It is getting louder again The sound of onrushing waters Drowning out the sound of drowning Masking water rising to sweep away The very fountain from which it upwells Swallow it into sinking depths Into which no sun can shine Into which the shit of luckier creatures far above falls Unceasing snow in every season
Bubble, bubble… Photo by Gabriel Peter on Pexels.com
Maybe something will fall from on high that is worth having But if it does It will do so ungently And find the forehead’s center Splattering messily or Thudding soddenly
I’m happy to put my skills to work for you. Take a minute to fill out the form below, and we’ll talk about what you need done!
Because they fear what they do not control
Because they fear what they do control
Because they know what bows to them today
May stand taller than they tomorrow
And they fear to be looked down upon for more reasons than
Shame at growing bald
Because they know what kneels before them tonight
Might suddenly bite down
Take a small mouthful away instead of
A tablespoon of lukewarm soup
Because they know that they do not know
And they do not want others to know as much
Because they know that they are not enough
They do as they do
Reaching out one hand to grip a bar they think was
Planted long before and not realizing that
It has never stood as straight as they see it, that
It is bent and curved and knurled
As any can find who bestir themselves to seek
And go a bit from where they began
Some need no cutting down to size… Photo by Nishant Aneja on Pexels.com
They do not want to be so moved
Clearly
And so they keep their hands upon that bar
Clinging to it as the world will move them up and down
Their palms sliding
As they must
Which would not be so bad if they did not force so many
Not only to observe
But to take part in their little shows
I’m happy to write to order for you, from Jeremiads to assessment text, from haiku to sonnets to semi-alliterative tetrameter, from essays to ad copy. Just fill out the form below to tell me what you need, and we can work on it!
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
Another message in the ongoing exchange between Detozi and Erek sent along with official business between Traders’ Councils precedes “Changes.” As the chapter begins, Sedric paddles and considers the changes going on in him, on which Carson remarked the night before. Their conversation about those changes is rehearsed, and Sedric mulls over the need to keep parts of himself hidden from his lover. Relpda intrudes upon his reverie, noting the coming of changes.
Sintara muses over her current situation and that of the other dragons with her. The changes going on in her own body please her. The changes going on among the keepers do not, and she looks on as Mercor and Kalo summon the keepers to attend. The dragons’ actions provoke ire from Leftrin at the treatment of the Tarman, and Kalo demands a keeper to replace Greft. A scuffle among the dragons breaks out, which Mercor swiftly subdues. Discussion proceeds, more calmly but not without tension, and Carson’s nephew, Davvie, volunteers to the task of keeping Kalo, and Carson finds himself conscripted to aid the belligerent Spit. Sintara considers the changes occurring in Thymara, finding herself startled at some of the particulars, and determines to guide their further course. The dragons set out, compelling the rest to follow.
The dragons are long noted in the Elderlings novels as being mirrors to humans, the Fool making the parallel explicit more than once. If that is the case, and if, in a more “literary critical” sense, the dragons are metaphors for (certain) people, then I have to wonder what comment is being made with the casual assumption of authority over humans on the dragons’ part. Admittedly, it is persistent throughout the Rain Wilds Chronicles–and in earlier Elderlings novels–but it seems more prominent at present than elsewhere, with the offhanded consideration of eating Greft and the assertion that new keepers will make themselves available to the dragons. There are reasons for the new keepers to agree, of course; desire and fear are powerful motivators, as no shortage of advertising demonstrated. But even so, there is an arrogance in the dragons that…I wish I could say I see it rarely in the world around me and the people in it.
My wishes are many. Not many are granted.
It will, of course, be the case that some will complain of striving toward such a reading. “It’s just a story,” some will say. “Why do you have to make it political?” or some other purportedly objectionable thing. The thing is, though, that I’m not making it any way. The words are on the page, whoever reads them. All of us who do read, though, approach the text from the perspective/s we inhabit, and those perspectives emerge from our own orientation. When I had students, I explained it to them as a combination of where we’re from, when we’re from, and who we’re from. Even if we place ourselves into the positions of other, we do so only to the extent that we are able to imagine those positions, and those imaginings are themselves constrained as we are. And, all of those constraints reflect the circumstances in which we have lived; they are all necessarily already political, whether in terms of party alignments, demographics, ideological orientations, or other factors.
Reading is always a communal act. Any community will necessarily have “politics.” The questions become whose are reflected and in what ways.
Like how I write? Want me to write for you? Fill out the form below!
Around this time last year, I posted a translation I did of The Dream of the Rood. It’s been on my mind again in recent weeks, partly because it is the time of year that it is, and partly because of some other things going on about which I might comment at some point or another; I am not yet certain. Today, I have some leisure to attend to it, having been given an unexpected day off from my regular job, something for which I am grateful; I rather enjoy writing, however good or otherwise I might be at the task, and the thinking that undergirds it has its charms, so that the opportunity to engage in both is a welcome thing.
