a·crop·o·lis /əˈkräpələs/

The Acropolises were the fortified heights of Greek cities way way back before Yahweh came barging in and did away with all the cool gods who are now reduced to Marvel action movie heroes and such. How degrading, right?

A handful of years back, some plot-building exercise led me to create a fantasy world scenario for fun, where a fortified city of great import (like today's Vatican but relating to the chief Norse gods) faced a dire circumstance. Religious artifacts had been stolen by a great witch from another plane of existence in a plot to expose the city to destruction from its neighboring volcano, from which they were, til then, protected by said Norse gods, but to then concoct a scenario where a new-in-town temple saves the day and purports to expose the historical rulers as corrupt and evil. The new temple was controlled by the witch who presented herself as a god.

But how to make the good guys win? Where do the heroes come from?

I told the late Liberal Theologian about it (my then-housemate) and we agreed at once to recruit a crew and run the thing as a Dungeons and Dragons adventure. The players were an acolyte and kennel master of a good guy temple where the head priest was kidnapped, a young dwarf who's engineer father had disappeared while contracted to head a major renovation to the (ultimately evil) temple of the witch, and a Frost woman who's brother disappeared when caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. In her search for her brother she got herself unfairly pegged as a suspect by the citadel master of the guard and had to be rescued, in effect, by the others.

They won the support of the Gjall; the great leader of the citadel (like a pope) who had been brought visions of the young would-be heroes by the Norns (divine Norse messengers who do such things - kind of like the three ghosts in Dickens' Christmas Carol).

Together they discovered that the Frost brother had been killed unfortunately but they raided the evil temple and rescued the Dwarven father who'd been set aside as eventual monster food because he knew too much, and they found their way through a tower portal network to a gateway world (literally an upside down world - and this was well before Stranger Things!) where they confronted and killed the witch monster without having to go all the way to her own plane. There they also discovered the Frost Brother in living form and there the Gjall, now murdered but returned in Revnant form, was able to help them all understand that he was in a kind of purgatory and could never return to his material plane but would be going to the Nirvana; the paradise, of his own kind and soon. And one day brother and sister (and all their kin) would be reunited there.

In the process they saved the Ruling counsel of the holy citadel by stopping the witch from ascending to the Gjall position in the false form of the successor which she had covertly executed.

The adventure was a great success and I started writing the novel according to our shared blueprint.

In Part Two they would go after the remaining artifacts in a race against time to shut down the volcano. But my housemate had become sick with cancer at this time and it did not feel like any kind of priority to any of us.

The Liberal Theologian then passed away and I stopped writing the book and haven't touched it since. Her D&D character was in essence the central character of the book, and there was a lot of herself in there, and everything feels different now. Maybe one day I'll pick it up again. Who knows.  

Vegetable of the Week

As promised, we're caving in to pressure and bestowing the belligerent cucumber with coveted Vegetable of the Week honours, despite vocal outrage from the cat community.

Thanks goes to Aqualad and Macka B for their persistent lobbying on Cu-Cumba's behalf. The latter produced the following video propaganda. Rumours that the original lyrics contained the lines "great hydrater... not a vibrator" could not be confirmed.

Here's your certificate, cucumber. Now get lost.

Sincere apologies to the feline community. Please view the following brief educational video we have put together for your enlightenment:

Smothering Instinct

I'm extremely forgetful. Perhaps because of my tendency to look below the surface of things and not to stay on top of things? Whatever the reasons, I depend on careful organizational skills and when I find myself under the thumb of the pandemic and not going anywhere there's a tendency to forget about my daily planner which contains (or is supposed to) all my project intentions, chores, appointments and recurring events: everything from teeth-brushing to garbage day to NFL Opening Day.

I sometimes forget to take my meds; both for blood-pressure and the miracle sleep-enabling drug.

Sometimes I forget a couple days in a row and things get sketchy. Recently I went three days in a row without the miracle pill due to a combination of sleep irregularity, lack of organization and terrible service hours/closures of the pharmacy from Friday through Sunday.

The result was the same as the last time I went on a three-day bender. My emotions went right into hyer-drive. While I am always missing a few very dear loved ones and have so since March, a kind of panic sets in in the above circumstance. I feel like something is going to go wrong and I'll never see them again; never hug them; or perhaps that my absence will lead them to forget about me or perhaps to not need me? I don't really understand it. There is no logical interpretation of what I feel; just an extraordinary yearning for certain people.

Certain best friends who I have had in life slipped away from me and lost interest in me despite my continued interest in them. That's probably part of it.

