With God in the Bush

The House of Christmas

2011-12-25T12:00:00.000-06:00

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honor and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the Yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost---how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

~ G.K. Chesterton

Moondocked

2011-12-19T19:37:00.002-06:00

Medium: Acrylic on canvas
Artist: S.J. Raora (copyrighted. Do not copy or use this image in any form)

The Everlasting Man: A Spiritual History of Mankind

2011-12-05T17:53:00.004-06:00

‘There are two ways of getting home,’ Chesterton writes, ‘and one of them is to stay there. The other is to walk round the whole world till we come back to the same place.’ The Everlasting Man is for those of us who are having a hard time getting home by the first way. This refreshing and intensely unique work of Christian apologetics invites us to step back and make an imaginative effort to see the whole idea of Christianity from the outside.

The Everlasting Man is a brilliant annihilation of the clichéd assertion that Christ and his religion stand side by side with similar myths and religions, which Chesterton denounces as 'a very stale formula contradicted by a very striking fact.' It is the story of the spiritual journey of collective humanity.

In true Chestertonian style, there are sections that tend to be a little repetitive and wordy, but they are all so incredibly witty and entertaining that we forget to be exasperated. The author makes generalizations in order to emphasize his point, and probably oversimplifies some things, but his insight is remarkable. His reverent sincerity is not in the least compromised by his devastating sense of humor, and his knack for turning secular dogmas inside out and transforming them into solid arguments for the legitimacy of Christianity is astounding. By putting the Christian story into context, he endeavors to demonstrate that Christianity is a sensible, enlightened conclusion that has yet to be successfully contradicted.

The first chapter, which is really an attack on H.G. Wells’ Outline of History and focuses primarily on how man is fundamentally different from animals, is admittedly a little dated, and Chesterton’s speculations concerning prehistoric man show the influence of early 20^th century Darwinian thought. In the face of the intimidating ‘new science’ and the tremendous implications thereof, Chesterton felt the need to demonstrate that Evolution and Christianity were by no means mutually exclusive, and show how the secular Evolutionist's sociological explanations of man's religious development have no basis in fact.

Moving on, Chesterton provides an in-depth analysis of paganism, which is inestimably beneficial for anyone who is hopelessly confused as to why there are so many religions, and how to make any sense of the confused and chaotic history of mankind. He distinguishes the several universal elements of human religion, and explains the historical, mythological, and philosophical roots of Christianity and religion in general, highlighting the legitimate role of each and contrasting the Western and Eastern mindsets. He calls to our attention a certain awareness of God which manifested itself from the beginning of civilization in every mythology, in every culture.

Getting deeper into the ancient tangled tree of mythology, the book makes a crucial distinction between mythology and the two darker branches - demonism and eroticism - that grew up alongside it, complicating the scene. Eventually, the development of demonism led to a major conflict that culminated in the epic power struggle between Rome, which represented the best of paganism – honor, virtue, justice, structure, and an ethical concept of man and society – and Carthage, which represented the very worst – a demon-infested, devil-worshipping inhumanity. (I guarantee you will never look at the Punic wars the same way!) In the end, a Roman victory was what preserved a state of civilization capable of receiving the ultimate divine revelation – the Messiah incarnated.

The second half of the book is about the coming of Christ Himself, the escape from Paganism, and the growth and role of the Church. It explains Christianity’s relation to comparative religion, contrasting it with Islam, Buddhism, Confucianism and Hinduism, showing how all other belief systems overlap, and how Christianity is fundamentally different from every other creed and is the ultimate consummation of all genuine religion, transcending all others.

Chesterton also talks about the ‘melting pot’ movement that came to ascendance during the decline of Rome, blurring the lines of cultures and religions, and wantonly mixing gods and traditions from every corner of the globe. For awhile it threatened the newborn Church with extinction, not by extermination but by absorption and compromise, seeking to undermine the concept of a single almighty Deity, a concept that had been rigorously preserved for thousands of years through Judaism, which was the only creed with a god who was ‘narrow enough to be universal.’

In the end, the Christian story was what fulfilled all the mythologies. The Christian story was what broke the philosophers’ static and circular infinity and produced a philosophy that could move forward. The Christian story is the greatest story because it is true. The real purpose of The Everlasting Man is to retell that story in a new and revelatory way by putting it into context.

[Cross-posted at The High Tide Journal.]

The Christmas Revolution

2011-11-29T08:44:00.006-06:00

In this short excerpt from 'The Everlasting Man', G.K. Chesterton reminds us of what Christmas really was - and is.

'Christmas for us in Christendom has become one thing, and in one sense even a simple thing. But like all the truths of that tradition, it is in another sense a very complex thing. Its unique not is the simultaneous striking of many notes; of humility, or gaiety, of gratitude, of mystical fear, but also of vigilance and drama. There is something defiant in it also; something that makes the abrupt bells at midnight sound like the great guns of a battle that has just been won. All this indescribable thing that we call the Christmas atmosphere only hangs in the air as something like a lingering fragrance or fading vapour from the exultant explosion of that one hour in the Judean hills nearly two thousand years ago. But the savour is still unmistakable, and it is something too subtle or too solitary to be covered by our use of the word peace. By the very nature of the story the rejoicings in the cavern were rejoicings in a fortress or an outlaw’s den; properly understood it is not unduly flippant to say they were rejoicings in a dug-out. It is not only true that such a subterranean chamber was a hiding-place from enemies; and that the enemies were already scouring the stony plain that lay above it like a sky.

There is in this buried divinity an idea of undermining the world; of shaking the towers and palaces from below; even as Herod the great king felt that earthquake under him and swayed with his swaying palace. This is perhaps the mightiest of the mysteries of the cave. Indeed the Church from its beginnings, and perhaps especially in its beginnings, was not so much a principality as a revolution against the prince of the world. It was in truth against a huge unconscious usurpation that it raised a revolt. Olympus still occupied the sky like a motionless cloud moulded into many mighty forms; philosophy still sat in the high places and even on the thrones of the kings, when Christ was born in the cave and Christianity in the catacombs.'

Arguing About Slavery

2011-11-20T21:31:00.002-06:00

As appropriate as the title is, William Miller’s landmark book is not really about arguing about slavery. It is about the fight for the right to argue about slavery in the first place – a subtle, but significant distinction. Miller takes us back to the pre-Civil War America of the 1830’s and 40’s, an America where any discussion of the issue of slavery at all was taboo. Arguing About Slavery is a compelling account of a fascinating and all but forgotten episode in the history of the greatest humanitarian victory of the age. The Civil War itself has a habit of eclipsing everything else around it. But the fact is that battle over slavery didn’t start with Sumter or the Confederate Secession. It started twenty-five years before Lincoln’s inauguration, on the floor of Congress.

The country was divided on many things, but slavery was not one of them. The North vs. South mentality, as it then existed, was based almost entirely on industrial threats to agriculture and the economic and social implications of this tension. The institution of slavery was practically embalmed in the Constitution itself; it had been the great compromise of the Philadelphia Convention in 1787. Now it was a part of America and the greatest contradiction of its time went virtually unquestioned by the republic that led Europe to liberty. Even the Northern states that had abolished slavery within their borders, ignored it elsewhere. It was an embarrassing reality that was best not brought up, because nothing could possibly be done about it. In 1830 Abolitionism was a pathetic minority movement that tried to survive in Maine and a few other northeastern states, and was resented and considered radical even by the North. The violent anti-abolitionist reaction to the formation of the American Anti-Slavery society reflected public opinion. It was not encouraging.

But, as is always the case in a good story, there were a few brave people who stood up to the tyranny, people who not only saw the evil of slavery as a crying shame, but had the foresight to realize that it must either be abolished or drag America down into moral and eventually social collapse. Enter John Quincy Adams, cast as the indomitable hero. After a long, productive life of celebrated public service, Adams, nicknamed ‘Old Man Eloquent’ returned to the House of Representatives at age sixty-three, to fight his final political battle.

Using the original transcripts of the Congressional proceedings, Miller tells how the change that started in the House of Representatives infected the rest of the country, and brought about a 180-degree transformation that was nothing short of miraculous. Full of wit and color, the story is told with lively characterization, wry humor that borders on comic relief, and plenty of historical context that makes the era come alive. In addition, we learn a great deal about the practical side of how Congress actually works, about rules and technicalities that are constantly being manipulated to serve a particular purpose.

The book doesn’t get to the Emancipation Proclamation or the Thirteenth Amendment. It ends with the overturning of the infamous gag-rule which had officially prevented discussion of slavery in Congress for years. It was the end of a long, tedious battle against the suppression of free speech and the right to question the moral justification of an accepted conventionality – the right to argue. It was the beginning of a much larger battle that would ultimately decide not only a massively important moral question, but also the destiny of millions of desperate human beings. But that battle could never have been fought if it weren’t for the movement that started in Congress with a few courageous men arguing about slavery.

[Cross-posted at The High Tide Journal.]

N.C. Wyeth- An Illustrator who fired my Childhood Imagination

2011-11-12T07:43:00.006-06:00

You can turn off the music at the bottom of the blog.

A Second Childhood

2011-10-11T14:56:00.003-05:00

When all my days are ending

And I have no song to sing,

I think I shall not be too old

To stare at everything;

As I stared once at a nursery door

Or a tall tree and a swing.

Wherein God’s ponderous mercy hangs

On all my sins and me,

Because He does not take away

The terror from the tree

And stones still shine along the road

That are and cannot be.

Men grow too old for love, my love,

Men grow too old for wine,

But I shall not grow too old to see

Unearthly daylight shine

Changing my chamber’s dust to snow

Till I doubt if it be mine.

Behold, the crowning mercies melt,

The first surprises stay;

And in my dross is dropped a gift

For which I dare not pray

That a man grow used to grief and joy

But not to night and day.

Men grow too old for love, my love,

Men grow too old for lies;

But I shall not grow too old to see

Enormous night arise

A cloud that is larger than the world

And a monster made of eyes.

Nor am I worthy to unloose

The latchet of my shoe

Or shake the dust form off my feet

Or the staff that bears me through

On ground that is too good to last

Too solid to be true.

Men grow too old to woo, my love,

Men grow too old to wed;

But I shall not grow to old to see

Hung crazily overhead

Incredible rafters when I wake

And find I am not dead.

A thrill of thunder in my hair

Though blackening clouds be plain,

Still I am stung and startled

By the first drop of the rain;

Romance and pride and passion pass

And these are what remain.

Strange crawling carpets of the grass,

Wide windows of the sky

Soon in this perilous grace of God

With all my sins go I,

And things grow new though I grow old

Though I grow old and die.

~ Gilbert Keith Chesterton

On Solitude - The Necessity of an Honest Assessment of Individual Self-Sufficiency

2011-08-13T20:10:00.003-05:00

The nature of solitude, as well as the consequences, benefits and dangers thereof, is a question of substantial philosophical significance that has constantly confronted humanity. Francis Bacon, Michel de Montaigne, Alexander Pope, Henry Thoreau - these are a few universally recognized names that comprise the historical group of eminent scholars who have written extensively on this admittedly broad subject. Their reflections are many and varied and have provided us with valuable insights, but, while the essayists excel at isolating and discussing specific aspects of solitude, it seems like they have largely failed to address what I believe is the crucial issue at hand- the necessity of an honest assessment of individual self-sufficiency, which is the premise that any relatively comprehensive consideration of the concept should eventually come down to. When solitude is defined as the absence of external stimulation (intellectual, sensual and emotional), as manifested in an objective environment, then, and only then, do we begin to see what it really means. The question confronts us - what happens when we are deracinated from our present support system, when we are deprived of what we consider to be (and as such, take for granted) certain basic, essential elements of our lives? Things that, whether we realize and admit it or not, make up an alarming percentage of the person that we equate ourselves with, and have a considerable influence on our self-image? When we lose the parts of our lives that are not really ‘us,’ what is left? What is our intrinsic value? Who are we when we are truly alone? The potential answers to these questions border on frightening. There are three major factors involved that must be considered in this discussion - the definition of self-sufficiency, the nature of our transient environment, and the result of mental speculation on a theoretical illustration of solitude.

I do not in any way employ the term ‘self-sufficiency’ in a strictly literal sense, because in the real human world it is an entirely impossible state of existence, and the word’s implicit self-contradiction very nearly categorizes it as an oxymoron. As the sole consummation and fulfillment of the soul, God, the Supreme Good, the utter actuality which has no opposite, is the only self-existent, self-sufficient reality, and all other autonomy is relative to this ultimate, because the will of the created is only independent in proportion as it is within the will of the Creator. (My intention here is not to defend this basic assumption, but to work from it.) Therefore, our definition of self-sufficiency is not to be interpreted as independence of God, but rather, independence of all else. It is impossible to be independent of an omnipresent God, and thus, it is likewise impossible to be absolutely alone. With this in mind, we redefine our concept of solitude. We are no longer asking, ‘who are we when we are alone?’ Now the question is, ‘who are we when we are alone with God?’ More often than not, our current environment effectively conceals the implications of this question. It acts like an anesthetic, desensitizing our already callous consciousness of the actual state of our relationship with the Ultimate, diverting us from ourselves, creating a complicated clockwork exterior that we identify as ‘our life’ without ever asking how much of it is actually ours.

Our current environment is a dichotomy, separated into the social and natural, both of which heavily influence who we are. Our social, or human environment, (generally considered the more apparently essential of the two,) is a result of our inherent need for human society and is comprised of an intricate, layered network of individual and group relationships, which gives us a sense of community and security. Family, friends, partners, relatives, co-workers, acquaintances and even strangers - individual and en masse - all affect our lives in distinctive ways that are different for each of us. We are not talking about the abstract concept of ‘social environment’, but about my specific social environment, what it means to me, how it influences who I am and who I think I am, how much my worldview depends on it, and what I would be without it. Our natural, or physical environment, also affects us. Our immediate daily surroundings, the place where we live, the comforts and conveniences we are accustomed to - these are the things that constitute our unique world. Direct contact with Nature itself is usually an important part of that world, connection with natural beauty, with forests and oceans and mountains, with an affirmative external reality. Most of us have probably experienced the temporary depression that comes from a prolonged absence from the ‘great outdoors’, so to speak. These things generally constitute a stabilizing atmosphere that confirms and reinforces what we claim to believe about the world. We need them - they are part of our support system. They stimulate us, mentally, emotionally, sensually, intellectually, and spiritually. What we must realize is that they are temporary, and that they are emphatically not part of who we are. We can lay no claim to either Nature and the constantly renewed inspiration it affords us, or to the people around us, and the support they provide, as some meritorious element of our own character. It does not require much creativity to imagine the radical alteration our lives would undergo in the absence of our current environment, social or natural.

This idea of solitude is largely an exercise of the imagination. Most of us are never really alone, at least, not to any significant degree, or for any significant stretch of time, so it can be difficult to grasp the essence of an idea that must, in all probability, remain abstract. But sometimes, an arbitrary ‘random’ experience unconsciously constructed of certain settings and sensations coming together, almost accidentally, at just the right time, in just the right way, will seep through the dense, complex stratum of the finite reality that shields us from our own inadequacy, and shock us with a fleeting glimpse of what solitude must be. A long walk on a deserted road in the middle of a rainy night. A crawling afternoon spent alone upstairs in an empty office, staring at an LCD screen. A sultry evening spent hurrying through the crowded streets of a giant city of 8.8 million nameless strangers. A visit to the ruins of an ancient Greek temple on a tiny isolated island in the middle of the Mediterranean, enclosed by an infinity of sky and sea. What if these relatively average, albeit potentially thought-provoking, experiences were magnified to the limit of the endurable? Several easily recognized historical and literary examples, stereotyped, but nonetheless valid, leap to mind. What if you were condemned to life-imprisonment in a North Korean death camp? Marooned indefinitely on Isla Alejhandro Selkirk? Drafted into the Red Army? Incarcerated in solitary confinement in the Château d'If for fourteen years? Forced to pass the rest of your life in hiding alone in the backwoods of Missouri, or the wilderness of 15^th century Northern Scotland? What if something like that happened to us? These examples are imperfect illustrations of the absolute solitude that will eventually overtake every individual soul - we must realize this is not a question of if but of when - when our life, as we see it, impermanent and therefore undeniably unreliable, falls apart and leaves us alone with the Ultimate.

So the question remains. Are we self-sufficient? The only one who can really answer that question is the individual person asking it of themselves, and the answer will probably be different for everyone, but by the time we are capable of seriously asking it, we should be able to provide a valid answer. We owe it to ourselves to do so. And, if we find that we are largely dependent on other things and other people, on our current external environment, which is temporary at best, then we owe it to ourselves to change that - whatever it takes.

Mission Impossible - The Biblical Concept Of Perfection As An Attainable Goal

2011-05-08T14:33:00.023-05:00

A subject of significant controversy in the Christian community, 1 John 3:9-10 deals with a crucial aspect of practical Christianity and is one of the most awkwardly baffling passages in the New Testament.

9. No one who is born of God practices sin, because His seed abides in him, and he cannot sin, because he is born of God.

10. By this the children of God and the children of the devil are obvious. Anyone who does not practice righteousness is not of God, nor the one who does not love his brother.

Backing up to the four verses directly preceding these, (1 John 3:5-8) we see the same concept. ‘And you know that he appeared in order to take away sins; and in Him there is no sin. No one who abides in Him sins; no one who sins has seen Him or knows Him. Little children, let no one deceive you; the one who practices righteousness is righteous, just as He is righteous; the one who practices sin is of the devil for the devil has sinned from the beginning. The Son of God appeared for this purpose, that He might destroy the works of the devil.’

As it turns out, 1 John is actually full of similar, albeit often less explicit references, contrasting the one who sins with the one who doesn’t, insisting that actions mean everything, that the true Christian cannot sin. It is a difficult concept.

If you know that He is righteous, you know that everyone also who practices righteousness is born of Him. 2:29

We know that no one who is born of God sins; but He who was born of God keeps him and the evil one does not touch him. 5:18

If someone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar; 4:20

By this we know that we love the children of God, when we love God and observe His commandments. For this is the love of God, that we keep his commandments and His commandments are not burdensome 5:2-4,

He who has the Son has the life, he who does not have the Son of God does not have the life. 5:12,

And now, little children, abide in Him, so that when He appears, we may have confidence and not shrink away from Him in shame at His coming. 2:28

In the Bible, repetition very often constitutes significance. This concept is repeated over and over again. It is important.