For many, especially in this part of the world, the day serves as a reminder of sacrifice and the necessary costs of salvation, prepaid for those who, like the dreamer in the poem, are aftercomers “stained with sins, / badly wounded with sins.” (I think I could polish the translation more, but that is another project for another time, one of many that might be imagined.) Much is made of the magnitude of the sacrifice, of the agony that was endured by those crucified in the Roman style, and better theologians and historians than I can speak more eloquently and accurately to the same.
For my own part, as often, I find myself coming up with questions that I expect would be heterodoxies to voice–if not more. Ideas about their answers abound for me, offering other projects that might be undertaken; there is never a shortage of them, although there are shortages of my time and talents to attend to them all. (I would seem to have internalized humilitas to some extent, both sincerely and otherwise.) But if I were to voice one idea, one that might not be so divergent as all that: the story so widely celebrated today, the self-sacrificial sin-taking for others’ redemption, speaks to many to say that there is some hope, and that even amid those who would abuse laws to persecute those whom they perceive as threats to their power, there is some sympathy to be found.
I am not sure, certainly, how far to follow that idea, how far it can be followed. That there are limits to any such thing, I am well aware; indeed, one of the standard questions I pose in the lesson plans I still write is to find the point of failure and interrogate it. But I am no longer at the front of the classroom, so it is not for me to push others to such contemplations. It is for me, however, to conduct them myself, and a solemn observance–even in advance of a joyous occasion–offers opportunity for such things.
I remain grateful for such things.
Like what I write? I’m happy to write for you; do me a favor, take a minute, and fill out the form below. See what I can do for you!
Something about sitting under a springtime sun Staring into the open blue sky In advance of the evening’s enjoyment Prompts pondering on what has passed to this point How many such days Or sultry summer afternoons and their languid evenings Or autumn nights warmed by flickering flames and fragrant smoke Or winter mornings spent snuggled beneath blankets Have been lost to labor for others’ gain For no better reasons than another’s profit, And the scraps from their table Copper crumbs falling from crackling lips That grimace as any other’s gain
The most benign…
Like the work I do? Want some done for you? Reach out through the form below!
Gone out and partied instead of
Staying in and studying
Slacked off and coasted instead of
Showing up and working hard
Made friends and talked to people instead of
Sitting alone in the room with books
Played outside or lounged about instead of
Taking the job and
Showing up for every holiday
…and never was. Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
But I did not
They told me not to
Said doing as I did would lead to success
And it might be called success to be
Working in a field for which I never trained
Working to pay off the debts that cluster in my name
Working so that others may profit all the more
Working day and night each day and night
But if this is success
What must failure be?
Like what I write? Want some done for you? Fill out the form below, and we’ll see what we can do!
The jewels upon her dress are losing their luster And the dyes of its fabric begin to fade Its warp and weave fraying and growing ragged On her chalk-like rolling swellings as He lays his castings out longer and harder daily
Picture not related Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.com
Worse Of course Are the clinging things Bloating up with blood on which they feast Clamoring for more And turning away from the sight of the sky as they beset her
Still She is beloved Deeply and by many And the thought of leaving her Though such parting might be needed Is no easy thing
If you like the work I do, fill out the form below and see what I can do for you!
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
A trio of missives coming in rapid succession note the concerns and lack thereof of Trader families in Bingtown for Alise and Sedric; they are accompanied by continued messages from the bird-keeper Erek to Detozi. They precede “Reeds,” which opens with Leftrin surveying the continues progress of the Tarman upstream as night begins to fall upon the expedition to Kelsingra. The local flora and fauna receive no small consideration, and Leftrin notes the acceptance of Alise by the liveship he commands. Leftrin’s thoughts turn to his continued affair with her before his reverie is halted by her questions about their course along the river. After some discussion, they note the presence of clearly artificial elements in their surroundings.
Something like this, perhaps? Photo by Mabel Amber on Pexels.com
Discussion and investigation follow, with Alise charging ahead despite objections from Sedric and Leftrin’s concern. She finds structures not far under the surface of the water, and the dragons move to investigate further. Mercor pulls on something beneath the surface, triggering a reaction that startles Alise, and as she is pulled back aboard a boat from the Tarman, the dragons move to avail themselves of what Sedric explains they have found: guest accommodations for dragons, built by Elderlings before. Alise and Leftrin both purpose to record findings, and despite their intent, the decision is made to press ahead the next day.