And also being a person who had to fight his way out of the closet in a much earlier day there remains a life-long liability which few straight people could fully comprehend. It lies, normally unwoken, in the pit of every such person who has suffered this adolescent trauma in a less-kind age; as the Eloquent Potter puts it: the fear of being de-grouped. If you know a gay person and you want to utterly kill them just make them feel unwelcome in their established peer group. For us there is nothing crueler.

Now that the internet has given us all a soapbox for preaching our advice any old time at all there's a great tendency to indulge (like yours truly, especially!). But sometimes there's a resentment if we feel that the advice to embrace sacrifice is coming from those who have less to sacrifice. We feel like the call to sacrifice is much stronger when it comes from those who must sacrifice more. This does not reflect on the accuracy or wisdom of the message though!

For instance I am full of parenting advice which I believe in confidently but I rarely ever breathe a word of it because I've never suffered the things which parents must suffer. So my voice is a weaker one. That doesn't mean I'm wrong. It means I'm less trust-worthy.

That's actually a poor example. Here's the point. When my excellent brother and other folks tell me here is the sacrifice we must make in order to ensure our parents health, there is a part of me that knows damn well they are right. But there is another part of me that says "Okay but by the way, go to hell because you have a wife and kids for you to love in your household! I have no one!"

I have a housemate who sleeps two floors above me and a there's her dog too, but these relationships are tricky ones and the love there is not of the sort that seems to keep me alive; not like my family and such dear souls as the Eloquent Potter or Aqualad or Neo for instance.

As much as I adore them, by the way, no one comes close to my Mom. She is number one; our relationship is sacred. But luckily I see her about every five weeks and we either call or skype at least three times a week.  

I found out with certainty after near-thirteen years with Long-Time Companion that the standard relationship model in our society is largely nonsensical to me and that I suck at it either way and since then I cherish close friendships with whom I can share anything (and even the odd one which has edged into sexual behavior though my interest in sex is well into its final hour) and multiple best-friendish companions have in essence replaced the idea of a spouse.

Phone calls and video chats with great friends are great!  But as a person who is starved for physical contact at the best of times these events are simultaneously a reminder of what I am missing.

In my drug-starved despair I hit the facebook status alarm bell, worried or perhaps offended some dear people and an hour later tried to trust my logic and issued a retraction. But the damage was done. Friends of a masculine-problem-solving nature be they men or women; those who rush to fix things as quickly as possible rather than pause to understand them, tried to give me advice; advice I already knew and knew could not satisfy my instinctive perception of my clobbered needs, but bless their kind souls for trying.

Telling a starving man that you have no food, that he'll have to be happy with cigarettes or chewing gum or a harmonica, solves no problems.

I'm a few days back on the pill regular now, and I still miss these people (and some others) quite terribly. But I feel again that this hell-born Covid disaster will surely pass at some point and I will just have to hang on, one way or another, and take my damn pill every day, and pray a vaccine comes to the rescue.

And when this is over I'm coming for you with a giant hug so brace yourself, and just like the childless female penguin who competes so desperately for an available orphan, I'll try not to crush you to death.

The Promise

Tax the Canadian super-rich.

Building the Map Room

My dreams of you

The last four dreams I've had which were recalled by waking memory were all dreams of old friends: writers, gaming buddies and such loved ones as Earth Writer, Aqualad and Dog Whisperer. Covid has insidiously revealed, to my surprise, a capacity for loneliness.

Some friends (and family) I may have inadvertently alienated long before.

Facebook had become a force of unbearable toxicity to me and in a period of desperation, when it had become a source of anguish to my troubled sensitivities, I began severing connections. Stupidly; very very stupidly, I unfriended those who were avenues to subject matter I could no longer bear to think about. There were such better logistical solutions to deal with that but I was not very savvy at the time, and somehow did not consider that I might be insulting them. I had no such intention. Before long I realized my mistake and was too cowardly to go around apologizing. And a short time later I just left facebook altogether, which probably should have been my initial act.

But later the new "Scooterville Tigers" Marketing and Media gig seemed to necessitate that I embrace all social media and so I returned. Since then I have learned how to use facebook more positively, sparingly and safely.

It's November and NaNoWriMo has begun, hampered of course by the pandemic. My world now is small. My confidence is small. Health recovery is my only real bag. Commitments outside of that would be monstrously daunting. One step at a time.

But my thoughts are joyfully with writer pals this month and I hope to do some vicarious living through them, and one such friend is Sick Boy; a victim of my facebook purge. I don't know how well apologies might be received, but if you're reading this, Sick Boy. I hope you are still running the HamNaNo group. I will be coming around online to say Hi to everyone; not to participate though, and for what its worth, I love you and I miss you. And I'm very sorry.