A straightforward reading of this passage - this whole book, in fact - along with a multitude of similar verses in other parts of the Bible, also suggest the concept that people who sin are not born of God, that God’s children do not sin, that we are called to be sinless.

Romans 8:37 - we are more than conquerors through him who loved us;

Matthew 5:48 - be ye perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect;

Romans 6:2,6,11,14 -

How shall we who died to sin still live in it?

knowing this, that our old self was crucified with Him that our body of sin might be done away with, that we should no longer be slaves to sin for he who has died is freed from sin;

Even so, consider yourselves to be dead to sin;

for sin shall not be master over you

Hebrews 7:25

Wherefore also He is able to save to the uttermost them that draw near unto God through Him.

So is this really what God has asked us to do? Be perfect, without sin? Does it mean what it says? A commonly offered, ‘saving interpretation’ of this idea is that the Greek for ‘practices’ in the key verse, 1 John 3:9, can be interpreted as ‘practicing continuously.’ So that maybe what the verses means is that he who sins continuously is not born of God. But that argument is weak at best, and the reasoning behind it does not hold up very long. What does it mean, to not sin continuously? No one does that. Not even the godless sin all the time. And committing murder just every now and then does not qualify you to be someone born of God. It isn’t about spacing our sins out enough. The problem remains, and we cannot explain these verses away as metaphors.

The obvious meaning that comes from a straight forward reading seems to be the only explanation. To be born of God, one must be without sin. Which brings in the root question - is it humanly possible to be without sin? Has it ever been achieved? Can it be? Has God asked us to do the impossible? Does he want perfection now, in this life? Isn’t that just something promised only after we die?

Going even further back, all the way to 1:6-10, we stumble across another set of verses that provides a much needed balance, and at first appears to present an insurmountable paradox. First the groundwork for the concept of perfection coming up in the next few chapters is laid -

6. If we say that we have fellowship with Him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth.

7. But if we walk in the light as He Himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another and the blood of Jesus His Son cleanses us from all sin.

And then the almost relieving jolt back to reality.

8. If we say that we have no sin, we are deceiving ourselves and the truth is not in us.

9. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

10. If we say that we have not sinned we make Him a liar, and His word is not in us.

Of course. We knew that. All have sinned and come short of the glory of God. So what is the point about being called to perfection? Is it less of a reality than the latter? Surely not. But then, admitting that we have sinned and striving after holiness as an attainable goal are not exactly opposites.

Perhaps the biggest lie that Satan is using today to suppress the Church and stifle growth is the belief that this is how it has to be, because no one, especially not ‘us’, can ever be free of sin this side of eternity. A sub-conscious acceptance of mediocrity that stifles all our efforts at holiness before they can even take shape. That is why most people never achieve a life of holiness, perfection without sin. And with the concept of the inaccessibility of perfection, another worse idea, with no logical relation to the former, inevitably slides in - that I am never going to be much better than this, so I need to just accept my faults and weaknesses, since it’s who I am. And that is the great stumbling block.

We have been given a practical guide to holiness in the life of Jesus as portrayed in the Gospels. People underestimate the importance of living as Jesus lived, and using the life of Jesus as a role model. And coming back to the 1 John 3:9 question - maybe it is not so much a question of whether we are ‘sinning continually’ or not, as a question of where we are going. Are we eliminating sin in your life? Are we becoming sinless - working steadily towards perfection as a practical goal? If perfection weren’t possible, God wouldn’t have called us to it. It is certainly worth thinking about. And even if there is room for debate on the definition of perfection this side of eternity and the degrees of perfection attainable, there can be no doubt that God is calling us to something much higher. Our standards are too low. While learning in whatever situation we are to be content we must still never fall into an indolent satisfaction or acceptance of where we are spiritually. We must always be pressing farther and deeper, working towards sinless perfection.

The Law - Part Two

2011-03-28T16:49:00.003-05:00

The proper function of the law is to prevent injustice from reigning. It is a purely defensive, negative concept. It must be. People say that, if the law regulates justice, why shouldn’t it regulate labor, education, and religion? Because then it would be committing an injustice, destroying its first function. The law is force, imposing negation. Applying force to labor, education, or religion, or anything except justice, is destroying liberty - and justice. They tell us our doctrine has stopped at liberty, and should have gone on to fraternity. But that is false philanthropy. Enforced ‘fraternity’ destroys liberty. Justice is the only thing the law can enforce.

The republics of the world have been arguing about ‘universal suffrage’ for as long as we can remember. But if the Law were confined to its proper functions, then everyone’s interest in the law would be the same, and no one would have any reason for trying to control it, and those who voted could not inconvenience those who did not. Unfortunately that is not the case - the law has been perverted, and has taken it into its head to take property from one party and give it to another, under the pretence of organization, regulation, protection, etc. So now every one wants to participate, and every class must fight to control the government and the franchise, either to protect themselves from plunder or to use the law to plunder others. Perverted law causes conflict.

Perverted law, or legal plunder, has an infinite number of names. They call it tariffs, protections, encouragement, subsidies, public schools, minimum wages, guaranteed jobs, insurance, social security, etc. All of these are examples of the government violating its responsibility, acting outside its lawful functions.

People say that the law must take care of ‘charity,’ must protect and provide for people with no money. But the law is not a source of money. Nothing can enter the public treasury for the benefit of one citizen or class unless other citizens and classes have been compelled to put it there. There is no money outside society. The law cannot be an instrument of equalization unless it takes from some to give it to others, becoming an instrument of plunder.

People say that the law must be responsible for educating the poor. But the law is not a shining torch of learning. In society, some persons have knowledge while others do not. The law can do one of two things - permit a natural transaction of teaching and learning to operate freely, or force people to pay for government appointed teachers to instruct the ‘poor, uneducated.’ The latter is a violation of liberty and property.

Law is force, and it can only provide artificial unity and fraternity.

Socialism confuses the distinction between government and society. And just because some thing should not be done by the government, does not mean that they should not be done at all. Private organizations and individuals can do those things, without the use of force. That is the only difference between private and official. The government cannot be made to produce what it does not contain - wealth, science, religion, and the other things that constitute prosperity.

What is this concept of ‘liberty’ that all this political turmoil is focused on? It bears some definition. What else could it be, but the union of all liberties - liberty of conscience, education, association, travel, labor, trade, and the press? It is the freedom of everyone to make full use of his faculties, as long as he does not harm anyone else while doing so. It is the destruction of despotism. It is the restricting of the law to its rational sphere of organizing the right to lawful defense, of punishing injustice.

If law is confined to preventing injustice, what is the alternative? If we cannot apply law to conscience, education, labor, trade or association, then there are a hundred inherent risks in letting those things alone, with nothing to regulate them, and men will undoubtedly misuse and abuse their liberty in those areas. But that is still the best case scenario and the law still has no authority to regulate them until there is obvious injustice being committed. If we choose to surrender those rights to an absolute, arbitrary, invalid power, the situation is much worse.

The Law - Part One

2011-03-05T16:25:00.011-06:00

In 1850 a French liberal theorist by the name of Frederic Bastiat wrote a short book called The Law. It is an extraordinarily unique work - certainly not your typical revolutionary doctrine - and it provides a simple, concise sketch of some fundamental principles of government.

Reading it inspired me to put together a very brief compilation of what I have come to believe are some of the most important ideas about government.

History has painstakingly taught us that government in general is a necessary evil. There is no perfect government. Men are corrupt. If they weren’t, we wouldn’t need laws. But in the fallen state of mankind, enforced laws are necessary. There are some forms of government that are better than others, and it is worthwhile to figure out what those are. Most people think that the American republic is the best example so far of a national government. That is probably true. But, apart from being universally misunderstood, this monster which used to be called a republic is far from flawless and is screeching towards collapse at roller-coaster speed. Not quite an ideal. I think it would have worked out better and lasted longer if America’s Founders had incorporated some of these principles into the fabric of the government.

First off, to get at the root of the problem, we need to define ‘government.’ The words law and government have been used interchangeably, which is alright, but keep in mind that law is the practical application of moral principles and government is a social force. By its very nature, government is the collective organization of the individual right to lawful defense. Each of us have a natural, God-given right to defend - even by force - our person, liberty, and property. Those rights do not exist because men have made laws, but on the contrary, they are what have caused men to make laws. Therefore it follows that a group of men have the right to organize and support a common force for the constant, collective protection of these individual rights. This government does not intervene in private affairs, and its only duty is to protect men from each other, for the common safety of all. Man must accept the privileges and the responsibilities of his existence, having no argument with the government, and having no reason to blame or thank the government for anything.

The nature of law is to maintain justice, and no society can exist without respected laws to a degree. Law must not contradict morality. It is founded on morality. The myth that ‘we cannot legislate morality’ is false. What else can we legislate? For example, the reason we have traffic laws is so that accidents will not occur, because vehicular manslaughter is murder and murder is wrong.

As seen throughout the entire history of the world, mankind has a fatal tendency towards satisfying his needs and desires with the least possible pain or labor. This is the origin of plundering the products of the labor of others. The only thing that will keep man from plunder is when it becomes more painful than labor. The purpose of the government is to use the collective force to punish plunder and protect property.

Unfortunately, in practice, the government does not confine itself to its proper function. In fact, it often acts in direct opposition to its own purpose, annihilating the justice it is supposed to maintain, destroying the rights it is meant to respect. It has placed the collective force at the disposal of the unscrupulous, who aim to exploit others. The imaginary ‘rights’ of the government is one of the biggest lies in the history of the world. If an individual cannot lawfully encroach upon the person, liberty or property of another individual, than neither can the government. This point cannot be overstressed. What right to authority or dominance do men collectively wield that they do not wield individually?

The government cannot operate without a dominating force; this force must be entrusted to one man or one class of men, who will nearly always try to use it to benefit themselves. Thus it is easy to understand how law is exploited and corrupted and morphs into a weapon of injustice. The few practice ‘legal’ plunder upon the many, until the victims of this plunder recognize their state, and according to their degree of enlightenment, seek either to bring an end to it, or to join it. When the latter attitude prevails and the masses rise up and seize the power of government themselves, chaos generally ensues, followed by universal injustice and a battle of classes.

To be continued shortly.

Read 'The Law' online.

Storm Shine

2010-12-17T11:44:00.007-06:00

Medium: Acrylic on Canvas
Artist: Raora aka S.J.

Sehnzucht

2010-10-28T12:36:00.007-05:00

So this is what it feels like, and this is what it means

This thing that I cannot explain and you cannot believe.

Colors caught and frozen on a canvas

The last light of the sunset on the sea

Raw aching thrill in tune with strangled instinct

The shadows of an uncreated thing.

Foaming whisper of the wind-wracked ocean

Salty sea-stung air inside your eyes

Coal black outline of a deathless dragon

Scratched on ancient walls before all time.

This is the blinding secret, the world will never know.

I realize I cannot hold on but I will not let go.

Crash of rain and fire-splintered sky

The wide calm of deep places in the dark

Fractious craving of a dim illusion

The story that will break and bleed your heart.

The slicing storm that knocks you in the face

And leaves you with bewildered breathless laughter

The smoking mist that seizes on the day

And stains the summer sky forever-after.

Intangible intensity that burns without a name,

This thing that will not show its face and will not go away.

The dying spirit of the soaring wave

That hangs between two fleeting beats of time

Ecstatic sickness of a stifled brain

Still searching for a thing it cannot find.

A diamond with a thousand gleaming facets

A shadow in a giant’s magic mirror

You wash the glass with tears of desperation

And sell your life to try and see it clearer.

This is the awful promise since before the world began.

You know you have to listen and you have to understand.

Strange sweet smell of blossoms in the darkness

Flash of dancing feet on marble floors

That lilting tune that you cannot remember

You know that it will never let you go.

Echo of long-dead laughter in the dawning

Glancing moonlight on an ancient blade

The half-forgotten heart of bleeding fire

That cast the stars before the world was made.

Is it right for us to wonder, is it wrong to question why?

This thing that it is not within the world to satisfy.

Running till your shattered body breaks

Thirsty wolf lunging behind the sun

A shadow sun forever shifting shape

And none of it will ever be enough.

And every glimpse is burning with desire

Magnetic whirling, crush and suck you in

Flicker of lonely longing, cutting fierce

You want it without knowing what it is.

Lethal virus, just ahead, almost close enough to touch

But you’re going round in circles and you’re never catching up.

You can modify your tactics, turn and run the other way

But there is no neutral zoning so you’ll never get away.

- Written by S.J. aka Raora

Beneath A Phrygian Sky

2010-08-19T14:11:00.001-05:00

This is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard. It is written and sung by Loreena Mckennit. Make sure you listen all the way to the end, and read the lyrics below.

Beneath A Phrygian Sky :

The moonlight it was dancing
On the waves, out on the sea
The stars of heaven hovered
In a shimmering galaxy

A voice from down the ages
So in haunting in its song
These ancient stones will tell us
Our love must make us strong

The breeze it wrapped around me
As I stood there on the shore
And listened to this voice
Like I never heard before

Our battles they may find us
No choice may ours to be
But hold the banner proudly
The truth will set us free

My mind was called across the years
Of rages and of strife
Of all the human misery
And all the waste of life

We wondered where our God was
In the face of so much pain
I looked up to the stars above
To find you once again

We travelled the wide oceans
Heard many call your name
With sword and gun and hatred
It all seemed much the same

Some used your name for glory
Some used it for their gain
Yet when liberty lay wanting
No lives were lost in vain

Is it not our place to wonder
As the sky does weep with tears
And all the living creatures
Look on with mortal fear

It is ours to hold the banner
Is ours to hold it long
It is ours to carry forward
Our love must make us strong

And as the warm wind carried
Its song into the night
I closed my eyes and tarried
Until the morning light

As the last star it shimmered
And the new sun's day gave birth
It was in this magic moment
Came this prayer for mother earth

The moonlight it was dancing
On the waves, out on the sea
The stars of heaven hovered
In a shimmering galaxy

A voice from down the ages
So in haunting in its song
The ancient stones will tell us
Our love will make us strong

The Waiting

2010-07-22T13:42:00.018-05:00

This poem won first place in a national poetry contest this year.

When the Voice first spoke into the heart of Night;

And the first cold hues of chaos swept the sky.

When Time went tumbling out of the deepless dark

And the curtain of the blackness fell apart.

One moment was enough to see the dream

Something too calm and awful to be seen,

A wild, wordless whisper of a song

That bound the ages till the end should come.

The music entered all eternity

And broke its way into infinity

The newborn Light went out and lit the Sun

The Voice alone saw all that was to come.

And long before the making of the curse,

Before the first blood stained the firstborn earth,

It spoke in silence deep within the Night,

The End will come and all will be made right.

This age is ending - God calls home the stars,

The world is plagued with great and little wars

The dying sun is swollen, dim and red,

And things that once were good and green are dead.

We watch the evening twilight fade away,

The ancient earth is weary, old and gray.

The fire has spread across the earth’s dark plains,

The broken world will never be the same.

Now all the living things have shrunk and withered

The mountains tremble and the pale sky shivers

A wind has come from off the northern seas

A storm from hell to shake the shuddering trees.

The thunder of God’s wrath is drawing near

We close our eyes in hopes that we might hear,

In starry hollows long forgot and gone,

The music of that wild, wordless song.

But nothing rises from the deep abyss

No sound of music splinters this silence

We are too deep in blood and treachery

To hear the voiceless breath of ecstasy.

We are the only living ones that know

The curse - tremendous joy, tremendous woe.

Despair is rising like an evil mist

We never dreamed that it would come to this.

And all the summer stars are dim with tears

For all the shattered hearts through all the years

They fade like autumn flowers in the snow

That sink to sunless depths that no man knows.

The raging sea looks up beyond the sky

And lifting up his broken voice he cries,

‘Oh God of Stars, when will you make an end?

When will the judgment of the world begin?

‘Beyond all sundered seas made dark with sorrow

Beyond the sunken shadow of tomorrow

What mercy will we find beneath the sun,

When all is done and said, and said and done?’

And do you think that heaven ever hears

The wail of broken hearts and human tears?

The voices that are shrieking in the night

The stifled whispers of the murdered light.

Has God reversed the cycle of the world

And sent it hurling backwards to the void?

The anguish of existence does not end

We fail and hope and live to fail again.

And shall we somewhere find at close of day

A place to wash all memories away?

But there are things the world cannot forget

And there are things the heart cannot forgive.

The earth is plunging through the pathless void

The Dark is taking hold of the entire world.

And hearts that never wavered split and break

Still screaming that it should not be this way.

The sky above is sickening with fear,

The face of Time is stained with bloody tears

And everywhere we turn we look on Death -

We realize now that we have nothing left.

But deep beyond the barricade of fear

Within the thunder of the storm we hear,

The Voice that called us from the heart of Night

The End will come and all will be made right.

- Written by Raora aka S.J.

The God Who Is There – The Shift to Post-Modernism

2010-07-07T07:54:00.008-05:00

Earlier this year I read a fascinating book called The God Who Is There by Francis Schaeffer. Schaeffer combines philosophy and theology in order to give a historical explanation of how we got where we are. Here is a very condensed summary of Schaeffer’s point.

Man has always been looking for a universal. The whole tragic history of mankind is based on man trying to find a universal outside of Christianity, with which to explain the world and give meaning to life. The unifying factor of non-Christians is rationalism. Until the 20th century men were rational optimists, working from their finite selves in hopes of finding a way to make sense of the Universe. They were humanists. They were able to do this because they were, without realizing it, working with the Christian presupposition of absolutes and anti-thesis, which they had no logical right to do, because without Christianity there can be no absolutes.

But with the arrival of the twentieth century a shift in non-Christian thinking began to take place. Exactly when it all started cannot be pinned down, but as a general rule, it was the year 1890 in Europe, and 1935 in America. The shift spread gradually, in three different ways. First, it spread geographically, beginning in Germany, spreading across the Continent, crossing the Channel to England, and then crossing the Atlantic to America. Second, it spread through society, working its way downward from the educated upper classes to the lower working classes. Third, it spread from one area of thought to another, beginning with philosophy, then art, music, general culture and theology.

It all started with philosophy. Men began to realize the contradiction of supporting rationalism with absolutes and they tried to do away with absolutes all together. Philosophers Heidegger, Kierkegaard, Satre, Jasper, and Hegel began it. They were no longer rational optimists. They reached what Schaeffer calls, ‘the line of despair,’ and they went beyond it. They gave up hope of trying to find a rational universal that would contain all thought. Logic had failed to come up with a meaning for life, so they forsook reason and tried to find something, anything that would give life meaning. Thus Nihilism came into being. Nihilism, the belief that everything is chaotic and meaningless, is the simplest form of despair. But in the struggle to get out of despair, and find an answer to nihilism, one is led even deeper into it. The next level of despair is the acceptance of a blind optimistic hope of meaning, based on a non-rational ‘leap of faith.’

