Thu Aug 21, 07:03:30 AM | denzil bee |

Time of Legends

In Gameland (again - I like gameland) Morgan ran another systemless game. It was sword and sorcery, but there were no elves or halflings, so everything was ok. We were heroes who saved villages and lands from evil despots, killed dragons, and fought hordes of goblins. Eventually the world changed and the despots were not so evil. The dragons became benevolent, the goblins became accepted members of society, witches became wise instead of evil, the despots instituted education and unemployment insurance. Still we fought and killed them.

Eventually we realised the world had changed. The warrior set himself up as a despot, conquered new realms, and set its citizens up as slaves for those of his own kingdom. In the end he was deposed by his own son. The mage took up enlightenment through study and travel. The priest, who had been collecting souls of the dead within his own soul, went up to a mountain and spoke to these souls. The ancient dragon, who had taken human form went to consult with his ancient brethern. They told him he had forfeited their company and he swore vengeance. The thief and the pyromaniac/highwayman continued to overthrow rulers, regardless of their benevolence. Eventually they were killed by a ruler stronger than themselves.

Finally the game started where it had ended - with us telling the tales of our exploits, and the reasons we had turned from being heroes. The old man to whom we were speaking offered us a choice - to climb the mountain at our backs and have a chance to save the world again, or to step into darkness. The warrior, thief and mage elected to climb the mountain and they became gods, manipulating the world to the best of their wisdom, as a chessboard. They instituted democracy (!). It was our world, only slightly better. The priest sat at the bottom of the valley without deciding. He had a yellow balloon and shouted up helpful, or mad, advice occasionally. The ancient dragon and the pyromaniac/highwayman chose darkness and entered Vallhalla. Thus the power and wisdom of dragons, and the spirit of primordial fire are lost to our world. And religion has lost its place and sanity. Once again, it ended perfectly, and once again tragically.

Wed Aug 20, 08:45:09 AM | denzil bee |

Cowboys

In gameland, we are going to be playing Cowboy Bebop soon. I am not exactly a huge Anime fan. Nevertheless, I can relate to the Cowboy ethos. (Any stupid cracks about Alberta, and I shall have to fight you.) A cowboy is a man with a gun on a horse. Furthermore, the scenery of raw dusty open spaces is mirrored in his character, in the forms of solitude, freedom, toughness, and an embrace of desolation. The gun is power and vocation. And the horse is the only companionship and the only living being on which he can rely.

So, this brings us to Cowboy Bebop. Definitely no horses. A small personal spacecraft perhaps. He could feel about it as he would about a motorcycle, although there would be no actual living connection. No desert, but certainly open space(s) with remote, impersonal, untouchable stars. Alright. He can identify with the stars. He can rejoice in them, live for them, rely on them, yearn to become them. They can become all-consuming. That would explain his proclivity to zooming around in space. And he could have become a bounty hunter simply for freedom, survival, and a reason to be out in the open spaces with his horse and his gun. Of course he will have a gun! And be a crack shot and a quick-draw artist. Somehow. Hmmm - an antisocial soldier/wheelman. Uh... Well, I'll call him Virgil James.

I saw Tombstone this week. It was very good, but I'm told Wyatt Earp is better, although it is not yet out on DVD. I'm reading The Fourth Horseman, which is about Doc Holliday, and I clearly remember The Life and Death of Johnny Ringo. To be honest I perfer the Hole-in-the-Wall-Gang, John Wesley Hardin, Kingfisher, and of course The James Gang. If you have not seen The Long Riders, watch it at once. It is beautiful and tough and the acting and cinematography is tremendous. James Keach plays a very cold Jesse. It's great! All the Pretty Horses is great too. Don't be fooled by the movie stuff and the title. It ain't pretty. But it is meaningful. Read the book first, by Cormac MacCarthy. The movie misses the brutality of time, and anyway the book is superbly written. There is a poem that is great, too. Lasca by Frank Desprez. Sure it's a poem, but as it is a long narrative, it has all the qualities of a novel, and it is a Passion Play, too!

Etcetera. It goes on for pages!

Sun Aug 17, 05:02:11 PM | denzil bee |

• Nihilism = The negation of worth by causality, equality, etc.
• Reascendent Nihilism = The reaffirmation of the worth of that which has survived nihilism.
• Wonder = That which redeems the world - makes it a fine place.
• Pain = Alienation due to Knowledge.
• Mundane = That which has been encompassed by nihilism.
• Real = That which is not mundane.
• Actual = That which is not imagined (houses, etc.).
• Magic = The seemingly impossible actual.
• Inertia = Surrender to causality - the usual and natural state.
• Vengeance = Retaliation against humanity or individuals when one has suffered betrayal.
• Betrayal = Fear fulfilled over faith.
• Good = The struggle against vengeance and inertia. Active kindness. Heroism.
• Evil = That which actively works against good.
• Will = Changing the world.
• Death = The end of sentience.
• Futility = Nihilism that negates worthwhile action.
• Depression = All-consuming despair.
• Compartmentalisation = The recognition of the other and acceptance of it as unaffective of the self.

Wed Aug 13, 10:07:33 AM | denzil bee |

Richard and Mimi Fariña, with lyrics
(Of course the lyrics don't relate to my text, they merely break it into unrelated paragraphs. Don't worry. Oh, except the last, which really is meant for an epitaph.))

