If on an autumn's night a traveller

I took a walk tonight, and found myself on the road less traveled. At the end of it, I came before a door that I have not entered in more years than I care to remember. The facade remains unchanged- stubby tower blocks of brick and fading paint. The parking lot has merely become more cracked, the windows remain that awful translucent mosaic- and all the hallways stained with the nicotine yellow of dying florescence. And then, for a moment of a moment, the scent of the place drifted towards me and...

And what memories. Scent, that most elusive of the senses, most beloved by winged Muninn- what a scent of memory it was. The acrid, sour stab of the industrial hallway cleaner, the musty, heavy crush of mold, the wispy brief hint of the sweet, miamasmic taint that is the hallmark of spoiled food. And above all else, most oppressive of all... the smell of failure. Despite. Despair. Ah, despair, the killing word. In that small suite of rooms, amongst the dust and grime, among the stains and junk, the foetid rotting garbage, the mildew and the cobwebs and the shit... amongst this refuse pit of a life I once knew someone.

I have met the living dead. No, that is not quite accurate, for the living dead are vegetables, and this man was not that. No.

I have seen the living damned. There's nothing you can do to them that will harm them, for every hour of every day their mind plays upon them the sins of the self- and there's no escaping your own damnation. Sartre was again, as I often find, wrong. Hell is not other people. That's something you say when you are desperate to blame your curmudgeonly, bitter ways on anyone but yourself. “I know how men in exile feed on dreams” Aeschylus said. Hell is a wasteland of solitude, a blight of your own making. Here in the arid dust you lie, as Huginn and Muninn tear flesh from your bones, carrion foul that they are.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water."

Hell is nothing less then utter submission to despair.

I fear despair. I the heir of the Prager mimetic legacy. It bequeaths to each of its blood the habits of isolation, destruction and despite. That's a bit too much hyperbole, I'm sure, but every Prager has their only little brooding retreat. For each of us, a crumbling mental keep on a rocky outcrop, overlooking the oblongata sea. We go there to brood, and, like mad sorcerers of old, we conjure up the sins the fathers, and visit them upon our self. It's our little homunculus, our second shadow. It traipses at our feet, engorges itself on the scraps we feed it- blame, mostly. We blame it for all our failings, all our faults, all our mistakes. We need those mimetic sins, that genetic birthright that follows behind. Without it, we might have the gall to accept that our gloomy not-at-all-antic disposition is really entirely our own fault. And to totally accept blame, without a single reference to a predecessor, why, that's not the Prager way.

Oh, this sounds so dreary. And it would be a lie to say that all of this thought process happened with a single scent. But as I walked home, watching the dog snuffle and snort her way through the grass and listening to neighbours screaming fits, I felt a little less concerned with upcoming troubles.

'Don't let it bring you down, it's only castles burning.....

It unerves that my only post in the last month has been about posting. Oh, and to change my title picture.

Sorry.

For the all one of you worried about my next MacGuffin installment, I apologies for it's lack of existence. Bogged down in dialogue issue in Huế, it sits in limbo. Plus, my lack of sleep means I am cranky with my work right now. My habit of eating antipasto and cheese at one AM has something to do with it, no doubt.

I am, in twain, Dux; for those before me were giants.

I stand on the upraised arms of titans. I may make a passing reference to it from time to time, an offhand remark about something or other my grandfather or uncle might have done, a brief comment about deeds. But what Allan King's funeral has driven home to me is what I have always understood intellectually, but never before felt. No man is an island, no soul exists in a vacuum. And, as I realized today in the depths of Victoria College, my lineage, my sangre azul, titles suzerain, is just as prestigious as any Jarvis, McGill or Trudeau.

If I stand any higher the hoi polloi, it is only because I stand upon the palms of giants. Giants of their field, masters of their craft, touching the lives of thousands. Of course, just because I inherited such a legacy doesn't necessarily mean I am a good heir. That's the flaw in any inheritance system; a giant's reach may be high, but their shadows are long, and they grow even longer as the sun sets on their era. It is all too easy to fall from such a lofty perch, fall into darkness and remain permanently in that gloom of twilight. But if you can remain atop those up reached hands, dwarf or no, heir to the logos and whatever nonesense that is part of any legacy- if you can remain aloft, then you're always going to bask in the sun.

Addendum

The correct answer to the poll, by the way, was that she left them at home, like she's always does, every time. Seriously, Darlene, what is with that?

Agnus Dei Qui Tollis Assus Bovis

I have a secret confession to make.

It might totally ruin whatever street cred I might have as a bastion of intelligentsian sensibility and good taste. It might even lead to my mother taunting me- or even mocking me. Or flout me. Or... hoot... me... you know what, Thesaurus.com? I think you made that last one up.

Forgive me Blog audience of Four, and really angry Miltonman, for I have sinned. It's been quite some time since my last confession. Here goes:


Ahem.



I love 7-11.