The ensuing dichotomy is that the rational and logical, result in lack of purpose and meaning, and the non-rational and non-logical result in some kind of an incommunicable, unexplainable, unaccountable existentialist ‘experience’ that can give meaning to life. This ‘experience’ is usually achieved by means of drugs and other forms of Eastern mysticism. But they could not reconcile the rational with the non-rational so they gave up the traditional idea of thesis and antithesis and replaced it with the concept of synthesis – the combination of partial truths to obtain a higher truth. But men cannot live with the conclusions of this system. In practice, one simply cannot entirely reject the methodology of antithesis, without a total alienation of man from himself, by some form of mental breakdown.

The result of inability to actually practice the conclusions of either of these worldviews, has led modern thought to the third level of despair, a level of mysticism, of ultimate Nothing. The artists followed step soon afterward. The pillars of modern art - Picasso, Gauguin, Cezanne, Van Gogh. They introduced impressionism. They tried to abandon the particulars, and instead strove to capture the universal on canvas. Their pictures and the tragic stories of their lives reflect their failure. Then Duchamp and others introduced the element of chance into Art. It lost all its meaning. Pierre Schaeffer did the same thing with Music, producing senseless cacophony that reflected the message of Modern man. There is no meaning. When it comes to the fourth category, the general culture, we find pop music that combines the concept of drug use, the psychedelic, and vague pantheism, heavily reflecting the decline of humanity. In the cinema, Nihilistic and Existentialistic films follow suit.

Karl Barth and the liberal German theologians opened the door of theology to the new mentality. In order to reconcile Reformation Christianity to the post modernist philosophy, they tried to do away with all the supernatural elements of Jesus, and recover the ‘historical Jesus.’ But they failed dreadfully. They discovered that if you remove the supernatural that is so intricately intertwined with the ‘historical,’ then there is no Jesus left. Then they could have either gone back to the original Reformation theology or gone ahead to nihilism. But they did neither. They created a new theology, a neo-orthodoxy, a religious existentialism that no longer held all the answers, and was in fact, an anti-theology.

Neo-orthodoxy seems to have an advantage over secular existentialism, in that it can use certain religious terms to provide an illusion of communication of the incommunicable ‘final experience,’ whereas secular existentialism cannot. Every word has two parts - the dictionary definition and the connotation. The new theology therefore uses words, such as ‘pantheism’ that can have no actual relation to the subject, but their connotation makes the hearer thinks that he knows what is meant. The secret to the strength of neo-orthodoxy is that it uses symbols, such as ‘god’ with a connotation of personality that provide an illusion of meaning. Its philosophy is ‘Do not ask, just believe.’ Men fall for this because it sounds spiritual and vibrant, and because they want a ‘greater reality’ and are sick of cliched religious phrases and forms. They do not realize the danger of using undefined words. They are taking a leap of faith into an irrational, semantic mysticism.

All these factors have worked together to make this monster called Post-Modernism. Humanity has stepped off the cliff, and fallen into madness. Today, every non-Christian is somewhere on a line between two points. On the one hand is the external reality about man, God, and the Universe. On the other hand is the logical conclusion of his false presuppositions, which are not compatible with reality. He is torn between these two consistencies. In order to rescue him from this dilemma, one must identify a man’s presuppositions, find the point of tension he is currently at, and then lead him farther and farther away from reality, to the logical conclusion of those presuppositions, until he recognizes the contradiction and realizes that his worldview simply doesn’t work. Then and only then can we bring in the solution, the thing that does work, God’s answer to man’s dilemma.

MACBETH

2010-06-17T16:11:00.000-05:00

Oh horror, horror, horror!
Dark the thoughts that haunt my waking
Darker still the dreadful waiting
That consumes my tortured sleep.

If it were done when ‘tis done,
It were best it were done quickly
But the question wants an answer
When it’s finished, is it done?

Oh horror, horror, horror!
Dark the dagger I am holding
Darker still the blood is flowing
Through my fingers to the floor.

Time and time alone will tell
If the prophecy is finished
When I wear the crown of Scotland
I will know that it is done.

Oh horror, horror, horror,
Dark the stains upon my fingers
Darker still the wild whispers
From the burning heart of hell.

The witches’ word is answered
And Hecate proven faithful
But the wild wind is shrieking
That the terror is not done.

Oh horror, horror, horror!
Dark the shadows of the midnight,
Darker still the dying daylight
For Glamis has murdered sleep.

There are faces all around me
Pale and bloody in the darkness
But my broken heart is crying
Can it not be all undone?

Oh horror, horror, horror
Dark the empty throne I wanted
Darker still the hallways haunted
By the wraith of ravished sleep.

Now Birnam wood is marching,
The long road to Dunsinane
And the wild wind is shrieking
It is done! It is done!

- Written by Raora

The Dawn Treader

2010-05-06T12:32:00.007-05:00

I've had a mental image of the Dawn Treader from Narnia ever since I first read the book. Lately I've been working a little bit with acrylics, so I tried to capture that picture on canvas.

The Things That Never Happened

2010-03-08T15:02:00.002-06:00

The things that never happened,
The thoughts that never were
Things we cannot imagine
Therefore cannot confirm.

The ones that still are waiting
For the thing that never comes
For a story that is fading
In a Time that never was.

Beyond four dimensions dying
There are things we have not seen
No one hears the Watchers crying
For the things that should have been.

If we had not made that promise
If we had not looked that way
If the Road into the darkness
Had not led us to Today.

There are questions that are curses
There are things we must not ask
When the Present moment merges
With the Shadows of the Past.

Somewhere deep within the Earth Time
There was something that went wrong
Now the bloody tears incarnadine
The First and Final Song.

In the moments dark with weeping
We are always looking back,
To a thing that never happened
And a question never asked.

Our broken hearts are weeping
As the sinking sun is dead
Still and silent they are keeping
All the tears we never shed.

Not for things that were before us
Not for things we had and lost
Not for vain and foolish choices
Not for coming of the Frost.

Not for golden summers dying
Not for fruitless loves grown cold
Not for children’s voices crying
Not for valiant strength grown old.

Not for blossomed branches breaking
Not for years now gone to waste
Not for misery of waking
In a dark and desperate place.

Not for things that were forbidden
Not for awful Death incurred
But for things that never happened
And for thoughts that never were.

- Written by Raora

Contrasting the Influences of History and Idealism

2010-02-13T23:22:00.006-06:00

In 'How To Read A Book' Mortimer Adler claims: 'Satires and pictures of philosophical utopias have little effect [on the actions of men]; we would all like the world to be better, but we are seldom inspired by the recommendations of authors who do no more than describe, often bitterly, the difference between the real and the ideal. History, which tells us of the actions of men of the past, often does lead us to make changes, to try to better our lot.'

I disagree with this statement. History certainly influences and inspires men. It serves as an example, a reliable guide and framework. It provides valuable insights into the nature of mankind. The knowledge of the past, of the things that have gone before, aids us in living the present and progressing into the future. But I think that to say that philosophical utopias and descriptions of idealistic worlds seldom do the same is an enormous mistake. (Although, perhaps the statement may be somewhat accurate when it comes to satires.) Communism, a massive movement that controlled much of the world not long ago, is based on an ideal utopia - and almost certainly drew on Thomas More's book, (which I do not, by the way, condone.) It was a thing that had never been done before, an idea, a philosophical utopia. It was a dream of equality among mankind, something that has never before succeeded. It was not inspired by history. The French Revolution is another example. So is James Oglethorpe's Georgia experiment. Even the early Christians of the New Testament were giving their lives, not for anything that really had to do with history, but for an idea - a utopia, (though definitely separate from the rest of its kind, in that it was the 'real thing' in a manner of speaking.) Ideas that haven't been tried before are appealing to men. They are stronger than the mere remembrance of the actions of the men of the past.

I'm not exactly sure why Adler said what he said, or exactly what he meant by it. He is a very intelligent, educated man, and I respect him immensely, but I still question this.

What do you think?

A Brief Glance At Books

2009-12-29T13:02:00.005-06:00

These are some of the books I have recently finished, with some brief thoughts concerning each.
An Essay on Man by Alexander Pope = B
Four epistles, written in verse, and each covering one aspect of the nature of man. Namely, the nature of man in relation to the universe, in relation to himself, in relation to society, and in relation to happiness. The ideas and topics presented are generally profoundly obvious, though the poetic way in which they are written can make them difficult to follow in some places. The book certainly has a beautiful way of putting truths, and there are places where the meaning is involved and even controversial.

Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift = C
Must be appreciated for its inventiveness and originality, but is ultimately depressing and despairing. Extremely unrealistic, not only in the fictitious creations that populate Swift’s imaginary lands, but also in the actions of the characters and in the way events fall out. The protagonist is despicable and the book is filled with unnecessary vulgarity. The final conclusion is that man is entirely evil and irredeemable.

A Tale of A Tub by Jonathan Swift = C
Clever, but rather dull and difficult to follow. Written for a specific age and people, and was significant in its time, but is no longer very relevant.

The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis = A
Furnishes invaluable insights into the tactics of the Enemy, heightens spiritual discernment and awareness and provides the knowledge and means to apply the principles of spiritual warfare.

Are you Liberal, Conservative, or Confused? By Richard Maybury = A
Most enlightening book. Explains the state of politics and how they got that way, explains the real meanings of political labels. I must disagree with a few fundamental elements of the author’s worldview, but must also admit that it is infinitely better than the norm.

Founding Father by Brookhiser = B
Colorful biography of George Washington. Accurate, detailed and fairly unbiased, as far as I can tell. Was not organized very well.

Ethics of the Dust by Ruskin = B
A rather stilted account of the origins of crystals and minerals that seemed forcibly translated into dialogue and did not hang together very well. Fraught with plenty of moralizing, dull and obvious in some places but valuable and profound in others. Quite impressive for its day.

Macbeth by William Shakespeare = A
Rivaled by Hamlet only, Macbeth is about as good as Shakespeare gets.

Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis = A
A wonderful reworking of the myth of Psyche and Cupid, with deep spiritual insights.

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells = B
Very possibly the first of its kind, the Time Machine is an excellent combination of science fiction and romance that influenced many later writers. Story-line and climax well done. Weak in scientific/technical details and in original descriptions of the future.

Manalive by G.K. Chesterton = A
A fascinating, abnormal story that is not what it appears to be. It intriguingly combines crime and romance and leaves one inspired and satisfied. Excellent writing.

Yours, Jack by C.S. Lewis = A
A complete collection of Lewis’ letters to numerous correspondences. Reveals details about Lewis’ personal life, his worldview, his steadfast faith and his reasons for it, and provides encouragement and inspiration to the individual reader.

The Dark Tower by C.S. Lewis = B
An unfinished story that deals with time travel, alternate realities, and higher dimensions. What would have been an improvement on Well’s Time Machine, if it had ever been completed. Also includes a valuable collection of other short stories Lewis never published.

Eragon by Christopher Paolini = B
I wanted to find out what all the hullabaloo was about this. It was an enjoyable read, with an intriguing story-line and a colorful cast. Much too obvious in its emulation of Star Wars ideology and Lord of the Rings imagery. I fundamentally disagree with New Age philosophy that Paolini promotes in this book.

Black by Ted Dekker = B +
Switching back and forth between alternate realities - the modern action-packed thriller and ancient mythological fantasy, Black is a classic story of the struggle between good and evil, of a mission to save the world. Emotional and involving with a marvelous reworking of the Fall. Weak writing and poor character development in some cases. Right on the line between A and B.

Drifting Away

2009-12-02T09:41:00.002-06:00

Drifting away, drifting away

Far from the dawning, long past the day

Sink into shadow, slip into twilight

Windlight is passing, glimmer of midnight.

Drifting away, drifting away

Nothing to answer, nothing to say

Waking is over, now comes the dark

Look to the skyline and speak to the stars.

Drifting away, drifting away

Reach for the sunrise, grasping the waves

But darkness has fallen and all else must fade

And I cannot keep you from drifting away.

Written by Raora

Lepanto

2009-11-17T09:54:00.005-06:00

In the late fifteen hundreds, the Ottoman Empire posed a massive threat to Europe, threatening to conquer all of Christendom, which then consisted of dozens of separate Latin kingdoms, constantly warring among each other and thus inevitably weakening themselves in the face of the Ottoman onslaught.

Christendom suffered defeat after defeat at the hands of the Turks, until in 1571, the tide turned at the Battle of Lepanto.

The Battle of Lepanto took place on the 7th of October, 1571. Commanded by Don John (or Juan) of Austria, a fleet of the Holy League, (that included a coalition of Spain, the Republic of Venice, the Papacy (under Pope St. Pius V) the Republic of Genoa, the Duchy of Savoy, the Knights Hospitaller and others,) decisively defeated Ali Pasha and the main Turkish fleet.

The five-hour battle was fought at the northern edge of the Gulf of Patra, off western Greece, where the Ottoman forces sailing westwards from their naval station in Lepanto met the Holy League forces, which had come from Messina. A glorious victory gave the Holy League temporary control over the Mediterranean, protected Rome from invasion, and prevented the Ottomans from advancing further into Europe. (However, such was the resources available to the Empire, that the Ottomans had rebuilt their entire fleet in the space of one year. It is truly a divine miracle that they did not obliterate Christendom in the sixteenth century and completely take over Europe.)

G.K. Chesterton has illustrated this epic battle with a marvelous poem.

Lepanto

White founts falling in the courts of the sun,

And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;

There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared

It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,

It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,

For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.

They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,

They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,

And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,

And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,

The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;

The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;

From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,

And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,

Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,

Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half-attainted stall,

The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,

The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,

That once went singing southward when all the world was young.

In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,

Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.

Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,

Don John of Austria is going to the war,

Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold

In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,

Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,

Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.

Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,

Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,

Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.

Love-light of Spain - hurrah!

Death-light of Africa!

Don John of Austria

Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,

(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

He moves a mighty turban on the timeless hour's knees,

His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.

He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,

And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,

And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring

Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.

Giants and the Genii,

Multiplex of wing and eye,

Whose strong obedience broke the sky

When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,

From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;

They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea

Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;

On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,

Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;

They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground, -

They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.

And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk may hide,

And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,

And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,

For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.

We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,

Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,

But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know

The voice that shook our palaces - four hundred years ago:

It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;

It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!

It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,

Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."

For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,

(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

Sudden and still - hurrah!

Bolt from Iberia!

Don John of Austria

Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north

(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)

Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift

And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.

He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;

The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;

The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes

And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,

And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,

And Christian dreadeth Christ that bath a newer face of doom,

And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,

But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.

Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse

Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,

Trumpet that sayeth ha!

Domino gloria!

Don John of Austria

Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck

(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)

The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,

And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.

He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,

He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,

And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey

Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,

And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,

But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.

Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed -

Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.

Gun upon gun, ha! ha!

Gun upon gun, hurrah!

Don John of Austria

Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,

(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)

The hidden room in a man's house where God sits all the year,

The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.

He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea

The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;

They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,

They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;

And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,

And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,

Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines

Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.

They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung

The stairways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.

They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on

Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.

And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell

Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,

And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign -

(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)

Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,

Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,

Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,

Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,

Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea

White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!

Domino Gloria!

Don John of Austria

Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath

(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)

And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,

Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,

And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade. . .

(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

- G.K. Chesterton

Agraulis vanillae

2009-10-26T11:28:00.011-05:00

This is the Gulf Fritillary, sometimes called the Passion Butterfly. (Family Nymphalidae, sub-family Heliconiinae.) Earlier this month and throughout most of September there were quite a few around here. Evidently, they aren't easily startled, and were fairly easy to photograph. They fly pretty high above the ground compared to lots of other butterflies I've studied.

Here's a close up of the underside of both the upper and lower wings. Notice the dark 'eyespot' on the third and largest white oval marking on the lower wing. A very distinguishing characteristic.

Braveheart

2009-10-20T08:20:00.001-05:00

This is the Braveheart theme for piano. (I mostly just picked it out by ear, so I'm not sure if it is exactly right.) Enjoy.

Psyche

2009-10-15T11:03:00.008-05:00

This picture was inspired by C.S. Lewis's novel, 'Till We Have Faces.' Though you may have noticed that it was modeled, to a degree, after Dante Rosseti's 'Astarte.' It was done with acrylics.

The Holy War

2009-10-07T07:59:00.004-05:00

Out of the storm of the new born night

Down from the doorway of shadow,

Slung from the shore of the shining sea

Fashioned of beauty and brilliancy

The City of Splendor and Light.

They were the first of the Followers

Born of the dust of the darkness

Blessed with the gift of the lasting life

Clothed in the glory of unblemished white

The Children of Heaven and Earth.

Deep in the shade of the Undying Dead

Spirit of Shadow and Deathlight

From the depths of the void of the Universe

Bound with the plague of the Infinite Curse

The Demon of Darkness and Dread.

Up from the deeps of the Fallen Sea

He came to the city of Mansoul

City of Splendor and City of Light

Set on the crest of the Shining Heights

A city unsullied and free.

Into their city he sent them a Spell

He sent them a Word of Evil

They opened their gates to the Ultimate Lie

They slept with the Shade of the Lustful Night

And the First of the Followers Fell.

Beyond the edge of the Universe

High in the seat of Deep Heaven

The Lover looked down on the City of Light

And the Stars of the Morning watched Him cry

The King of the Last and the First.

The Rage of His Terrible Sword awoke

And He gathered the Army of God

But the Men who had fallen did not hear

They turned away from the Holy Tears

And the heart of the Lover broke.

They shut their doors in the Lover’s face

They closed their minds to His Name

But He splintered the walls of the city He loved

And He shattered the strength of the Evil One

And He burst the bars of their gates.

He took the Demon of Darkness and Hell

And flung him into the Void

They trembled before the wrath of his sword

But clear on the dawning wind they heard

The laughter of Immanuel.

- Written by S.J. aka Raora

Charles the First - A Character Sketch

2009-09-23T11:59:00.001-05:00

I have spent a lot of time studying the English Civil Wars this past year, and I find them very interesting. As the instigator of the Civil Wars, Charles I provides intriguing discussion matter.