Seaside

Help 4-yr old Daksh be reunited with his Canadian-resident parents

Augusta

Hey kids: Welcome to April A-to-Z blogging 2020. I’ve been farting around with this for a bunch of years, actually completing the entire challenge in 2015 with 26 must-read books, which may have been some of my most useful blogging ever. I followed that up in 2016 with 100 must-see films which I am very happy with - so far - and I still plan to complete this effort one day!

This year I have outsourced my topic assignments to my associates. Without further ado, I give you the amiable, affectionate, almost-altruistic, athletic and academically apt… Aqualad! And he has assigned the topic:

Albatross

The very prestigious invitational Masters golf tournament was first launched at Augusta National Golf Club which was built specifically for the occasion (as far as I understand), in 1934.

Craig Wood was a damn fine golfer in the day; though perhaps not as big as the threesome of Bobby Jones, Gene Sarazen and Walter Hagen for each of whom the Masters would prove fairly elusive.

Wood finished the inaugural tournament second only to Horton Smith at 2-under and 4-under par respectively.

Then in year-two of the gig, 1935, Craig Wood kicked ass, leading his nearest challenger by three strokes as he entered the clubhouse on the final day. That challenger was Gene Sarazen who was informed by playing mate Hagen that his chances “were dim” with four holes remaining.

“Oh you never know,” Sarazen is reported saying. “The ball can go in from anywhere.” He then hit a mighty drive on the 530-yard par-5 fifteenth hole, and then aggressively opted to go for the green in two. Today there is a plaque at that very spot, titled “the shot heard around the world.”

The long ambitious shot bounced, then landed on the green, then rolled… right into the cup.

The incredibly-rare three-under par shot suddenly tied him for the lead with Wood, who at that moment first coined the phrase “Are you fucking kidding me?” [not true that I know of].

Sarazen finished the round still tied and the two then played a 36-hole playoff (unheard of today) which Sarazen won decidedly.

The three under-par result is called a “double eagle” in America due, I assume, to some amazing American mathematician concluding that -2 (an eagle) multiplied by two is, not -4, but -3. Who knew? In the British Isles/UK/Great Britain/whatever such a feat is called an albatross. So there.

This feat gave Sarazen his only Masters victory and combined with previous PGA Championship, British and U.S. Open victories, gave him the very first Career Grand Slam status in golf history. That feat has only been replicated by Ben Hogan, Gary Player, Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods.

Craig Wood, meanwhile, did not so much wear “an albatross around his neck” having finished runner-up twice, but more of a “monkey on his back.” Always the bridesmaid…  

This first phrase loosely refers to being haunted by something you are guilty of. It comes from lyrical ballad The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in which an angry crew hangs a dead Albatross around the captain’s neck, believing the captain doomed them by killing this bird who had evolved to be a good, not a bad, omen. Or something like that.

But Wood would finally shake the monkey off in 1941, winning the Masters three strokes ahead of two-time Masters champ Byron Nelson.

See you tomorrow!

M is for Middling

In the last 36 hours I have:

• Lost my wallet and $190.
• Negotiated with burdened outdoor renovation workers to access my own driveway.
• Attended the 8th or 9th annual Wafflepalooza of which I was a founding father.
• Hugged friends.
• Reminisced with my dear writer pals concerning the inspiring ascent of The Liaison, who departed oh so young on the verge of a writing career breakthrough.
• Hugged more friends.
• Tinkered with yet another indulgent mindcrack lair.
• Found the wallet!
• Barely -- barely -- endured the 45-minute torture of an ultrasound session in which the tech sweated buckets trying to push holes through me (drawing blood even but not much).
• Butted heads politely with a senior bank associate trying to smother Gramps and I in a blanket of red tape and liability paranoia leaving me exhausted and almost hopeless before a wonderful junior associate, a young black man with brilliant instincts, wisdom and kindness gave us everything we needed as soon as the former departed.
• Parked strategically so Gramps could piss in a parking lot.
• Talked about life and literature with Earth Writer and remembered how we used to be closer (I think).
• Attended Scooterville NaNo Thank God Its Over celebration.
• Won nice little prizes.
• Hugged friends I’m very glad to find are still friends.
• Sat in the car hoping that a young person I will always care for will come to understand I would never ever want to hurt his feelings and that I only want his life to be better and him to be happy. And that’s all I’ll say about that.

I’m in the middle of things.

Peace.

Skyward

Nadajingen Tasm, known simply as “Nadji” by all associates, was raised by single mother Gardina Tasm in the port city of Memoch on planet Karadras of the Sol Cluster. This was formerly a town known primarily for the Federated Core Systems (FCS) military outpost it supported but in just a decade had burgeoned into a mining and prospecting city following reports of major Hecatyz presence in the surrounding region; prospects which have yet to fully live up to their billing.

