Barrett Greenfield Chapter 3: Calvin

Barrett tossed in his sleep that evening, troubled by strange, fragmented dreams through which Lydia drifted, taunting and unreachable. Beside him in the dark, his brother Archer snored raspingly, periodically bringing Barrett into semi-consciousness. During these interludes, the events of the preceding evening came rushing in upon him, and he struggled to find solace in the deep disruption of his life.

His dreams clung to him each time he awoke, and he tasted them briefly before they faded. They were feverish - bearing confused scenarios of rapprochement or hostility, twisted and disjointed arguments with their principal players merging into one another in unlikely amalgams. Under all of the dreams was a taut sexual impulse, that spurred on incessant images of Lydia's breasts straining at her tunic. But even through the desire, Barrett always felt the claustrophobia. He was being cornered, and he knew that he would behave as any animal would. Tossing, sweating, he rode through half-aware arousal to see Lydia's face merge into the maddening stare of Calvin Applewood, to see Calvin's sneer become the drooling maw of a mad dog, and that mad dog sprout the long white locks of Dana Wolfwood.

At last, the sky outside began to lighten perceptibly, and with it he shook off the last of the dreams and came fully awake. Barrett's mouth was dry and tired, and he longed to make his way downstairs for a drink. But instead he lay still, soaking in the relief of the dawn. The thin light brought the shapes of the room into focus, the smooth white walls contrasting with the dark wooden beds, and the chests at their feet. As the oldest male child of the Greenfield family, Barrett's bed was arranged closest to the door - Barrett was to serve as both night-watchman on his brothers and as disciplinarian, preserving order at all costs. There was no need now, for his three brothers slept on, oblivious to Barrett's glances in their direction.

Barrett considered, and summarily rejected the hypothesis that dreams were a subconscious analytic process. Rather than bringing resolution, the dreams of the night had only brought a faint nausea and a persistent anxiety. But with the automatic functions of the introspective and self-defensive, Barrett launched immediately into unrelated action in order to clear his head.

Barrett rose and stripped off his nightgown. Hanging it on the hook beside his bed, he padded to the chest at its foot and opened it. The wooden-pin hinges creaked loudly in the dim room, and Archer stirred in his sleep. Barrett made no specific effort to be quiet as he selected a pair of light brown leather trousers and pulled them on. He followed these with a green tunic, lacing the neck with one hand as he rummaged under his bed for his boots.

Clothed and shod, he stood up and surveyed the room. The sun had risen over the mountains, washing the sky in a gentle pink glow. Archer eyed him from across the room, then closed his eyes quickly to feign sleep.

"I see that you are awake," Barrett said evenly.

"Let us sleep, Barrett. We had to do all the work last night."

Dell and Dale stirred, Dell pulling the covers up over his head and making a muffled groan.

"You didn't do have the work of the girls," Barrett replied, "let them sleep in. It's time we were up and readying the kitchen.

Silence followed as Archer obstinately closed his eyes. Barrett sighed, walked to the foot of Archer's bed, and pulled the covers away. Enduring his brother's glares, he kicked the foot of Dell's bed and then did the same to Dale's.

"Enough. It is Saturday morning and you know well enough that we have chores. I am hungry, and the sooner we prepare the kitchen, the sooner we eat. Now, up!"

Archer, Dell, and Dale swung out of their beds, Archer continuing to eye Barrett all the while.

"You barely slept last night, Barrett" Archer prodded. "Is something troubling you? Could it be that you have a touch of nerves where Lydia is concerned?" Archer's insight was not unexpected. Barrett knew well that he could not avoid the observations of his family, but was prepared to deal with the matter as he always had.

"It is none of your concern, Archer. Note that while I slept fitfully, I am the first to wake, first to dress, and am discharging my obligation to move you louts into action. As to Lydia, it is a matter out of my hands. The decision will be made by Father and Havoc Wolfwood."

Archer chuckled. Dell and Dale were beginning to pay attention to the discussion.

"I know you better than that, Barrett. When you find yourself assigned a task by Father you accept it and don't spend half the night turning about. Something about this is touching you wrong. Are you afraid of Lydia? Or is it that you know Calvin has eyes for her, and she for him."

"If Calvin has eyes for Lydia, he had better set them on another," Barrett said calmly, but he instantly knew he was betraying too much. Beside the complex anticipation of Lydia, Barrett knew that his next great weakness was the self-satisfied pleasure of seeing Calvin thwarted. Never mind that in all likelihood, Barrett would be exposed, and Calvin and Lydia would be united after all - at least for this moment Barrett had what Calvin wanted. But Archer's grin was apparent in the pink light, and Barrett braced himself.

"I can see why you're upset, Barrett - knowing that you'll be joined to a woman who wants another man. And heaven knows what Calvin will do. He'll drag the Greenfield name through the Court of Nature like a Tunnel Digger on display."

"That is enough, Archer. You clearly know little of the nature of men and women. Lydia is not like her mother. She is firmly in control of her mind and desires. Since Havoc and Father have designed a union, she will recognize its many advantages. Once the marriage is announced, any thoughts of Calvin will be gone. Lydia is eminently practical."

"More practical than you, for example." Archer's eyes narrowed.

"Yes - more practical than me. But not more rational, Archer, for I am a man, and she is a woman, and she will accede to my superiority in sensibility."

"Now who is it that knows little of the nature of men and women," came a voice from the door. Barrett's heart skipped as he spun around, to see his sister Clara behind him at the door to the boys' room. It had been two years since Clara had married and left the Greenfield home for her husband's, and Barrett had forgotten how quietly she moved. She was already dressed for the day, wearing a simple brown long-sleeved dress, girded at the waist with a wide green belt. The marble-stained hickory buckle was utilitarian, but somehow elegant - with an almost un-noticeable arch in the buckle's cage that lent Clara's figure a lithe air.

"Barrett, why don't you use some of your superior sensibility to get these ruffians downstairs to ready the kitchen. Unless you would like to prepare breakfast yourself. I'm overdue, and Glen will be tired of caring for little Leda if I am not home soon."

Dell and Dale laughed. Barrett turned back to Archer.

"Let this be a lesson, Archer. The mind of man may be subtle indeed, but nothing moves with purpose like a woman's feet."

Clara pulled the back of Barrett's hair in response, which set his three brothers to loud laughter. Barrett silenced them with one hand, pointing downstairs. Truculently, the three filed past him and slipped downstairs passed their parents' room. Clara stayed behind with Barrett, watching them descend the stairs. Then she walked to his bed and sat on the corner.

"I overheard much, Barrett," she began, softly, "and frankly I have the same concerns as Archer, though for different reasons. Despite what he said, he doesn't know you as well as I do. But I think he's right. I think you are.... frightened? Of Lydia."

"Think what you will, Clara. As you well know, my power to persuade this family of my own thoughts and intentions has never been sufficient."

"Nonsense, Barrett. Have you forgotten me this much? Your power to persuade is greater than that of any man I have ever met. You are successful in this because we are all such fools in relying upon only one means of observation, and casting aside all others, as if our eyes were so sufficient that we ignored what our ears told us in contradiction."

"Clara... take care in what you say!"

"I am, Barrett. But do you sufficiently understand me? That I understand you?"

"Clara, you do not understand me if you thus commit fallacious extrapolation."

"Alright, Barrett," Clara replied, visibly irritated. "You force me to come out with it. Lydia knows you as I do. Am I correct? She has made you aware of this, and this hangs like a pall over any union?"

"Interesting," Barrett replied.

"And you desire her more than you can bear. Am I correct? There is much that you can control, Barrett, but your body often gives you away. Were you aware that you were clutching the arms of your chair as if each was a bucking horse's pommel? Were you aware that your face was flushed, and your eyes strayed too often away from Lydia face, and bore too much on her father's?"

Barrett was stunned.

"Clara! Do you think they...."

"Barrett," Clara replied, her voice soft once more, "Did I not preface this discussion by indicating that the ability to use powers of observation other than bald-faced reason is beyond everyone but you, me, and Lydia?"

"And Calvin," Barrett replied. His heart was in his boots. The inevitable doom of the wedding was months away. But now he realized that his artifices were for naught. Clara might believe that only the few possessed the ability to read others, but Barrett knew that it was not an inability, but a refusal to admit that they had discernment beyond the immediately rational.

"Pah!" Clara spat. "Calvin Applewood is bent solely on Calvin Applewood. If he dislikes you, it is because you are a rival in the esteem of Grainger. Once he sees that you are to be married to Lydia, and thus will not seek a seat on the Court of Nature, he will dismiss you as a mere farmer, and you will pass from his thoughts."

"Clara, since you have these great powers of observation, I would like you to apply them carefully to Calvin. I believe that what you will see will give you great concern. As to Lydia, and her knowledge of me, she as much as said..."

"Barrett!" came a voice from the hallway. Barrett stopped short, as his and Clara's heads turned toward the hall.

"Yes Father." Barrett replied.

Bartle Greenfield eased his massive frame into the doorway, prepared to impose. But he relaxed somewhat when he saw Clara.

"Barrett - you do well to wake your brothers early. They must learn your discipline. But you do poorly when you awaken your mother and I in the process. In the future, I expect that you will show more decorum."

"Yes Father."

"Now. Clara, since you are here, you may assist your Mother in preparing breakfast."

"Yes Father."

Clara arose, and, with her back to her Father, softened her blue-gray eyes to Barrett. Despite his misgivings about Clara's naivete, Barrett felt his anxiety ease, and he suddenly felt the enclosing walls slide a little further away.

As Clara left the room, Bartle turned and went with her, leaving Barrett alone. Striding to the window, Barrett sought to regain his typical demeanor.

Why are you walking to the window?
To observe the clouds and anticipate the weather.
Why are you leaning against the window pane?
It is to keep my balance. I slept poorly and am dizzy.
Why are you fidgeting? Is it the marriage?
Again, I slept poorly.
Why did you sleep poorly? Are you nervous?
No. I was hungry at dinner and ate too quickly. My stomach was thus poorly prepared for digestion. I find that there is a cyclic behavior to digestion that can be coupled with rhythms of meal patterns to prevent acidic reaction. However, I failed to exercise restraint due to my hunger, and thus am learning the lesson again.
Do you love Lydia?
No. Love is criminal.
Do you desire Lydia?
The visceral reactions of the male psyche are to be expected, and my reactions are concordant with Lydia's bearing.
Do you love her?
No. Love is criminal.
Do you fear her?
No. Fear is irrational.
Do you fear Calvin?
No. Fear is irrational.
Is there anything that you fear?
Yes. Unreason.
Why are you still standing at this window?
The clouds are unusual. It is taking some time for me to anticipate the weather.
Are you sure you are not daydreaming?
Yes. I am sure.

Thus armored against the day, Barrett descended to the dining room to await breakfast.

*******

Barrett's thoughts returned to Clara as he made his way with his Father, Mother, and three brothers to the Rotunda at the center of Grainger. The cobbled streets were still slightly damp with dew, ever present in this northern clime, even in the midst of summer. The family's footsteps melded into the riot of steps of Grainger's best families as they made their way toward today's instructions.

It was all well and good for Clara to flirt with disaster by displaying her irrational nature. She was a woman, and some weakness was expected in them, if not condoned. And Clara was unrestrained. Her marriage had been a great scandal, and her recovery to her parents' good graces was tenuous at best. So for Clara to advise Barrett in any course of action was begging trouble, especially since Barrett was unprotected by his sex.

Still, after her visit, he missed her more. Those of his family that he walked with were cold, hard, and unyielding. The brief flash of softness in his sister's eyes was like a feast. How much he needed that! How much he longed for understanding... for... tenderness?