Responsible for one of the bloodiest periods in English history, and the first King in the history of England to be tried and executed by a court of law, Charles I deserves some examination. He was a devout man, by all appearances, and constantly assured himself and his followers that their side was the right and just one. It seemed that he was very convinced in the belief that his cause was right, but it is difficult to think that anyone could honestly believe the Royal Prerogative was worth dividing England in civil war over. Yet this he was willing to do.

Later on, when the war was well under way, he championed, in the eyes of the world, the finest elements of chivalrous Old England, the ancient tradition of the monarchy, and a large percentage of the nation - all these things gathered to make a noble stand against the rebellious, divided, greedy and unstable Parliament, Cromwell’s Ironside Army, and the threat of foreign invasion by the Scottish army. Then the conflict over Royal Prerogative was brushed aside, the original ideas of Pym were all but forgotten, and the King’s cause was for awhile seen as good and just by many - then even he may have been able to see it as simply crushing a rebellion, defending God’s chosen, the sovereign King.

But that was not how it started, and he, of all people, must have known it. Going back to the root of the matter, it was not so. Because the things the Parliament originally fought for were worthy things - the right of the freeman to be fairly tried in a court of law, the right of appeal, the freeman’s rights to his property, laws against arbitrary taxes levied by the King without the consent of Parliament, laws to avert the threat of Popery, prevention of absolute monarchical power, opposition to the Personal Rule. There is not a wide selection of explanations to justify the King’s hostility towards such rational and necessary reformation.

The conclusion we must draw is obvious. Charles wanted absolute power. He did not want to be governed or counseled. He had no justifiable reason to spill the blood of his own people, fighting for or against him in the unnecessary bloodshed that ravaged England for several years. He was a dictator. Not the first in the history of the world, nor in the history of England, but the bare facts are that his cause was not just in any sense of the word, and while we cannot know whether or not he believed it to be, we can make a reasonable guess.

Not that the King’s selfish intentions excuse the monstrous behavior of Cromwell and his henchmen. It is still quite impossible to choose sides. By the end of it, the war had become nothing more than a power struggle between two dictators - the only notable difference is that one of them had at least a hereditary right to the throne and the other did not. The original conflict was almost completely abandoned. But even during the dark hours of Cromwell’s reign, (in which we see that his means of governing the country were no different than his predecessor’s) hope is in sight. The Restoration of what the nation liked to think of as the Old Kingship, but what was really the New Monarchy, brought about the fulfillment of the original purpose of the Opposition.

Tears In A Dark Blue Sky

2009-09-02T09:42:00.000-05:00

They say that the stars will never die

Hanging up in a dark blue sky

But no one knows exactly why

The water bears our tears.

Why do we stand alone and cry?

Standing under a dark blue sky?

While no one knows exactly why

We are lost in a shadow of fear.

And since we know that the stars are there

Bright and silver, high and fair

Why does it matter and why do we care

That the Faithful are falling away?

We are watching the stars in the nightful air

And The Children say they will always be there

So why does it matter and should we care

That nothing else will stay?

We say that the way of the world we see

Is strange and different and far from free

And we don't understand how they can be

So far away from the rest.

And we cry to the stars that never die

Hanging up in a dark blue sky

But no one knows exactly why

Their way was always best.

The starlit water of a darkling mere

Is bloody with tears that The Children cried

But do we believe that the droplets there

Reflect the tears of a dark blue sky?

The shadowed scent of the final first

Rings in the dark like a burning tree

Where the tears of the sky and the tears of the earth

Mingle together beyond the sea.

WHAT DOES LOVE MEAN?

2009-07-02T09:46:00.003-05:00

We were running by the river

All beneath a starry sky

We were running for the sunrise

While the river rushed on by.

And she asked me, “What does love mean?”

And I laughed and kissed her hair

Love is in the running river

Love is in the holy air

We were dancing by the water

All beneath a midnight moon

We were dancing in the darkness

To a wild woodland tune.

And she asked me, “What does love mean?”

And I kissed her hand and cried

Love is in the dancing water

Love is in the starry sky

We were laughing in the shadows

All beneath a summer night

We were laughing on the hillside

As we watched the dying light.

Then she asked me, “What does love mean?”

And I simply turned away

Love is sleeping on the hillside

Love is waking up the day.

Then the sunset came between us

And it washed the sky with blood

And I knew that it was over

And I knew that it was good.

Then she asked me, “What does love mean?”

But I cried for her to wait,

And the world crashed down around me

When they carried her away.

- Written by Raora

THE SONG OF THE CHILDREN

2009-04-07T19:21:00.002-05:00

This is a poem written by Chesterton. I think it is simply beautiful.

The World is ours till sunset,
Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
Who loved us long ago.

The grown folk mighty and cunning,
They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
Of the million tales he told.

He taught them laws and watchwords,
To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
The games that the angels play.

Had he stayed here for ever,
Their world would be wise as ours--
And the king be cutting capers,
And the priest be picking flowers.

But the dark day came: they gathered:
On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
And hanged him on a tree.

Amazing Grace

2009-04-01T20:40:00.004-05:00

Take a minute to watch this awesome video. It really is amazing. But you have to watch it all the way through.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtrnB4F

Reflections On Art

2009-03-27T19:58:00.018-05:00

After studying dozens of artists and hundreds of paintings over the last several years, I have (finally) come to some conclusions about who my favorite artists are. My conclusions will very probably evolve with time, but currently they stand as follows.

My three favorite-artists-of-all-time are Michaelangelo Buonarotti, John William Waterhouse, and William Bouguereau. I like all of them for the same reason - their paintings are realistic, and their subject matter is beautiful. Beauty is the number one quality that all art must have in order to deserve the title. The element of 'meaning' that a picture contains is also important, but secondarily. There are plenty of 'meaningful' pictures today that are downright hideous.

Buonarotti, as my favorite Rennasaince artist, really represents my love for the Rennassiance painters, among them Bernini, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio. I like their colors, which are rather dark compared to more recent artwork - I generally prefer darker colors to bright ones - and I like their style. Art in those days was just breaking out of the medieval 'ice age' where all the figures are frozen onto the page and perspective is worse than a six year old's, but it retained the grace and elegance of the art that preceded it, something that more recent art has lost. The Sistine Chapel still has the half-frozen fairy tale look to it, but it is very much alive. And I think that, as a sculptor by trade, and thus being well acquainted with the human body, Buonarotti captured the art of making his figures look even more life-like than most other Rennaisannce painters.

Waterhouse represents my love for the Pre-Raphaelites. The Pre-Raphaelites are my favorite 'group' of painters. Their colors are a little bright, but I don't really mind. Waterhouse's subject matter is what is really appealing to me. He illustrated mythological stories, and loved to paint beautiful women from legends. Seeing that I can't hardly find a Pre-Raphaelite painting that I don't like, I have many, many favorites among the Pre-Raphaelites, and I recommend looking up some of their paintings, which are simply beautiful.

Bouguereau is maybe the most talented of the three when it comes to painting. Bouguereau's pictures are striking for their soft, smooth texture. They could almost pass for photographs. They are gorgeous.

Runners up are Jacques-Louis David, Frederick Leighton, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Rembrandt, and Thomas Cole, among many others.

It is much more difficult to decide what my favorite paintings are. The first one is fairly easy, the second one rather more difficult, and in all fairness I must say that I am still not completely sure about the third one. There are so many. Anyway, here they are, in order.

The Creation of Adam, by Michaelangelo Buonarotti. The power in this picture is awesome.

My second favorite is Napleon Bonaparte at St. Bernard's Pass, by Jacques-Louis DaVid. This is truly splendid. Not that I care that much for Napoleon himself, but this picture is not about the historical Napoleon and what he represents. It is about wind in dark and frozen places, and the look on his face. This picture reminds me of Longfellow's poem, 'Excelsior.'

My third most favorite picture is probably Proserpine, by Dante Gabrielle Rossetti. This is a beautiful picture, but it really ties with several others for third place.

Five top runners up (in no particular order) are:

Tristam and Iseult, by William Waterhouse

David, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini

Hero Awaiting the Return of Leander, by Evelyn de Morgan

Innocence, by William Bouguereau

The Flagilation of Christ, by William Bouguereau

These paintings are what art is really supposed to be.

The Lady of Shallot

2009-03-13T14:46:00.004-05:00

This is Loreena Mckennit singing Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, The Lady of Shallot. I love this poem, and the way she sings it.

DAWN COLOR - Sestina

2009-02-24T22:03:00.003-06:00

I walked the edge of the newborn dawn
That wakened the world with fire
And I stood on the brink of the setting sun
In front of the world’s desire
And I realized that this is a world of blood
Because red is the only color.

And I realized that red is the only Color
In torches of silence at Dawn
In cardinal sunsets and roses of Blood
And wine-kissed lips in the Fire
In the sacrifice and the one Desire
When the eyes of the dragon burn like the Sun.

The morning is washed with the bleeding Sun
Because red is the only Color
In the burning gold of death’s Desire
And the blazing passion of Dawn
And the crimson jewels of the frozen Fire
Drenched in a poppies’ Blood.

The streets that ran red with the lover’s Blood
The sacrifice of the Sun
Because of the Tree of eternal Fire
Because red is the only Color
The ultimate Lie on the ultimate Dawn
And the apple of all Desire.

The ones who were caught in the one Desire
Were slain in the City of Blood
For the thing that brings the wind of Dawn
Is known as the Setting Sun
And they realized that red is the only Color
When they turned to face the Fire.

The sky sank into a lake of Fire
Burning in tears of Desire
And I realized that red is the only Color
And the world is made of Blood
And I turned my back on the setting Sun
And went out to look for Dawn.

But the Sun went free, and the Fire sang
And the Blood of the starlight was washed in the rain
And the Cursed Color of all Desire fled from the dying Dawn.

Written by Raora aka S.J.

Utopia - The Land of Nowhere

2009-02-15T21:08:00.003-06:00

In 1516, Sir Thomas More published his controversial work, Utopia, a book in which More's adventurer,Raphael Hythloday describes an imaginary land that he says he stumbled upon across the Atlantic somewhere in the New World which had just recently been discovered. Utopia is a perfect image of the ideal communistic world. Everyone lives in peace, everyone is equal, and there are a set of simple laws that hold the society together and cause everyone to work together as a community, thus making Utopia one of the richest and most successful countries in the world.

At first sight, Utopia is enticing. There are none of the evils that plague our own world. Everything works together perfectly. Crime is so rare that one may almost count Utopia to be free of it. The system works so well that no one need work more than six hours in the day. They pursue the arts and the sciences in their leisure and everyone has the chance to be educated. Everyone follows the law and go along with the way of things. They are rich, prosperous, learned, and - at least it seems so - happy.

As one goes deeper, there are things that turn one off. For instance, there is no such thing as individualism. At least, it is certainly discouraged. People are meant to be uniform products of the system. Educated and intelligent products perhaps, ‘good’ and ‘moral’ products perhaps, but no more. There is no such thing as private property - everything is shared among everyone. Everything that one produces must be handed over the ‘state’ to be shared out equally among everyone. One relies upon the system for everything. But then, one might say that, so long as the system works, it is well. One might say that through a kind of slavery the people have obtained true freedom. And then, one might say the opposite. That through the obtaining of freedom the people have become unwitting slaves to the system. An excellent system, maybe, but is it enough? Personally, I would throw my lot with the outside world with its grief and joy and risk utter slavery to obtain utter freedom.

To me, the Utopian’s alarming Epicurean philosophy is one of the worst aspects of their society. I have read little about their beliefs as yet, but their religion, or lack thereof, seems to me, to be nothing save a replica of that of the Romans. God(s) who are nothing save an image on the surface. When the cloak of religion is taken away, the starkness of their Epicureanism is truly frightful. Pleasure is their only goal. To follow after pleasure is their sole occupation. Thus their clever system that lessens their labor as much as possible. True, the Utopians follow only after pleasures that do not result in unpleasantness to anyone else. Also true, the Utopians follow only after ‘real’ pleasures. For example, there is no ‘real’ pleasure, according to them, in a piece of gold. One cannot eat it. They do not use money in their trade, so it has no way of giving pleasure. Hoarding treasure for its own sake is not pleasure. There is no wisdom in preferring purple cloth over plain cloth. If they are both equally soft, the one color does not give one pleasure over the other. One might say that there is good sense in the Utopian’s pursuing of ‘real’ pleasures. There is nothing else, with their façade of a religion. But one might say that is the ultimate reason why not. If there is nothing else, than pleasure will have to be enough. But what if it is not?

More seems to realize that such a revolutionary idea must remain nothing save an idea for a good time yet. He says that ‘this thing cannot come to pass until all men are good, and that, I think, will not come about for a good many years.’ The word Utopia means nowhere. But there were some who took the idea and left the last warning. The knowledge that men must be ‘good’ before Utopia can become a reality did not stop ambitious men such as Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin. It is very probable that the whole terrible idea of Communism arose from More’s sixteenth century book, and there is little probability that it has left the world any better than it found it. There are plenty of controversial ideas in Utopia, of objectionable statements, of questionable conduct. But the question of whether or not Utopia would be what the world needs will never be answered. For that is the one ultimate flaw in Utopia. It is impossible to achieve.

The Silmarillion and a Pre-redemption World

2008-12-07T17:10:00.000-06:00

I received an interesting comment from a reader on my last post:

"I have just one little criticism; for Tolkien's about to be about redemption is a nice thought but I don't think thats what it is about. Tolkien's writings are more about the "deeper reality". He tries (and very effectively) to portray the battle of the spiritual world though fiction. The LOTR is a perfect example of how he illustrates the "deeper reality" through his "fictional" writing. But in fact his "fiction" is closer to reality than books that are about "reality." The idea that his writing is about redemption is thoughtful and hopeful, but not really logical."

Thanks for sharing your thoughts, Quin. I do believe that Tolkien meant to portray the battle of the spiritual world though fiction, and that he did it very well. That is one of the reasons that I love his books. But I also think that Tolkien meant his fictional world, in which, it must be noted, he purposefully created numerous parallels to the 'real state of things,' to be a pre-redemption world, as I think is made quite plain by the quote that I posted and by other similar allusions. And I will take the liberty of pointing out that I did back up my opinion with a logical quote, whereas you did not support your opinion with any evidence.

I will note that Tolkien made it very clear that he was not trying to write an allegory. To Milton Waldman he writes, "I dislike Allegory - the conscious and intentional allegory - yet any attempt to explain the purport of myth or fairytale must use allegorical language." Tolkien's works were not allegories, and therefore can not be expected to carry a specific meaning or symbolism for everything.

Nevertheless, Tolkien does not try to deny that certain aspects of his book represented and were meant to represent, if indirectly, certain Biblical truths. In his letter to Milton Waldman he makes it quite clear that the Ainulandile and the Valaquenta are a fictional picture of the Creation of the World and the Fall of the Evil One. The End of the First Age was the story of the fall of the Elves, who, are the central characters in the Silmarillion.

Tolkien goes on to say:
"In the cosmogony there is a Fall: a fall of Angels we should say. Though quite different in form, of course, to that of Christian myth. These tales are ‘new’, they are not directly derived from other myths and legends, but they must inevitably contain a large measure of ancient wide-spread motives or elements. After all, I believe that legends and myths are largely made of ‘truth’, and indeed present aspects of it that can only be received in this mode; and long ago certain truths and modes of this kind were discovered and must always reappear. There cannot be any ‘story’ without a fall - all stories are ultimately about the fall - at least not for human minds as we know them and have them."

Towards the End of the Second Age, we observe that the Fall of Numenor, or the Fall of Men, is in all probablity another allusion to the Fall in the Garden of Eden. There are similar allusions throughout his books, such as the quote I posted, and, while they can certainly not be pinned down as allegory, I think that their original sources can be tracked. What I am trying to say is that I think that it is sufficiently obvious to both of us that the Fall of the Elves and Men in the Silmarillion was a fictional allusion to the Fall of Adam, and thus, the entire race of 'real' men. It is equally obvious, to me at least, that Finrod's words to Andreth were a fictional allusion to the future coming of Christ. Assuming that that supposition is correct, it is only logical to conclude that Tolkien meant his fictional world to be pre-redemption. As I said in my comments on the quote from Morgoth's Ring, I posted that quote because I think it may be helpful in realizing that Tolkien had purposefully created a pre-redemption world, and because it was not a key theme in his books does not mean that he was trying to avoid it.

As an afterthought, I do encourage Tolkien fans to read his letter to Milton Waldman. It is very interesting and offers valuable insights into the motives behind Tolkien's works, and the nature of those works.

DREAMS

2008-12-02T09:44:00.001-06:00

He came to her in the darkness

And he laid his head on her breast

‘I dreamed’ he said, ‘of the strangest things

Of stars and waters and mysteries,

And by all the pagan gods of dreams

I know I have dreamt it before.’

Then something was stirred within her

And she looked to the golden west

‘Somewhere lost in the distant past

Lost in the silence, dark and vast -

But it was dream,’ he said at last

‘A dream and nothing more.’

Her lips smiled upon him

But her eyes shone with wrath

‘I dreamed,’ she said, ‘of an iron sword

Of a golden banner and a battle horn

And by all the pagan gods of war

I have dreamt it many a time before.’

He held her white hand and kissed it,

But her face was stained with tears

‘Some day we will rise again

And the world will be a world of men

But that is a dream that has never been

A dream and nothing more.’

‘Then kiss me again,’ he told her

For I am going to war

And I will see you never more

For I have a dream worth fighting for

And by all the gods of dreams and war

It is dream I have dreamt before.

‘And maybe the dream is come to an end

And the world will perish in fire

But,’ she said, and her voice was cold

‘It was a dream worth fighting for

And by the God of dreams and war

It was the dream of my sole desire

He fell for a golden banner

Beneath many an iron sword

But they found her alone in her chamber barred

And she clasped in her hands the bloodstained shards

Of a blade that bore three silver stars

Stars from a dream – and nothing more.

Written by Raora

What Is Hope?

2008-11-18T14:24:00.004-06:00

This quote, from Tolkien's mythological work, 'Morgoth's Ring,' has never been found in any other of his manuscripts. I think that this is one of my favorite quotes from him - especially the last paragraph.

In order to understand the following passage, I think it may be helpful to realize that Tolkien had purposefully created a pre-redemption world, but just because it was not a key theme in his books does not mean that he was trying to avoid the Redemption theme. Some people say that because Tolkien's books do not focus on the Redemption, like most of Lewis's do, they are not worth reading. I think that this passage might be the key to understanding some of the theology behind the pre-Lord of the Rings mythology, especially the Ainulindale. Also, as an afterthought, isn't it interesting to think that Tolkien was never able to finish the Silmarillion or most of his other First and Second Age books? I often wonder what they would have been if he had lived to complete them...