Gardina and Nadajingen lived in the absence of a father or other relatives except for an Aunt Allie and Uncle Merc who lived “in the country”; a tiny village called Nightshade to which Nadji had never been. His absent father was “just some miner” he’d been told. Gardina refused to elaborate.

His aunt and uncle always made a great fuss over him on their visits which became less and less frequent with time. Aunt Allie always departed with a tear in her eye.

In early childhood Nadji made two friends he was fond of, both human but his mother was fast to reprimand him and insist that he only associate with other Hjalme. He was expected to be polite with all aliens but never to get involved with them.

When he tried to maintain their friendship in secret, Gardina found out about these transgressions immediately and he was severely disciplined on each occasion and before long these friendships were severed.

Nadji harboured two secret desires: to become an off-world explorer (and as such to join a prestigious local scouting academy affiliated with the military base) and secondly: to find out his father’s identity. He spoke of these desires only to his best friend, a Hjalme boy naturally, named Titov, but at once Gardina found out and firmly cautioned him against these ideas. Nadji was angry with Titov for revealing his secrets which Titov firmly denied doing. There was a spat and a cold period but their friendship recovered.

Nadji constantly researched other planets; especially the early exploration and development of new worlds. Where these pursuits turned up in school curricula he scored fantastic marks but he did poorly in most other academic areas which he found boring.

Gardina had almost no social life outside of the visits from Merc and Allie. She worked part time in a munitions factory and doted on Nadji with a love which seemed more severe and intentional than in typical highly-emotionalized Hjalme mother-child relations.

Nadji was shocked when he was invited to apply, and further, was accepted, at the local FCS Scouting Academy. He’d been certain he lacked the grades, and Gardina the money, for this to be possible, and that his race, despite its significant prevalence in Memoch and urban Karadras generally, might be a hurdle in the eyes of FCS officials. And yet he was accepted. There he befriended another human and insisted they keep quiet about their bond and at once Gardina found out and objected. To Nadji, her powers of information gathering were becoming almost alarming.

Nadji’s grades improved at the academy as his interests and knack for research widened in scope.

When the news reported the disappearance of radical Hjalme religious leader Alhoya Alcana, Nagji delved deep into the story, employing standard news sources as well as underground channels which he’d developed a knack for infiltrating. He learned a number of interesting things:

l The extreme nature of Alcana’s quasi-religion which was claimed by some to possess a partially secretive agenda proclaiming that only one intelligent race must exist in the universe; that race being Hjalme.

l Another Hjalme disappearance occurred on the same day: that of an underground militia leader known as “the Skuggharon.”  

l Claims that the Skuggharon’s real name was Mercerodat Alcana, that he and Alhoya were formerly married, and that they’d produced a son named Largo Alcana whose whereabouts has never been known.

l Claims that the Starlight Brigade, whose presence on Karadras had grown significantly in the last two years, were behind these two coordinated abductions.

Upon studying images of Alhoya Alcana, Nadji was haunted: She looked so much like his aunt Allie they could be the same person.

Nadji slipped away from the academy and returned home where Gardina cited contagious illness and would not leave her bedroom for two days, demanding she be left alone. Nadji, through the bedroom door, insisted he was worried about her and insisted they get help for her. “Let us call Aunt and Uncle,” he said, carefully playing his cards. “If you will not tell me how to reach them I will find out myself!”

She replied that Allie and Merc had only been friends and they’d lost touch, and that the titles “aunt” and “uncle” had merely been a show of respect.

Further investigative research revealed that Gardina was not employed at the munitions factory and that she and himself only existed in local records but neither of their identities existed at higher governmental levels. And as for Allie and Merc, there was no village in Karadras known officially or colloquially as Nightshade.

One week before graduation Nadji, armed with the skills they’d taught him, fled the academy and confronted the woman who raised him: “Am I Largo Alcana?” he said. “Son of Alhoya and Mercerodat?” She displayed incredulity; claimed this to be nonsense. “Then I will see you again one day, Mother, and I hope you will tell me the truth.”

Nadji packed his bags and went to work with Titov who had dropped out of the academy earlier and now performed scouting services by private contract. Their client, he soon learned, were a branch of Waller’s Pirates and Titov was an official member.

Nadji worked for Titov casually in a specialized form of piracy: the locating and acquisition of rare materials from remote environments, until the time came to confirm his own membership in the band, but there, armed with experience and a growing list of contacts, he broke out on his own, with the goal of becoming an elite independent provider of information and rare objects.

His most important contact was a dealer by the name of Cyril Ozzyter who brought him into the Black Market fold and eventually introduced him to Lionel Lomax, adviser to a prestigious underworld family, who hired Nadji on recommendation, was impressed with his work, and opened up to him a wider, more lucrative field of clients.