Weakness! He must not be seduced into the belief that his dangerous flaw was anything but a mental defect. The hunger that he felt was a lust for poison - for self destruction. To give in - to yearn for succor was to pray for exile and death. To survive! And in surviving, to banish this poisonous lust, he would gain Lydia. And there would never be that touch of tenderness, that softness in the eyes, that gentle embrace...

That a child seeks when he has injured his toe! That the unreasoning dog seeks when it muzzles your hand or lays its chin on your knee. To be a man is to recognize the primacy of the intellect - the raw fact that reality demands that we bend to its rules - and that those rules are clearly spelled out. Clearly defined. Structure! Law!

Structure! Law! There beside him, exemplified in his Father & Mother. Bartle Greenfield's shoulders bespoke sanity and reason, as unbending as logic itself. Leda Miller Greenfield strode beside her husband, not quite so stern nor so straight, but her chin thrust up, defying anyone to find a woman closer in strength to a man.

Someday, he would walk these streets, his hair graying like his Father's. And Lydia would walk beside him, proud and strong. Their children would follow; another generation of Greenfields who broke the land and pulled forth its harvests - feeding Grainger and its citizens, and sending their sons to serve in the Ministries and Courts of The Capitol.

Barrett would take his pride in his rock-hard will. Lydia would be his - as would the future.

*******

The Grainger Square was not quite full, but a large number of the 4800 residents of Grainger proper were in attendance. The muted earth tone hues of their dress blended in the rough circle that surrounded the gleaming white Rotunda, making the Square into a human vision of a forest pool, complete with marble fountain at its center.

The air was losing its pleasant chill, and picking up the humidity that had oppressed the village for a number of weeks. Already citizens were fanning themselves, especially those, like Barrett and his family, who were close to the reflected heat of the Rotunda. While it was not unknown for some townspeople to bring collapsing chairs to these events, for the most part the citizens showed their stoicism by standing throughout, even though the speeches and debates could last into the evening.

The Student's Address was a time-honored means of advance for Capitol-bound young men. The King had long ago decreed that the means of seeking entrance into the Courts was to be in the hands of those cities, towns, and villages who would send their best to serve. The means of selection would be for the citizens to select those to send for trial after the supplicants had proven their reason in a public address.

Any supplicant could call for an address - in theory. In practice, the Schoolmasters would select those they thought had a reasonable chance of success, assign them a topic, and allow them to hold forth in oratory. General acclaim in the form of a written ballot was provided by those in attendance, and if a two-thirds majority was in favor, the supplicant was sent to the Capitol for trial.

If a young man desired trial, but was never referred by the Schoolmasters, there was still one avenue open. He could challenge. The challenge was somewhat unfair for the fortunate student selected by the Schoolmasters, as he would have to debate the challenging student, rather than provide an uncontested display of wits, argument, and reason. But most often, the Schoolmasters did their jobs well, and those who challenged were routinely defeated.

Barrett stood beside his brother Archer, several rows back of the Rotunda. Two Schoolmasters sat on the wooden benches, beneath the white arching ceiling.

Directly in front of the Greenfields was the Wolfwood family, Havoc, Dana, Karen, Lydia, and the younger children, Havoc, Jerek, and Genna. After a few moments, Havoc turned around and addressed Bartle.

"No challenge today, I expect. This one will sail through."

"Applewood is quite an orator," Bartle replied. "Lydia, do you know his topic?"

Lydia looked over her shoulder at Bartle, and turned slightly. Barrett looked straight into her eyes, but she in turn looked only at his father. She was wearing a straight cream-colored dress that hung from her shoulders loosely. It's descent to her ankles was punctuated by the curve of her hips, an effect that was likely unplanned by the seamstress who created the humble garment.

"Calvin is addressing the subject of the proper ordering of the King's Lands." Her voice was steady and clear - no sign of rebukes or taunts. Just a hint of anticipation when she said his name.

"An interesting subject," Bartle replied. "Did you study it extensively in World School?"

"Yes. Though none so much as Calvin and Barrett."

"Barrett?" Bartle replied, surprised.

"Yes," Lydia answered, turning to look at him. Barrett kept his eyes straight, looking evenly from Lydia, to her father, and then to his own father.

"Yes, I studied the divisions," Barrett answered. "Nowhere is the King's will manifested so clearly as in his ordering of the land. And, indeed, the complexity of naturally occurring systems do not lend themselves to order. So it is an interesting problem."

"Well said," Havoc replied, turning back to face the Rotunda. Lydia turned back a moment later. Barrett was sure that she sensed the change in him. But she had little idea what awaited her. Let today be the day she decides.

Beside him, Barrett's father smiled. He suspected.

Perhaps ten minutes later, the Schoolmasters stood. One descended into the throng, while the second - a gray haired, thin faced curmudgeon - stepped into the center of the Rotunda.

"Citizens of Grainger! Today, by the King's Will and the Best Order of our Society, we will observe and judge the Address of one of our Young Men: Calvin Applewood."

He gestured into the front row, and Calvin strode up to the center of the Rotunda to stand beside the Schoolmaster. At two inches under six feet, Calvin stood an inch taller than the diminished Schoolmaster. His shock of reddish-blonde hair was unruly, as usual, and his brown eyes glinted fiercely, belying his rakish smirk. As he took his position, he nodded in each direction to the assembled throng.

"Calvin Applewood has been given the topic of the Divisions of the Kingdom. He may Address the Citizens of Grainger for whatever duration he requires. His Address will be in the form of Oratory, unless there is a Challenger, in which case there shall be a Debate. Is there a Challenge?"

"I Challenge!" Barrett yelled in answer. There was a collective gasp in the throng. Of all its young men, Grainger had never expected Calvin Applewood to be challenged. His accession to trial in the Capitol had never been in doubt.

"Who Challenges?" The Schoolmaster asked, completely composed despite the tumult in the throng.

"I, Barrett Greenfield, Challenge by virtue of Superior Age, Education, and Proclivity."

"Are you familiar with the subject of the Address?"

"I am."

Turning to Calvin, who glared daggers at Barrett, the Schoolmaster asked:

"As the Chosen Addresser, you have your choice of Position. The Subject is the Division of the Kingdom. What is your Position?"

Calvin lifted his head, and stated in a ringing voice:

"The King's Divisions show the Ultimate Ordering of Chaotic Systems."

There were smiles and nods in the assembled citizens. The Schoolmaster then turned back to Barrett.

"Come forward."

Barrett strode forward, ignoring his Father's glance, nodding his head once to Havoc Wolfwood and again to Lydia. Her expression was unreadable, but Havoc looked intrigued. Then, he was past them and standing before the Rotunda.

"Barrett Greenfield. As Challenger, you must take a position contrary to that of the Addresser, but not necessarily contradictory. Are you prepared to do so?"

"Yes."

"What is your counter-position?"

"The Division of the Kingdom displays a Simulacrum of Imposed Order, but is, in reality, a Semi-Ordered System Proportionately Governed by Chance Rather Than Reason."

The gasp that escaped the assembled citizens was greater than that of the challenge. Barrett had essentially proclaimed that he was challenging not only Calvin Applewood, but the very logic of the King and Courts. While a contrary position was sometimes unsettling, a position could always be found that reflected a minor variation on the presented theme. For a small town youth to proclaim that he intended to debate the merits of a system ordained by the pinnacles of logic and reason was the height of impertinence.

Calvin smiled.

*******

Standing beside his nemesis, Barrett felt fully at ease. Part of this came from his physical advantage over the smaller, more wiry young man. But most of his confidence came from his sudden recognition earlier in the day.

First: Clara was right. Barrett could argue, and argue well. He was persuasive, not despite his flaw, but because of it.

Second: This was the one path to Lydia. He saw it as clearly as he saw Calvin before him. If he defeated Calvin, Lydia was his. His challenge was not to Calvin, nor to the King or Grainger. It was a challenge to Lydia. And she had accepted.

Calvin was still smiling. But let him. Barrett turned and half-bowed to Calvin as a show of respect. Calvin repaid the gesture, but, as he leaned closer to Barrett, he whispered something to him.

"You're going to lose, Greenfield. Because I can win no matter what position I take. I learned it from watching you."

Barrett smiled back.

The Schoolmaster pointed to Calvin.

*******

Calvin's oratory technique was brilliant. He held the citizens of Grainger spellbound with his lilting, near-patronizing voice. He strode about the Rotunda, ensuring that he met the eyes on the semi-circle in front of the platform. Beyond this, there were his words and his argument.

"Let us first consider the ways in which a land might be ordered. They are several. First, a land might be ordered by historical chance. We are told that this was the case, prior to the King's Division. Second, a land might be divided according to a grid imposed on a map. Third, a land might be ordered by population density. Fourth, a land might be ordered according to terrain. For example, the natural divisions marked by rivers, mountains, and oceans may be accepted into the structure of the scheme. Fifth, a land might be ordered according to its bounty. Sixth, a land might be ordered according to its climate.

"We have considered these types of ordering, and all are clear to us, as they were to the King. Now let us consider their advantages."

Calvin's technique was familiar to Barrett. In fact, Barrett immediately saw why Calvin had said 'I learned it from watching you,' for the inclusive speech was designed to draw in the listener - to play to the ego and inculcate the sense that all were taking part in the argument. This technique was very effective, for it made the listener less likely to disagree if he thought the argument was his. Barrett saw that he had adopted this technique on numerous occasions, without fully realizing the implications.

"The First, Historical Ordering is of no value, since it happens by chance, but is unavoidable since History cannot be ignored - and thus will be present in any system. The Second has advantages, for it allows for precise coordinates to be established, which do not rely on rote memorization of names and location. The Third is tempting, but poorly suited, since it would result either in small, overcrowded regions and large, sparse regions, or in the opposite, neither of which aids in logistics or order. The Fourth is likewise tempting, since geographical features often impose limitations on travel and commerce, and thus internal constraints to a region isolated by these features should allow for relative independence and self-sufficiency. The Fifth bears similarity to the Third, in that, while tempting, it would result in a disparity between bounteous regions and poorer regions. Finally, order according to Climate is patently foolish.

"Let us proceed to the system the King has established. We are all familiar with the system, but it bears refreshing. As I often say, Repeated Often is Kept In Mind."

There were nods from some in the throng at this platitude.

"The King has divided the land into Sectorates and Protectorates. Sectorates each contain a minor city. Protectorates are composed of Sectorates, and contain a major city as the Protectorates' Capitol. The Protectorates form the Kingdom, with the King's City as The Capitol of the Kingdom. The Sectorates and Protectorates are numbered and named. The Name is Historical in many cases. Only in New Cities is there no Name, but rather the nomenclature, Capitol of the nth Protectorate, or in Sectorates, jth City of the kth Sectorate of the nth Protectorate. The Protectorates are ordered from Northwest to Southeast in a linear manner. The linearity is modified by geography. The Sectorates are ordered from Southwest to Northeast, also modified by geography.

"So, we see, when compared with our analysis of the types of divisions possible, that the system the King has imposed is a hybrid of the First, Second, and Fourth system types.

"Since the First type is unavoidable, it was wise of the King to include it. The Second type cannot reasonably exist, due to the advantages of the Fourth type, and thus, we have a modified linear system of Sectorates and Protectorates with Historical names and semi-geographical boundaries.

"It is our assertion, as reasonable citizens of the Kingdom, that the King's system is Ideal. Land, by nature of its formation during natural creation, is chaotic. It is unsuited to ordering. A land mass is not shaped, unfortunately, like a square, but rather like an amorphous globule. Imposition of a grid onto such a surface results in disparity in area. Modification of the grid to yield equal areas results in distortion of the grid. Ignoring the Historical names and placement of cities is to be unrealistic. Ignoring geographical isolation and self-sufficiency is unrealistic and dangerous. The King has taken all of this into account. We still have the names of our cities, but no Sectorate has more than one minor city, and no Protectorate has more than one major city. This is testament to the cognitive manipulation the King has used. Any citizen can know geographically where another Sectorate or Protectorate is, simply by recognizing the number, and thus, we have the advantages of coordinates.