‘Have ye then no hope?’ said Finrod.

‘What is hope?’ she said. ‘An expectation of good, which though uncertain has some foundation in what is known? Then we have none.’

‘That is one thing that Men call “hope”,’ said Finrod. ‘Amdir we call it, “looking up”. But there is another which is founded deeper. Estel we call it, that is “trust”. It is not defeated by the ways of the world, for it does not come from experience, but from our nature and first being. If we are indeed the Eruhin, the Children of the One, then He will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own, not by any Enemy, not even by ourselves. This is the last foundation of Estel, which we keep even when we contemplate the End: of all His designs the issue must be for His Children’s joy. Amdir you have not, you say. Does no Estel at all abide?’

‘Maybe,’ she said . . . ‘It is believed that healing may yet be found, or that there is some way of escape. But is this indeed Estel? Is it not Amdir rather; but without reason: mere flight in a dream from what waking they know: that there is no escape from darkness and death?’

‘Mere flight in a dream you say,’ answered Finrod. ‘In dream many desires are revealed; and desire may be the last flicker of Estel. But you do not mean dream, Andreth. You confound dream and waking with hope and belief, to make the one more doubtful and the other more sure . . .

‘What then was this hope, if you know?’ Finrod asked.

‘They say,’ answered Andreth: ‘they say that the One will himself enter into Arda, and heal Men and all the Marring from the beginning to the end. . . . How could Eru enter into the thing that He has made, and than which He is beyond measure greater? Can the singer enter into his tale or the designer into his picture?’

‘He is already in it, as well as outside,’ said Finrod . . . ‘For, as it seems to me, even if He in Himself were to enter in, He must still remain also as He is: the Author without. And yet, Andreth, to speak with humility, I cannot conceive how else this healing could be achieved. Since Eru will surely not suffer Melkor to turn the world to his own will and to triumph in the end. Yet there is no power conceivable greater than Melkor save Eru only. Therefore Eru, if He will not relinquish his work to Melkor, who must else proceed to mastery, then Eru must come in to conquer him. More: even if Melkor (or the Morgoth that he has become) could in any way be thrown down or thrust from Arda, still his Shadow would remain, and the evil that he has wrote and sown as a seed would wax and multiply. And if any remedy for this is to be found, ere all is ended, any new light to oppose the shadow, or any medicine for the wounds: then it must, I deem, come from without.’

-J. R. R. Tolkien, Morgoth's Ring

Unrequited Love

2008-08-21T16:05:00.002-05:00

He marched out of the city gates
With a tortured heart and troubled mind
On the far horizon the sun was rising
And he stole just one last glance behind.

With a future blank and a purpose grim
He set his face to the road ahead
But he breathed a prayer to the silent air
And his eyes were tears that he would not shed.

He thought of death on the battle-plain
As he gazed at the golden sky above
And he never dreamed that his fate would be
To die of unrequited love.

He marched over the mountain pass
With never a shadow of any regret
But he hoped to find some kind of a sign
To be certain that they would never forget.

He thought of the woman that waited for him
And his heart beat swiftly within his breast
Of the innocent bliss of their final kiss
The day that he marched away to his death.

He thought of his people, his country, his cause
As he gazed at the deep blue sky above
He did not understand that those heartless men
Would destroy him with unrequited love

He marched to the fateful battle-field
And took his place in the doomed ranks
But the battle-tide turned to the enemy's side
And he knew that his army was destined to break.

The darkness swept over the shattered men
And the fallen sun was sinking fast
And one cold silver star shone down on the war
But the blood of the fallen stained the grass

He stood quite alone on the silent field
As he gazed at the crimson sky above
They rode him down on the bloody ground
But he clung to an unrequited love.

He marched back to the city he had tried to free
With nothing to offer and nothing to say
Except a shattered sword that broke in the war
In the cause of the country he had failed to save.

The gates of the city were locked and barred
And curses came down to him in the dark
And her only reply to his pleading cries
Was a glance that tore his broken heart.

In anguish and torment he turned away
And he gazed at the night-swept sky above
Unable to fathom how they could sell him
As a slave of unrequited love.

Written by Raora aka S.J.

Waiting for The Call

2008-08-10T14:31:00.001-05:00

Life is bitter and the future uncertain
The present is dim and the past is cold
We shrink from the ominous mountains before us
And we try to define the word ‘home.’

The cliffs are steep and the clouds are dark
We do not know where the daylight has gone
We watch for the end, alone in the shadows
And wonder if we will ever get home.

The storm is fierce and the sky is bleak
And the icy winds of the glaciers blow
But we wait in the dark for the clarion call
That means it is time to go home.

Written by Raora

A Glimpse of Something Different, A Glimpse and Nothing More...

2008-07-12T15:07:00.004-05:00

I was reading C.S. Lewis's 'Mere Christianity' a few days ago, and one line really caught my attention. C.S. Lewis has lots of great lines in that book and he is a master at handling words and ideas, but this one is perhaps one of his best, and I thought I would share it with you.

In his chapter on Hope, he says,

'Most people, if they had really learned to look into their own hearts, would
know what they do want, and want acutely, something that cannot be had in this
world.'

That is so true. But they can never quite put their finger on what it is, and they only know that they will never be satisfied without it. Then a man (or a woman) will convince himself that a cure for that longing must exist, and that if he will only go on trying he will find it. But he tries to find it the wrong way. I think that trying to find it the wrong way often has terrible results and accounts for lots of the dreadful things that are destroying our society. I think that these unsatisified, unaccounted for desires are exploited and perverted by the world, which tells us that it can satisfty them for us, if we would just do what it tells us to. And As Lewis says, then he goes on all his life thinking that if he only tried another woman, or went for a more expensive holiday or tried another career, or whatever it is, then, this time, he really would catch the mysterious something we are all after. He may search everywhere on earth, but so long as he is searching on earth he will always be disapointed. Eventually, he will probably despair of finding it at all, a thing which, I think, accounts for the drastic number of suicidals that we have today. He may go on with his life, though, he may 'decide that the whole thing was moonshine,' and repress and stifle that part of himself that used to 'cry for the moon.'

C.S. Lewis goes on to say,

'But supposing infinite happiness really is there? Supposing one really can
reach the rainbow's end? The Christian says, 'If I find in myself a desire which
no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I
was made for another world. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to
satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing. If that is so, I
must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be untahnkful for, these
earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something
else of which they are only a kind of copy, or echo, or mirage. I must keep
alive in myself the desire for my true country, under or turned aside; I must
make it the main object of life to press on to that other country and to help
others to do the same.'

Which reminds me of some lines of a poem that I posted recently.

A glimpse of something different,
A glimpse and nothing more
But the passing shadows gives to life
What it never had before.

Far away in the future,
Far away in the past,
Something to come in the silence,
Something to come at the last.

The State of Affairs

2008-06-28T02:00:00.000-05:00

They read the books on physics
And they heard the wise-men speak
And they dissected the Universe
In less than half a week

They built a thousand towers
And ingenious machines
But they never knew the magic
That an eastern sunrise brings.

They wrote of Einstein’s genius
And the end of time and space
And they clocked the months and ages
And the moon's three-trillionth phase

They timed the speed of light
And marked the planets as they passed
But they never saw the sun
When it sank into the west.

They took a foreign wizard
And they put him on a throne
And they united all the nations
And made a kingdom of their own.

They ruled a race of creatures
Who we used to know as men
And they bound themselves to promises
That brought about their end.

A miracle slipped past them -
Three prophesying stars
And they never even noticed
When the curtain fell apart.

They took the cup of power
And they shook the devil's hand
And they kissed the cursed serpent
When he came out of the sand.

They wove a spell of darkness
And the hope of men was crushed
But when the sun rose on their citadel
It crumbled into dust.

by Raora

Hereward the Wake - An Epic Journey to the Furthest Heights of Glory and the Utmost Depths of Anguish

2008-06-27T13:06:00.003-05:00

At first glance, Kingsley's 'Hereward the Wake' is a rather ominous book. It has small print, old language that is now out of use, and a dismal introduction and preface. When I first began to read it, I made the mistake of tackling the preface. I read about three or four pages, put the book back on the shelf, and didn’t open it again for several months. When I finished Scott's 'Talisman,' (an absolutely wonderful book that everyone should read,) I picked Hereward The Wake up one more time, and decided to see if it would redeem itself in the first chapter. After the first chapter, I was hooked. It was absolutely thrilling and it improved with each subsequent chapter. It left Talisman and Ivanhoe far behind. I did not touch another book until I finished it, two days ago. You could almost hear the wild northern wind and the wilder northern sea singing through the pages. It has all the spirit of a Viking saga, and it is not far different.

The story is a true one, the outline of which Kingsley said that he took from the bishop Leofric's biography of Hereward's life. But Hereward the Wake is not a biography. True, it is history, not fiction, for the most part but it is also a story, a real story, with everything that a real story should have.

I will give an outline of it here, and then give my own thoughts on it afterward. The story is set in England, towards the close of Edward the Confessor's reign. Hereward Leofricsson, commonly called The Wake, is the son of Leofric (Not the bishop who wrote the biography of the Wake), a noble of Edward the Confessor's court and the ever-famous Godiva. He is a bold, daring youth, with the hot blood of all his Danish forefathers, and he lives with his mother in a town called Bourne, where his father is the holder. Early in his youth he is made an outlaw as a result of his unruly behavior toward the Church. I will not go into to whether or not I think he deserved such a fate - the details are too many to put down here, and if one reads the book they should be quite able to decide for themselves. He runs away north, to Crowland, fights for awhile under Gilbert of Ghent, in whose service he slays the Great White Bear, only a few of which were left in the world even in his time. Then he decides to be a Viking, and goes further north, from one wild island to the next, and gets into - and sometimes out of - all kinds of thrilling adventures. This may have been my favorite part of the book. He ends up in Flanders and there he falls in love with a wise and beautiful woman, Torfrida. She was interested, as was common in her day, in some fanciful ideas of magic - love potions etc. and that fact, called by some, and perhaps rightly so, as witchcraft, may prove to be an objection to some readers. But I can say that, while witchcraft is always wrong, it was only a passing fancy that she repented of soon after.

And then comes an end to his wild Viking dreams. News comes from England - Harold Hardraade, the hero of the Vikings, has been killed by Harold Godwinsson, who, in turn, has been killed by William the Mamzer. The Normans are conquering the land, slaughtering the chiefs, enslaving the people. After a difficult period of indecision, he decides to come back to the 'real world' and join the resistance against the Norman tyrant. His chief hope is that the Danes will come join him and place Sweyn, the only rightful heir, upon the throne. He and Torfrida embark on a long journey of danger, anguish, despair and heartbreak. As the situation grew more and more tense, I felt sure that Hereward and the last of his brave companions would die at Aldreth, fighting for England to the end. When I finally did come to the end I was shocked. I cried for the rest of the book, and I was tempted not to finish it. But I did, and I am glad that I did, though history is not always what we would like it to be. I will not tell you what did happen, but I will tell you that The Wake's death was far from satisfactory. Even so, as the merciless truth of history, it was not a complete failure - it had a memory of past glory, a shadow of what had once been and was no more, like the 'last echo born of a great cry.'

I liked It

2008-05-20T10:11:00.003-05:00

Stars

2008-05-01T15:03:00.001-05:00

We walk alone in the dark;

Now the shadows reign

For the sun was slain long ago,

And we saw the moon and we watched her go,

And laughter froze in the endless cold,

And the only things that now remain

Are the cold silver stars.

We sit alone on the shores;

The shadows have burned them black

For the Sea was slain long ago,

And we saw her wrath and watched her go,

Over the Brink, swift and cold,

And the only things that don’t turn back

Are the cold, silver stars.

We look on the ruin from afar;

The shadows have brought it to pass

Shadows from the eastern sky,

We watched them come from the walls of night,

With a evil eastern battle cry,

And the only thing that will always last

Are the cold, silver stars.

We weep for those who are lost;

The shadows took them away

For they were slain beneath the sky,

And we saw them go and we watched them die,

And we heard their last despairing cry,

And we lost all hope and fled away

Beneath the cold, silver stars.

We think of the bitter wars;

The shadows won them all

For we were all slain long ago,

And we saw our hope and watched it go,

Into the dark eternal cold,

And the only things that didn't fall

Were the cold, silver stars.

We sit on the Brink and cry;

The shadows have taken it all

For the world was all slain long ago,

And we saw it burn and we watched it go,

And all that was fair was lost in the cold,

But in the uttermost night the sky will still know -

That the stars will never die.

- Written by Raora

He Is Risen!

2008-03-22T17:27:00.000-05:00

Night has fallen over the earth.

Darkness sweeps across the world.

But the Faithful have hope that all the powers of evil cannot ever take away.

For they know that the Son has risen...

He Is Risen Indeed!

I am Dying, Egypt, Dying!

2008-03-19T13:37:00.001-05:00

This is a beautiful poem written by William Haines Lytle on Shakespeare's tragic-romance, 'Antony and Cleopatra.' This famous historic story tells of the Roman warrior and the enchanting Egyptian queen who, madly in love with each other, lost an empire to Augustus Caesar. This is Antony's death scence. The victorious Octavian, Antony's long-time rival, (later known as Augustus Caesar) is a day's march away from their last refuge, Alexandria, after having defeated Antony's entire army in the famous, disastrous battle of Actium. Antony is dying, struck down by his own hand. Languishing in his lover's arms, he speaks his last passionate words.

'I am Dying, Egypt, dying,
Ebbs the crimsrioron life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast;
Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;
Listen to the great heart-secrets,
Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

Though my scarr'd and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more
And my wreck'd and scatter'd galleys
Strew dark Actuim's fatal shore,
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,
I must perish like a Roman,
Die the great Triumvir still.

Let not Caesar's servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low
'Twas no foeman's arm that fell'd him,
'Twas his own that struc the blow;
His who, pillow'd on thy bosom,
Turn'd aside from glory's ray,
His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.

As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian,
Glorious sorceress of the Nile
Light the path to Stygian horors
With the splendors of thy sile.
Give the Caesar crowns ad arches,
Let his brow the laurel tine;
I can scorn the Senate'striumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
They are coming! quick, my falchion,
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee!
Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!

- William Haines Lytle

Has American Culture Ruined You?

2008-03-03T21:48:00.002-06:00

Well, this is a relief...

You Have Not Been Ruined by American Culture

You're nothing like the typical American. In fact, you may not be American at all.

You have a broad view of the world, and you're very well informed.

And while you certainly have been influenced by American culture (who hasn't?), it's not your primary influence.

You take a more global philosophy with your politics, taste, and life. And you're always expanding and revising what you believe.

Has American Culture Ruined You?

Far away in the Future...

2008-02-29T14:31:00.005-06:00

Far away in the future
Far away in the past
Something to come in the silence
Something to come at the last.

In the Regions of Darkness
West of the western moon
To the utter east of the rising sun
Past all earthly doom

Ages away from the farthest star
Behind the galaxies
Over the edge of the Universe
Under the Seventh Sea

Where the Silver River runs
Through years of forgotten Time
Where the sun-ships sail to the Shining Shore
Above the Death Mines

In the darkest depths of the Temple of Ash
Where the fallen suns are kept
Whose walls are washed with the crystal tears
That the Maid of the Star fields wept.

A glimpse of an infinite vision
A glimpse and nothing more
But the passing shadow gives away
What no one ever had before.

Far away in the future
Far away in the past
Something to come in the silence
Something to come at the last.

- Written by Raora

Idylls of the King

2008-02-15T19:25:00.004-06:00

I have been reading Tennyson's Idylls of the King lately, and I really enjoy them. For those of you who haven't heard about this book, it is really the Mort de Arthur put into poetry. Tennyson took Mallory's book and edited it and changed it into a poem. I just finished an edited version of Mort de Arthur in Bulfinch's Age of Chivalry, and I liked it too, but I think Tennyson's is better! (Howard Pyle's slightly modernized version is also really good.) Anyway, here is one of my favorite verses. Enid sings this shortly before she meets Geraint. (By the way, Enid and Geraint is one of my favorite stories.)

'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud,
Turn thy wild wheel, through sunshine, rain and cloud
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown,
With that wild wheel, we go not up or down,
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile, and we smile, the lords of many lands,
Frown, and we smile, the lords of our own hands
For man is man and master of his fate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd,
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud,
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.'

Wise Words From Ronald Reagan

2008-02-01T21:04:00.002-06:00

"No arsenal, or no weapon in the arsenals of the world, is so formidable as the will and moral courage of free men and women."

Slipping Away

2008-01-19T04:20:00.000-06:00

SLIPPING AWAY, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Slipping away---slipping away!
Out of our brief year slips the May;
And Winter lingers, and Summer flies;
And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies;
And the days are short, and the nights are long;
And little is right, and much is wrong.

Slipping away is the Summer-time;
It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme---
For the grace goes out of the day so soon,
And the tired head aches in the glare of noon,
And the way seems long to the hills that lie
Under the calm of the western sky.

Slipping away are the friends whose worth
Lent a glow to the sad old earth:
One by one they slip from our sight;
One by one their graves gleam white;
Or we count them lost by the crueller death
Of a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith.

Slipping away are the hopes that made
Bliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade;
Slipping away is our hold on life;
And out of the struggle and wearing strife,
From joys that diminish, and woes that increase,
We are slipping away to the shores of Peace.

The Sky Grows Dark

2008-01-10T05:06:00.001-06:00

“Under a young sun, under a new star
Out in the wild, newborn night
From the crest of a mountain wrought of light
The water is fair in the moonlight
And the shadow of evil is far.”

“Under a white light, under a brilliant sky
Far from the dark of the shadowy heights
Lost in the fragrance of the innocent night
Watching the dawn’s first radiant light
As the shining stars slip by.

“Under a golden moon, under a silver sky
Search for the sea of molten gold
But the river is deep and the water is cold
This is your price, bought with those words,
And now they are all going to die.

“Under a darker light, under a dusky sky,
Fallen in love with the silent night
Wandering alone in a gray twilight
The moon is fair and the stars are bright
But the sun has gone out and no one knows why.

“Under a dying moon, under a fading star,
The heavens are washed in the prophet's tears
These are the final, accursed years
They cry in the darkness, alone with their fears
And in the end - the sky grows dark.”

- Written by Raora

The Winds

2008-01-03T07:24:00.000-06:00

One of my latest trials in poetry...