There. I said it. I love 7-11. And do you know why? Because 7-11 doesn't try and pretend it's something it's not. It sells crap. Crap of the purist, rarefied form. And no one leaves 7-11 under the impression that they have purchased something healthy. They have purchased, as said, pure crap (Crapure!), and then they will eat it. Some will feel gratified. Some will feel guilty. Some will be indifferent. This is consistent with the effects of attending a local place of worship. Being in the presence of articles of faith can lead to diverse responses running the gauntlet from orgiastic frenzies to sitting bored in a pew, as affected by the preacher as one might be by a dust mote on the floor. Each 7-11 is a shrine to crapure- no, it's bigger than that. Each franchise store is a chapel to crap. It offers t o it's followers the promise of hope eternal, of something more, no matter how inaccessible it might sometimes seem (by which I mean Beef Jerky. Now there's something inaccessible. Eight bucks a package, what the hell people?). Here, in this seraphic sepulchre, one might consume such victuals as to hit a sugar high so uplifting that one might touch the face of God. And when it might seem like anything will give you a heart-attack, that the organic lovers might win, the faithful know that they can prostrate themselves before the altar of the cashiers counter and be taken up into a Divine, loving embrace (the Crapture!). And at that altar, you can find the host of our chapel, the inscrutable taquito. What is in a 7-11 taquito, you ask? I don't know! I looked it up. Nothing. I even wikied it... and I misspelled it and got sent to article on Tacitus instead. Nice man, good with kids. But taquitos, friends, in their glistening, unctuous depths is the true Elevenian Mystery.

No, 7-11 is proud of its faith, its rich heritage, its venerable and sancrosant traditions. Its ads don't try to make their food look healthy, no, the lighting highlights the patina of grease, the beige and green hellion innards of a Jalapeno and Cream Cheese Taquito. And as for that display of fruit and sandwiches in the corner? Sacrilege, you say? Heresy? Not at all, I reply. It's merely a nod towards the existence of other faiths, like a note pinned to a church hall bulletin board informing members of an upcoming interfaith dialogue. A sign that the church is full of tolerance, but not ever taken seriously.

So sits august 7-11, administering alms to the trans-fat poor, and bestowing MSG on those who have none. Sail on, sweet 7-11, sail on.

*Next Week*
Street Cred: What is it, and how can I break it?

Act 2 Scene 2 Pt 1: Said I, "My friend, I'd like to go to Morow and return..."

Author's Note: This is only the opening excerpt of an update I am taking forever to write, so here it is just for the sake of having SOMETHING posted.

"Pearson, Pepp-"
"Idiot."
'But you don't even-"
"I said she's an idiot, and I don't want her on my staff."
"Lieutenant-Colonel Anaconda, Ang-"
"Angie? She's a sweetie, and a crack shot, but a total air-head. No." Commodore Colby shot Molly a disgruntled look.
"Colonel, all these personnel are highly qualified officers. You need to choose a 2/1c."
"I know that, Colby. But I'm really not comfortable picking someone of this pay grade. I'm not USMC. I'm not Navy, I'm not Army, I'm not even a US officer, and now you're asking them to serve in an untried experiment, to a non-US officer who's fifty years older then they are. Screw chain of command, they're going to be resentful, and I don't want that."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Pass me.... hmmm. Funghiguo, it's mostly jungle?"
"You'd think so, but the Italians did a big reforestation project to replace the native foliage with Italian trees. It worked. Sort of." He pointed out the vegetation on a map. Funghiguo was a odd misshapen lump at the bottom of China, right above a large inland lake. Molly and the Commodore had commandeered the office of the personnel officer at Subic Base, and had driven the poor man to distraction by throwing all his files into piles of disarray. The unfortunate fellow had gone to sulk in the corner. Molly addressed him now:
"You don't happen to have any files on... Rangers, and Intelligence and Security officers, do you?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am?"
"Get me people who were Ranger trained, and then made the switch to Intel." the man blinked and then, utilizing some obscure filing system, went about gathering various folders, which ended up in a small pile in front of her. She flipped through them absently, gazing on the unusual faces attached by paper clips or staples. She suddenly paused on one, gave the file a more detailed look through and said:
"That one." Colby reached over and looked it over."
"You can't be serious. He's so young."
"I want him."
"He's only a second lietena-"
"Bump him."
"To Colonel? They'd tear me a new one if I asked for a Fantastic LT to be jumped five pay grades to Colonel, it's un-heard of!"
"But he's the one I want."
"Look, Moliere. The best I can do is a promotion to Captain. Once you're promoted, you could brevet him to Major, but anything past that and they'll eat you alive. They're going to bitch like crazy about the promotion as is, he's only served for three years. The other members of your staff are going to have conniptions, taking orders from a lower-ranking officer."
"Doesn't matter, Colby. They take my orders from me, and if he speaks with my voice, they're going to have to live with it."
"Why the hell do you want this kid? Do you know him or something?"
"I met him, once or twice. Long time ago. Never thought I'd find him again." She glanced at the picture, as a wave of memory crashed over her.
"Long time ago."