The Crusades:
It's hi, ho, hey I am the bold marauder
And hi ho hey, I am the white destroyer
For I will take you out by the hand and lead you to the hunter
And I will show you thunder and steel and I will be your teacher
And we will sing a warrior's song and lift the praise of murder
And Christ will be our darling
And fear will be our name

This is about music. Normally I don't want to hear about anyone's favourite bands, etc., but bear with me here, please. This is not actually about music. The fact is that I can't listen to music, really. Due to jazz school, too much music theory, and the way I think/percieve, it goes right through my head, and doesn't actually register. However, I can hear other things, like voices, lyrics, simple melody and general tone. Mostly.

Alienation:
No use rambling, walking in the shadows
Trailing a wandering star
No one beside you, no one to hide you
And nobody knows who you are
But if somehow you could pack up your sorrows
And give them all to me
You would lose them I know how to use them
Give them all to me

So, Mimi and Richard. This is the first music I had, later than any of you had music. I was maybe fifteen, and it was old and obscure, even then. They had not only integrity and brilliance, but were clever and ironic. They could concieve of Wonder and Pain, Dilemna and History, Exhilaration and Evil. They embraced the Dark that no one mentions (usually), and touched the innocent and beautiful with holy respect. They were a sign to me, stuck in the homogenous incubator of Alberta, and a promise that there were real people somewhere in the world. A promise that Real was possible. Richard wrote books, too. Been Down so Long It Looks like Up to Me and Long Time Coming, and a Long Time Gone.

Suicide:
The night's a cold and barren place,
The darkness seldom lies
. The wind upon a howling sea
will lift your feathers high.
The sand that inches from the tide
Will claim the steps I sow.
The whispers of the ocean deep
Will pick my weary bones.
What murmurs in your raven heart
have taken you form sleep?
What raging on a foreign shore
Will leave me here to weep?
What clashing in the nightmare wind
Has stirred your angry dream?
What thunder on a darkling plain
Had never been foreseen?

Mimi died last year. When they put out their records, she was only nineteen - less than half as old as I am now. Richard died in 1966. I was two. The world is so different now - slicker, and Orwellian (who knew?). Yet here are their voices, young, clever, innocent, knowing - fey. And the same clear, poetic lyrics, still useful, still holding out a hand of salvation to those drowning in the whirlpool, promising courage and the exhilaration of Knowledge, however dark.

An epitaph:
If there's an end to all our dreaming
Perhaps I'll go while you're still standing
Outside your door
And I'll remember
Your hands encircling
A bowl of moonstones
A lamp of childhood
A robe of roses
Because your sorrows
Were still unborn.

Tue Aug 12, 05:15:11 PM | denzil bee |

New Toy Day!

Today I went to ToysRUs to try to find a wiffle balle to practice golf. Sadly no luck, and I got a Nerf ball instead. hopefully it will be better than the scrunched-up tin-foil with which I have been practicing.

Good news, though! There is a New Toy out there. Astrojax! It works like something between a yo-yo and a spinning chain. Simple idea: it's three hard weighted plastic balls, one attached to each end of a string, and one that moves freely with the string threaded through a hole in its centre. You can swing them and spin them through the air, and they perform amazing gravity-defying stunts. Ok, they follow laws of motion and centrigugal force, etc. No, its amazing! The things are beautiful. They are clear coloured plastic and reflect and refract the sun as they zoom about in the air. Something about them brought back a new toy feeling from my childhood. They just have a quality of special sixties plastic. And the weight and motion just felt like something I remembered. Probably my first yo-yo. I know it was the same heavy-clear-zooming-through-the-air plastic. Of course, it was dark red, and these are swimming-pool blue. Sure, this is rambling, but I thought you could use a product review!

In other news, I went to the driving range to practice golf this morning. I got a couple of books: Norman Davies' The Isles, a History, and Crypto by Steven Levy. I am certain the former will be great. I am less sure of the latter, but I am always up for a cryptography book, even though it is not classical cryptography this time. I am working on my own wacky cryptography system.

I am going to be an Aunt any day now! My cousin is going to have a baby. It will be the only child in the new generation. Not only do I have no children, my cousins have no children, I have no second cousins, and no third cousins. This will be the only child descended from my great grandparents. There will be someone to carry on our familial eccentric thought-patterns. At least this is my great hope! I got the child, who is as yet both nameless and unborn, a huge blanket with ducks on.

In Gameland, where I would live if I could, we had a fantastic game of The Matrix last Wednesday. I told you where the last game ended. To sum it up simply, We entered the datastream, Neo was killed, and we entered a second datastream. When we got through it we were in the real world. It was an Ark with 4000000 cryogenically frozen people on board bound from earth in 2425 AD for a planet 3200 lightyears away. Our heroes had woken up 800 years too soon. They were alone on a fully automated ship. The Matrix had been created to be pumped into the people's brains to keep them active over the long journey. This world was based on1999 because a 2425 world was too complicated to program virtually on such a large scale. 1999 had been chosen as a simpler year, but one with enough technology that people would not be utterly alienated if they moved from it to 2425. The unfortunate thing for our heroes was that everyone's real 2425 memories were stored on the computer that housed the Matrix. The only memories they had were the ones they themselves had experienced in that Matrix, and they had no real memories, nor idea of who they had been in 2425. Terrifically ironic! They took the blue pill for real, and lived for real in the real world, but they themselves were not real. Furthermore, they were trapped on this spaceship for the rest of their lives with no possible purpose and only themselves for company. Sort of like Sartre's No Exit, but they had not yet become Hell for one another. It was a super-cool story and a super-cool ending! Revolutions can only be a disappointment, now!