"Any system that sacrificed one of these elements would be inferior, since it would sacrifice the advantages of that element. Any system that included other elements would be inferior, since it would include the disadvantages of those elements.

"Thus, we see that the King's system is, indeed, ideal, and thus the Ultimate Division of Land."

Calvin stepped back. The citizens applauded. They knew there was more to come, and that had Calvin not been challenged, his oration would have been in greater depth, with many more examples and digression. But it had been a masterful performance, and they felt a part of it.

But Barrett smiled. Calvin had done a great job, and was certainly aware of the many points upon which Barrett could attack. But Calvin wasn't aware of Barrett's strategy at all. Calvin thought Barrett was vying for the victory. If this was the case, Barrett would approach the oration in the same way - inclusive speech, playing to the crowd. Barrett would praise the King, harp on minor discrepancies, and try to win on points.

But Barrett couldn't care less about the Courts. If anything, he was terrified of trial before the ultra-rationalists of The Capitol. No, Barrett had a different aim - to win Lydia. And he would not win Lydia by being Barrett. He would win Lydia by being her father - Havoc Wolfwood.

Thinking back to the dinner at the Greenfield house, Barrett saw how Havoc's aggressive logic dominated Lydia's attention. If this was her model, he would win the one thing he desired.

Barrett nodded to Calvin, and then to the Schoolmaster, and stepped forward.

"Calvin has presented several types of systems, but by no means all of them. In addition, he has provided many opportunities for me to refute his arguments. However, these are distractions from the real issue. Calvin's arguments are incidental and of no bearing on the truly interesting aspects of the Division of Lands."

Barrett felt great. He had never been this confrontational in a debate. But he would have to walk the line between outright attack and discredit.

"Before I continue, I would like to repeat the subject I have selected. It is: The Division of the Kingdom displays a Simulacrum of Imposed Order, but is, in reality, a Semi-Ordered System Proportionately Governed by Chance Rather Than Reason."

"Now, I noticed that many of you were taken aback by this topic. Perhaps you misunderstood the title, and believed that I sought to attack the basis of the King's system. Far from it! The King has masterfully ordered the land. Many of the reasons Calvin cited are artfully displayed. In fact, the King's ordering of the Land was so brilliantly done, that we are deceived, as Calvin has displayed, as to its true nature.

"Let us first consider these "types" of ordering. Calvin has given us Six Types. But we can immediately complicate this by adding not only sub-types, but also complementary types, analogous types, hybrid types, that is... we can divide the dividing of the land into strata, much as we do with flora and fauna. By way of example, let me add another type to Calvin's List. Calvin mentioned Bounty as a divisional type, and dismissed it. But here he refers to magnitude of Bounty, not type of Bounty. It is clear that different regions of the Land produce different types of Bounty. I need to look no further than the fishing trade that flourishes on our coast. So you see that I have already complicated Calvin's list by considering not only the immediate properties of each type, but its subsequent quality as well.

"Next, I will address the matter of the "hybrid system" that Calvin flaunts. He begins by discarding all the bits of types that he doesn't want. But, is this really what the King has done? No. Clearly, if you consider the actual divisions rather than the general scheme, I can show that population density has played a remarkably large role in the size of some Protectorates, while the Climatic ordering that Calvin so flippantly discarded has also played a secondary role, since the Bounty, (again, rejected by Calvin), is influenced heavily by Climate, and the King has ordered divisions heavily weighted toward not only geographical self sufficiency, but also concentration of skilled labor in those primary production tasks that historically have benefited specific regions.

"So, what I have shown thus far is that Calvin's argument is both incomplete and incorrect."

"Now let me leave this distasteful banter and proceed to the point of my counter-proposal, namely, that the King's system, while apparently a paean to order, is in fact a brilliantly devised system that incorporates the more efficient natural order and uses in a minor role the coordinative system so admired by my opponent.

"First, let me point out that there is no logical or reasonable basis for the ordering of Protectorates from Northwest to Southeast and Sectorates from Southwest to Northeast. Given that there is no logical or reasonable basis, we are left with a quandary. For I know the King to be the paramount logician of our age. Does it not seem absurd for a man so schooled in logic to devise a system so lacking in it?

"It seems so on the surface, but... and I stress this... only on the surface. For the King has recognized a fundamental aspect of logic and reason - namely, that logical systems can be mutually exclusive. For example - I propose the syllogism. It is clear that the syllogism is the ultimate achievement of man. For, as in mathematics - that excellent system for representing reality in numerical form - the syllogism provides to logic what algebraic reason provides to mathematics.

"And yet, I can say without shame that algebra is well and good, but calculus is better. How can I say this? Quite clearly, calculus uses the tools of algebra for higher order manipulation. In this sense, algebra is a subset of calculus.

"This is immediately analogous to the syllogism. While a syllogism provides an algebraic structure to logic, on application to complex systems, we find that we are approximating - we must divide our actions into discrete steps. Syllogisms are static - while they contain truth and reality, they do not adequately explain the application. This is exactly the problem that the King had when considering the ordering of the land.

"A Syllogism does not tell the King to order the land with Protectorates and Sectorates inversely directed according to polar magnetic alignment. What tells the King to order the land in this way is his use of the calculus of logic.

"Now, as you can clearly see, and as I mentioned before, there is no reasonable explanation for this ordering of Sectorates and Protectorates. And yet the King has done it, the King is a master logician. There is a discrepancy. And it is that we do not understand the logic the King is using. It is beyond us. Does this seem absurd? Yes. Nothing is beyond us, and logic is logic. They are one and the same. Let me make this clearer:

"The King's actions seem illogical only if the premise with which we approach the King's Divisions is that the King is designing a logical system. My assertion is that the King designed an illogical system, logically.

"Consider what Calvin pointed out earlier: that most cities retain their historical names. He went on to imply that a grand new scheme is causing the cities to be replaced by better cities with numeric / systematic names. In fact, this has occurred only twice. Both times in the 5th Protectorate.

"I will now provide a seemingly irrelevant fact. The majority of Tunnel Diggers have historically come from the 5th Protectorate. One may assume that for various environmental reasons - the inclusion of freestanding mountains being one, the stock of the 5th Protectorate produces a disproportionately large number of irrational, unstable criminals. However, this was on the decline 30 years ago. This decline was immediately followed by three events. First - the creation of the two new cities. Second, the King's Edict pertaining solely to the 5th Protectorate that the use of city names within the 5th Protectorate by citizens of the 5th Protectorate was to be terminated. The King Advised the Administrators, Mayors, and Barons that inability to follow this edict was an excellent indication of irrationality. The third event was the dramatic upswing in 5th Protectorate citizens condemned to The Tunnel.

"Is it not clear, then, the reason for the seemingly illogical ordering the Sectorates and Protectorates? It is, devised by the King, a brilliant, inherent mechanism for confounding the few remaining irrationals among us. Here, daily, we deal with this inverse order, never commenting on the seemingly illogical - learning the system, and applying it without fail. Never realizing that we are being tested by the King each time we tell a neighbor "Grainger is in the 3rd Sectorate of the 3rd Protectorate."

"Thus, I have indicated both the dilemma and the solution. The dilemma is the seeming illogic of the King - which we now see is logic beyond logic.

"This solution removes the last obstacle from the recognition that, rather than a strictly ordered division of land, the King has instead selected an amalgam of different primary constraint factors to define the boundaries of discrete regions - and that among these constraint factors are geography, population, bounty, self-sufficiency, exportable bounty, political tendencies of the population, climate, historical consistency, and other, more numerous minor or consolidated factors.

"With this recognition, we can resolutely say that The Division of the Kingdom displays a Simulacrum of Imposed Order, but is, in reality, a Semi-Ordered System Proportionately Governed by Chance Rather Than Reason."

Barrett stepped back, satisfied. Never before had he delivered such a twisted piece of logical malfeasance. It was a desperate measure, relying greatly on the ability of the assembled citizens to keep up with the pace of his reasoning. It included fallacy upon fallacy - but also did two critical things. First, it made it appear as if failure to recognize the illogic of the Sectorate/Protectorate ordering was borderline criminal. This stopped Calvin from attempting to explain why it was actually logical (which Barrett would have liked to see). Second, it allowed Barrett to remain aggressive toward Calvin, while simultaneously praising the King, despite the fact that it was Calvin praising the King's Ordering, and Barrett tearing it to bits.

Barrett felt good about his chances, but there were the counter points to follow, and Calvin would surely attack much of Barrett's argument.

In fact, Calvin was stepping forward to do just that, when the Schoolmaster who had descended into the throng suddenly took the stage of the Rotunda. With him was a sinister appearing man with coal black hair, weathered leathery skin, and sunken brown eyes perfectly equidistant from the crooked bridge of his broken nose. He was armored in black leather, with a quiver of ceramic-tipped arrows across his back. Barrett knew exactly who this man was: Gorin Grammis - the Tunnel Warder.

A poem to Nikki Giovanni

Inspired by the great poet Nikki Giovanni, I have composed this lyrical ballad

All I know of Global warming is as follows:

If its hot, its because of global warming
If its cold, its because of global warming
If it rains, its because of global warming
If its dry, its because of global warming
Glaciers melt, global warming
Snow, global warming
Hurricane, global warming
Tsunami, global warming
Earthquake, global warming
Housing market crash, global warming

Global warming does not make birds sing, flowers grow, or the water run any faster off a duck's back.
Global warming does not make grapes juicier, or skunks less smelly.
Global warming does not make beer taste better, encourage people to exercise, or lower winter heating bills.

Cause of global warming:
Global warming, Too much carbon Dioxide
Too much carbon dioxide, too many SUVs
Too many SUVs, neocon policies
Neocon policies, Kenneth Blackwell (SOB)
Kenneth Blackwell (SOB), George W. Bush
George W. Bush, Religious Fundamentalists
Religious Fundamentalists, Jesus
Jesus, God

Therefore God caused global warming

--------------------------------------------

This is the second edition of this poem

O Grammar! Enigma is thy name!

In looking at the "Comments" section below each post, I was offended to see "1 Comments". This seemed an unfortunate dissonance, sort of like "sober Kennedy" or "peaceful muslim." And then I noticed another post, which had (like most posts on this backwater blog) the listing "0 Comments". This disturbs me even more. In the case of "1 Comments", the coder was lazy, and didn't bother to take care of the one case in which "comment" needed to be singular. But in the case of "0 Comments", the coder raised a fascinating issue. Why is zero plural?

Let's look at this from a grammatimathimatical standpoint. We have two grammatical numbers in English - singular and plural. And yet, as our good friends at Wikipedia explain (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plural), other languages have more numbers, and although Latvian is cited as having a "nullar" grammatical form for "zero", the use of singular or plural, alternatively depending on language, seems to be most common.

Now I'm with the Latvian's on this. If you're going to have a numerical grammatical form for one, and you have another for more than one, then you damn well better have another form for zero.

But, interestingly enough, none of the languages were cited as having a grammatical form for an infinite number. This seems, to me, to be a serious drawback to human communication.

Having raised my interest, I went on to check on something that had been bothering me for a while - did the Arabs invent zero? If so, it would dovetail with my theory that the arabs, being far more acquainted with nothingness, would naturally strive to get zero into math. Alas, my theory was blown out of the water like a Somali pirate. It turns out (according, again, to Wikipedia), that the arabs merely transmitted the Hindu use of zero in a decimal system to the Europeans. Zero, as a concept, had been with us for a long, long time, and had been independently developed by the Babylonians and Mayans (the greatest most peace loving people ever to walk the earth until they were eradicated by Spanish Catholics under the command of Donald Rumsfeld).