North Wind of the Northern Storm
Sounding the Northern battle-horn
Where are the Warriors of the Sky
Who went to the battle field to die
And fell beneath their banner, high?
Beautiful, terrible, men of pride
They were the Sons of the Sunrise

West Wind of the Sacred Sea
Swift and wild, fair and free
Where are the children who came to thee
In their white vessels, light and fleet
Who lie now awake in your bosom deep
And wait for those who have fallen asleep?
They were the Sons of the Seven Seas.

South Wind of the Holy Hill
Whispering through the forests still
Where is the Holy Tree of Light
That cast its silver radiance white
And with its shining rays, bright
Illuminated the silent night
And gathered the Faithful one last time?

East Wind of the Silver Star
Cold and distant, bright and far
Who watched the Sunrise go to War
And saw the Sons of the Seven Seas
And pierced the vast eternal dark
And shone on the Hill of the Holy Tree
Everlasting, Silver Star.

- Written by Raora

Beowulf

2007-11-22T06:11:00.004-06:00

‘Beowulf’ is my favorite book this term. I read the original old-English poem, translated by Frederick Rebsamen, and I loved it. It definitely has its place among my favorites, and I highly recommend it.

The setting of the poem is up in the northern countries of Denmark, Sweden and Götland around the fifth or sixth century AD, and the hero of the poem is a Geatish warrior-lord – Beowulf. The author of the poem is unknown, but it is believed that he lived around 1000 AD. Probably the most well known event in the story is Beowulf’s arm wrestle with the monster Grendel who has attacked the Danes, and then his underwater fight with Grendel’s revengeful mother, the water-witch.

Later on in the story, Beowulf encounters a fire-dragon. (Now, listen carefully, does this sound a bit like the Hobbit or what? I always wondered where Tolkien got his ideas…)
Many years ago, this dragon stole a vast treasure-hoard from some Danish king or other who does not enter the story. He has never been a concern until an escaped slave stumbles upon the treasure while the dragon is sleeping and steals a golden cup in order to purchase his freedom. When the dragon realizes the loss, he ravages the entire countryside in revenge. The news is carried to Beowulf, who sets out to defeat the monster and bring peace to the land. The dragon is killed, and so is Beowulf. This last fight is so well-written and moving that I memorized it. You can read it below.

Interestingly, the poem has some Christian elements in it. God is mentioned thirty two times as ‘God,’ and over sixty times using another name – Shaper, Wielder, Glory-King, Measurer, Father, Deemer, etc. Throughout the story, it is shown how Beowulf, the magnanimous hero, trusts entirely on his own strength and courage, (see line 12) and in the end, it fails him. I thought that was very interesting.

The poem does not rhyme, because poems in the time that it was written used alliteration rather than rhyme. For example, (line 55) Flushed with fire fury to flash away the life. The alliteration gives the poem spirit and rhythm.

Today there are many versions of it in poetry and prose, and I have not read them all, but I think Rebsamen did a wonderful job in preserving the Germanic poetry in the translation. I also liked how Rebsamen created lots of compound words to capture the feel of the original language.

Here is the scene of the last fight between Beowulf and the dragon.

Notes: Wyrd is an old Germanic word for fate or destiny.
Naegling is Beowulf’s sword.

*See if you can find the alliteration and the compound words that the author has created.

“Wyrd will decide the way of this meeting
And man’s Measurer. My mind is strong
No more will I boast of monster in the past
Wait here in these woods in your webbed corselets
With shields and spears to see which of us
Will manage to survive vicious war wounds
Or kneel here to death. If luck moves with me
I will gather this gold, or give my life here
If cold death-bale carries me away.”
Beowulf rose then, with his round iron shield
War-helmet gleaming went with his years
Under the stone-cliff – in his strength he trusted
One against all, no way for a coward.
His tread was still young after years of war-clash
At borders of his land when boar-banners rushed
To the sounding of horns. He saw by the cliff-wall
A stone-barrow standing, a stream broke from it
Burst from the wall, bright with fire-flash
Blistering the sand - he could step no closer
Unburned by that breath nor bear that dragon-heat
Standing so close as his shield grew hotter.
Then from his breast, bolstered with anger
The lord of the Geats loosened a word-blast
Stormed stout-hearted - under steep gray-stone
His battle-stout voice boomed to the mound.
Hate was awakened the hoard-guardian knew
The sound of that leader – there was little time then
To settle for peace. From the stone-treasure cave
Burning breath-flame burst in a flash
Old anger-fire – the earth trembled.
The strong hall-king hefted his shield then
Sought some relief from that singeing blast
That ringed serpent was ready for combat
Greedy for revenge. The good warrior-king
Unsheathed his sword then, swift in its edges
Old treasure-blade. Each of those fighters
Warrior and monster was wary of the other.
Beowulf stood still with his steep iron shield
Death faced with death as the dragon coiled then
Swelling with fury simmering with rage.

Then Beowulf’s companion Wiglaf enters the scene:

He stepped through that hell-reek, hoisted his weapon
Brought help to his kinsmen, kindled him with words.
“Beloved Beowulf, bear up your heart
You said in your youth of glory in yore-days
That you never would allow while life held to you
The lowering of your name. Now known through the earth
Great-hearted Beowulf bear up your mind-strength
To finish this dragon – I will fight beside you.”
After those help-words the hell-serpent came
Raging gold-miser glaring with death eyes
Flushed with fire fury to flash away the life
Of that hateful challenger. Hard flame launching
Shriveled the shield-wood seared through mail-coats
Now helpless to bear that hot serpent breath.
The young hall-thane hid beside his lord
Held to the iron round hoping for relief
From those awesome flames-spears. The old battle-king
Remembered his glory-name mightily struck then
With his sharp blade-edge born so strongly
That is stuck in that neck. Naegling burst then
Broke upon that bone Beowulf’s trophy sword
Old and battle hard that best of honor-blades
Failed him at need. The finest of smith-steel
Could give him no help. His hand was too strong
Over-swung each sword as stories have told me
Struck too forcefully when he stepped to battle
Wonder-hard weapons did not work for him.
For the third time then, twisting in hate-coils
That monstrous fire-dragon mindful of his feud
Struck past that shield went straight to Beowulf
Bit round his neck. Beowulf stopped then
His life-force draining, in dark blood welling.
Then, as I heard, that hall-king’s champion
Young kin-warrior came to that monster
With craft and weapon-skill as his king had taught him
He ducked past that head, hot flame belching
Burned his hand then as he buried his sword,
Burnished treasure-blade in that black snake belly.
Then that great fire-breath grew feebler at last
That blistering blast bellowed more softly
As the blade took hold. Then Beowulf rose
Gathered his mind-thoughts, grasped his short-sword
Bitter and battle-sharp broad steel edges –
The Geat-lord struck severed the ringbones
They felled that fiend, found his life-core
Cut him to hell-death kinsmen together
King and his soldier so should a man
Be a thane with his lord. The leader of the Geats
Fought his last blood-fight the bourne of his deeds
Daytimes of this world.

The Brendan Voyage

2007-10-31T14:08:00.003-05:00

Right now I am reading a book called The Brendan Voyage by Tim Severin. It is a very interesting book.

In the Medieval Ages, there was an Irish monk called St. Brendan, who supposedly crossed the Atlantic, all the way from Ireland to America, in order to bring the gospel message to the people there. Until 1976, hundreds of years later, most people considered the story a superstitious legend, on the grounds that in St. Brendan’s day, boats capable of performing the feat did not exist. But in 1976 Tim Severin, a man who believed that the story was more than a legend, set sail to prove its feasibility.

The Brendan Voyage, written by the same man, is a true account of his journey from Ireland to America. It’s amazing. Severin has a description of the boat that St. Brendan supposedly used, a map of the route taken, and a record of the adventures that the monk and his fellow preachers had on their journey. From this account, he creates the boat and prepares to sail across the Atlantic.

There’s one drawback, however. The boat in Brendan’s description, as well all traditional Irish boats, is an ancient Irish curragh made of leather ox hides. Everyone is positive that a leather boat will perish on the Atlantic – everyone except Severin. He completes the leather boat ands sets sail.

He is taking the prescribed route, following that of St. Brendan before him, from Ireland, up past Scotland, to the Hebrides, up to the Faroes, on to Iceland, from there to Greenland, and then to his destination, Newfoundland, off the coast of Canada. Rough seas and dangerous winds confront him everywhere in the wild northern waters. The idea is terribly risky. But in the end, he succeeds and proves the Legend of the Brendan Voyage.

I have not finished the entire book yet, but so far, it is great. The story itself is incredible. And the author has a knack for keeping the entire account interesting. It also has neat photographs of the different stages of the journey. I certainly recommend it.

The Presence Of God

2007-10-24T06:37:00.003-05:00

Forth Eorlingas

2007-10-19T13:59:00.003-05:00

The Keeper Of Nimrah - A Sample

2007-10-16T11:10:00.003-05:00

The Keeper of Nimrah

Written by Raora aka S. Johnson

A half-stifled scream ripped through the air, and the echoes leapt back from the crumbling walls of the ravine. Jaron stopped breathing. His feet skidded to a stop in the loose gravel that crunched under his splitting leather boots, and half-turning, he looked back. Barely three minutes ago he had given the dying man down there his sworn word that he would not look back. But he did anyway. He could not stop himself.

The body lay limp and unmoving, slouched against the carcass of the fallen horse. The name formed on Jaron’s chapped lips, hoarse and cracked. “Jamin…” Barely more than a whisper, but somehow it carried back down to the rocky floor of the ravine, and Jamin opened his eyes. He was still alive. He did not look at Jaron, not even for a second. That would have given him away. He just stared blankly up at the masked shadows above him and a single silent word slipped through his gritted teeth, contorting his face. “Run.” There was no sound at all, but Jaron read the shape of it on his lips. Still he did not move. With tremendous effort, Jamin sucked the air into his collapsed lung, and whispered, “Run.” And then the spearhead drove through his chest and lodged in the crumbling red rock beneath him.

For a moment Jaron stood still, in spite of everything, and bit the inside of his lip until the slippery skin burst and blood stung his mouth. The taste shocked him to action, and he blinked hard and sprinted out of the ravine.

He stumbled out onto the hard dry footpath that twisted along the brink of the ravine and ran. Blindly, but with every nerve alert, seeing everything, hearing everything, feeling the late afternoon breeze on his sweating face and the ripping red agony in the thin gash that twisted under his arm and across his ribs. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a dark figure running parallel to him along the bottom of the ravine, less than a bowshot away. A moment later the sound of quick, hard footsteps on the path behind him jarred his practiced ear. They were after him. There were at least two on his trail, and there were sure to be plenty more lurking in the mountains on every side.

He left the path and struck out across the ragged wilderness and up the side of a boulder-strewn hill. It was steep going. He ran like a hunted deer, twisting and zigzagging, looking for a way out - somewhere to hide. Bronzed, muscle-hard legs leaping over the hillside, sweating even in the cool stillness of a spring evening. Firm set lips, almost calm. He had long since given up hope, but he never panicked. He was far beyond panic now. One moment he was sprinting up the hill, a dusky figure among the lengthening shadows. The next, he flung himself on the ground behind a giant red boulder.

He pressed himself into the shadow of the rock, pulling his knees in, and leaned his head back against the stone. Then he froze every muscle, by sheer strength of will, and fought to control his heaving chest, which felt ready to collapse on itself. For several minutes, he heard nothing. Maybe he’d lost them. His right leg started cramping. He did not move.

Then he saw them. One of them, at least. It was coming straight towards him, from the other side of the hill. Framed in the slanting light of the still brilliant sun, it was just a faceless black figure, still far away, sharply outlined. Jaron sat perfectly still, willing himself to be invisible. The shadow of the rock was the only cover he had. Maybe they wouldn’t see him. But the knot of fear pulsing in his stomach told him that they already had. His fingers inched their way to his belt, and closed around the hilt of his broad hunting knife, as he mentally measured the shrinking distance between them, timing the moment for him to leap up and make his last stand.

Suddenly a crunching footstep behind him, directly on the other side of the rock, made his blood run cold. That must be the other one. He did not dare turn his head, even though he knew they must have seen him.

The next moment there was a wooden creak and the snap of a bowstring, and the black figure heading for him stumbled and then crashed to the ground with a hoarse, half-human shriek.

There was a voice, right behind him. “Jaron?”

A man appeared from behind the rock.

“Akin?” Jaron whispered, disbelieving his eyes. The strings of tension stiffening his face slackened.

Chapter One - Bridia

For a moment it lingered above the horizon, a disc of glowing fire, burning on the brink of the vast expanse of gray hills looming dark against the pale sky. Then it slipped into darkness, swallowed up by the grim shadows. It left the western sky ablaze with brilliant shades of crimson, gold and violet, wrapped in swathes of blue. But, all around, the sky was swiftly darkening as the glow of the departed sun began to fade, and in the northeast a seething legion of heavy-laden storm clouds streamed just over the shadow of the mountains, promising a fierce battle in a few hours. Here and there a star could be seen, glistening feebly somewhere just beyond the circle of light, where the ominous darkness crept in from every side.

"It is gone," Jaron said beneath his breath. “The night comes quickly.” He stood very still on the narrow path, like a gray statue, slender and very tall, and beneath the ghastly mask of red dust and dried blood that crusted his face, he was very young. There was a long narrow scar across the left side of his mouth and his dark hair lashed wildly about his face in a tangled frenzy. He was wearing a worn tunic that made him blend in with the dismal rocky surroundings and a belt adorned with intricate patterns was bound about his waist. It bore an empty leather quiver, a curved knife with a hilt of darkened birch-wood, and a long scabbard. A double-bladed war axe was slung on his back, and he carried a long grey bow that was almost his equal in height. The left side of his chest was gashed open - a thin, shallow wound twisting across his ribs, exposed to the frantic wind through a wide tear in his clothes. His cloak was tattered and his hands were stained with dark blood up to the wrists - his or his enemies or both.

"Jaron." A voice ahead called his name, and he looked down. In the deepening twilight, the surroundings were dark and deceptive. Scattered over the hillside, gnarled scrub oaks struggled for existence among the massive boulders that dotted the landscape. The immense rocks, often taller than a man, lay strewn all around, menacing shadows in the gloaming, as if some giant had hurled them down from the mountains long ago, in some forgotten age of the world. Sometimes he was almost certain they were moving. Farther down there were groves of wild olives eking out an existence on the barren hills and crags, but not here, and farther up even the stunted oaks dropped out of existence as one approached Haran. Nothing grew in Haran. As far as anyone knew, nothing ever had. It was all empty red rock, bare of any living thing.

This was the wasteland of the northern mountains of Haran, the straggling foothills that stretched for several miles before the real mountains began. To his right, a short distance away, there was a steep ravine of broken earth that crumbled into the shadows below. He could just see across the empty gulf to the opposite side, gray and sinister in the growing dusk. He could see the mountains far off in the distance on his left, so immersed in shadow that he could no longer make a distinction between shadow and mountain and they looked more like phantoms than anything else. But they were real, he knew that much - too real. That was the mystical haunt of the Mahdai warriors.

There was a road that wound through those hills, and came out on the other side, an old highroad that was called the Entyra, but he never went out that far - none of the men of Bridia did, nor did anyone from the wide lands south of the mountains. It was forbidden ground to them, and with good reason. For though no one ever spoke of it, everyone knew that somewhere out there in the wilderness of towering mountain peaks, rocky gorges and steep cliffs, there was something else besides the savage hordes of blood-thirsty mountain Mahdai warriors. They called it Marok. The age-old evil that had defiled Haran past all redemption. And somewhere out there, lost in the unbroken darkness that no starlight could ever quite penetrate, the shadow of the mountain fastness of Nimrah kept the land paralyzed with an ancient, half-remembered fear.

No one knew where to find it. No one wanted to try. Sometimes on long winter evenings the women crooned their children to sleep with timeworn songs of the Battle of Nimrah, songs that no one remembered to have written, and few remembered where they had come from. Occasionally, on blustery nights when the weather was wild and there was a rough storm blowing itself out on the frozen windswept waste outside, a wandering story-teller would sit in a fire-lit hall and strike up an old tune on some weathered harp, and tell the story of Nimrah of Haran in order to earn some supper and a night’s lodging. To the people, it was little more than a legend, but the men of Bridia knew better. They knew well enough that there was something deep within the mountains that the legends of Marok had been built upon - something real. But like everyone else, they avoided it as much as possible and only Jaron and a few others fully knew how very real the threat was. He sighed and closed his eyes, remembering.

And then out of the dusky stillness, a long hollow note sounded from somewhere so far away that it seemed to come straight out of a dream. He shuddered as the lonely horn call rang faintly through the ravine, rousing the mournful echoes and shattering the calm. The Mahdai were awake. When the twilight deepened and the dusk fell and the grayness of the world chilled the hearts of men, then they awoke. Scarcely anyone ever saw them. Four years ago, during the war of Eor, the men of Carasul had defeated them beneath the walls of the city and driven them back into the mountains.

But still they stole through the darkening land, clinging to the shadows, and sometimes they would come all the way out to the edge of the hills. A deep coldness preceded them and followed in their wake. They did not go past Bridia - Jaron made sure of that. He lived to keep them from ever doing it again. No Mahdai had set foot in Ayta for four years, and that was a long time, in the reckoning of the men of Bridia. The men of Carasul paid no tribute to Nimrah - not yet. But the prophets use to say that a time was coming again when the Mahdai would forsake the shadows and men would forsake the sun. They would break, like everyone else, and the shattered fragments of the Kings of Ayta would tumble into the dust of no return.

"Jaron," the voice called again.

"Yes, Akin, I am coming." He took one last glance at the fading light above the hills, and then stumbled down the steep rocky path. The effort strained him, and he winced and pressed his hand against his wound. It came away stained with red.

"Are you alright?” his companion asked as he came down. “Watch the edge.” He was many years older than Jaron, a battle-scarred warrior with a lean, wolfish face and the fierce black eyes of a hunter.

"Yes," Jaron replied, and smiled grimly, "I have walked this path every night for many years, Akin. I know where the edge is." But he nearly stumbled again as he spoke. Akin held his hand out, and helped him down to more level ground. "It is getting dark," Jaron said.

"I know. A little ways further. I think we can reach the caves before the light is completely gone."

"The Mahdai will come soon," Jaron said in a low voice. They will follow us as soon as the darkness falls, and if we have not reached the caves by then they will kill us. I cannot fight again, Akin."