In other Gameland news, I played Mage on Saturday at Drexolls. Also: Yippeee! My beautiful Nobilis book, and my Pendragon book arrived today from ebay! Now I can start figuring out the (diceless again) system, and planning a game. This Wednesday is going to be great! We get to play Toon Spy, using RisUs for the system. And we are going to have "improvisational hooks" drawn from a hat. We are each making these up to bring on gameday. Best of all: I finally get to play a talking duck mime spy. Named Murduck! The other characters are going to be an indestructible pie-throwing Bear, a kind of Wiley Coyote, a kind of Mask/Red-Dwarf-Cat, a gorilla private eye, and an as yet unknown one. I can't wait!

ZZzzapp!

Wed Aug 06, 01:55:15 PM | denzil bee |

I clearly don't write here enough.

What am I thinking about? I was thinking about pronouns. How do you think? I think in first person objective, singular. Sometimes in various second person configurations. It is funny. The word "me" is somehow touching. First person subjective, singular. I don't think this way. Do you? It is relational. As soon as you are not acting, but acted upon, you stand in relation. Something affects you. You are not a ghost. It's great when people talk about themselves like this. You know that they have a place in this world.
First person plural pronouns just set up confusing barriers. Divisions between "us' and 'them' create unsureness as to whether one is "us" or "them", if such barriers exist.

I read Tim Powers' Declare. It was great. Read it at once! A friend said it was Spycraft/Cthulhu, and it was. Well not Cthulhu himelf... It was about Kim Philby, a gripping person, with more principles than he had in this book. There is another great book about the time between the wars called The Jew of Linz, by Kimberly Cornish (I did Not pick the book because of her surname. It is mere co-incidence.) You should read this book as well. Philby et al. show up in it also. It is very wierd and mostly about Wittgenstein and Hitler. Oh, and the absoluteness of philosophy, which is of course why I liked it. The philosophy is strange, in this case, however. It is billing itself as non-fiction.

I am still reading Schopenhauer, on and off. Sadly I think it has affected my writing coherence. I wanted to find a proof for Will, but have only finished the Representation section. Sadly, skimming it, it seems that much of what he would call Will can still be put down to causality. He is said to be pessimistic and not to believe that death is a negative thing. Is this pessimism?

In gameland we have been playing The Matrix. The real world is another matrix, but our characters are trying to get into the real world, if there is one. Agent Smith is helping them. Morpheus is dead. Hex (PC) is entering a datastream to find the world. Whitecap (PC) has deserted us for the Neo-Trinity faction. I (Arrow, PC) am freeze-framed shooting Neo in the back as he too tries traitorously to enter the datastream.

Toon in when I post again (hopefully sooner).
Same bat-site. Same bat-address.

Wed Jul 23, 11:33:44 AM | denzil bee |

Golf

I went to play golf for the first time yesterday. It was great! I was surprised. Not that it was great, but that starting it was seemd so clear-cut. I remember a friend trying to show me how to play tennis once, and the nebulousness of swinging at the ball and even holding the racket. It seemed to be about feeling and flow, which I seemed to lack. Golf was great! At the driving range, hitting the ball seemed to be a soluble challenge with arcs, pivot points, and axes. Easy to say, but it is of course another thing to calculate them and hold them all in mind at once, let alone coordinate elbows, knees, wrists, etc.

And it was super to be out in the sun doing outdoor activities with a friend. It is what I hope for, from summer. Trees, sun, heat, grass, simple concrete activity. The ball thrown up amazingly against the beautiful clear blue sky. Well, only sometimes, but it was my first try!

In other news, we got an air conditioner. I haven't slept properly in weeks, so hopefully, this will help somewhat.

In gaming land, I played Wraith: the Great War last night. In Wraith one plays a ghost and someone else plays one's 'shadow' - ones's dark side, whose aim is oblivion! We fought in the trenches in France with mud, dead soldiers, artillery, barbed wire, mustard gas, machine gun nests, bayonettes. This was most of the game and the best part. I played a pragmatist, who was leading his brothers through the maelstrom (just picture, um, a maelstrom), which was raging through the trenches, and into Germany, where a fourth brother was dying unidentified in a hospital in Hamburg. We managed to arrange to have him sent back to Canada.

>Sun Jul 20, 09:12:27 PM | denzil bee |

I quit writing in my blog because it was unread. This is my first-ever introductory post, which got lost somewhere in blogland. When I get a chance I'll find a better blog engine.

[4/22/2003 11:08:28 PM | denzil bee]

Hello. I'll start with a quote - I love quotes.

This one is from Panama, by Thomas McGuane. It is on no one's list of favourite books, because it is horrible. At the same time it is very good. If you read it, which I don't necessarily recommend, you will see why. Besides, it is filled with great quotes. Here is how it starts: "This is the first time I have worked without a net. I want to tell the truth. At the same time, I don't want to start a feeding frenzy. You stick your neck out and you know what happens. It's obvious."

Now, of course, this isn't exactly true, as the vast invisible intangible web is a net, and not in the sense of the also obvious bad pun (haha). Working without a net means communicating without intervening safety devices. No one is looking me in the eye, potentially saying, "So what" or "Yeah, right" (or worse, not looking me in the eye), so in fact there is a net. Telling the truth is always tricky. How much omission creates a lie? Or is a lie's constitution based on intent? A dull lie is always believed over an astonishing or surreal truth. This is why I can never write the story of my life. It is not sufficiently believeable. Or if I could write it, would my desire to make a gripping tale turn the truth into a lie based on intent rather than content? Anyway, I'll do my best here.