Still clinging to the last vestiges of my theory, I went on to research infinity. Alas, there was no similar thread of controversy for infinity. It seems that the arabs aren't taking credit for inventing it.

Back to my original problem. As always, I'm all about solutions. So I suggest two alternative systems for the treatment of zero, one, more than one, and infinity in English grammar:

SYSTEM ONE:
Treat zero, one, and infinity as singular

SYSTEM TWO:
Introduce new English forms for zero (nullar) and infinity (plen-t-ar)

For zero, instead of adding an "s", drop the last letter. Thus "Comment" would become "Commen", "Bird" would become "Bir". there is a slight problem when dealing with words like "ho", as in "Nancy Pelosi's my ho". While you could easily say "I'm going to march in the pro-choice rally with a couple of my hos", it would be inconvenient to say "I'm sittin' here like a dang fool without a h"

For infinity, continue typing the last letter of the word until you get tired. Thus "Comment" would become "Commenttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttt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ttttttttt

What It Is Like To Be A Bat

My eye to others might seem stern
My visage might seem grim
Furrows be upon my brow
My speech a somber hymn

My words might speak of doom and woe
My edicts seem malign
But all such things, necessities
For I can read the signs

It’s not the shame of other men
(Or most) who fail to see
What nature cruelly gifted us
(I mean, my friends and me)

For ‘tween the overt subterfuge
And mere complexity
The blinded and the blind still walk
And hearken not to me

So protest, if you will, the force
With which I steer your head
I brandish it with kindest heart
(a heart that’s often bled)

And think not that my grim façade
Conceals an unkind core
I hurt myself much more than you
When I must hurt you more

I take the wise man’s burden
Never my cross eschew
This task that’s laid upon me as
A better man than you

Cleve's Gone

Cleve.

What can you say about the old cuss?

All the fella's gathered on the back veranda. All put on "Texas Tuxedos" in his honor - basically, a nice, new pair of bib overalls with a bow tie, white gloves and tux shirt.

Up in the hills of East Tennessee, they didn't wear cowboy boots "back in the day", so in their stead they all wore button-hook logging boots, with the overalls tucked in.

A gamely lot they were.

Each had a pint Mason jar of "the corn liquor" in the bib.

To be a proper man of the hills, one had to proceed all things with the word "the".

"It was ashame 'bout Ol' Cleve, way he got the cancer and all," it was a common lamentation from all who gathered there on that foggy, snow-drenched day.

Assembled here in Leighton Barber's palatial farm house "garden room" was a who's who of local legendry.

Fed Mashburn, Whiley Simms, "Cussin" Eddie Marsh (Cuz, and kin to all), Nate Riseleau, Waif Simpson and Crook McKaey.

It was a gentleman's club of men tempered by the wild and boisterous mountain way.

They each held up their jar as if hailing an emperor.

Hail to Cleve, the best of the bunch.

"I don't know why it is that the good Lord above has to take a man of such outstanding caliber. Cleve Oliver could shoot better, run faster and climb higher than anyone from the Four Knobs.
Cleve was simply the best, and here's to him," and with that Fed raised that jar yet another time.

Each of the men in one gulp swallowed a full half of their pint jars. Not one looked for a chaser (but they'd all been known to follow up with "sprang" water)...but not on this day.

Cleve deserved the best...and just as he had lived, so would they put him down.

It was a long drive from Barber's Knob to the cemetery, way down there in the valley, and no one thought it appropriate.

They all felt Cleve deserved a high peak, somewhere up in them hills he loved so well.

"They'll be plainty of celebratin' this day amoungst the boar hogs, shore 'nuff", spouted Crook, there in the snow at the graveside.

Whiley spat his cannonball twist on the snowy ground and in usual stop-gap fashion uttered, "you know they is".

And the preacher came, and said them words they heard so often before when they'd buried a dearly departed.

His lodge brothers showed as well, and Wiley, Fed, Crook, Waif and Cuz all broke with the gang to go put on their aprons and join in the service.

It was a somber day, when they put Cleve in the cold, hard ground; and to his memory and the memories they'd all formed together somehow, everyone there assembled just knew - an angel sang the tails of their exploits in those cold, blue mountains they called their home.

Sherlock

Some idiot environmentalists are worried that we are biased in the benefits and subsidies we provide to cute and cuddly animals:

http://www.livescience.com/animalworld/070202_cute_animals.html

The fact that some turtleneck sweater-wearing fembot gets paid to worry about this crap is a clear sign that the human species is deserving of extinction - at least the liberal subset of that species. This reminds me of the need for various bumper stickers:

"Save the Polar Bears! Feed them Democrats."
"Impeach Pelosi (why wait for a reason)"
"If Liberals are open minded, why do they all think alike?"
"Retroactive Abortions for Kennedys"

The Unknown God - Unmasked

The following snippet from the AP caught my attention:

"We know that the White House possesses documents that contain evidence of an attempt by senior administration officials to mislead the public by injecting doubt into the science of global warming and minimize the potential danger," Waxman said.

Question Authority. Change your mind to prove that you have one. Don't trust anyone over 30. Fight the Power.

But DO NOT QUESTION GLOBAL WARMING!

It's not a surprise at all that the champions of Science are blind dogmatists who violate every principle of the scientific method by establishing as law that which has not progressed beyond theory. These sad crusaders carry the banner of malthus in the vanguard of an army of the unwashed and ignorant - all screaming doom and catastrophe, and all unable to fathom their own drooling and servile obediance to a god of their own making.

And Again, the Fallen May Rise

It had been fifteen years since that day that everyone said would surely wake them up once and for all.

Fifteen years since the bastion was breached.

Fifteen years.

Floods, famine, pestilence itself: all may come and go, and yet ignorance seems always to prevail. Numbed, crazy...ignorance.

It truly amazed him, how the daft find methods to cope. Adapt.

He would think, "improvisation", but, they were, after all - the daft.

Logical sense would tell you...dictate, really...that when one lives in the lap of luxury, when one wants for nothing, nill, nada - Why on earth take chances with such stylized opulence? Why do anything, anything to chance it; to throw it all away?

What could possibly be more important?

Some said it was the lust that got them. The desire for something that they were somehow denied in this life.

Why turn against a master to have something that by staying in His realm would one day be yours anyway?

It was that way with the fallen. For Les, they'd always been an enigma.

More than curiosity, or academic pursuit, for him they'd become personified. Real.

They weren't just from the realm of legend. They were once angel's. What was Shakespeare's quote? Hamlet, I believe? "In form, how like angels, in apprehension, how like a God!", or some such something.

If only they had apprehension; even a little.

I think this was the intrigue for Les. How not at all unlike ourselves were they, the Fallen.

I once heard him lecture at a local civic club. His ideas were radical, even back then.

Of course, after the great attack, well, things had changed. Now, his ideas have some stock, now that people are once again all concerned with good, and evil.

"Of course they had it all, but they wanted what they had not. They were jealous of God's gift to man (woman)...any angel in the universe was at their call, but they yearned for that beauty given to the lowly man."

It seemed peculiar now. The enemy, it seems wanted in this life to cross to the next to get what the Fallen had come here for in theirs, the creation of evil.

Peculiar.

Peculiar (and daft).

Pap's Trees

He babied them so.

Small, yet so much more than meets the eye.

His first set didn't seem to make it.

He'd heard that if kept frozen, that one day they would work. That's what he'd heard (in college or somewhere).

Paps told him once: "Look at how small they are, yet in them are contained the very secrets of the universe: a code that makes them grow into something they today are not. They contain all its features, but these secrets are only unlocked once they become a part of that universe, and then, and only then - when fully rooted in it. It is like being rooted in the infinite, our way.

How can one not believe in God when they witness His genius and yet still, it is so foolishly ignored?".

Unfortunately, he'd used up all the stock in that fifteen years since Paps died, and not one took.

Not one.

Guess the freezer bit doesn't work after all. Damned college.

One night, he got drunk and went back to Pap's house. He couldn't even remember if he was in the right season for a harvest, but drunk, he didn't care. It would be worth going to jail for.

He laughed as he thought of the headline.

Oh well...might get the chance to write letters from a jail cell. Wouldn't this high-minded community of intellect just LOVE that!

He drove right up to the curb, in the middle of the night, hopped out of his truck and on hand and knee he began grasping wildly at the ground, collecting them from a sapling he'd planted years (and years) ago.

Vast handfuls, all he could carry. He loved stealing from the squatters who had stolen so much from him.

Dignity, once taken, can never be returned.

He thought of the trick he'd learned in the fields as a young man...to curl up his shirt and use it as basket; but there wasn't time...he had to do this fast, or the squatters might get him (or the corrupt police, who'd already sold themselves to the tree-loving dark side).

And, so he made his escape. He planted them. It was the beginning of Winter, but he knew he could make them work. He'd nurture them inside under roof, contrived light and warmth.

He babied them, every day. Checking the soil warmth, its moisture content, acidity and food.

Today they germinate (only two of them), and he has beautiful ornamental oaks in infancy.

A pity he can't put them in ground where they belong, on soil that today was his, but tomorrow of unknown "ownership".

A pity.

And now it is his prayer that they will together survive trip and transport to grow in soil, far, far away...these saplings, his only connection to Pap's land, and he'd sooner be damned than leave them behind.

"Make them grow there Father. A part of me, a part of Paps...even a part of bonnie old they will be, in that far-away place that was once the death of ancestor past..." he almost cried as he thought of his relative who was killed in that new land to which he would travel, in a battle to win its independence in a different era, and a far, far different war.

His hopes were all about those blasted saplings, and little else.

"Danged ol' trees. Only thing they good fer is livin' in."

An Angel's Plea

Once I sat in chamber high.

A prince.

A Pauper.

"A place at the table, dear Lord...a place at the table!".

But when asked there on high...I could not sit silent.

"A volunteer," He said, "we need a volunteer!".

He knew who it would be. He knew, it would be me.

To leave, I must.

This chamber, this retreat, this, my sanctuary complete!

To leave it all, my home, my comfort...I must. I must!

The look in His eyes, it was pure defeat.

He'd lost a good friend; for a long time to once a'gin meet.

Our relations changed, for never would he suspect, to give it all, for meager flyspeck.

But to give, I must, for the Master's plea!

Who am I, to judge one such as thee?

The Son, He lives, and lives so replete.

His food, it is, of pure, good soul. His way, it is, of pure good treat.

My way, is His. To give, and give.

And then when asked, by Father above. "What is your wish, for your service now done?".

"I wish to be free, My Father, the Son. I wish to be free, until done, is done.".

"And amble about, my creation you will?".

"Until that day, when we together will say,'Our time...stands still, and our council...is Won!' ".

Victory in thee, mon liege. Mine Own victory, It...Tis' in Thee!

Barrett Greenfield: Excerpt from Chapter 11 "Heresy"

Far in the south, beyond the Ullnich Sea, is a sparsely populated land where the people are more savages than man, living in rude huts in the midst of sullen jungles, or wandering in tents across endless desertland. Few of us have beheld these lands, for the climate is harsh and unforgiving, and the gods strike down intruders with maladies of an unconquerable nature.

But upon occasion, hardy souls will venture there by sea, or by braving the mountainous isthmus that binds the great lands together. Rarely are these journeys fruitful, and most are remarkable mostly for the wild adventures reported by those who return.

Decades past, a score of men returned from an expedition that had numbered over a hundred. The survivors were soon scattered back in the places of refuse from which adventurers are spawned, but a remarkable tale was heard from some of them.