"We will reach the caves. They are swift, but they are not wizards. They cannot ride the wind. Look there." He pointed a ways ahead to where the ravine widened and its ragged cliffs gave way to a deep valley, "Bridia is down there. I can just see the ruins of the north tower. It is hard to tell in this light, but the caves cannot be more than a half a league away. They are probably not even that far."

"You should not speak so loud," Jaron reminded him quietly. "There are others abroad that would be glad enough to mar the sundown with another death, or stain these rocks with the shedding of more blood.”

"No doubt. I am sorry.” A moment later he went on in a soft voice, “Jaron. What happened last night…”

"I do not want to talk about last night, Akin,” Jaron interrupted quickly. “Jamin is not coming back - leave it at that. We do not forget things, up here in the mountains, but sometimes it is best not to speak of them. Remember, and be silent."

"Jaron,” Akin began, and then stopped short. His voice sank to a whisper. “Something is moving beyond the red boulder to your right." Jaron stopped abruptly and stood as still as the stone in question, following Akin’s hand with his eyes to a dark shadow a hundred yards ahead.

“I see it,” he said quietly. His fingers tightened around the long bow. “They are here. Mahdai. I knew they would come. And we are so close. So very close.”

“I think there is only one, Jaron.”

“There is never only one. And right now one might be enough to take us both. I am not strong enough to fight them again.”

“Are your arrows spent?”

“Yes. And the string is wet. They have finished sporting with Jamin and have come back for us.”

A moment later a cry rang out from a ways ahead.

“Jaron! Akin!”

Akin smiled. “It is Aldain. Not any of your phantoms after all. Aldain! Up here!” The figure below rode up the path towards them and dismounted. He was a tall man, clad in the garb of a scout, his face all but hidden in the folds of his hood. But a pair of shadowy eyes stared out at Jaron from beneath a dark mane of unkempt hair.

“My lord.”

Jaron smiled grimly. He took a step forward, but caught his foot on a stone and collapsed into the man’s arms.

“I am sorry.” Aldain said softly. “I should never have let you go.” He lifted him up as lightly as a child and set him on the horse. “But now we are safe. I will take you to the caves and Elial will clean that wound, and then you will sleep. Tomorrow everything will be well again. Come.” He took the reins and walked the horse back down the path. Akin followed close behind.

“I have been looking for you for almost two days,” Aldain added under his breath to Akin.

“He has been sorely wounded. I did not find him until late yesterday afternoon. He was in a terrible fever all night.”

“Mahdai?”

“Yes. What else? It is a miracle that he lives at all.”

“What of the other? Where is Jamin?”

Akin shook his head. “I think he drew them off. He is gone. The only reason Jaron is alive.”

“I was afraid it would be this way,” Aldain said quietly.

“He will not speak of it."

“We cannot let him leave the caves again.”

“No.” They continued walking along the crumbling path. It was all but dark now and only the faintest hint of crimson graced the western horizon. Everywhere else the night had fallen, vast and forlorn, and on every side the harsh, lonely cries of the mountain jackals pierced the otherwise unbroken silence. The path before them grew indistinguishable and uncertain. Some fifty yards away a lofty precipice rose into the sky directly in front of them, sinister and ominous in what little light there was. And then, a little ways ahead, they saw a dim light shining from a great height above them. Then another one, lower down, on ground level. And then another, a ways to the left.

“Look,” Aldain said in a low voice. “Elial has lit the lanterns for us. He has lit them every night since you left, trusting that you would come back. We are nearly there.”

He quickened his pace, and soon they came up to the entrance of a large cave in the cliff-wall ahead of them. Three guards in long dark cloaks raised their spears to let them pass, and from somewhere within the cavern there were low voices. Several of the men, tall dark men heavily armed, ran out to meet them; they bore smoking torches that smelt strongly of scorched animal grease and the unsteady flames trembled back and forth, casting flickering shadows on the wall. Aldain took Jaron off of the horse and set him on his feet at the entrance.

Jaron leaned against the wall of the cave and pulled his torn shirt over the wound under his arm. Then he slipped the hood of his cloak off. A cry of ecstatic surprise rose from the men, and in a moment he was swept off of his feet once again and carried into the cavern, amid a wild tumult of questions. Someone had run ahead and they could hear him crying, “Jaron has come back!” Aldain smiled and followed them.

Akin gave the horse’s reins to one of the men, but before he went in he spoke softly to the guards. “Keep a close watch tonight. Put three extra men at the outer gates.”

A quarter of an hour later the men of Bridia, some thirty or forty of them, were seated cross-legged around a blazing fire inside the largest cave, and in the back several of them were setting a low round table of rough wood with whatever meat they had in store then. It was not much, but there was new wine that had been sent up from the valley, a thing that did not happen often, and that was enough to get their spirits up in spite of the scanty fare. It had already been opened, and the men drank freely.

Jaron was sitting on an old wolf skin, leaning against the wall. He and Akin had told every one very briefly what had happened; how he and Jamin met up with the Mahdai on their way back to the caves, how they had killed Jamin. Now there was an awkward silence. A silence that was somehow familiar, because they had all faced it so many times before. At length Jaron stood slowly to his feet.

“I am sorry that I could not save him,” he said in a quiet voice, staring at the ground. “The men of Bridia have learned well the lesson that there is little that separates life and death. A few moments of laughter, a few moments of pain. Many others of our companions have been cut off without warning. And one day our time will come. But, at the least we can know that if there is any place for valiant men beyond this bloodstained world, then the men of Bridia will sit at that table. And even if there is not, the memory of the Heroes of Haran will live on with us, and no Mahdai killer from the accursed depths of Nimrah itself will ever take that away.”

A reverent silence fell over the chamber. Then he lifted his head and asked in a clear voice. “Will you drink with me?” The men stood and raised their wooden cups. “To Jamin.” He could have said something else, but he knew that nothing he could say would move them so much as that name, and so he drank to Jamin only. They all repeated the toast and drank, and afterward there was a heavy silence.

As he felt the cool liquid on his lips, a treacherous mist sprang into his eyes and the shapes of the men, the cups in their hands, the wooden table, the crumbling walls of the cave - all faded into indistinct grayness and he could see nothing but the fire, the raging tongues of flame leaping upward towards the low blackened ceiling, the dark heat, the smoky light. A blinding white pain pierced the left side of his body, and he fell against the wall. The half empty cup slipped from his fingers and crashed to the ground. Aldain ran to his side and held him up. The wine spilled out in a crimson pool around the cup and someone refilled it and set it on the table.

“Take me to Elial,” Jaron murmured, “and have the men eat without me.” Aldain took him out of the cave and as he went out, Jaron heard them questioning Akin.

“You did not tell us he was wounded,” one of them said.

“An ill-omen,” someone else muttered.

Outside it had started raining. The sky had been clear an hour ago, but already the storm that had been brewing in the north had swept down with a fury. “Will you go to the upper caves?” Aldain asked.

“No. I have not the strength to climb tonight. Where is Elial?”

“He is not far. I will take you to him. Come.” He half-carried Jaron along the base of the cliff to another cave, much smaller than the last.

“Elial is in there. I do not know why he did not come up tonight. Have him clean that cut and bind it up. Do you want me to come back for you when he is done?”

“No. I will stay here. Tell the men that I have had a little hurt and I will not see them tonight.” Jaron stepped up into the unlighted entrance and, holding onto the wall for support, he stumbled in. Aldain watched until he disappeared in the darkness and then he sighed and went back.

“Elial?” Jaron flung the question into the shadows. It seemed a long time before he received an answer. But it came at last, and the voice was gentle and scarcely audible.

“So you are come back.”

“I am.” A few moments later the dim light of a lamp lit up the dark room. It was quite small, with a low roof, and it was bare save for a couch of animal skins - mostly jackals - in one corner and an assortment of stone and clay jars of all shapes and sizes in the other. The man who had lit the lamp set it on the ground and came forward. He was a dark young man with long lank hair the color of a newborn wolf’s pelt. In one hand he held a shallow clay bowl half filled with a cloudy liquid.

“You came back,” he said again, and his mouth twisted into a half smile.

“I told you I would.”

“But I didn’t believe you.”

“Elial,” Jaron said slowly, his eyes on the ground. “Jamin is dead.”

He nodded. “I thought it might be that way. I am sorry.”

Jaron shook his head, speaking frantically, and trembling. “My quiver is empty, Elial. I stood on the cliff as they came and shot them down, I do not know how many. The dry ground ran with their blood. But it was not enough. It is never enough!” He lowered his voice. “And then I left him. Left him with the Mahdai, half dead, and ran.”

“You couldn’t save him.” Elial set his hand on Jaron’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “It was not your fault. At least they did not take both of you.”

Jaron twisted out from under the gentle weight on his shoulder. “I do not need anyone to tell me that. I failed him. All of you - again.” He stumbled and fell to his knees. “I need water.”

Elial half-carried him across the room to the couch, and laid him down on it, breathing hard. He untied Jaron’s sword-belt and set it against the wall.

“Keep it within my reach.”

“I will.” Elial took the bow off his shoulder and set it beside the sword. “You will have to let me take that shirt off,” he said, and he began to strip it off with agile fingers. He tossed it into a corner and brought a jar of water and a coarse cloth.

“Drink some of this.” He poured some of the water out into a wooden vessel and put his arm under Jaron’s head as he drank.

“How bad is it?’ Jaron asked, straining to look at the torn skin, bruised and plastered with half-dried blood.

“It is not terribly deep, but it is not a clean cut either. What was the weapon?”

“A crooked knife. Akin tied it up, but it festered over night.”

“I thought as much.” In the lamplight his face was drawn and anxious.

He made as to turn away, but Jaron seized his wrist. “Tell me the truth. Is it poison?”

Elial shook his head. “No.”

The grip on his wrist tightened. “Swear that it is not poison. If I am going to die, I want to know.”

“Trust me, Jaron. I have never yet told you an untruth. It is nothing more than what would happen to any man slashed open with a Mahdai blade. But it will take awhile to heal completely. You will have to stay here for several days.”

“I will not be able to stay here long,” Jaron said in a low voice, but Elial did not hear him. He bathed the wound with the wet cloth - the soothing coolness relieved the burning pain somewhat - and then he lifted the clay bowl off of the ground and washed it out with the liquid. Jaron winced and ground his teeth. “What is that?” he asked with an effort, “It is like Mahdai poison.”

“It is stone-water from Ismara,” Elial said softly. “It will purify the wound and soothe the pain so you can sleep.”

But Jaron heard him speaking through a dark red haze that throbbed in his head and clouded his mind. The lamplight wavered and trembled and became an intense white fire that flooded the room until he could see nothing else. He flung his arm over his eyes to block it out. A rush of terrible pain stabbed at him and he gave a cry of agony as he felt the flesh on the left side of his body being torn with a sharp crude coldness that burned like fire from the underworld.

“No! Elial! Please!” He felt a hand on his sweating forehead and the white fire faded back to the flickering flame of a dim oil lamp. Elial was kneeling beside him, binding the wound up in a long strip of cloth. There was a small knife on the ground beside him that was dripping dark blood onto the dusty floor. The pain did not subside for awhile.

“I am sorry,” Elial said gently. “I had to do it before I wrapped it up or it would not have healed well. It is over now.” He wiped the knife clean and put it away somewhere among his other tools. When he came back, he sat down and put a cool cloth on Jaron’s brow. “If you make it through the first night then you will be alright in a few days. It is not as evil as I first thought. You will be able to run again soon.”

Jaron was not listening. “Do you remember Bridia?” he asked, staring up at the smoke stained ceiling with a strange look in his eyes. “Not the miserable caves that we skulk in now like hunted wretches running from a hound. The old Bridia. Can you remember the city in the valley before they burned it? Can you remember the sunlight coming through the windows in the morning? Can you remember all the men that fell there, fighting on the walls with the setting sun in their hair? Their faces come to me at night sometimes when I am alone, and then I curse myself and wish I were with them.”

“Jaron.” Elial spoke softly, so softly that his voice could scarcely be heard above the wind outside. He ran his fingers gently through Jaron’s dusty hair. “Do you remember the prophets?” It was a question, not a remark.

It was a long time before he got an answer. But Jaron spoke at last, and his voice was broken. “Yes. I remember.”

“How long has it been since you saw Maldek?”

Maldek. Maldek the old prophet. Yes, Jaron remembered him. “It has been a long time now. Last I saw him was nigh on three years ago, but it seems a great deal longer. He was at Carasul when I came back, where he and Galmir were leading the attack on the Mahdai. The one that sent them flying back from the walls of Carasul like frightened crows. But he left soon afterward. He never told me where he was going, and I never asked. I do not think anyone has seen him since the war.”

“You do remember?” Elial asked, and unmanly tears filled his eyes.

Jaron bit his chapped lip so hard that a little bead of bright blood sprang up. “Remember what?” he muttered, sitting up. “This?” Jaron jerked violently on a worn leather thong that he wore around his bare neck and it snapped and came off in his hand. There was a small irregularly shaped piece of ivory strung on it with one word engraved on its smooth surface in a flowing script: Ertherok. “I have worn this ever since I was a child,” he said, fingering it slowly. He held it up to the lamplight, and it shimmered faintly. “My mother hung it around my neck the day I was born. Maldek came to Carasul on the day of my birth and gave it to her. I never took it off.”

“I have seen it many times, but I never asked you what it was. Is it a life-charm?”

“No. At least, I never thought of it like that. It is a piece of ivory. But the word that was written on it, the Ertherok, that is what made it sacred to me. I wore it for her sake, and I wore it for the prophet’s sake, and I wore it because I believed in what it said, like they did.” His lips were set in a hard line and the scar across his mouth grew very white. His stormy eyes had lost their flame, and they were very dull and gray, and looked as if they could never cry again. “But she is dead now,” Jaron went on in a leaden voice, “and Maldek left us, Bridia is lost, and Narith and Laytha are dead. The hope that men once had in that word is also dead. And I will not wear it any longer.”

The charm slipped off and dropped to the ground. There was a hollow ring as it struck the stone floor. Elial watched it fall in silence, every muscle in his body strung taut like the cords of a harp. Jaron did not look at it, but he gripped the broken thong in his sweaty hand until his nails bit into his flesh and he realized what he was doing and let it fall.

“You need to sleep,” Elial said quietly.

“Sleep? I can’t sleep.”

“Lay down.”

“I don’t want to sleep, Elial. They’ll come back. The dreams.”

“No they won’t. Not tonight. I will be here. Lay down.”

He pressed rigid fingers into Jaron’s chest and shoulder, compelling his reluctant body back onto the stiff skins. Jaron lay down, knocking his head against the hard floor that shoved up under the shallow pallet in a gesture of half-hearted defiance. “Close your eyes,” Elial whispered. “Come on.” And Jaron, accustomed by long habit to doing whatever Elial told him, sank his eyelids down over the dry hurting in his sore eyes, and slipped behind the soft darkness.

He slept. Nervous, fragmented sleep, nodding in and out, sometimes so close to waking that the only thing between was the hair’s breadth of shadow sheltering his eyes, and the light and the face above him started fading onto the scarred surface of his consciousness. But sometimes so far and deep that there were many unremembered worlds flooring the great gap from reality.

The hours crawled, but there is no relation between hours here and hours in the place where dreams are made, the place without clocks. Elial never moved from the side of the couch, except to bring water and cloth to wash Jaron’s sweating face. It was uncomfortably cool in there, and Elial had a jackal skin flung around his shoulders, but Jaron never stopped sweating. It was a violent sleep, and he moved almost continually, rolling and tossing and sometimes muttering strings of fractured words. The clouds that no one saw got slowly heavier and thicker, hanging low over the caves. They were almost ready.

It was still dark outside when Jaron got tired of sleeping. Something roused him, some unidentifiable sound or motion or thought, which had its origin in the things around him or came from inside his own mind. He opened his eyes - the stain shapes on the ceiling leapt onto his vision, glaring back at him. It was time. He sat up stiffly. Elial rubbed the blinking sleep from his eyes and leaned forward. “Are you alright?”

Jaron stood carefully to his feet. “Ask Akin to get me a fresh horse.”

“Why?” Elial asked, without moving.

“I am riding to Carasul.”

Elial sprang to his feet, instantly worried. “Do not be a fool, Jaron.” His voice had a new edge to it. “You know that you are not strong enough to make that journey.” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “I know how much you want to go,” he said softly. “I know.”

“She is waiting. Last night, I saw her there. And the night before. She was waiting.”

“It was a dream, Jaron.”

“I know. But she will be waiting. I promised I would come. I promised I would be there. I have to go.”

“You are mad.”

“I am not. I will come back to Bridia soon. Very soon. I swear.”

“You are not yourself. You were nearly killed last night. You have lost much blood and you are very weak.” He lowered his voice, “She will not remember that promise. A year is longer than you think.”

“That is a lie,” Jaron muttered fiercely. “Don’t ever say it again.” Elial frowned sullenly. “You have cleaned the wound,” Jaron went on. “There is nothing else to do. I will send Galmir up with a fresh company to keep the pass until I come back.”

“I will send for Galmir, if you command, but I am the healer right now, and you will not go anywhere until I say you are able to.”

Jaron turned on him fiercely. “Is that so?”

“It is.”

Jaron’s eyes blazed. “I am the King’s son, not a sick child,” he said between clenched teeth. But even as he spoke his step faltered and he nearly fell.

“You have started it bleeding again,” Elial said quietly. “You are weary and the fever is heavy on you. You do not know what you are doing. Lay down.”

“No. Give me my knife,” for Elial had taken the sword belt up from the ground when he got up and he held it.

“I will not. Your sword is gone, and you are out of arrows. Wait until I can send and have it made ready.”

Jaron pulled his wet shirt back on. “Give it to me.”

“No. At least wait for the dawn. You will never make it to Carasul alive if you journey in the dark. The new moon is not until tomorrow. You have time. Wait till tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow!” Jaron insisted, exasperated, and wrenched the belt away from him. “I have been sleeping for hours. It will be light any minute.” He stumbled to the entrance of the cave.

“Let someone come with you!” Elial ran after him and grasped his wrist. “Jaron, you cannot do this. Please.” But Jaron did not listen. He jerked himself free and thrust Elial away from him. “You are cruel to make us face this again,” Elial said quietly. “We only just got you back.”

“Have you ever found anything in this life that was not cruel?” Jaron shot back, without turning. Elial said nothing, and Jaron staggered out into the rain. But, before he left, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that Elial was standing at the entrance, lamp in hand, looking after him. The ivory charm was pressed to his lips. For a passing moment Jaron’s eyes lingered on the warm lamplight, and then he turned and the darkness swallowed him. A blast of freezing wind swept into the cave and the lamp went out.