As for the rest, it is only my own fears. I admit it. I have a communication problem. If I conversed (more?) I would become less invisible. If I wrote (more?), I could keep in contact with all those absent friends. If I used the telephone (more?) I could arrange more jolly activities involving my not so absent friends. This is for you. Furthermore, I've lived so long in my own mind that I can only approximate social appropriateness. My enthusiasm is too great or too little. Anyway, I'll do my best here.

I also have ideas, sometimes. Now I will have somewhere to put them. In addition I believe, as always, that reciprocation is imperative, in that (in this case), if I enjoy seeing the true lives of others, the world is not in order unless I provide them with a version of my life.

Here is my immediate life: Jeremy, Daisy, our house, new friends, games, writing, books, my computer, notebooks, toys, and creative endeavours 8^)
and looking for work
Pax Vobiscum.

Sun Jul 20, 08:32:58 PM | denzil bee |

Religion: Solved!
(Well, you must know that I am an egomaniac...)
Click here for details!
The Magic Construct
(It is too big to fit on the blog. You don't want to spend all night scrolling through the robot do you?)

Sun Jul 20, 08:20:38 PM | denzil bee |

Here is a construct for sympathetic magic
(∃x)(Px&Qx)⊃(P≡Q)
If there exists ∃ a quality x such that something P possesses that quality x and a second thing Q possesses that quality x then ⊃ The first thing P is equivalent to the second thing Q.
If Bill looks like Bill and Richard's voodoo doll looks like Bill then sticking pins in Richard's voodoo doll will hurt Bill.

Here is a construct for empathy
(∃x)(Px&Qyx)⊃Qx
If there exists ∃ a feeling x such that someone P possesses that feeling x and a second person Q possesses perception y of that feeling x then ⊃ The second person P possesses a feeling x.
If Susan feels happy and James sees that Susan feels happy, James is touched.

Sun Jul 20, 07:54:59 PM | denzil bee |

Friends

What is it like to have a friend?

Friends are windows. You can look through your friends at the lovely landscape inside them. Sometimes there are heavy curtains between yourself and that landscape, but you know that there is a window there. Sometimes the curtain is thinner and you can see vague shapes and the colour of the sky. Sometimes the curtains and shutters are thrown open and you can see all kinds of beauty.

Wed May 21, 01:47:38 PM | denzil bee |

People

"IN WATERMELON SUGAR the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar. I'll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant. Wherever you are, we must do the best we can. It is so far to travel, and we have nothing here to travel, except watermelon sugar. I hope this works out."

I told you I liked quotes. This is Richard Brautigan. I can recommend In Watermelon Sugar, So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away, Dreaming of Babylon, The Hawkline Monster, The Abortion, and Sombrero Fallout, in that order. You can read Willard and His Bowling Trophies at your own risk.

People are very strange. No doubt you have noticed this. I am strange to you, or there would be little point in your reading this, except to see exactly what I say today. I want to get beyond all that, which is pretty strange in itself.

I have mostly been interacting with family and people at work for the last few years. Family is immutable. You can peer at it through an only rarely fully penetrable mist of impartiality that obscures both bright hopes of psychic (rather than only blood) kinship, and vestiges of dim past resentments. Of course there are family members one is closer to, and mutual interest is constant, and transgressions are unquestionably forgiven. At work there is always a facade of cheerful helpful professionalism. Well, not necessarily a facade, but an attitude it is best not to vary more than slightly. This makes relations easy and straightforward. Any variance is simple faux pas on someone's part.

So, these are the exceptions.
More later....

Mon May 19, 05:48:29 PM | denzil bee |

Jeremy's Birthday
Profiterole Cake

For the Custard:
mix 3/4 cup white sugar, 7 and 1/2 tablespoons of flour, and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Gradually stir in 3 cups of milk. Bring mixture to a boil, stirring constantly. Add 3 beaten egg yolks. Remove from heat and add 1 tablespoon of vanilla. Cool.

For the Cream Puffs:
Boil 3/4 cup butter and 1 and 1/2 cups of water. Suddenly put in 1 and 1/2 cups of flour mixed with 1/4 teaspon salt. Mix quickly until it sticks together in a mass. Take off the heat and add 6 eggs one at a time. Form dough into 35 roughly spherical balls on greased cookie sheets. Bake at once at 450 degrees for 10 minutes, then at 400 degrees until they are puffy and golden brown. Cool.

Chocolate:
Melt 6 squares of semi-sweet baker's chocolate until quite runny.

Assembly:
Cut each cream puff in half and fill it with custard. Arrange 15 balls on a plate in a triangle shape with sides of five balls each. This is the first layer. Place 10 balls on top in a triangle with sides of four balls each. Place 6 balls on top in a triangle with sides of 3 balls each. Place 3 balls on top in a triangle. Place the last ball on the very top. You now have a pyramid. Trail the melted chocolate down the pyramid in streams. Cool. Now you have your profiterole cake.

I was born under the sign of the profiterole cake. It was my Oma's (my maternal Grandmother) birthday, and my parents had made her the above cake. Then I was coming and my father carried the cake to the hospital in a suitcase. They all sat around and ate the great profiterole cake, and I was born.

Jon Paul came with Jae Bun and Gloria, and they brought a salad, brocolli, red wine, and flowers. We sat around the table and talked with him about movies. Gloria played with the little puzzles. It was lovely.

Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday Dear Jeremy!
Happy Birthday to you!

Tue May 13, 02:40:42 PM | denzil bee |

What have I been doing?