This tale was told to them by a tribe of savages of the jungles, whom their leader had befriended and with whom they had dwelled before making their attempt to return to the known world. They passed this tale on as curiosity, little thinking of its import, for clearly it is merely an admonition to the savages own people.

Deep in the jungle, the savages say, there is a rolling land of sparsely wooded hills, where the searing humidity of the jungle does not take its toll, but the deep rains keep all lush and fertile. Why this land is not settled is never mentioned, perhaps being such an obvious implication of godless mythology that it bears no further comment, but this land is looked upon as something of an earthly paradise.

It is not the land that is so remarkable, but the event that occurs once each century in this place. From within the earth, crawling through the thick and supple loam, emerges at the first full moon a strange and alien people. Each one lies dormant for their allotted time, sustained by unknown powers, and gestating slowly in the womb of the earth. Some common signal, or some rhythm of the earth awakens them, and they crawl upward to emerge, blinking at the light.

These creatures are as like to you and me in physical form as they are different in their nature. Beings more like gods in their beauty, but childlike and naïve. Within the confines of their hidden land, they crawl one by one from their slumber, and ordered by an unknown force, they begin the construction of their civilization anew.

From the strewn stones of the valley they construct their villages, till the land, hunt the game, and gather the fruits of the jungle to sustain them. The women of their race weave beautiful cloth into garments of strange cut, while the men fashion jewelry and statuary to please them.

Once their villages are complete, and the crops prepared, all work is put aside. These people fall to an orgy of feast and copulation that is sustained, unabated, for four months, but in a strangely monogamous way, with these seemingly uninhibited people pairing in a sustained fully consummated troth. At the end of this cycle, the females lay their fertilized eggs in the central chambers of each village, and the following day, they, each with their male partner, take up the eggs and return them to the earth where they are nestled deep within the ground.

The people then return to their amusements, casting aside all relationships in an unbounded series of lustful and gluttonous encounters that continues until, one by one, their bodies begin to fail from the excesses. As they die, the fewer and fewer engage in ever more indulgent acts, until the last of them are consumed.

Peace returns to the rolling hills, and the signs of habitation sink into the earth, the bodies of these aliens moldering and feeding the carrion eaters of the jungle.

This tale is remarkable enough, but the savages added another element. It seems that one year, months after the last of the aliens had died, one more struggled upward out of the loam. This male blinked in the sunlight, as all the others had before him, but when he cast his eyes upon the valley, he was stung to the heart. All about him was the wreckage of the few bright months allotted to his kind. Skeletons and decomposition marked the landscape. The fields were barren from the last harvest, and the game driven from the woods. The trees were picked clean of fruit.

But none of this was such a blow to the alien as the wretched bodies of his race, and the landscape dotted with the buried eggs of the generation that was not to come for another hundred years.

Whether by some fluke of his own internal cycles, or some vicious trick of nature, he had awoken after life had already ceased, and now walked a cold, dead world, moments too late for any purpose he might ascribe to his existence, and decades too early for any reprieve.

The alien considered all of this, and for a long time, walked the lands about the rolling hills, picking out a miserable existence in the plundered land, fingering the trinkets of the great orgy and pondering the cruel joke.

When at last it occurred to him that by the innate logic of his nature, he had survived for over a year in his desolation, he tried to understand how this could be so, when he knew that his urges told him to work, then breed, and then die. Was his continued existence part of the torment of his fate, or were the short lives of his people a needless part of some primal urge, an urge that could be checked, leaving his race to work and breed and live to work and breed again, extending their lives beyond the brief, perfect pleasure of the few months into a glorious march into time?

He wondered and thought, and for a time was eased by this prospect, by the realization that this epiphany could save his people the agony of their brief lives. He grew resolved in his fate, finding satisfaction in the thought that his suffering and loneliness were but a small price to be paid for the immortality that his realization brought him. For many years this buoyed his thoughts, as he marked the time that the next generation would arise from the soil.

But as those years passed, a grim fear began to creep upon him. He saw his skin grow paler, and felt his strength begin to seep away. His reflection in the surface of still water showed lines forming on his face, and his hair grew thinner. Yet only a score of years had passed since his birth.

When he finally realized that he would not live to greet the coming generation with his message of salvation, he wrung his mind trying to find a way to pass the message along. But there was no way to communicate to the future. His race had never needed a written language, as all they had needed to know was bound up within them when they emerged from the earth. The concept itself took years to fully formulate in his mind. He thought of devising marks upon the stones that could be set in communal places like the sites of springs or the bases of trails into the woods, but in the end he knew that when his people returned, they would have no thoughts for deciphering cryptic runes on the stones, if they even recognized them. Their only thoughts would be to work, and breed, and die.

Within a sad year of this revelation, the succor of death came upon him. His body was eaten and rotted away, and his bones were trampled into the earth from which he came. And at the next cycle, his people emerged from the earth. They toiled upon the land, bred in their inconsistent monogamy, and drowned themselves in ecstasy.

As you can see, this story is typical of the tales of savages, for it leaves obvious questions unanswered. For example, how did this story come down to the natives at all, if this alien died alone and without witness in a lost and unreachable land. But to emphasize this is to allow for possible credulity in this story, which is obviously lacking any basis in reality. This story must be taken at its face, as a moral guide for the savages, although its meanings are myriad.

Bain of the Frother Reborn

"Gather, here at my feet, to hear the tale of a chameleon's vapid retreat," the old fellow's eyes were wide and blue, his white beard flowing like river rapids, and his staff was raised to both welcome, and remind.

"Tis the tale of a creature, feared far and wide, for his ability to persuade, to cantor, to chide. His laugh was to laud, his smile abetting fraud, even sin; tis the tale of a glutton, of a monster, maudlin".

"He lived where he wished, and he went as he pleased. His rancor, so fat, his philosophy...diseased!

The Frothers they lived, and lived as they pleased. They stole from each other, and drove wise men to their knees.

This group plagued the land, like locust and frog, of epic proportion, a philosophy of fraud.

They were liars and cheats, these Frothers they were. Filthy and diseased, in both body and soul; they were worse than the leech, more invasive than fleas.

If given a chance, they'd infect all of man, with their poisoned, sick thoughts, their pestilence a machine against man YES! they would wrought.

Together the normals made impassioned plea, to return to the old day, to reject Frother's new way.

But the Frother kept twisting, infecting with sleaze, the hapless good people of virtue and once free.

The Frother enslaves with Lucifer's promise, of a world set free if only they would follow.

'Adopt brave new world, find life even in death, for in killing an innocent, self righteous Frothers find breath'.

And so would go the Frother and his plea.

Vast millions would follow, for their world is so cool, that filthy old Frother, and his maggot-like stool.

They'd take on the form of beauty and lore, to tempt all the hapless, to trick and to scorn.

The weak would succumb and the Frother would grow, his multitudes expanding, a kingdom of of sloven rube so demanding.

Would there be any hope for the normals this day? Their hope beyond this lies in their faith, but in this life only Frothers - Frothers who stench of the wraith.

And so go the normals, to here and beyond. They are chased by the devils, for a heart so pure is the envy of Frother, yet the Frother's great quod.

So it is this purity, that stands so opposed, to the Frother's wild ambling, the tweak at his nose.

He will run and he'll chase that beauty divine, but never attain it, a devil's thought like banshee will whine.

Come back to me children, come back one day...and I'll tell you the story of a Frother's last day".

Like a vapor the old man of white he faded in woods, white beard, white robe into white rapids did he fold.

And the children did go on dark, wooded path, with pure fear in their heart of the Frother's wild dance.

Telavitians: One Sleepy Town

"Come here my young son. I have a story to tell," said the greying, old man.

The child ran quickly, as he loved his Grandfather's stories.

"There once was a sleepy, little town that existed in the land of Aire-wave.

Within the town, it's inhabitants would fight over things like slurs. In fact, they would lob slurs at one another in the hopes that the world beyond would take note of these lobs and perhaps see how foolish they were behaving.

After all, it is what adults do to separate themselves from the more child-like behavior of slur-slinging lob slobbers in the hamlet, Tel A'Vizeeon.

This hamlet had achieved some notable world-wide presence when a one, citizen Lucy, first came on the scene with her inter-race marriage (a leader in developing a more refined social conscience). Of course, the hamlet did also have some other noteriety with citizens Cramden (a public servant), a fellow named Caesar (who, ironically, made light of "the man"), citizen Bunker (he was once considered King), citizen Maude and even the trusted citizen's Cronkite and a rather gamey fellow known simply as "Dirty Dan".

All of the citizens of Tel A'Viz (or the more familiar name of "Tel-V") had a more highly developed sense of right and wrong than those people who lived outside the "walls" of their community.

I say "walls" as their community had a peculiar characteristic that made them more protected than civilizations of the past. There community really needed no traditional bastions, fortifications or other ramparts as they had the luxury of being somewhat like a gas (which takes the form of any vessel that "contains" it...if gas can ever really be contained; try pouring it from its container - it escapes at its own will).

The very nature of the community meant that its inhabitants could take virtually any form. Within one season, Lucy for instance, might be an ordinary housewife married to a Cuban exile...a few seasons later, a single mother who works at a Bank.

These citizens are really like shape-shifters and take on what-ever characteristics they deem of a form that needs some sort of re-shaping in the world outside the walls of Tel-V (a world which they sometimes very poorly emulate).

The Maoist would call it "re-education".

I suppose to the Daoist, some form of Nirvana.

To me, they were morons locked inside their own fantasy of grandeur...how important they must be in their minds, yet really only a gas cloud on a mighty wind.

I think the only major difference between Tel-A-vitians and the ordinary, every-day citizen of planet earth is that the Tel-A-vitian considers him or herself to be of a higher intellect and morally superior in every way.

The unfortunate part about the Tel-A-vitian is that he or she is the creation of one of the fallen sons.

The rest of this universe was created by the true God, and are all His children. The Tel-A-vitian exist by decree of a minor creation of that true God; a hapless emulator of that God known as a wraither.

The populus of this land are created in the mind of the wraither, and exist like ghosts...short-lived ghosts.

You see, the Telavitians can only exist if someone from the outside world pays attention to them.

When no one pays attention to them, they begin slinging more slurs in the hopes someone will be offended and once again take note of all the good they do for society at large. If not, they are but past gas.

They pick at one another and point out moral deficiencies in each, that should serve as example to the rest of us to forego behaving as they and choose a more enlightened path.

Trouble is, they never illuminate any path, much less a high one.

So they continue to live in this dank, cold and shapeless world and hurling insults at those poor slobs in the real world who give them credence and I think, are somehow intellectually robbed as the result of watching their antics.

One day, laddy, I'll have to tell you of the day I thought that the real world was going to be swallowed by a Telavitian gas cloud.

It was a good thing the smell was so horrible that it finally woke everyone up before we were all consumed.

But as I said, that is a story for another day".

Sterquilinium Endorsement

The Sterquilinium is proud to announce that it endorses Melanie Huml for the Bavarian Federal parliament. You can donate to her campaign at the following site:

http://melanie-huml.de/

Barrett Greenfield Chapter 2: "Lydia"

Dell and Dale waited patiently in the winter room of the Greenfield’s townhouse. The white plaster walls of the room were a stark contrast to the dark oak bookshelves that ran along the interior walls. The front curtains were drawn closed, and the myriad oil lamps had been lit, filling the room with yellow effulgence.

Barrett’s two brothers sat in the high-backed chairs at the far end of the room, while his father paced near the window.

“Good,” he said, as Barrett entered the room, “Barrett. Dell and Dale were about to begin where they left off yesterday. It seems they are determined to obey this unnatural habit. Please correct them.”

Barrett nodded and looked sternly toward the two boys. Dell and Dale were alike as possible, despite their disparate ages; Dell was two years younger than Barrett, and Dale another two. Both boys shared the blue-gray eyes of the Greenfield family, but were well on their way toward reaching their father’s immense stature. Now they sulked in their chairs, awaiting their chastisement.