And there the adventure begins!

I've been charged to create a character for the "Skyward" RPG campaign my pal will soon be running. It takes place in the future obviously. Our "Dungeons & Dragons" group is expanding; my D&D "Minerva" campaign will run concurrently with this one. I will be the Dungeon Master for some sessions and a player for others. I look forward to this variety and to seeing one of my young gang engage in the art of game mastering! 

Growing up

I am so old that my life can now be conveniently measured in centuries. This week I officially turned .5 centuries old. And I feel like it. Though I seem to remember youth as though it were very recent, I have felt old for years now. In physical terms this age brings growing hardship. In terms of emotional health it is a comfort.

My older friends are aghast when I report being old and they insist that no, I am young. But I cannot abide their optimistic view. They seem to imagine that they are still young and that all these physical ailments are some cruel offence against us. But of course we are old. These wonders of technology and medical wizardry are a perversion to natural life (for which I am grateful!) and so of course they come with costs. These tricks prolong life but not youth. We are a race of elderly. Of course we should expect to suffer. Unfortunately there is no fairness to it. I have suffered less than my share while others whom I love have suffered more. When my dues finally mature I only hope to make peace with my own ills.

Meanwhile this milestone comes at a convenient juncture. As the many symptoms of my own neglect ramp up and finally weigh so heavily that I am truly moved toward self-improvement, so does this 50-year marker remind me how little I have accomplished in terms of the outer purpose I so easily recognized for myself years ago. I seem to have taken the easiest, most optimistic approaches to this goal, expecting myself to have the ability to successfully communicate when the moment calls for it, and for others to easily catch on, and perhaps most significantly: for others to make the rare assumption that I actually possess (or may possess) the rare insights I hint at.

Well this all has to go.

I have toyed with many organizational structures for documenting my learning and many attempts at writing THE BOOK. I have tried it as biography and other forms of non-fiction and also as eclectic collections by different themes and structures. No attempt has lasted long.

Recently I believe I may have realized finally what angle I should approach it from, which I intend to explain later. 

Aqualad told me recently that teaching is a good way to learn, and I get that. I am thankful for that reminder and reinforcement. And this, after I confessed my own doubt in being a teacher to him, for the reason that it might - it might - be fair to say that the program I dared to teach is one that I have not truly graduated from myself.

The first step toward everything; a program for others, a one-off problem solving tool for others, a book that “the world” might need to hear, and perhaps most important of all: a written “proof” behind my condition; a consolidation for my own confidence, was completed - oh - more than a decade ago. And still I have not taken the obvious second step! Which is to flesh out the framework; the complex hierarchy, into a proper outline. To assemble all the math, in other words.

Why have I avoided this so long! Subconscious fear? Laziness?

I have to do this. And I realize that this is probably a test. If I do it - and I must - I will appreciate a result. Maybe I will be reinforced and emboldened. Or maybe I will fail and fall into doubt, and turn to some other outer purpose.

Together

I’m noticing, over the last few days, how increased mindfulness (or wakefulness etc.) doesn’t only avail wisdom but also the simplest intelligence. I have had many meetings and social engagements lately and have been a little more on the ball and have noticed how much clearer I see the relationship dynamics without the nigglings - the wisps - of pride and paranoia twisting my perception. All these relationships look so much more joyful, beautiful and worthwhile and full of possibility through detached observation.

The word detachment seems to scare people off though. I’m talking about perception that is without these false filters of need; dependency; expectation. I find this hard to describe. For me it comes through organic trust in the lessons I have learned, first-hand, about the illusions spun by instinctive mind. For me detachment has no negative connotations. It is not about lack of love, for instance. In fact it avails so much more love.

I’m sure that Tolle or Buddhist literature would describe a different path for finding this detachment; a path or paths which I seem to have forgotten precisely. I recall these readings too dimly at the moment. For me it came through the habit of creative solitude and a bottomless fascination for truth; or more accurately it turned out, the absence of truth and the forensic study of its displacement. It is why, in my more powerful state of former years, I was strong in leveraging influence; nudging people more toward creativity, before I began faltering and eventually withdrawing, more intentionally of late.

I am reminded the advantages of clarity when one is not so self-interested in the dynamics of relationships. It is enough that we are all alive, human and imperfect together, and taking on this great drama together, as witnesses to the universe, and to our own potential as a creature of harmony; both internal and collectively.

Friends and neighbours

I took Aqualad out for lunch at the Great Old German restaurant; his favourite Scooterville eatery where it is decidedly uncorporate. Large portions. Barely marked-up wine. We tackled the Plate for Two which I will describe only as a mound of exciting food over a thick giant schnitzel on a platter on a hot plate set between us. We are accomplished Pro Devourers though both on self-improvement courses and less indulgent than usual. I insisted he take the leftovers home.