I went to visit my cousin. She's having a baby! I am so excited: I am going to be an Uncle! The baby will be the first descendant of my Great Grandparents since my cousin herself. A little girl. 8^)

There was a super gaming convention - Cloud City. I got to be a spy, a mad scientist in the old west, and an airforce fire/rescue guy. And I got to be a Star Wars character wearing a blue robe, annoying everyone. He stood on a chair and shouted out a speech, and everyone cheered and clapped in the right places. It felt great. The West game was cool. We all ended up shooting one another, and I had a flame-thrower, which blew up. In the airforce game I saved an alien's dog. There was more, but that was the best part. Horace was my spy. He's much like Hannibal. He nearly got killed by snipers in the Arctic. He got knocked on the head in the Antarctic. He killed an enemy with one shot. He opened the secret hidden door in the basement of a formal party where he was 'posing' as an art expert. I played RoboRally, too. It is a game of pure logic. Yes, it is.

We are not playing Spycraft on Wednesdays, for now. We are playing Amber. It's really cool. Really really cool. I will say more about it later.

Get your own blog today!
It's free!
You can write anything you like!
You can inflict your theories on friends and relations!
Burma Shave.

Fri May 02, 08:26:51 AM | denzil bee |

Walpurgisnacht

Firstly: sorry this is a little late, as it is now May 2.

This is not going to be a flaky post with varying pronunciations of Beltane (just to reassure you.) It is an account of facts, history, and the changing of the calendar, right before your eyes. Yes, really. Yesterday was the first day of summer. May Day, and the maypole, and Summer Is a-Coming In. Now, you will probably debate this, and on listening to my explanation, will mutter vague things about the weather. I have this conversation with all and sundry. But it must be remembered that the system is British in origin, and that there the weather is certainly not the same as in Alberta, for example.

The Eightfold Year
consists of the solstices and equinoxes, and the midpoints in between (Candlemass (Feb.2), Walpurgisnacht (May 1), Lughnassa (Aug. 2), and Halloween (Oct. 31.) Once again, I must reiterate that this is not flaky, but astronomical. Note that one of these names is religious, one German, one Irish, and one pop.

Observe the case of Summer. We all know that the sun reaches its zenith on approximately June 21, and that is the longest day and shortest night of the year. This is astronomically, the high point of summer. If you plotted the 'height' of the sun and the length of the days, you would end up with a parabola in which the days Before the solstice exactly mirrored the days After the solstice. Thus, the solstice is midsummer. You can see Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, or Tove Jansen's Moominsummer Madness, or the Danish Life, Wonderful Life (of which I've forgotten the author.) These are just examples that spring to my mind. I am sure there are others.

If June 21, approximately, is midsummer, it cannot be the 'first day of summer.' That occurs on May 1, which falls exactly between the solstice and the equinox. Thus such festivals as May Day (not the one with the red banners, etc., the one with the Maypole), Flora Day in Cornish Helston, etc. But it is not a visible astronomical mark. So this is being more frequently denied by schools, the radio, tv, and other vehicles of mass media (yes I deliberately include schools.) In an effort, I am sure, to simplify the parabolic/zenith/midpoint explanation, they have all taken to saying that June 21 (and often not even approximately) is the first day of summer. This before our very eyes. It is so pervasive that everyone has forgotten the simple astronomy from elementary school and Shakespeare's ubiquitous play (I have seen six of his plays apart from movies, and three were Midsummer Night's Dream).

Now you will mutter about the weather. Everyone mutters about the weather at this point, after they cite tv, radio, schools, et al., which in my opinion are almost irredeemably compromised by the 'dumbing-down' of even basic facts. I live in Southern British Columbia, where the climate is pretty much like glorious Cornwall. This year, April 30 was the day on which everyone began wearing shorts and light shirts, and the day on which we turned off the furnace. The wonderful smell of a zillion flowers wafts into the room at night, and the birds sing in the morning. This is independent of astronomical events (except in a meteorological way). It was purely the weather. True, it is by no means blazing hot, but it is only the beginning of summer.

We don't get much winter here, so it is difficult to determine its beginning by non-astronomical observation. If, however, one watches in spring, the first shoots of crocuses and so forth begin to appear pretty close to Feb. 2. If one observes the leaves carefully in fall, the day on which they begin to change is very near Aug. 2. The solstices and equinoxes here are just too late for the popularly reported season changes, weatherwise. If you want to consider winter in Alberta, which shouldn't really be done as the climate is so different, the first snow almost invariably falls on or just before Oct. 31. One year I was there raking leaves and it was not only the first snow on Halloween, but a real blizzard, and we only just were able to complete the leaf collection in a sudden furious wind and swirling flakes.

Thus you have the marking of the seasons and their midpoints, the solstices and equinoxes. Thus you have the eightfold year. I know North America has taken the easy way out, but I still have hope for Cornwall, Britain, and the old Countries of Europe.

Deth de-Hala' Me
(Happy May Day, in Cornish)

Mon Apr 28, 11:04:24 AM | denzil bee |

The Hannibal Show!

I have discovered my archetypal spy show. Perhaps 'discovered' is not quite right, because I was aware of its existance, had even collected a full set of the trading cards and acquired a pair of fine china teacups from movie promotions. To see Mr. Steed in motion, however, is a vastly elevating experience. Yes, folks, it's The Avengers!