“Dell, Dale,” Barrett began, “When one commences a lesson after a period of reflection, one must never resume at the point of the last conclusion. Rather, one must begin the lesson with the knowledge one has mastered, before proceeding to the knowledge that is yet to be gained. If you persist in inane behavior, let this inane platitude be your guide: take a step back before setting out on a journey, to make sure your house is secure.”

“Well done,” Bartle observed, “Barrett, please begin with politics, then proceed to mathematics.”

“Yes sir,” Barrett answered, and then turned to Dale.

“Dale, define the geopolitical structure.”

Dale breathed a sigh of relief: standing on well charted ground, and stood up.

“The world is divided by the King into divisions.” Bartle frowned at this introduction, but remained quiet. Dale noticed the frown and continued on uneasily.

“The largest of these divisions is the entire Kingdom, which spans the flat part of the globe from the mountains in the east to the ocean in the west. The Kingdom is divided into Protectorates, which are at the big cities, and numbered from Northwest to Southeast. The Protectorates are divided into Sectorates, which are evenly spaced and numbered within a Protectorate from Southwest to Northeast. In some Sectorates there are Villages. In some Sectorates there are no Villages. We are in the Village of Grainger in the Sectorate of Terriad in the Gnolla Protectorate.”

“Good, Dale,” Barrett answered, “but you should use the numbers instead of the names.”

“That is…” Dale corrected himself, “we are in the Village of Grainger in the THIRD Sectorate of the SECOND Protectorate.”

“Good,” Barrett answered, and looked at Bartle, who nodded.

“Now, Dale, explain to us the Law of Domains”

“The Law of Domains states that the set of all of the dependent variable’s values is the domain of a function, while the set of all the values for the independent variable is the range.”

“Wrong!” Dell yelled, and then quieted as Bartle’s stare came down on him. “You have it backward, Dale. It’s the independent variable whose values are the domain. The dependent variable is with the range.”

“Correct, Dell.” Bartle interjected, “Now explain for us the varying Fallacies of Relevance.”

Dale sat and Dell rose.

“The Fallacies of Relevance are thirteen in number. They are: Coercion, Abuse, Circumstance, Ignorance, Pity, Demagoguery, Irrelevant Authority, Interpolation, Extrapolation, False Cause, Circular Argument, Presumptive Premises, and Irrelevance of Conclusion.”

“Well done,” Barrett concurred. “Now explain the Fallacy of Extrapolation.”

“Very well,” Dell sighed, “The Fallacy of Extrapolation occurs when what is true in a particular specific case is assumed to be true in general, without consideration of whether the specific case is in fact typical or symptomatic of the larger case that is being proven.”

“Poorly spoken, Dell” Bartle began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. “Damnation!” he cursed, “They’re early as always!” With that he put his marker book down and strode out of the room toward the foyer.

“When does YOUR lesson start, Barrett?” Dale asked him snidely.

“Hush. Who’s here for dinner?”

“You mean you don’t know?” Dell chuckled.

Barrett felt his gut lurch, for after the indulgent afternoon he had spent, nursing his fears and licking old wounds, this was a dangerous time to be confronting anyone dangerous. And that is exactly what he detected in Dell’s tone.

And as he heard voices at the door, his fears were confirmed. It was indeed the family of Lydia Wolfwood, come to call.

*******

She stood in the foyer, with the soft glow of the oil lamps lighting her features. Barrett exercised all of his self-control to remain unaffected. Beside her stood her father, Havoc Wolfwood, and his wife Dana. Havoc was built like Barrett’s father, shorter, but solid and deeply tanned, with a thick mane of gold hair framing a square face and determined chin. His wife, Dana, was older than her years, her hair having gone white. The effect against her pale skin was almost appalling. Dana Wolfwood’s skittish eyes bounced around the room, before falling on Barrett. A thin smile crept across her face.

“Early again, eh, Wolfwood?” Bartle almost growled as he gestured them into the winter room before turning sharply toward the younger boys and barking: “Dell, Dale, fetch more chairs from the storeroom.”

“Dana was confused again,” Havoc Wolfwood explained, as his wife lowered her eyes, “She swore we were late, and wouldn’t give me a moment of peace until we started out.”

“No trouble,” Bartle replied, “we were just in the middle of lessons for the younger boys. We’ll put them off until later.” He walked back into the winter room, Havoc following with his wife and daughter behind. As Havoc passed Barrett, he gave him an appraising glance, much as he might give a breeding stock steer. Barrett nodded in response, and smiled at Dana and Lydia as they passed him.

“Awfully late to be giving lessons, Greenfield,” Havoc said, as he deposited himself into one of the menacing chairs, “You wouldn’t have had this problem if you’d been prompt in your lessons, as we are in the Wolfwood House.”

“An interesting theory, Wolfwood, but we prefer several lessons, staggered through the afternoon and evening, so as to more fully replicate the natural occurrence of problems.”

Dell and Dale bustled in with more chairs, which they placed neatly along the walls. They exited again, and Bartle took his seat by the window, gesturing Dana and Lydia to sit as well.

Barrett studiously avoided looking at Lydia, concentrating instead on the features of her father. Havoc grinned at Bartle Greenfield’s reply, and offered curtly:

“If you want to spoil your boys, that is your affair. Still for all intents and purposes you have done a fair job with this one.” He gestured toward Barrett.

Barrett’s eyes locked into a cold, fixed glare as they guests and his father turned to examine him. He was saved from their scrutiny by the loud entrance of his mother, bursting through into the foyer with her daughters in tow.

“Already! Well, it’s fortunate we were prepared in advance! Havoc, Dana, how are you? Lydia! You’ve grown in the last two days, I swear! Come! You will have refreshment. Just tell my daughters what you would like, and they will bring it.”

Well trained, Rose, Iris, and Clara lined up behind their mother and awaited their instructions. In a moment they were gone, executing their orders as Leda Greenfield joined the guests. When she had taken a chair, Barrett finally joined them, settling onto a seat neither too near or too far from Lydia.

“It has been too long since we have dined together, Dana. I believe that we have not had the pleasure since Clara’s little Leda was announced. Still, it is not unusual with so much work to do that there is little time for the luxuries of the city. We have more to do than socialize!”

“Hah!” Havoc snorted, “You are talking to the wrong woman, Leda. Dana is of the opinion that life is nothing but the social. She neglects the other realms of being in favor of that which is least productive.”

“Havoc,” Dana weakly protested, “You know that is not true.”

“How are your studies?” Bartle interrupted, pointedly drawing attention to Lydia to divert it from her mother. Barrett’s stomach muscles tightened, preparing himself for the onslaught of her voice.

“They are going well,” she answered, “But not as well as they might. I am perhaps hampered by my devotion to disparate majorities of interest. I recognize in myself a failure to adequately apportion my time, which, unfortunately, prevents me from reaching my full potential.”

“Recognizing it is half the battle,” Dana offered, defending her daughter from this unusual confession.

“That remains to be seen,” Lydia continued, “As Barrett can no doubt affirm, our studies of strategy indicate that the plan of attack is indeed critical to success, but continuous re-evaluation and adaptation are likewise crucial.”

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Dana offered.

“Bah! Platitudes!” Havoc spat. “When a thing is done, it is done. Done poorly is done poorly and done well is done well. But I have no fears for Lydia. She merely refers to her desire to join the Court of Nature.”

“It was one of our hopes for Barrett as well,” Leda added. “But he seems to show proclivity toward economics and management. He has a rare eye for cattle.”

“Yes, I fear that only one of our mature class will reach the Court,” Lydia responded.

“You speak of Calvin Applewood?” Bartle asked.

“Yes,” Lydia answered, “although I have no doubt that Barrett could attain that post if he sought it.” She looked straight at Barrett, smiling.

I will tell them!

As the eyes of the guest fell on Barrett once more, he found himself compelled to respond.

“It is a question of maximizing one’s resources, as Lydia indicated earlier. Strategy is not decided based solely on the conditions of the battlefield, or the desired objective, but also upon the resources one has available. It is nonsense for me to seek the Court of Nature if my talents are best suited elsewhere. Where I to yield to my desire to join the Court, I would do a disservice to the Court, this village, and myself. To complete the analogy, if possible, I must seek a battlefield appropriate to my resources.”

“Very true,” Havoc nodded, “Very true. Strategy says just that.”

Barrett nodded at Havoc, and glanced back at Lydia, whose smile was as intractable and simultaneously profound.

Barrett’s sisters returned with a tray of wineglasses, which they distributed to the guests. Barrett’s next youngest brother, Archer followed, bringing two decanters of wine, which he meted out in the wake of his sisters. All were silent for a moment.

“Well then. With such weighty matters as deciding the futures of our young now briefly and insufficiently discussed, let us turn toward the table.” With that outburst Leda Greenfield rose, and gestured toward the dining room, nodding Dell and Dale toward the kitchen to bring out the fare.

*****

Barrett edged his way through the remainder of the evening, savoring each exchange with Lydia, while inwardly trying to tamp down a growing unease at the purpose of this dinner. The continuous distraction of Havoc and Bartle’s aggressive rivalry was poised against the disconcerting silence of Dana Wolfwood. Barrett fought against reverie, placing himself at the periphery of conversation with Lydia, his sisters, and Havoc Wolfwood. But he could not shake the appraising looks that the Wolfwoods gave him, nor the equivalent notice given Lydia by his parents. This was becoming frighteningly obvious, and it stirred Barrett to a near ecstasy of anticipation and dread.

When at last the meal was done, Leda invited Lydia and Dana to view the garden, while Havoc and Bartle adjourned to the winter room. Barrett was left to join his sisters and brothers in clearing the table and returning the kitchen to order.

Working as hard as he could, Barrett tried not to notice the smiles of his sisters and the smirks of his younger brothers. He avoided all efforts to lure him into conversation:

“Lydia is very attractive, isn’t she, Barrett?” Clara asked him.

“Empirically, yes.” Barrett answered, and returned to cleaning the pans.

“You know, the Wolfwoods’ land borders ours on at least eighty percent run on the western side. Doesn’t it, Barrett?”

“Actually it is closer to 60 percent, Archer, but their parcel extends on the southern border as well, and including that part of the perimeter, your figure might be correct.”

“Lydia has her mother’s coloring, doesn’t she, Barrett?”

“That is obvious, Iris.”

The assault continued unabated until Leda, Dana, and Lydia returned from their tour of the Grounds. Upon their entry into the house, they proceeded to the parlor. Leda summoned Barrett after a few minutes.

Barrett walked, stone-faced, into the parlor. Leda and Dana had drawn up chairs around the cold fireplace, while Lydia was relaxing in a stuffed chair by the rear window. Leda gestured Barrett toward the sofa.

“Let your sisters finish in the kitchen, Barrett. The boys have studies to attend to. Your father might be some time in the winter room.”

“Yes.”

“Lydia told us the most interesting story about you while we were in the garden.” Barrett’s skin grew cold, and he glanced at Lydia, who only smiled that same obstinate smile.

“Yes?”

“I had no idea you had drawn cartoons when you were in Village School.” Leda grimaced as she said the word ‘cartoons.’

“Yes, it’s true.” Barrett responded.

“Why did we never hear of this at home?”

“There was no need. It had no meaning.”

“Exactly. It was a frivolous activity, was it not?”

Dana looked embarrassed, and Lydia’s smile grew a touch harder, but Barrett eased. He had handled this in the past, and it was nothing new to defend.

“Mother, you misconstrue. When I say ‘meaningless,’ I am intending to imply that the drawing of cartoons has no bearing on anything outside of the classroom. What you infer, I believe, is that the activity of drawing cartoons is a meaningless one, which is far from the case. Allow me to provide more background, which perhaps Lydia felt was unimportant to her story.