It’s funny. The task of writing is much more than a report of what has been on your mind. The very act produces new thoughts. It is an invaluable act of reflection; of internal conversation. And here at this moment I am realizing that he reported (let it slip?) that he’d been present there two weeks ago. That makes sense as it was his birthday at the time. By coincidence that would have also fallen just after my first proposal that I take him there as a reward for surviving his dental surgery and flu combination. Which means that… not only was I not invited to his birthday dinner for the first time in years, but I was very deliberately not invited.

Strange perhaps that I don’t feel especially hurt. I am accustomed to thinking of them as my second family and that, clearly has become an indulgence worthy of embarrassment so I will stop.

I have seen Earth Writer and Dog Whisperer only twice in the last half year; Aqualad three times now, and his delightful girlfriend zero.

There were awkward moments at the cottage last summer and I’m confident that there were complete misunderstandings about matters of no real consequence to me. If their cooling stems from only that, then that is a tragic mistake. And if it stems from more than that, which I assume it must, then I am at a complete loss. I am blissfully unaware of whatever failings I have perpetrated, at least in terms of friendship. But failings have been a theme for me for some time now. No reason to assume they should all have fallen onto my own radar.

The greater tragedy is that Aqualad (if I understand correctly) is in essence turning down the greatest gift a human being could receive for reasons that do not sound sincere but might be. I think it more likely that he is humouring me; managing me; not wanting to say that he has no reason to believe in me.

And it’s true there is no reason to believe in me; no reason for anyone to. I look for opportunities to help those I love and those who demonstrate the rare mental fortitude in the rare and vital realms that I have advance experience in. But I did not graduate from that rare academy. I got close and then backed away. Or did I flunk out perhaps?

Aqualad cannot possibly have much understanding of what he is turning down. We’ve discussed it far too little. But a close bond remains between us it seems. And there is no deadline. Whatever I do manage to accomplish when I break out of this fucking cocoon, may change his regard for me, and in the mean time I will look for opportunities to nudge him in useful directions as opportunities arise.

Not that our dynamics are a motivator for me now. What motivates me is honestly just between the universe and I. And the universe, I must remember, is not ours to command. We can only offer our best advice and then let causality do what it must.

It really is surprising though, that I don’t feel especially hurt. I would have expected to be.

At the core of my “2019 resolution” whether it shows between the lines or not, is the intention to be mindful. Perhaps already I am.

I returned home from our German smorgasbord, parked afar, and walked; exercised. I heard my next-door neighbour’s door opening, a usual precursor to awkward endearments; a fantasy that this perversion called suburbia is some sort of community. But I found myself looking eagerly, and it was the man who emerged and he wore a great smile. My own was immediate. We traded happy comments on the lovely mild weather. Mine were sincere and I’ll assume his were too. Then as I turned up the drive way the lady appeared. “I can’t believe it’s 2019 already!” she said.

“I know,” I said, then sincerely: “Time is cruel.” She laughed. I smiled.

Maybe it is some sort of community.

 

Escape

I remember when there was no issue at cottages around the presence of cell phones. If there was an issue surrounding the wisdom of group solitude and its protection, the issue was whether to allow newspapers or not. How far we haven’t come.

I remember cottage vacations where sitting around telling stories all day and sitting around telling stories all evening by camp fire was the gold standard and the norm. Yes, cottage vacations were an escape but we couldn’t help but escape to something special. Because not much followed us .

For years now I have not glimpsed this magic. Cottage vacations, for most people it seems,, are almost entirely escape; from employment mostly. And so the wonders of technology allow them to escape from only what they choose and as long as they keep their noses close to their cell phones nothing precious will be missed out on.

For me there is nothing to escape. There is only opportunity: for sustained conversation. The kind that burrows deep and forges stronger connections between us and stirs up insights and revelation; the kind in which anecdotes lead to questions and answers which boil down to one thing: how do we live our lives better?

Still, I enjoy spending time with loved ones even if we don’t do it my way.

I shot a bit of video; too little to do much with it really, but Pen Pal really wanted to see it so I threw this together. I need much practicing at video and audio editing so that I can put some proper music videos out at some point. I need to give my songs some kind of life before I entirely forget how to play them. If I haven’t already. Here’s the latest effort:

The Planets Minerva: Episode 3: The Walled Town of Sealedge

The ranger Catherine and her Half-orc companions Armigus and Gu’ro’Baen have left the encampment of the brothers and sisters of Osiris, gratefully equipped by them with water skins, a few coins, clothing, footwear and such; and with belts which, in the absence of sheathes or scabbards, managed to contain their bared compact swords, though awkwardly, and at least allowed their hands free. They have followed a well-beaten track through the strange hot savannah, their hoods a shelter from the large red sun.