To backtrack a little:
On Wednesdays I play Spycraft with a group of friends. This is a game where one gets to be a spy (yeah!). It is a role-playing game. If you are familiar with these, you can skip the next bit. These games take place in a particular milieu or genre (it can be anything, sf, fantasy, horror, western, anime, detectives, vampires, zombies, even fairies - you can also make up your own). The rules are usually written up in ever-increasing rafts of tomes, or again you can make up your own. There is one person who creates the outline, supportive characters, and exact setting of a plot. This is the Gamesmaster (GM), although, depending on the game, there may be another name. The other players have characters, which they make up according to the game, the constitution of their group (of characters), conception (in a mental sense), and general playability. Character Generation is another example of algorhythmic representation, of which I am a huge fan, perhaps its hugest, since it is my term (haha). The players then proceed through the plot by speaking for their characters, stating their actions and ,erm, rolling dice (bad luck). The players act in accordance with their characters motivations and abilities rather than their own. These actions and conversations determine the real plot, which may follow, resemble, or utterly diverge from the plot as conceived by the GM. Our game is about spies. We are international agents working for the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace and we go on missions involving real news and real research. It is very exciting, and there are more shootings and explosions than peaceful diplomacies. We also have a new section of the game (with different rules) set in Miami, where we are trying to inform on vice gangs. This has different characters, and I play Marie-Camille Doucet, a cat burglar.

In Spycraft my character is Hannibal St. Levan; Cornish of course. He is a scholar of the classics and wears spats etc. He is often useless, but he's great at research, translation, observation, analysis, and honour. Thus The Avengers is really The Hannibal Show. Watching Mr. Steed is just like watching Hannibal (if he were more competent at pugilism). The plots are fiendishly British, the villains are classic, and the backgrounds and the incidental actions of Steed and Peel are both wacky and clever. Can one ask for more? Hannibal is actually quite serious and not wacky in the same way. Or is he? He certainly shows the same readiness to accept the circumstances in which he finds himself, no matter how unlikely. And furthmore, his idea of a normal and well-ordered circumstance is not likely to occur, since it involves spats and plenty of quotations in ancient Greek, to say nothing of honest hard-working locals and noblesse oblige. He is a spy in order to emulate Byron and live in an epic, with all the honour, moral decisions and risk of death that entails. It is great to be able to watch him on The Hannibal Show. I recommend it.

In other news, our wood came today, but the order was missing the 6 bags of cement and the plaster niche. I understand how they could miss the niche, but how can you overlook that much cement? It looks like gardening and a long walk with Daisy this afternoon. I finished the tiny figure of Marie-Camille, so I shall also try to paint it tonight. I have already made Hannibal. In fact I made him twice, because Daisy ate him the first time.

See you in the funny papers.

Sat Apr 26, 07:35:01 PM | denzil bee |

Journal

I was going to write about the public perception of the importance of personal preference, but you are spared, for now (or perhaps you have only the alliteration to comfort you.) Today this is just a journal. Yesterday was our two and a half year anniversary. I have bought a lot of books the last couple of days. This behaviour was not too reckless, as I have not bought any since Christmas. I was down to books I was saving, books I wasn't sure were worth reading, and books I had read before. In no particular order, my new books are:

Hyperion, by Friedrich Hölderlin. The pure mythic German dream of ancient Greece. I am certain my grandmother read this. Heidigger liked it, but no one likes Heidigger.
Mr. George and Other Odd Persons, by August Derleth. This is a paperback from the year I was born authorised by Arkam House. It is a book of short stories in the genre of Weird Tales, from the early part of the last century (it's odd to be able to write that.)
Memoirs of Joseph Grimaldi, by Grimaldi himself and Dickens, and edited, annotated, etc. by a biographer of Grimaldi called Richard Findlater. It is the least Victorian Dickens book I have come across, with a bright blue cover, a circus font, and a picture of a motley-type clown. Grimaldi is known as 'England's greatest clown', and I am a great fan of clowning. If I were more coordinated I would have run away to join the circus (probably not.)
Gruel and Unusual Punishment, by Tamara Myers. This is a useless Amish mystery with recipes and bad (good) puns. See, not everything is pedantic.
Live and Let Die, by Ian Fleming. We all know this one.
The Pope and the Heretic, by Michael White. This is an uncorrected proof and was a gift. It is a biography of Giordano Bruno, a fine and noble scientist who was done in by the inquisition (those infidels.)
The Black Pit and Beyond, by Gordon Mumford. This was nifty. I happened to be going to the library (which I haven't done in months due to inhibiting fines) and came across a huge book signing sponsored by CBC. I think there were probably 40 Great Canadian Authors sitting at these rough wood tables, with people mulling about and flipping through their books, evaluating them. It was fairly strange. I said as much to a chatty romance writer and asked if it was unnerving, but she only felt odd because she wrote romance (which I have never read), and did not feel she fit in with the Great Canadian Authors. There were some big names there. This book is about the merchant navy in WWII, and was written by a veteran with medals, etc. My father-in-law was in this navy, so how could I not buy the book? It was the fellow's birthday, so I bought him a pen with a wooden bee on it at the library gift shop. It's important to recognise people's birthdays, to alleviate some of the loneliness in the world.

Jeremy got some SF, a Mac OSX book, a UFO book, and some old Harlan Ellison.

Finally, and most Fabulously, we are now proud owners of the Oxford Compact Dictionary, which I have always wanted. It is the entire 14 volume set, 'compacted' into a very large and heavy two volume set with onion skin pages and print so small it comes with a magnifying glass in a little drawer. With the Oxford Concise (and of course the 14 volume set), it is the only acceptable dictionary (Webster is also an infidel). Our library will now be presentable (just kidding).