“You are aware that the practice of artistic representation continues in Village School? I understood that it has been in place since before you attended…”

“Yes, it has,” Leda answered, “but artistic representation is quite different from cartooning.”

“Potentially, yes,” Barrett continued, “but in this instance, it is quite similar. I believe you have committed the Fallacy of Interpolation. In general, cartooning is indeed frivolous. The comic artistic representation of individuals, scenery, or animals is pointless. What has been often overlooked, however, is the practical aspect of the cartoon as a method for rapid depiction. While traditional artistic representation stresses the accuracy of the image, cartooning stresses the recognition of salient features in the target of the image. While the artistic image may convey a truer image, the cartoon conveys the essentials of the image in the most expeditious manner. The benefits are twofold. First, the exercise of cartooning helps to train the mind to quickly recognize salient features. The import of this skill is obvious. Second, the exercise of cartooning trains the hand to produce rapid, meaningful images. This practice could be of great use in communication. For example, in the study of non-stationary animals, the use of cartooning to capture the essentials of the animals mode of movement is of great use in understanding the mechanics of their motion.

“I explained all of this to the Schoolmasters, and they were persuaded by my arguments. Although I agreed to discontinue the practice of cartooning, due to my choice of several Schoolmasters as the objects of my study.”

Leda looked at Dana and Lydia with a look of triumph.

“Dana,” Leda smugly began, “I must show you the new cabinets that Bartle has designed for me.” Rising, she nodded to Lydia and Barrett, and led Dana from the room.

The queasiness returned to Barrett’s gut. He looked after his mother for longer than was necessary, for he could feel Lydia’s eyes on him. Finally, he turned and met her gaze. It was almost physically painful, feeling the dull ache of his heart in concert with the dizzy fear that his mind embraced.

“You amaze me, Barrett,” Lydia said calmly.

“How so?” Barrett whispered. Stunned neither by her words or the full beckoning lips that spoke them, but by the very unreality of both.

“Your mother is no fool, but she utterly failed to see the various fallacies in your argument. For that matter, so did the Schoolmasters.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken.”

“No. I don’t believe I am. And you don’t either.”

Barrett was silent, waiting for her to continue. He had nothing to say to Lydia that would not damn him. He wanted, above all, to throw himself at her feet and declare his love, declare that she could hurt him all she wanted, as long as she forgave him for what he was. But he could not do that. His instinct for self-preservation was paramount, even in the face of her myriad charms.

“Why do you say nothing?” Lydia asked.

“What is there to say,” Barrett answered, “when you have reached your conclusion.”

“I might be wrong…” Lydia replied, tentatively, almost fearfully. Barrett suffered an intense stab of hope, but remained composed.

“Convince me that I am wrong…”

Barrett simply stared at her, taking in her features and longing for something he could say - some way to preserve both hope and survival. But he could think of nothing, because she was right. So he sat there, paralyzed by an unquenchable desire and a resolute fear of destruction.

She might have decided for him, or spurred him to decide, but the door to the winter room opened, and the voices of Bartle and Havoc were heard in the foyer, laughing.

Lydia cast a fixed, pregnant gaze on Barrett, who returned it with cold resolve, before Havoc called for them in the foyer.

“Dana! Lydia! Come on, we’re going!”

Barrett followed Lydia out into the foyer, where the door stood ajar, and Havoc warmly shook hands with first Bartle, and then Leda.

“A very rewarding evening. We must do this again, soon.”

“Yes,” Bartle responded, “I believe we have come to understanding and have only to cement our agreements.”

“I’m so satisfied, Leda,” Dana agreed. “So satisfied!”

“Well, it’s getting late,” Leda replied, somewhat abruptly, “Dana, Lydia, I appreciate your companionship this evening. Havoc, it is always fulfilling to have you visit our home.”

Barrett muttered goodbyes to Havoc and Dana, and nodded to Lydia, who left without a word, only throwing one cacophony smile back over her shoulder.

The door swung closed.

First International Cognitive Artist's Exhibition

The Cognitive Artist's Guild (CAG) has announced its first International Exhibition, to be held in Knoxville, TN on Saturday, January 20, 2007 at Victor Ashe Park. CAG members must show their CAG ID to be eligible for competition. There will be no registration fee or registration.

The International Cognitive Artist's Exhibition replaces the Cognitive Artist's Jubilee, or Cogjüb, which had been the premier gathering of CAG members for the past eight years.

Up's and down's on Saturday, somber afternoon

New site. What a sight. Outta sight!

Boning up on my "hippie-ese", now that their queen is in control (or is she and the Boxer really outta control, man...like, careening).

Eva-thang kewl, baaay-bee. Kewl jewel.

Numbers galor! Tracking (how nice).

With visitors from Linnie and Mac (obviously a high caliber clientele), and such pretty graphs to keep up with them, welcome them. Get their number and make them feel "to home".

It's nice here in the dung...comfortable, warm. I like that smell of reconstituted straw - earthy, peaty, bohemian even.

It's the devil's domain, baby. "Rot heya".

Installments, installments.

With friends like lil' Timmy, Barett, n' Tisza and the rest...you hardly notice the smell at all.

And all on Al Gore's dime (now there's a stench that'll knock a blister off a bull's ass).

Wow, "ain't it cool" ?

It's as cool as global warmin'.

A convenient lie, for an incongruant teller of "truths". The soothsayer say, or so I've heard.

Thanks cousin Al. Thinks we'll like our stay!

Good Googela-moogel-ah.

The sun, she's a shinin'.

It's time to make the hay.

The Great White Mallard: Chapter One: The Timmies

Sterquilinium

In a forgotton corner of Maryville, Tennessee, stood Timmy the Cow. Timmy was unconcerned that she was given a boy's name. In fact, Timmy was unconcerned about everything but protecting the herd. Timmy was a knuckler. And not just any knuckler, but the baddest-ass knuckler in Maryville... if you were counting only cows in your knuckler sample.

But there was another Timmy in Maryville, and this Timmy, while not a knuckler, was certainly no stranger to fisticuffs. This Timmy, being human, had more than one name (although, to be fair, Timmy the Cow was also known as Timmy Barnabas). Timothy Tyro Timmons hailed from Newcastle, UK, although he buried his Jeordie accent as deeply as Nancy Pelosi's conscience. Not even Timmy's wife Tyra knew he was a Brit. Tyra Timmons was Argentinian - in fact, a third cousin (twice removed) of Eva Duarte (on her mother's side). Consequently Tyra, though one would think her to be in a position to notice subtle variations in Timmy's accent, was deaf to the differences.

Timmy Timmon's route from Newcastle to Maryville was a long one. His father, Dr. Sigmund Timmons, was an earlier pioneer in bovine diseases. From the time Timmy was a toddler, his world was full of the mad mumblings of his father: mumblings about "Crater Hoof Disease," "Lulu's Lupus", and, most tellingly, "Mad Cow Disease."

Dr. Timmons had indeed stumbled early on the first instance of Mad Cow Disease, or MCD, as he often called it. And his horror infected his son in a deep and permanent manner. And thus when Lance Corporal Timmy Timmons of the SAS was deployed to the Falklands during the brief war with Argentina, he knew he was walking into the jaws of hell. For there was virtually nothing in Argentina except cows.

Timmy was a man of duty, though, and early in the conflict, he was able to operate with his squad in the sheep-infested regions of the Falklands themselves. Until one fateful night, when he was deployed on a mission to kidnap the American singing sensation Cindi Lauper, who was staying on her Argentinian ranch while she prepared a benefit concert for the Argentinian cause. By the end of that night, Lauper would be fleeing in tears back to America, Timmy would be AWOL with an Argentinian folk dancer named Tyra, and over 1,000 head of prime beef would be rotting in the Argentinian dawn.

But this escapade will have to remain untold for now, as will the tale of Timmy's unfortunate tenure as a convoy driver for the Bluebell Bus Company in Meigs County. For now we must return to Maryville, where Timmy Timmons was about to come face to face with Timmy the Cow.

Philo - Found!

Sterquilinium

"11. Philo, the deacon from Cilicia who has been so well spoken of, is at present giving me his help in preaching God's word. So too is Rheus Agathopous, one of the elect, who has followed after me from Syria, and abjured this earthly life"

- Ignatius: The Epistle to the Philadelphians, AD 98-117.

Xavier Martel

Storyline: The Montenegran

He was a huge man, by the standards of big men, but even bigger than most of them would imagine a large man who they'd like to emulate to be, for he was even bigger than them.

A large, fattened and bulbous foot dangled over the side of the patchwork yellow life raft; toes like over-ripened plumbs dripped the fresh waters of the river Morava and "plunked" in its still surface causing small fish to skip across the water fleeing in fear for their very lives.

His forehead seemed as bulbous and ripend as his fattened toes, except for the rather odd looking wound that looks as if it were left by a tuning fork, or perhaps the odd death star.

The massive frame of Vardar Pannonianium could barely fit in the life raft...in fact, it looked more as if he were surrounded by children's water wings, or maybe floating in the intertube from the left front wheel of a 1957 Eireflite "Shopper" De Soto Station Waggon, the one with the 341 cubic inch engine and 4 barrell carbs...what a motor in such a body, and what a body, in such a life raft.

A dribble of water had run down from the scab on his forehead and he noticed with his good eye, the one that was slowly working its way back in its orbit to once again look forward, rather than up at the wound in his head, (he was becoming bored with the scene, and this a feat for him) he watched with that eye the droplet descend slowly down his bulbuous pig snout an then fall as if from a cliff down, down to his T-shirt below.

"Damn," he thought, "dees ees my good T-shirt".

Yes, a good T-shirt it was, as for once he had one that would cover down to his waste. It still wouldn't tuck in his britches, but most his T-shirts only covered the upper portion of his chest, just below the twin beer barrels that were his pectorial muscles.

"Vonder vhere I got dees ting? And das n dees headache...feels like dee time Vardar vus hit between dee eyes with zat arrow. Mmmmm....Cle...," he tried to read the letters that bridged his armpits from side to side..."Cleve...Cleeve...Clevland ROCKS !"

"Wow, vonder vhere dees came frohm?"

Vardar was pleased. Here he was in a River that he knew from his youth and no doubt on the Pannonian plains that were named for his ancestors and from whom he derived his last name - Pannonianium (which tranlates, roughly, from the Montenegran to "Mud Head").

"Zee last zing I veemember ees verking out in a Gym in America somevhers? St. Louis, I tink, or maybe Manhattan?".

And he was right, as what little senses he ever had were slowly beginning to return, like some dog that had been previously hit by a car, but who's sense of smell had slowly begun to return and so the dog tries to walk, and hunt and to run on its leg, only to find that its smell is much better than its ability to run on a single good leg.

Such was the case with Vardar, only he had all his legs.

The allusion was meant to point to the fact that Vardar, unlike most humans, operated on a single brain cell. One cell that controlled them all.

Well.

The author now ponders on yon reader with a raised brow.

"Hmmmmm...shall I break out the McGuffee reader? NO, I think I'll continue with the plight of dear friend, Vardar, and try and refrain from obscured reference to another's work."

A rather large piece of stone masonry was loosed from its mortar in the main pilon for the bridge.

Vardar's foot had managed to knock it loose as his raft crashed into the stone foundation.

Fortune was always on Vardar's side.

As a boy of ten, it was noted by all the other town's people of the Autonomous Province of Vojvodina that the lad was "special". He was a dear boy, slow to anger and quick to help all in need.

Some local "toughs" known to all as the "Hapsburg Boys" had been marauding town, tossing paint on the farmer's barns, and lighting piles of hay on fire. Fearsome they were, and quite the marauders.