Lilith

2007-10-08T03:58:00.000-05:00

Lilith

by George MacDonald

In my last post I mentioned George MacDonald’s book ‘Lilith.’ I have decided to go into it a little more deeply. I really enjoyed this book and it is one of my favorites. It is certainly a very interesting book, very thought provoking.

It is about a young man, Mr. Vane who is caught in the seventh dimension, and meets a number of different characters, including the first man, Adam, his wife Eve and their daughter Mara. Also, there is the evil Queen Lilith, the young, innocent princess Lona, the mysterious Persian cat, and the eccentric old gentleman, Mr. Raven. In the end, he finds his way back to the world he knew, but only after many adventures and trials that make him reconsider his world view.

It was a very good book, and I recommend it to older students and adults. But there was something about it that I did not particularly like, and which brought it down a little lower on my list of favorite books.

While Mr. Vane is trying to get out, he has several encounters with different people along the way, who, as the author points out are in some kind of ‘afterdeath’ trial. They evidently failed in their life, and are now in some kind of world between life and death, learning to repent and turn around, until eventually they become qualified to enter Paradise. In other words, the message of the book is that there ‘will be a final salvation for all people and no one is ever sent to hell.’ That is also the definition of universalism. And, if you look George MacDonald’s name up then you will see that he is a Universalist.

The reason I do not agree with this book is because of the author’s message. He is clearly trying to portray his universalistic ideas about salvation. That is that there is no such thing as an enternal hell and all people will eventually enter heaven because a loving God would never do otherwise.

Well, in my opinion, this is unscriptural.

…But fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell. Matt. 10:28

It is better to enter the kingdom of God with one eye than having two eyes to be cast into hell, where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched. Mark 9:47

…God did not spare angels when they sinned, but cast them into hell and committed them to pits of darkness reserved for judgment. 2 Peter 2:4 (by the way, Lilith, the wicked Queen in Lilith is an angel.)

According to MacDonald, even Satan himself will, sometime in the future, become ‘good’ again. In this book there is a House of Death and it is one place where the sinners are redeemed after death. When I read that I was completely baffled. What does the Bible have to say about that?

And the devil who decieved them was thrown into the lake of fire and brimstone, and the beast and the false prophet are also; and they will be tormented day and night forever and ever. Rev. 20:10

So, clearly there are quite a few verses (this is not nearly all of them) that speak of God sending sinners to Hell. Are there any verses here that speak of some sort of redemption after death? No.

But that does not mean that there is no redemption in life.

Anyway, this is why Lilith, while being a very good book, is not a ‘great’ book on my list because it is all wrapped up in this one belief. Even so, if you know how to pick out the mistakes that the author made, it is worth reading and, again, I recommend it.

The Amazon

2007-09-27T10:14:00.002-05:00

Alright, here she is. The Amazon. I copied the general pose from a sculpture in the Capitoline Museum. (No, I have never been there, it was from a photograph my mom took when she went there.) When I started off the sketch her face was slightly too large, or maybe it was that the paper was slightly too small, but in any case there was not enough room to draw her entire arm and the scimitar in her right hand. Anyway. I suppose I will improve if I keep at it.

Intelligent Design

2007-09-18T06:34:00.002-05:00

Two days ago a good friend of mine, knowing that I am interested in butterflies, sent me these pictures of two absolutely GORGEOUS specimens that a friend photographed in Italy.

I adore butterflies. They are one of the most interesting, beautiful creatures on earth. They ought to be called 'flying flowers' though some of them can be prettier than the prettiest of flowers. These ones are the loveliest I have seen yet.

EDIT: A fellow blogger was kind enough to identify these specimens for me. Thank you very much Biologist. The top picture is a female Attacus atlas (an atlas moth) one of the largest moth species in the world. The second one is some kind of swallowtail butterfly (Papilliodae.)

Melitaea didyma (Spotted Fritillary)

2007-09-14T09:56:00.000-05:00

Found in Black Sea region.

I photographed this Fritillary sometime back in July, but I kept it in my pictures meaning to post it and never did. Today I thought of it again so here it is. It is actually the first butterfly I have ever photographed and the first one I have ever caught since at least three years ago. Fritillaries really are very pretty. Most of them are a combination of orange and black, like this one, but occasionally they differ. The one I caught seemed to be almost tame, it was so bold. If I was quite still, it would sit there on my finger without flinching for a considerable time. It was the easiest thing to catch; I do not even have to use a net for these ones, I just close my hand over it, and then open it gradually and it will sit on my finger. It is also extremely co-operative in that it lands with its wings open. I never learned how important that was until I had had experience catching numerous others who never open their wings. I think the Swallowtail and the Fritillary are my favorite ones.

Also, we have sixteen days left to choose our favorite authors on the poll that you will find on the sidebar. You can only vote once, but for as many candidates as you choose. So, go check it out!

The Delphic Sibyl

2007-08-31T09:45:00.001-05:00

My version of the Delphic Sibyl from Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel Ceiling.

The 'Amazon' coming soon!

Vanessa atalanta - (Red Admiral)

2007-08-30T21:24:00.000-05:00

I am sorry these pictures are such poor quality, but I couldn't get very clear ones, as the butterfly moves very fast and never seems to stay still. He really is very pretty though, and when you seem for real he is a very bright red. I have been trying to photograph him ever since I saw him two months ago. (And I never did catch him, my friend did.) He seems to be a very intellegent butterfly and he has slipped out of my hands more times than I would like to recall! But I have got a picture at last, and even though it is a very poor one I thought the butterfly was just too beautiful to be passed up.

Found in Northern Turkey.

These pictures hardly do the creature justice, so I am giving you another one so that you can see what it really does look like.

(taken from eurobutterflies.com)

If you are interested, than I encourage you to go to Mr. Matt Rowling's butterfly site dedicated to European butterflies. He has done a great job, and created a very resourceful site with dozens of pictures of BEAUTIFUL butterflies from all over Europe.

Wise Words From Albert Camus

2007-08-25T03:58:00.002-05:00

"I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than to live my life as if there isn't, and die to find out there is."

Our Daily Bread

2007-08-21T01:57:00.000-05:00

From Spirits in Bondage

Written by C.S. Lewis

XXXII. "Our Daily Bread"

We need no barbarous words nor solemn spell
To raise the unknown. It lies before our feet;
There have been men who sank down into Hell
In some suburban street,

And some there are that in their daily walks
Have met archangels fresh from sight of God,
Or watched how in their beans and cabbage-stalks
Long files of faerie trod.

Often me too the Living voices call
In many a vulgar and habitual place,
I catch a sight of lands beyond the wall,
I see a strange god's face.

And some day this work will work upon me so
I shall arise and leave both friends and home
And over many lands a pilgrim go
Through alien woods and foam,

Seeking the last steep edges of the earth
Whence I may leap into that gulf of light
Wherein, before my narrowing Self had birth,
Part of me lived aright.

Click here to see more.

I think that in this poem, Lewis was trying to say that the spiritual world is not so distant as we often assume. That it is here, with us, even though we cannot normally see it. 'We need no barbarous words nor solemn spell, to raise the unknown. It lies before our feet; '

The last two verses of the poem speak of how one day we will return to that place, most often referred to as heaven or paradise, a place where we will meet with God when our life ends. It is wonderful to think that one day, whether we see it on earth or not, we will really witness those spiritual events that we have heard tell of, especially in the prophetic books of the Bible. I like this poem because it reminds me of the spiritual perspective on life, something we tend to forget because we cannot see it all the time.

Jadis - Queen of Charn

2007-08-16T08:33:00.001-05:00

This is Jadis, Queen of Charn, from the Chronicles of Narnia written by C.S. Lewis. For those of you who have not read the books, she appears first as the villain in the Magicians Nephew, where she is wakened by Digory Kirke and together they flee the dying city of Charn. She follows Digory and Polly to London with intent of conquering the city and they must find a way to send her back to her own world. But Charn is no more, and they are all carried away together to the newly-made world of Narnia, where Jadis gets hold of the apple of life and, gains everlasting life, and flees to the north, establishing a stronghold. In the second book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe she musters an army to attempting to overthrow Aslan, the son of the Emperor across the Sea and become Queen of Narnian once and for all. Victory looks very close. She has killed her great enemy and has nearly prevented the prophecy of her doom from coming to pass - and then, quite unexpectedly, she suddenly finds she has attempted more than she can handle.

And a close up...

Shahrazad, Daughter of the Ottoman - Farewell to the Stars

2007-08-13T12:55:00.002-05:00

and after.

Calypso - Mythical Sea-Nymph

2007-08-11T03:35:00.001-05:00

Here is another one of my paintings. Calypso, a legendary sea-nymph of Greek mythology, is known to have rescued the heroic Ulysses from a tempest. She fell in love with him and enticed him onto her island where they lived together until Zeus sent Hermes to her with a command to send Ulysses back to Ithaca.

...and a close up.

Raora - Daughter of the Wind

2007-08-09T01:34:00.001-05:00

This summer I have been concentrating on two main subjects. My art and my music. I might talk more about my 'musical career' a little later, but now I decided to post some of the paintings I have done lately. I paint them with acrylics. I especially like this one, which is why I am posting it first. I may post others later. As the title of this picture, as you might have already noticed, is also my username, I will explain the reason for that. Raora is the heroine in a book that I am presently writing called The Last War, or Stars. I like to paint or sketch characters from different books and this time I chose her.

Here is a close-up. The finish wasn't too smooth, because I accidentally used the wrong side of the paper, but, remember, I am only just beginning.

A New Day...

2007-08-04T14:18:00.000-05:00

Tonight is a night of Darkness
Tonight will be our last,
Tonight we will sing to the silver moon
The world is short and it ends so soon
Tonight we will lay the earth in ruin
Tomorrow we fall in the dust.

Tonight is a night of Freedom
Tonight we will finish our task
Tonight let us make one glorious charge,
Empty and hopeless but triumph is ours
For tonight we will look on the Death-star
And tomorrow the pain will pass.

Tonight is the night of Judgment
Tonight the story ends
Tonight is a night of blood and war
And many will fall beneath our swords
For tonight we ride for a dying world –
But tomorrow the world begins.

- Written by Lise J. aka Raora

A New Day...

2007-07-31T14:37:00.000-05:00

"But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer."

- Sam Gamgee from The Two Towers

In western lands beneath the sun
The flowers may rise in spring
The trees may bud, the waters run
The merry finches sing.
Or maybe there 'tis cloudless night
And swaying beeches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
The Stars forever dwell
I will not say the Day is done
Nor bid the Stars farewell.

- Samwise Gamgee from The Return of the King

Sometimes we forget that this world is only a passing thing. Eternity is what matters. There is always Someone else to turn to when everything else fails. Always remember that a new day will come, and when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer!

Argynis pandora (Cardinal)

2007-07-25T08:52:00.000-05:00

This is the prize butterfly I have been trying to photograph for awhile. It is not quite as pretty as my Scarce Swallowtail, but I think it has second place on the list. It has a strong flight, and I was never able to take it before. It is very large, and I thought that the patterns on both sides are quite unique. What's more, it was extremely cooperative when I tried to photograph it!

This one is rather blurry but if you look closely you can see the butterfly's proboscis slightly extended.

Take a look at those green eyes!

Unidentified Blue

2007-07-25T03:36:00.000-05:00

Found in Black Sea region. I am not 100% sure of this identification. I know that it is some kind of blue, and I have researched the butterfly and the Vogel's Blue, (below) resembles it closely. However, if you look carefully, you can see that the black markings on the side of the wing differ considerably.

(Picture taken from eurobutterflies.com)

The Spalding's Dotted-Blue (Euphilotes spaldingi) (below) is a more probable possibility. I could not find another picture of it, though, and I am not sure if this one is very dependable, as it has a reddish light to it, which is probably film lighting, but could be the natural color of the butterfly.

(Picture taken from butterfliesandmoths.org)

The Death of the Gods

2007-07-21T13:53:00.000-05:00

I heard a voice, that cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!"
And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse
Of the dead sun
Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim
Lifted the sheeted mists
Around him as he passed.

And the voice forever cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!"
And died away
Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.

Balder the Beautiful,
God of the summer sun,
Fairest of all the Gods!
Light from his forehead beamed,
Runes were upon his tongue,
As on the warrior's sword.

All things in earth and air
Bound were by magic spell
Never to do him harm;
Even the plants and stones;
All save the mistletoe,
The sacred mistletoe!

Hoeder, the blind old God,
Whose feet are shod with silence,
Pierced through that gentle breast
With his sharp spear, by fraud
Made of the mistletoe,
The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed
A ring upon his finger,
And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship!
It floated far away
Over the misty sea,
Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves.
Balder returned no more!

So perish the old Gods!
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old.
Over its meadows green
Walk the young bards and sing.

Build it again,
O ye bards,
Fairer than before!
Ye fathers of the new race,
Feed upon morning dew,
Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead!
The law of love prevails!
Thor, the thunderer,
Shall rule the earth no more,
No more, with threats,
Challenge the meek Christ.

From Tegner's Drapa
by Henry W. Longfellow

Colias Lepidoptera (Unidentified)

2007-07-20T06:09:00.000-05:00

My young brother caught this butterfly for me yesterday. It is evidently some kind of Colias, but I am not sure what kind and, as yet, I have been unable to identify it. Because of the color of its wings and the familiar white and brown markings in the center, it identifies itself as some kind of clouded butterfly. Most likely a clouded yellow, but I do not know what specific species. If anyone knows what species it is, I would be glad to hear.

It looks very much like a Colias aurorina (Greek clouded butterfly) that I posted some time ago, but it does not have the yellow color that the other posseses. The unique patterns on its closed wings are evident in the picture, but it has a fairly strong flight, and I was unable to take a good picture of its open wings. I have heard that these are hard to photograph with open wings. There is one below, but it is rather blurry. When its wings are open, the upper ones are white with a small black spot in the center and wide black edges that have at least two small white markings, and one pale yellow marking. I was unable to closely examine the lower wings due to the butterfly's constant flight, but I could see that the lower wings are also white, with black edges that contain a fairly large orange marking and at least two small white ones.

Underneath the Surface

2007-07-18T03:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I found a hollyhock on the roadside. It had grown there on it's own, and it was not planted or cared for by anyone. But it has become one of the awesome wonders of nature. Lets get a closer look.

Its rather wilted on the edges, but the splendor of the color is evident. Lets look under the surface, a little deeper.

Now it no longer looks wilted, but the color and the symmetry of the lines give it a beautiful appearance. A little deeper.

It isn't a dusty little flower by the roadside anymore. The cloudy, pale color at the very middle of the flower, getting darker and stronger as it goes further. The lines are all perfectly placed. The pearly green and the light, pale pollen in the center give a finishing touch. It looks like mother-of-pearl inside. Use your imagination and picture it as a fairy tree from the Midsummer Night's Dream with yellow leaves. There are so many words we can describe it with. Beautiful, fantastic, awesome. The true character of the flower is underneath the surface. This is normally missed, and we only see the surface. But when you get underneath the surface, the whole world changes. We too often pass the details over and miss the real picture. I think that whoever named this flower 'hollyhock' must have not looked very far beneath the surface. It deserves a much more romantic name that echoes its true beauty. But I suppose there isn't anything we can do about that except try to find the other side of everything ourselves.

Bond and Free

2007-07-13T01:44:00.000-05:00

Though I am not a great Frost fan, I have always liked this poem, and the beautiful, poetic way in which he explains the difference between Love and Thought.

Bond and Free by Robert Frost

Love has earth to which she clings
With hills and circling arms about
Wall within wall to shut fear our
But Thought has need of no such things
For Thought has a pair of dauntless wings.

On snow and sand and turf I see
Where Love has left a printed trace
With straining in the world’s embrace.
And such is Love and glad to be
But Thought has shaken his ankles free.

Thought cleaves the interstellar gloom
And sits in Sirius’ disc all night,
Till day makes him retrace his flight,
With smell of burning on every plume,
Back past the sun to an earthly room.

His gains in heaven are what they are.
Yet some say Love by being thrall
And simply staying possesses all
In several beauty that Thought fares far
To find fused in another star.

La Belle Dame sans Merci

2007-07-12T03:25:00.002-05:00

This painting of La Belle Dame sans Merci (the Beautiful Lady without Mercy) is done by William Waterhouse. Her seductive 'wild sad eyes' and beautifully tempting lips are portrayed with detail and skill.

John Keats speaks of her in his poem,

'La Belle Dame sans Merci'

O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither’d from the lake
And no birds sing.

O, what can ail thee, Knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on they cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a Lady in the Meads
Full beautiful, a fairy’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light
And her eyes were wild

I made a Garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant Zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
“I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
And there I dream’d, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hillside.

I saw pale Kings, and Princes too
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried, ‘La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone a palely loitering;
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

The Lady of Shallot

2007-07-07T05:27:00.001-05:00

This is a picture of the Lady of Shallot. It was drawn by William Waterhouse. It is her death scene on the river running down to Camelot. I think that Waterhouse captured her expression very well. Her uplifted, pathetic face and remorseful appearance reminds me of Tennyson's lines:

And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeking all his own mischance,
With a glassy countenance,

Did she look to Camelot;
And at the closing of the day,
She loosed the chain and down she lay,
The broad stream bore her far away

The Lady Of Shallot.

Lying, robed in snowy white,
That loosely flew to left and right,
The leaves upon her falling light,
Through the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot
And as the boat-head wound along,
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady Of Shallot.

Artogeia rapae (Small White)

2007-07-03T02:29:00.000-05:00

Found in Black Sea region. Uncertain identification. Resembles the Small White. Its principal diet is cabbage leaves.

Caterpillar

2007-07-03T01:53:00.001-05:00

Found in Northern Turkey. Caterpillar found eating rosebush leaves. Unindentified. If anyone knows what its name is, I would love to know.

Melanargia galathea (Marbled White)

2007-06-26T03:13:00.000-05:00

Found in June in northern Turkey.

Iphiclides podalirius (Scarce Swallowtail)

2007-06-25T04:07:00.000-05:00

Found in June in Northern Turkey. Weak flight. Protected.

Polyommatus icarus (Common Blue)

2007-06-25T03:57:00.000-05:00

Found in Southern Black Sea region.

Colias aurorina (Greek Clouded Butterfly)

2007-06-25T03:30:00.000-05:00

Found in June in Northern Turkey. Extremely strong flight.