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?
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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
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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).
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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.
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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
Read the previous entry in the series here. Read the next entry in the series here.
Following more of the ongoing exchange among the bird-keepers (with complaints about public spending priorities), “Tarman” begins with Thymara bringing food to Sintara, to the Dragon’s begrudging approval. Thymara inquires about Sintara’s effects upon her, and Sintara answers somewhat cryptically. Mercor puts into the conversation and rebukes Sintara for her lackadaisical attitude toward her keeper. Sintara responds to the rebuke with anger, provoking upset among the dragons that is only narrowly stopped from becoming violent. Sintara stalks off, nursing her embarrassment.
Leftrin and Skelly confer about the ongoing reluctance of the Tarman to get back underway. Annoyance with the ship’s resistance to efforts to resume travel is noted, and the motivations of the ship are theorized. Leftrin puzzles over the matter for a time before recalling that the liveship is made of the stuff of dragons. The Tarman seems pleased with the recognition and shifts to realign the course to be taken; Leftrin delights in his ship’s renewed compliance, even as Greft questions him aspersively.
Thymara and Sintara, returning from where the former has tended to the latter, see the liveship’s reorientation. They confer with Sedric and the other dragons about the same, and the dragons begin to talk together about the liveship and the nature thereof. Another argument ensues among the dragons, threatening violence until it is stopped by Kalo. Kalo recalls having been Kelaro, a follower of Maulkin who became Mercor. Kalo calls for forbearance with the Tarman, and Thymara sees the modifications that were made to the ship. The dragons and the Tarman depart, heading upstream on the correct course and leaving the keepers scrambling to follow.
Sedric finds himself conducted along by Thymara and Sylvie, assessing the condition of the waterway as they go and noting the differences from the main flow of the Rain Wild River. Sedric’s thoughts turn to Carson and warm him. At length, Sedric offers to spell one of the keepers at the oars, and Thymara notes willingness to accept the offer, surprisingly, but citing a back injury. Discussion turns to the changes befalling each of them, as well as their sources in the dragons. Conversation lapses thereafter into uncomfortable silence.
There are interesting parallels between Sintara and Thymara in evidence; the one brought to attention by the present chapter is their vexation with being the focus of others’ reproductive desires. It is an understandable thing, if one I’ve commented on with any number of other chapters–at least insofar as it relates to Thymara. For Sintara to show similar attitudes is of interest, however–although this is far from the first time Hobb shows such things among thinking members of different species.
Of more moment is Sylvie’s comment that “Elderlings were a form of art for the dragons of that time. They found humans they thought had potential and developed them. That was why they cherished them. Everyone cherishes what they create. Even dragons” (392). It is a chilling thought, the idea of being made an artwork for some other thing; for some reason, I am thinking of Hellraiser and the less savory parts of Berserk…Given the implications of the chapter, that many of the dragons who are “developing” Elderlings do not really know what they are doing…body horror comes to mind. Even with “beneficial” changes, it’s chilling, to indulge litotes.
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The old song sings Of bulls that leap and bucks that fart Ascribing thus to the old hart The effects of a high-fiber diet And as the spring Prompts buds to bloom and fruits to start And birds to take flight and to dart I think that I may try it
There was a time that my family made much of this day, noting that one of the roots from which they and I spring stretches back across the Atlantic to the land where Brian Boru played and ruled (though I did not learn about the harpist king until far later). The shape of the merrymaking was less important than the fact of it, although I look back on it now with a mix of longing and loathing–the former for the usual reasons, and the latter, as well.
Do you feel lucky? Photo by Djalma Paiva Armelin on Pexels.com
Anymore, though, I find myself less and less inclined to do much on holidays. Even the “big” ones find me…hesitant, forcing myself through for the sake of Ms. 8–and today’s observance is not one of the “big” holidays. At least, it is not for me; I imagine that it is for others. I do not begrudge them their joy, although I have not always been fond of its demonstrations; I remember experiences of it in New York City that I would rather not. But drunken asshats are in many places and times; it’s not something peculiar to today…
The day may come again when I find delight in things I once did, when I can allow myself the space in which to do so. For now, though, I have yet work to do, and so such celebrations as I might undertake will have to wait a while again.
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The call to “Beware the ides of March” is familiar from Julius Caesar 1.2, a play I first encountered while in sixth grade at a school that no longer exists. (The building still stands, unlike that I attended for high school, but the institution it had housed is no more, part of it swallowed back into the elementary schools from which it had been taken, part cast off for a time to float on its own before being subsumed into another already-existing school when it moved into its new building. There’s some backhanded statement made therein, but that discussion is one for another time.) And it was not in my English class, although I do remember that class kindly (thank you, Ms. Wise). It was, instead, my social studies class, and it was used as a way to do two things, one I recognized at the time (make things come more alive), and one I realize only later, for some years and no longer having been at the front of my own classrooms (pad out lesson planning). But the experience has stuck with me, certainly; I remember it nearly thirty years on, including my pubescent voice cracking on the beginning of Brutus’ speech that he loved his land more than its leader.
I will not launch here into an interpretation of the play as a whole or of the scene in particular, nor yet of its contexts of sourcing or composition or reception. I was never a specialist in Shakespeare, for one thing, though I have been conversant in his works–and I am out of practice, now, as should be clear. Nor yet have I the time to do the work as it would need to be done, with citation and close reading and careful study. There was a time in my life when I did have such time, and I spent much of it doing such things (although less frequently with Shakespeare than with other authors), but I did not have in my life then what I have now, and not all of what I have now is what I would set aside to have what I had then.
No, instead, on what is the traditional anniversary of Julius Caesar’s death, and what might well be thought of as the date of his seeming apotheosis–because there have been and continue to be many who look back to the man as among the greatest examples, if not the greatest–I collect my pay and pay out what I owe (and there is no shortage of the latter, to be sure). I do my work, and I think of my family and how I can better support those in it. I wonder what my daughter will encounter in the coming years that sticks with her as the old lines have stuck with me, what experiences will shape her across decades and how, and how much of such things I will see. It is, really, just another day, one of many such I have seen and of many more I hope to see.
I’m sure there’s some comment to be found in that, too. But this is not, I think, the place to make it.
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The years have passed since we went on our adventure Passing from the hills into the high plains Packing into a tent that huddled against the wind As dark clouds blew in and disease And we returned to fear and hiding away Coming back to find that everything had stopped
No, this ain’t it. Photo by Aru0131n Turkay on Pexels.com
Things have long since started again The sickness pervading the world And the one chance there might have been to start again Gone like so many who Drowned within themselves Choking on their own sputum as others swore It’s no big deal People die every day anyway
Still Still Still Still We have to wonder if it will happen again
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Elliott RWI 