At the tall brown stone wall of the town of Sealedge the windowless gates stand closed. Before it some merchant and his guards and horses wait patiently with their loaded covered cart as town guards patrol high above. The merchant assures the party that these outer gates will open soon while the inner gates close instead, and that this will leave the outer ring quarters of Sealedge at their disposal.

“And what sort of little hate-goblin is this?” asks Catherine, gesturing toward the tall grass where a mousey, almost doggish face glares at them. She slowly approaches the short creature who scurries backward and upright away from the ranger.

When the sturdy gates groan and swing ponderously outward, the merchant shows papers to the guards within; there are many of them in sight, all garbed in charcoal-coloured capes and red helmets, and the merchant and his men are waved on. The party, with no papers, are redirected toward one of the four large buildings which abut the inner and outer walls on either side of each gate, leaving a single well-trod road bisecting the dense outer “ring” community.

There are banners posted on their left and right hand sides of this intersection; one with a westward arrow hailing the Horse’s Ass Ale House and the other plugging the Thirsty Bastard Ale House to the east. The former bears a crude drawing of a horse looking back over his shoulder while the latter depicts a gentle-eyed bearded man staring placidly at the viewer. Catherine is startled at the image. Her hand goes to the hilt of her sword where the saint’s name is inscribed. “Look familiar?” she says. The others follow her gaze.

“It’s the same image Brother Leotho showed us,” says Gu’ro’Baen.”

“Saint Montreal,” says Armigus. Saint of the abandoned, they each recall. “We must pay this place a visit.”

“Guard,” says Catherine, “I must report a matter of possible concern.”

“Go on.” She tells him of the presence of a little ‘hate goblin’ hiding in the grass outside the gate. The guard thanks her and vows to have this investigated.

They are then ushered through a door below a sign reading Intake wherein guards relieve them of their weapons with the promise of their return before leaving Outer Sealedge, whether inward or outward as their fate yet avails.

Guro, as his orcish friend calls him, is separated from the others and interviewed well along the narrow room, within their sight but out of earshot.

The interrogator demands his name and those of his companions. Guro complies and that much goes well. “And where have you come from?”

“From the encampment down the road. We were guests of the pilgrims of Osiris.”

“Since when? Did you enter the Verge with them?”

“No.”

“Where is home then? Not Orikland.”

“No.”

“You are part Orik though.”

“I… yes.”

“From where originally?”

“We’re… wanderers currently.”

“Perchance you were born somewhere?” The man seemed irked.

“Of course. The city of Renown.”

The guard shook his head. “I’ve not heard of this city before. To what land does it belong?”

“It’s a long way from here.”

“Clearly. But what land please?”

“I know not how to answer that. It’s an independent city, with it’s own rulers and army.”

The guard stares at him unpleasantly. “How can you not know in which land it lies?

“It is it’s own land.”

“Are you enfeebled then? Or a lunatic?”

“No sir!”

Eventually the guard loses patience and Guro is taken and detained while Armigus and Catherine are each interviewed. They respond cleverly with geographical references gleaned from the clerics and are permitted access to outer Sealedge for the time being, but with the burden of sponsoring the suspicious Gu’ro’Baen and unburdened of their weapons. They are each assigned permanent unique visitor numbers which index their entry records. They are told when to return to this barracks where they might be approved for entry or else bedded for the night.

“Have you ever seen such a tight-guarded town?” says Armigus upon their release. “What are they so protective of, I wonder.”

“Unspoiled water?” says Catherine. ‘It is rare apparently, in this land at least.” They are outside staring again at the Thirsty Bastard Ale House banner.

“Saint Montreal,” says Guro, echoing the others’ thoughts.

“Whoever left those swords for us...” Catherine muses.

“Do they mean to direct us there?” says Armigus, “Where they perchance await?”

“Let’s find out,” says Guro.

“And hope they’re friendly,” says Catherine. “We’ve no weapons now.”

“Something tells me that guards will be present,” says Guro as he looks around.”

“They do seem everywhere,” says Armigus.

“I suspect we’re being observed,” says Guro. “Tested as it were.”

Hmmm. I’m a little concerned about this exercise. It was meant to serve as a concise record of game play but it has taken a turn for the prosaic. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Perhaps it is a symptom of the stage of the story. It is still very much in introduction mode and a lot of subtleties are significant. Perhaps as this world gains familiarity the narration will gain some speed and concision.   

