; butter spread so thin that one needs to feel the greasy surface to know which side of the bread it is on.
Time is no longer measured in months and seasons, as it was in days past. Suzanne Vega sang of Yesterday's Troubles, just as Sting's music evokes an image of days that flowed at a slower, more stately pace. These days, time is measured in minutes and seconds, with emails and sms' marching in and occupying the march of my hours. These days, my days pass in a torrent, a veritable cascade, bringing with them the flotsam and jetsam of recollections and regrets. These days, I begin to feel the weight of my years.
I know the reason for this mood: over the course of the last few weeks, I have been blessed with a great many chance meetings. Friends and acquaintances from my past, from school, from previous jobs, and even from other worlds, have appeared in the river of my days; ripples that I thought spent surface now, to reveal that they had merely been hiding beneath all the turbulence.
It was a joy to see each and every one of them again. Some I have not met in seasons, others in years, and the rare few, for nigh two decades. An orgy of 'do you remember's and 'what have you done with your life's generally ensued, followed by the exchange of numbers and email addresses, and promises to 'stay in touch'. Yet, in the hustle and bustle of our lives, will we? Too much to do, and too little time. This is a disease that afflicts us all in this day and age. Our work consumes far too much of our time and our energies, and what we did not squander in our headlong rush towards that next project deadline, we dole out to our families. Little wonder then, that we hardly have time to meet and eat and drink copious amounts of caffeinated beverages. Once I would have said beer, whisky or wine, but I am getting older and the penalties for getting caught with alcohol in one's bloodstream is fast approaching cruel and unusual proportions. The authorities in question will doubtless disagree.
So I am resolved, for this year at least, to seize the day, to live in the now. I shall make time. I shall invest it wisely in my family and my friends. I shall fashion good memories and great works together. Or great memories and good works, accordingly. There will come a time for me to retire, a time where my days are no longer filled with such pressing demands. When that time comes, my family and friends shall be there to inspire me and surprise me. And should they be otherwise occupied .... Well, I shall have reminiscences aplenty to keep me warm.
Time is no longer measured in months and seasons, as it was in days past. Suzanne Vega sang of Yesterday's Troubles, just as Sting's music evokes an image of days that flowed at a slower, more stately pace. These days, time is measured in minutes and seconds, with emails and sms' marching in and occupying the march of my hours. These days, my days pass in a torrent, a veritable cascade, bringing with them the flotsam and jetsam of recollections and regrets. These days, I begin to feel the weight of my years.
I know the reason for this mood: over the course of the last few weeks, I have been blessed with a great many chance meetings. Friends and acquaintances from my past, from school, from previous jobs, and even from other worlds, have appeared in the river of my days; ripples that I thought spent surface now, to reveal that they had merely been hiding beneath all the turbulence.
It was a joy to see each and every one of them again. Some I have not met in seasons, others in years, and the rare few, for nigh two decades. An orgy of 'do you remember's and 'what have you done with your life's generally ensued, followed by the exchange of numbers and email addresses, and promises to 'stay in touch'. Yet, in the hustle and bustle of our lives, will we? Too much to do, and too little time. This is a disease that afflicts us all in this day and age. Our work consumes far too much of our time and our energies, and what we did not squander in our headlong rush towards that next project deadline, we dole out to our families. Little wonder then, that we hardly have time to meet and eat and drink copious amounts of caffeinated beverages. Once I would have said beer, whisky or wine, but I am getting older and the penalties for getting caught with alcohol in one's bloodstream is fast approaching cruel and unusual proportions. The authorities in question will doubtless disagree.
So I am resolved, for this year at least, to seize the day, to live in the now. I shall make time. I shall invest it wisely in my family and my friends. I shall fashion good memories and great works together. Or great memories and good works, accordingly. There will come a time for me to retire, a time where my days are no longer filled with such pressing demands. When that time comes, my family and friends shall be there to inspire me and surprise me. And should they be otherwise occupied .... Well, I shall have reminiscences aplenty to keep me warm.
Monday 11 June 2007
The Herald I
Herald is my name of old,
From which my metier may be told.
Aneas Sylvius later on related
How the heralds were incorporated
Many years before to go on missions
Visiting princes and men of high position,
And freely passing every frontier.
To the heralds should one reverence bear,
Give them gifts and jewels and courtly clothing,
Fortify them in their lordly living,
Guide them safely and defend them,
Strictly punish whosoe'er offend them.
- epigram by Hans Guldenmundt, about 1550
Each time I consider the Herald, I find myself inexplicably wondering about laundry. Here was a man who was welcome in all the Courts of Europe. Surely he must have maintained an impressive wardrobe, no? However did he manage to keep his clothes clean? In comparison, my laundry basket is ever in a deplorable state. Of course, my wife would be less generous if she had to describe it. Nevertheless, I can honestly say that the situation is much improved over what had been before I wed her.
But, back to the herald....
Here was a man without power save what he borrowed from those he claimed to serve, without status, without means. Yet, in a tourney or upon the field of battle, he was an authority to be reckoned with. And the reason for this? His knowledge. To me, he was a true symbol of meritocracy.
Or was he?
From which my metier may be told.
Aneas Sylvius later on related
How the heralds were incorporated
Many years before to go on missions
Visiting princes and men of high position,
And freely passing every frontier.
To the heralds should one reverence bear,
Give them gifts and jewels and courtly clothing,
Fortify them in their lordly living,
Guide them safely and defend them,
Strictly punish whosoe'er offend them.
- epigram by Hans Guldenmundt, about 1550
Each time I consider the Herald, I find myself inexplicably wondering about laundry. Here was a man who was welcome in all the Courts of Europe. Surely he must have maintained an impressive wardrobe, no? However did he manage to keep his clothes clean? In comparison, my laundry basket is ever in a deplorable state. Of course, my wife would be less generous if she had to describe it. Nevertheless, I can honestly say that the situation is much improved over what had been before I wed her.
But, back to the herald....
Here was a man without power save what he borrowed from those he claimed to serve, without status, without means. Yet, in a tourney or upon the field of battle, he was an authority to be reckoned with. And the reason for this? His knowledge. To me, he was a true symbol of meritocracy.
Or was he?
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