One day, Tisza Rusyn (known as "teaser", the worse of the worst), the leader of the Hapsburg Boys had the extreme misfortune of capturing in his bare foot a thorn from a wild rose bush that had been lying in wait in the cold Winter rye. Well, this of course brought a tear to Vardar's eye, who had been watching from the freshly painted barn above.

"Hold on zar," bellowed the beheamouth (for even at ten years of age, Vardar had already achieved the size of most giants).

Vardar rushed to young Tisza's aid "I'll get zee thorn," boomed Vardar.

Of course, Tisza was almost in tears at the thought of what the monster would do to his foot.

"Be careful Vardar, or I'll paint your Mother's garden shed."

"Oh Teesa, you ahhh such da Teas-uh - ah, ha, ha, ha, ha."

Vardar, thinking on his one good cell, found a needle on the floor of the barn and picked it up in his teeth. He used the needle, his massive teeth, and the unique postioning ability of his eye (for his eyes had never been straight, even before the incident with the death star in that American Gym) to remove the thorn.

This would prove fateful for Vardar, and for Tisza Rusyn.

"Vardar, what the hell are you doing in that raft? Don't you know that Winter is not a good time for a cruise?," Tisza yelled from above on the bridge.

"Get out of that damned water and get up here in my waggonere and get dry."

Tisza Rusyn had recieved his education from the graduate program in development in a collaboration between Brown University and the Watson Institute for International Studies. His concentration was in "Complimentary Politics", which he was advised to take after almost being expelled for painting the woodshed behind the Dean's home on campus an appropriate shade of brown.

Complimentary Politics, it was thought, might calm the spirted boy down and get him to focus on his studies.

He had finally accomplished his life-long dream of saving enough money to buy the 1957 Eireflite "Shopper" De Soto Station Waggon he had always dreamt of. With its unique design, three on the column gears, 341 cubic inches of raw power, it was a force to reckon with, especially given the two-cyliner SAAB's that most local police in Vojvodstvo; AND, it was two tone (red on white).

"I would ask rather nicely that you get your rather large rear in gear, climb that river bank and get in the back of the waggonere, Vardar. We have an appointment with Ugrin Čak, and we mustn't keep Master Čak waiting."

Vardar climbed the bank as Tisza recommend in such polite, dare say "complimentary" fashion.

He adjusted the life raft which he was now wearing over his shoulders and wrapped around his neck like a big, yellow suit, his arms "fitted" through the floor of the raft after dreaming that he had been hugging his pet Python, Slinky.

He climbed in the back of the waggon and away they sped, chased by young local toughs trying desperately to flick paint on Teaser's waggon.

"How did Vardar get in dat reever?," Vardar asked in usual quixiotic fashion.

"Vardar, my dear boy, do you not remember when the military picked you up in the Lean-firm Gym in Little Lima-Lima, Ohio? Our good friend from Greenback, Mr. Lester Dong and a cadre of his choicest cadets arrived there not long after some sort of altercation had transpired. All they could find were a couple of dead pallookas, some ultra-thin (and quite tiny cigarillo butts) and you, muttering something about "I deeden't see dat coming", with a damned death star sticking out of your thick skull like a hard pecker.

"According to Dong, there were 9mm shells from a glock all over the place, and some poor bloke had a set of numbchucks sticking out of his ass".

"Dong thought it looked like the work of some Frenchman. Kiss-a-blow or something," related Tisza.

"Zat vould be Quisleau...Herve"

"God bless you !," relayed the most polite Tisza.

"No, no, I deedn't sneezle, hees name, hees name is Herve," said Vardar.

"God bless you !", again confused.

"Herve Quisleau...dat eeze dee name of dee mon in dee Lean-Firm Gym...hee ees dee man dat give Vardar dees headache. He a very bad man.", spouted the enlightened, single-brain celled Vardar.
"Well, we have a mission now," said Tisza. "Let's get ourselves to Greenback."

*********************************

Lester Dong revved the props on the old airplane. Yeah it was vintage WWII, but so what. It crossed continents and oceans, and it would carry them back to Greenback.

He looked at his watch. 9:30 pm.

Tisza was supposed to be here with the giant no later than nine.

He took another "pull" from the whiskey. It reminded him of home. His mom would always serve whiskey at breakfast.

He looked again at his watch...9:35 "Damn, where are they?", he thought.

The ramp from the belly was extended down to the tarmac and awaited the arrival of the station wagon. He'd transport the whole shoot'n shabang back to the states.

Back to Greenback, where they all belonged.

**********************************

"Hold onto your life raft Vardar," Tisza exclaimed.

"We are up for one hell of a ride".

The waggonere belched fire as she zoomed up the runway, into the belly of the bird. Its pistons clamored like Usorian sleigh bells, and fire flew from her ass like a Bačkan whore after a night with the huns.

Ugrin Čak and Lester Dong now awaited them for their debriefing.

They explained to poor Vardar that they had rescued him from the Gym in America and were administering first aid on the flight back to Vojvodina, when he awoke, exclaimed "Vyoule neva take me alive, you commie peegs", grabbed a life raft, pulled the inflate string like a rip-cord and jumped out the door of the plane yelling "YEEE-ron-OH-MO".

"Our prayer was that you'd hit the river," said Čak. "And it looks like you did !".

They all had a good laugh.

This contingent, now reunited, soared across the dark Croatian night and with them carried a new day across the planet and to Greenback beyond and their peerless leader, Platu.

Ode to a Fallen Beast

Oh beheamouth so dark and grey
the skies above weep this day
in thy honor, fallen tear doth say
in thy honor, your life now slain.

Thy hooves while dirtied,
silver haunch now stained;
once steamed breath
now...gone away?

Metal-clad ribs
and iron soul beneath,
your countenance, your measure
against you, no enemy relieved.

Is there life in this heart?
Any spirit or soul?
You legs once like pistons,
Your drive a million fold.

For you no kind words,
no heroes reward.
Your life disassembled,
any accolade, untoward.

So charge on silver beast,
on this final ride.
Your undiscovered country,
only it scars grey hide.

Storyline: The Mushroomy Transformation of Juan-Henri Mcgill, continued.

Sterquilinium

Juan-Henri found himself in a dingy backroom of Wong's Fungi, sitting across the table from the muttonchopped man. For a couple of moments, "Muttonchops," as JH thought of him, said nothing, only staring evenly across at Mcgill, who stared back. Finally, after an interminable silence, Muttonchop spoke.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"Let me guess... it's because I asked for Loppy-tan mushrooms."

"Oh yes... yes Dr. Mcgill. But it's so much more than that."

"What do you mean? And how do you know my name? And how do you know about the doctorate?"

"We know a great deal about you, Doctor. We've been following your studies for some time."

"Studies?"

"Yes. And now let me ask you: Does the name Artie Schopenhauer mean anything to you?"

Mcgill paused. He felt a rushing sensation at the back of his skull, as the humiliation and degradation of his Yale days came rushing in upon him. Finally he answered.

"Yes. OK - so you know about the whole Kierkegaard/Schoppenhauer thing. Big deal."

"Quite an embarassment for you, wasn't it?"

"Let me answer you this way... suppose you had just completed your doctoral dissertation on Kierkegaard's delight in the traumatic descents of the elderly, when you happened to look up the event in Philosophical Anecdotes, only to discover that it was Schopenhauer, not Kierkegaard, all the time? How would you feel, you muttonchopped limey bastard?"

Muttonchop seemed unperturbed by Mcgill's vitriol, and merely replied,

"But, Doctor, what if you found out you were right?"

"Right? Don't toy with me."

"Let me put this a different way... we would like to hire you, Doctor."

Juan-Henri was stunned. Why would they want to hire him, knowing his great error. He thought for a moment.

"Why would you want to hire me, knowing my great error?"

"Again, Doctor, as I said before, it is not that you are wrong, but that you are right."

"Now I know you're some crazy mushroom addict... I'm wrong! Dead wrong! And not just about Kierkegaard, but about everthing! Neil Simon did not write "A Doll's House," it's not Heisenberg's Special Theory of Relativity, and Shiela E is not the drummer for Rush!"

Muttonchop pushed a paper across the desk at Mcgill. After scanning it for a moment, Mcgill's eyes widened.

"Can this be true?"

"Yes, Doctor - it is true. And it is one of the great secrets of Philosophy. Though Schopenhauer was born twenty-five years before Kierkegaard, their lives overlapped. In fact, as you know, Kierkegaard died five years before Schopenhauer. But the real trick came fifteen years after Schoppie's own demise, when a polish graduate student named Gherkin Mahamot transposed their names in his own doctoral thesis. For some reason, which our organization has never been able to uncover, the entire literary and philosophical establishment was in on the conspiracy, and every extant copy of Kierkegaard and Schopenhauer's works were edited to reverse responsibility for this one anecdote."

Mcgill sat in silence. If this were true...

"You see, Doctor, where you have gone your whole life thinking that you are cursed, it is in fact that you have a rare gift. It is called meta-gnosis. A secret, hidden knowledge of truth, even when all evidence is to the contrary. So you see, it was, in fact, Heisenberg that divined the special theory of relativity, and it is in fact Shiela E who plays the skins for the Canadian power-trio."

"So... what do you want me for?"

"It's simple. Our organization, Her Majesty's Royal Mounted Marines Special Urban Combat Commando Squad, needs men like you. Or not just men like you, for there are indeed no others, but you in particular. We are in the midst of the most terrible conspiracy, a world-shaking enigma whose twists and turns confound the most gifted of logicians. Disinformation is everywhere. Have you ever heard of Earl Platudinor?"

"Who hasn't? My graduate advisor Dr. Menlo has even met him. He's Warren Buffet's financial mentor, and the guy who told Steve Jobs to start Microsoft."

"Precisely. Now, a second question. Do you have any idea why your employer, Taibachi-san, would send you into Kalamazoo for a load of Loppie-tans?"

"No."

"Are you familiar with Sentosa Island in Singapore?"

"Yes - it's a sort of garden island across from the port. If I am correct (and I never am), it's also the only home of the Spindly Legged Wombat."

"Exactly, and do you know what is the only food for the Spindly Legged Wombat?"

"Let me guess," Mcgill said quickly, "the Loppie-tan mushroom".

"Again, precisely, Doctor," Muttonchopped answered, in a satisfied manner. "Now, Doctor, let me fill you in on current events. Four days ago, we discovered that the last remaining Loppies had been destroyed by a one-armed, red headed scandinavian named Hansel Daggerfjord. This is unfortunate, not only because it threatens to extinguish the Spindly Legged Wombat from the earth, thus damaging our biodiversity, but because an excretion from the Spindly Legged Wombat's pituitary gland is the primary ingredient in the deadly nerve agent XZ-27."

"I see... but why do you want me?"

"Look at yourself, Doctor. You are the perfect weapon. A man who is the sole avatar of meta-gnosis, who also holds degrees in philosophy, sociology, and psychology, as well as an undergraduate degree in quantum physics. A man who is skilled in Brazilian Judo, Tai-kwan-do, Jujitsu, and Karate. A man who was a demolition specialist in the Navy SEALS, and who pilots experimental aircraft as a hobby. In fact, your only weakness is a lack of experience with corporate accounting."

Juan Henri coughed, and Muttonchop looked at him suspiciously.

"Have I missed something, doctor?"

"Well," Mcgill said reluctantly, "I suppose I should tell you that to bring in extra cash, I have been moonlighting doing compliance audits for Arthur Andersen."

"Perfect!"

--------

Two hours later, Muttonchop was on the phone.

"He bought the whole thing."

"Excellent."

Her Majesty's Royal Mounted Marines Special Urban Combat Commando Squad had a new recruit, and Sultan Zhpat had a new minion.