Later, Thymara breaks off a budding assignation with Tats, citing concerns about pregnancy. Tats reacts poorly to the decision, for which Thymara upbraids him. They fall into an argument that is interrupted by loud upset from the dragons, Kalo raging against Greft. Greft falls into the water and is retrieved, brought aboard the Tarman, and restored to consciousness. Leftrin questions him, harshly, and learns that Greft had asked Kalo for blood and to be made into an Elderling, but had been refused vehemently. Sylvie reports that Kalo had suspected Greft of wanting to take blood to sell, which Greft admits before noting that many in the expedition had been put to that purpose to secure an alliance with Chalced. Violence erupts, and secrets come out. Greft confesses the changes working ill upon him, changing him in ways that will kill him, and Leftrin notes the extent of his complicity in the matter.
The present chapter is another place where I find myself reading with affect and the recollection of my decades-gone adolescence. The argument between Thymara and Tats is all too close to more than one I recall having in the long-ago days before I met the woman who is now my wife. I am not proud of it, that I acted such, but I doubt very much that I am alone in having done it. So much does not excuse the behavior, and I have worked to be better since. How I will address such things with my daughter–because I do not doubt that she will have the experience of similar arguments, and I can hope she will be as certain of herself as Thymara is, although I will hope she is better informed–is a matter of increasing concern for me as she gets older. But I do not think I am alone in being concerned for a growing child. I know I am not alone in worry for Ms. 8.
(Again, I must note that I do not approve of Tats’s behavior. I understand it, I sympathize with it, but I also recognize it as wrong. That the pot has been patinaed does not mean it errs to note the kettle’s hue.)
In terms of narrative structure, the present chapter seems to be something of a Freytagian (is that the word?) climax. Part of this are the positions in the book of the chapter and in the series of the book; the Rain Wilds Chronicles is a tetralogy, and the present chapter is near the end of the second book. Being nearly the middle of the overall narrative arc, the present chapter is a good place to move into climax. Moreover, the revelation of secrets and explication of tensions, bringing them to the forefront so that they must be acted upon, is, if not itself a turning point, a clear set-up for one. Things that are allowed to remain secret can be ignored, and keeping things secret can itself be a useful plot, an early act setting up for a new one. The reinforcement of a time-limit upon the characters, both in Mercor’s note about the advancing seasons and in Greft’s openness about the physical changes befalling him, also serve to provide motivating factors for continued action.
And I am led to another thought. I’ve remarked before that some of the magics at work in the Elderlings novels can be read as commentaries on social issues, even if those readings do end up breaking down later (I find it hard to accept something as a stand-in for a thing that presents itself openly in the corpus, but that may just be my own limitations at work). If the Wit can be read as queerness (for admittedly variable types of queerness), as what can the Skill be read? Or the work of the Rain Wilds and the dragons in the world? I do not have ready answers at this point, not being the scholar I once was anymore (and not having improved, really; quite the opposite from my expatriation or expectoration). But I think there is something there to consider, and I would welcome seeing how others address that topic (perhaps again; I forget too many things anymore).
Like what I do? Want me to do it for you? Fill out the form below!
A few days ago, I remember having had an idea about a story I thought might be worth writing down. As it happened, the thought occurred to me while I was driving along US 290 west of Dripping Springs, and that is not a good place to pull off to the side of the road to take notes. By the time I got to where I could pull off, the idea was gone, a squirrel scampering across the highway and into the surrounding brush.
You know what you did… Photo by Joseph Yu on Pexels.com
It’s not the first time such a thing has happened to me, of course; it is a frustratingly frequent occurrence, in fact. The opposite of writer’s block, it is instead too free a flow of ideas; there needs to be a dam across the irregular stream, something to catch at and slow the spurts that gush out from time to time. But I am not built so well as to have such a thing in me, clearly.
I imagine the issue is related in some way to the Asimovian Eureka phenomenon, explicated in an essay of the same name. Ideas upon which the subconscious mind has worked emerge into conscious thought amid relaxation or distraction–and it is the case that driving through the Hill Country during wildflowerseason provides distractions in plenty, not only squirrels darting across the highway and deer, or the occasional armadillo looking to pose with a beer can, nor yet only a possum snooping around the inside of a mobile home. They may not be relaxing, as such, but they still divert conscious attention from other matters, allowing the subconscious mind to work on other things and vomit them up, undigested cud, to be gnawed upon and fermented further–or else spewed out all of a sudden and flushed away.
The handle on my toilet gets a lot of use.
If you like how I write, why not have me write for you! Custom work without the worries of AI foul-ups! Fill out the form below for details!
They show up in patches on the roadside Stains upon the carpet stretching wide Spilled by passers-by and thickest nearest traffic Crowding where the sludge and slime run off Color springing from the filth
Elliott RWI 