The Planets Minerva: Episode 2: The Encampment

The ranger Catherine has introduced herself to the two half-orcs and found out that they are all from the city of Renown though they do not recall her face nor she theirs. They stand on a well-travelled track overlooking the great drop to the sea as the red sun inches higher, revealing itself to be a larger sun than they are accustomed to (or one they are closer to?) That it is rising instead of falling reveals that what they thought was dusk is instead dawn and the direction they had just pegged as East has become West, and North has become South. Are they in another part of the world? Or a different world altogether?

They stand barefoot, adorned in nothing but robes, each holding a compact sword in a heat they would normally associate with an unusually hot summer afternoon.

Eyeing the raised stronghold in the distance they realize there is perhaps some festival taking place as a gathering of bright green tents partly surround the base of the rocky hill.

They all agree they are in much need of help and the orcish pair outvote the ranger and so they head for the festival and not the walled town. En route they realize suddenly that a large tusked and trunked beast is standing still off beside the road, staring at them. Its wrinkled hide is a brownish grey much like their robes. One mentions the word elephant and the others agree that this is the name for the animal although none of them can recall ever seeing one before nor where they would have learned the word from. The beast blasts a trumpeting noise at them which the party cautiously ignores and they move on.

The green tents, they now find, are each adorned with a dog’s head icon in a slightly darker green shade. And the environment here is not busy or festive. The only sign of life are horses who wander in and out of the shelter of tent coverings devoid of side panels. From one of the more complete tents a man emerges in multi-green robe with white trim.

He is Brother Kurgan and he introduces himself and then his associates Brother Cornelius, Sister Rhianna and Brother Leotho. These are the leaders of a pilgrimage to their holy land which is still three thousand “wheels” away. They come to figure out that a wheel is roughly the same as a mile. Brother Leotho seems to be the high priest and is very impressed with the threesome of visitors commitment to their own pilgrimage as they bear nothing but a robe and sword.

He invites the party to breakfast with them where they explain that their trek began in Doxtoria and Flaurus before meeting up with Saripho and Zofo delegates respectively. They then moved on to Bakavat, then Gandolin where the Ivernese, Isylls and Islandians joined in and where Brother Leotho began his turn at the helm.

They are camped at this monastic temple of Osiris for several days garnering support (and numbers) from their hosts: food, supplies and support in terms of maintenance and health. Afterward they will proceed east through (or around, as per scouting and acquired advice) the villages of Libja, Cricketsong and Foxtangle, then a night or two in the city of Two Lions, then onward to White CIty and then through the remote reaches of the Verge and on to their destination in Osiriland.

The party reveals the truth about their strange appearance here; a kidnapping it seems to them, in this land referred to as The Verge; a borderland which separates Demonland from the Azure Sea.

They learn that they are in a “world” that is sometimes called Itaania which is separated by The Great Sea from the West World (sometimes called Maalia) and that both worlds reside on the “great orb” called Minerva.

Leotho reveals that claims of visitors coming from another world altogether; another great orb, are not unheard of and that he considers these claims possible and does not disbelieve their tale. He has never heard of a place called Renown nor any of the other places or landmarks the party relates to them.

The brothers and sisters of Osiris give them gifts of clothing, belts and footwear and a special magic cup studded with many ornamental (non-precious) stones, each coloured clear, blue or green. They’re told it can be used to purify water and warned that pure water is rare here and there are many dangers: fecal or saline contamination, some common diseases including a “desert” disease revealed by a green tint in the eyes, and something called “radio mutation.”

With regards to the inscription on their swords Leotho explains that Saint Montreal was a mortal from more than 50,000 years ago.

“In the Age of Chi, the monster Chi ruled Minerva, stole fire from the sun and set the sky aflame. He then sent great floods to kill all the most noble and heroic peoples (men and women – and elves and half-elves). These martyrs, not all of them “mogi” (human), were sainted by the gods and are the only mortal Minervans which people are welcomed by the gods to pray to. The saints are said to provide aid within their prescribed circles of influence.

He tells them that Montreal is the saint of “the abandoned.” He recommends the party may wish to pray to St. Montreal. He shows them a drawing of him. He is depicted as a man with a kindly bearded face. He also recommends prayers to Manhattan (Saint of Wanderers) and/or to Rio’Jeinero (Saint of Travelers) for help in their circumstances.

The party is invited to join the pilgrimage either as followers or just as co-travellers and told they would be given appropriate chores in order to pay their way and that they had several days to decide before the journey resumed.

They party also learned about the nearby market town called Sealedge and what times of day the gates open to allow entry and the nature of entry requirements as administered by a robust contingent of town guards.

The party decides to explore Sealedge before committing to any travel arrangements with the priests.

Wheels instead of miles is a translation taken from the Dark Tower series. Osiris is a god from Egyptian mythology. Everything else here is my own creation.