We also went to Home Depot and ordered a ton of renovation materials, which will be delivered shortly.

That's all for now. I'm going to watch some old SF movie and make little people out of Sculpty. I fixed some of the science links, if anyone is interested, but not the music or art (yet). I mistakenly erased these all when I cut and pasted them with my new template.

Tschüss!

Fri Apr 25, 08:36:30 AM | denzil bee |

Cornwall !!

The land of dreams. By dreams I do not mean vague picturesque romance, but more hazy impressions remembered or learned, that throw up a background to my sense of familial history. If I make any obvious mistakes, or if I made any yesterday, please feel free to correct me, especially if you are in Cornwall. I am just writing as I think.

St. Elvan, first always, which was the farm of my own great-grandparents, where my grandfather planted the bay tree, scratched his initials in the old leaded window with the diamond ring, where he carried the 224lb sacks of grain up the steep stone steps, and later took them to the water-mill, where we played hide-and-seek over and around the ivy-covered stone walls in the dark, with the mysterious field known as The Round, which really should be excavated for archaeological artifacts.
Methleigh, the huge haunted house where my grandfather saw the ghost carriage arriving in the night, but not the ghost dog in the barn, where the hidden smuggler's tunnel leads from the front hall down to the sea.
Ludgvan, where my ancestors are buried in the churchyard from so far back the stones have crumbled and the records have been lost, where my Aunt and Uncle still live on the family farm by the Broccolli field, looking out at the old stone buildings.
Helston, a big town for Cornwall, with the church where so many family rites have taken place, from my grandmother's christening to my Uncle Denzil's funeral, where they have Flora day each year and dance the Furry dance in and out of all the houses with the women in white and men in top hats and they perform St. George and the Dragon and sing the Hal-an-To about Robin Hood and Little John, where the pub stands where my grandfather drank with his great friends, where the cannon from the Anson stands outside the museum.
Germoe, tiny and isolated, a real village that has not been taken over by tourists, again the graveyard full of smuggling ancestors, with a real holy well and unexplained carved stone face. Some day I hope to retire here, and blend back into the correct landscape.
Gweek, further north and east (I am from the southwest), the refuge of poor homeless seals.
The Scilly Isles: beautiful, pristine, remote, with perfect beaches - blue little islands fading into the blue sky and sea. "Lands End is the end of the world. To go farther is Scilly."
St. Neot's, nestled in the hills, the only parish church in England where the mediaeval stained glass was not smashed by the infidel (Oliver Cromwell), just because he was unable to find it.
St. Michael's Mount, of the (fabulous of course 8^))St. Levan family, the twin of Mont Ste. Michel in Brittany, an island covered with a village, topped with a castle instead of a monastery, where the high tide covers the causeway, making it accessible only by boat. There is a wonderful view from fabled Penzance.
Mine chimneys, ruined, dotting the landscape, the source of ancient Cornish trade with Europe and even Phoenicia since before the bronze age, which created the reason for the amazing sad exodus of the Cornish as elite miners (no contradiction).
Fearsome cliffs, sites of countless shipwrecks, treacherous, windswept, sharp, churning the sea in great storms, but from which you can look deep down into the dark green purple blue water, far below. See The Wreckers of Pengarth by Michael Gibson, a great book (good luck).
The sea itself, part of which is the very fishing villages and sand beaches; power, nurture, more than elemental, to be relied on and struggled against. Cornwall is mostly an adjunct of The Sea.

A Cornish lullabye:

Hush my little ugling,
Daddy's gone a-smuggling.
He has gone to Roscoff in the Mevagissey Maid -
A sloop of ninety tons
With ten brass carriage guns -
To teach the king's ships manners
And respect for honest trade.

Sleep my joy and sorrow,
Daddy'll come tomorrow,
Bringing 'baccy, tea and snuff,
And brandy home from France.
He'll bring the goods ashore
While the old collectors snore,
And the black dragooners gamble
In the dens of Penzance.

Rock-a-bye my honey,
Daddy's making money.
You shall be a gentleman
And sail with privateers,
With a silver cup in sack,
And a blue coat on your back,
And diamonds on your fingerbones,
And gold rings in your ears.

Thu Apr 24, 10:53:38 AM | denzil bee |

Cornwall!

The basics. Tomorrow: The land of dreams. But first the things that make Cornwall:

The Slogan Onen hag Oll (One and All). Not just pretty words but a code of honour. Cornwall is anti-Hierarchical. It is not exactly anarchic, because it does recognise leaders, but those leaders are only followed without compulsion. Furthermore, they are usually followed en masse. Witness the 1497 rebellion and the Duke of Monmouth rebellion. All of Cornwall rose, and even today they All follow the rugby team (Trelawney' army) to the matches. Defiance, independence, loyalty, and strength of will are the Cornish character. Hence the smuggling and piracy. The Bardic Order in Cornwall (not DnD bards, but the order of those preserving and furthering the Cornish heritage, nevertheless in robes and with Traditions) consists only of Bards whereas in Wales and elsewhere, there are levels to be moved through (Oblate, Bard, Druid).
Geography Cornwall is Kernow in Cornish and just means Horn, which is its shape. It is bordered on three sides by the ocean and on the fourth by the river Tamar, making it effectively almost an island. It is legally not a county but a Duchy. It has had its own legally constituted parliament, the Cornish Stannary (from Stannous, tin) Parliament, since 1100. It has its own laws and issues passports, which are only sort of recognised, but which are legal and which my uncle, at least, has traveled under. I have one. My Uncle Denzil was a member of this parliament, until he passed away, and now my cousin Malcolm has a seat (it is elected.) Cornwall is tin mining, fishing, china clay, recently tourism (a curse), and now ecology (windmills and the Eden Project.)
Cornish Game Hens These are not really a big part of Cornish culture. The national dish is pasties, and next in popularity is saffron cake. The Cornish drink is mead, but they do not have the reputations of huge drinkers, as other Celtic peoples. The hens are not named for game as in 'big game hunting'. They were bred for the Cornish Game, to wit, cockfighting. The ones you see in shops are now just young chickens and their breed is of no import.
Symbols The flag is a centered white cross on a black ground. It is one of the few black and white flags in the world, which is a boon to printing. Note the similarity to the skull and crossbones. The crest is fifteen discs are arranged like pool balls on a black ground. However. They represent fifteen bezants, Byzantian gold coins, said to have been the ransom to the Saracens for the release of the Earl of Cornwall in the ninth century. He was killed after all of Cornwall (again) pooled their resources. The crest is to remind us never to trust the tyrant. The Cornish national bird is the chough, a black bird with a bed beak.
Language Kernewek is a Celtic language related more to Welsh, Breton, and Manx (P Goidelic) than Scotch or Irish Gaelic (Q-Goidelic). It is coming back, no matter what you hear. It has recently made it onto the official endangered language list (yes, there is one), from the extinct language list. I am doing my best to learn it. No one can say a language is dead if there are fight over spelling in the pubs (There are at least 3 spelling systems.) There are also 2 distinct dialects, one older, one new.

Here are the heroes, who are part of the dreams.

Tom Bawcock, of the tiny fishing village of Mousehole (pronounced Mowzel), who risked his life the night before Christmas Eve during a two week long ferocious Cornish storm (another reality too exciting to be believed), to bring back fish to the starving village for Christmas. "And such a sight/ who would believe/ in Mousehole on Tom Bawcock's Eve/ to be there then who wouldn't wish/ to feast on seven sorts of fish." This may not sound much to you, but it was truly heroic and I cannot think of it without sniffling. In Mousehole yet, in his honour, no one is allowed to go hungry for want, even passing tourists.
Henry Trengrouse, who watched the wreck of the Anson on the terrible rocks outside Porthleven (where my grandmother was born) and gave all his savings and his life and energy to the invention and promotion of a rocket line, unsinkable lifeboat, and lifejacket. No greed here - he was paid 20 pounds for giving up everything.
Richard Grenville, the privateer, who lost his life on the Spanish Main because he would not abandon his injured crew members, even when the navy ordered him to return (see Al Stewart's Lord Grenville). He alone with 100 men and one ship fought the Spanish fleet of 50 ships and 5,000 men. He did not win, but was not killed. Next day his ship was sunk in a storm with 14 Spainsh ships. It is gripping stuff, and I am always a sucker for real sea stories.
Humphrey Davy, my ancestor, who invented the miner's lamp to keep the open flame of a regular lamp from exploding methane (which often exploded killing countless miners, and discovered Chlorine, Flourine, Sodium, etc. as well as Nitrous Oxide.
Michael an Gof and Joseph Flamanck, who were brutally tortured and killed by Henry IV after the 1497 rebellion on behalf of all Cornwall, when they were to be taxed so the English could fight the Scots.
Richard Trevithick, who invented the steam engine.
Godolphin, Grenville, Trevanion, and Slanning, the Wheels of Charles Wain (Wagon). The name for the Big Dipper constellation in Cornwall. They led the Cornish in battle for Charles against Oliver Cromwell (the infidel).
Henry Carter, smuggler, wrecker, pirate, another ancestor, the "King of Prussia".

Thanks for listening. Onen hag Oll.

Tue Apr 22, 03:08:28 PM | denzil bee |

Hello.
I'll start with a quote - I love quotes. This one is from Panama, by Thomas McGuane. It is on no one's list of favourite books, because it is horrible. At the same time it is very good. If you read it, which I don't necessarily recommend, you will see why. Besides, it is filled with great quotes. Here is how it starts:
"This is the first time I have worked without a net. I want to tell the truth. At the same time, I don't want to start a feeding frenzy. You stick your neck out and you know what happens. It's obvious."

Now, of course, this isn't exactly true, as the vast invisible intangible web is a net, and not in the sense of the also obvious bad pun (haha). Working without a net means communicating without intervening safety devices. No one is looking me in the eye, potentially saying, "So what" or "Yeah, right" (or worse, not looking me in the eye), so in fact there is a net.

Telling the truth is always tricky. How much omission creates a lie? Or is it's constitution based on intent? A dull lie is always believed over an astonishing or surreal truth. This is why I can never write the story of my life. Or if I could, would my desire to make a gripping tale turn the truth into a lie based on intent rather than content? Anyway, I'll do my best here.

As for the rest, it is only my own fears. I admit it. I have a communication problem. If I conversed (more?) I would become less invisible. If I wrote (more?), I could keep in contact with all those absent friends. If I used the telephone (more?) I could arrange more jolly activities involving my not so absent friends. This is for you. I also have ideas, sometimes. Now I will have somewhere to put them. In addition I believe, as always, that reciprocation is imperative, in that (in this case), if I enjoy seeing the true lives of others, the world is not in order unless I provide them with a version of my life.

Here is my immediate life:
Jeremy, Daisy, our house, games, books, my computer, notebooks, toys and creative endeavours 8^)
and looking for work

Pax Vobiscum.