White Fuller

Secret of Kells = New favorite movie

So, naturally, I am reading up on my Irish mythology now.

The white cat in the movie, Pangur Bán, is named after an Irish poem.

The poem compares the work of the Irish monk writing it and his cat.

I love this poem, not just because it is delightful to read, but because I often find myself in the same circumstance. (Though, I suppose my cat just plays with my toes instead of with mice.)

Oh, and by the way, the cat's name means "White Fuller". "Fulling" is something people did while making wool. It is the step during which you remove impurities (like dirt) from the material.


Pangur Bán

I and Pangur Bán, my cat
'Tis a like task we are at;
Hunting mice is his delight
Hunting words I sit all night.

Better far than praise of men
'Tis to sit with book and pen;
Pangur bears me no ill will,
He too plies his simple skill.

'Tis a merry thing to see
At our tasks how glad are we,
When at home we sit and find
Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray
In the hero Pangur's way:
Oftentimes my keen thought set
Takes a meaning in its net.

'Gainst the wall he sets his eye
Full and fierce and sharp and sly;
'Gainst the wall of knowledge I
All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,
O how glad is Pangur then!
O what gladness do I prove
When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,
Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;
In our arts we find our bliss,
I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made
Pangur perfect in his trade;
I get wisdom day and night
Turning darkness into light.

The Silver Pen

Writing this story is doing wonders for my self-confidence.

What story, you ask? Why, if you're out of the loop, then stay that way!

The point is, whenever I'm overwhelmed or upset with myself for being... me,

I can just remember my story.

The characters, the events, the world I've created.

It's not just comfort; I glean confidence from my creation.

If I can create, then I could be competent.

And it is such a joy to create.

It's practically real in my mind.

NO, it's more than real.

I can see feel touch taste hear every inch of it.

Every time I go there, I discover something new.

Every time I go there, it has grown and so have I

The clearer it becomes, the more the fog is pulled back from my real life.

It may be fiction, but there is truth in it.


Conclusion: Writing a story is an amazing experience.
You should try it some time.

The Lady Of Shalott

I was recently enchanted by this poem, which I ran across accidentally.
I discovered the next day that the book my wife had been reading, "A Mirror Crack'd" by Agatha Christie, had been inspired by it.
The only served to enrich my enchantment, and I will soon begin exploring said book.
Until then, here is the poem itself.
...


The Lady of Shalott

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.

Alfred Lord Tenneyson

Grow Up

Far side of the desk
Cold hand on shoulder
No one else there
But the man with the folder

He’s taking my name
He’ll smile with a frown
I had never known
I had so far to fall down

The world lures you out
With a promise or two
Once you’re out in the open
The facades all fall through

A place is revealed
That’s cold to the touch
Full of suits and long meetings
About taxes and such

My coat’s not as thick
As it seemed before
He’s leaning forward
I glance towards the door

“Where you are now
Is where you once were
But where will you go?
Now that you can’t return?”

I leap from my chair
Several icicles break
The door’s frozen shut
This was a mistake


(((POST SCRIPT)))

Being alone in the ice
Buried under demands
Maybe I never wanted
The world in my hands

How to be Alive

Writer- Brice James
Title- How to be Alive

I’m paying attention
But my ears I hold shut
You’re asking me questions
That are twisting my gut

It’s the light in the bathroom
At a quarter past five
Shining much to much brightly
On my dark morning eyes

It seems my nice pants
Can’t hide my black fears
My hands tightly folded
While face paint, it smears

My folks are all waiting
In the back of my mind
And I know they’re embarrassed
‘cause I’m falling behind

So I’ll say something funny
And I’ll swallow the truth
I’m less likely to fail you
If you think, “he’s a goof”

Now you might think I’m souring
But I’m under the ground
You all smile when you see me
My scream
Won’t make
A
Sound


(((POST SCRIPT)))

I’ll take my hands off my ears
I won’t be a slave
My eyes have adjusted
I think it’s time that I shaved

SilverEye Continued

* * *

February 2nd, 3:51 pm

“Bonjour, SilverGuy.”

A French voice rolled over each syllable with precision and restraint. It came from the thin lipped mouth of a well-dressed man seated behind a massive desk. The elbows of his spotless suit rested lightly on the clean surface of his desk, and his hands were clasped beneath his chin. He examined his approaching guest with inquisitive eyes.

“SilverEye. And bonjour to you as well,” responded Brice, taking stock of his surroundings as he approached his host. A dozen less intelligent pairs of eyes examined him as well. Thugs were strewn about the room, some lounging on flour sacks, some leaning back in metal folding chairs, all quite large and unkempt. Brice wondered if they had ever been acquainted with a razor. Or antiperspirant.

“This is a strange place for you to set up camp, of all people,” said Brice, noting the stacks of various baking ingredients and a thin layer of flour coating all surfaces besides the desk.
His stiff host rose to his feet and moved methodically around the desk, not once detaching his glare from its subject.

“This pastry shop tends to be overlooked by… unretired company.”

“Desired. Undesired company,” corrected Brice.

The two men approached each other warily.

The tense atmosphere was broken when a sudden smile burst across Brice’s face. “Good to see you again, CopperTop.”

The Frenchmen released a quick, tight laugh. It hardly affected the shape of his face. He seemed as if he were laughing from behind a mask, unable to change his expression. However, the sound of laughter, stiff as it was, lifted the blanket of apprehension from the meeting.

“Good to see you remember me, SilverEye, and my old nickname. Please, call me Auguste.”

The thugs distributed about the room visibly relaxed. They had appeared comfortable beforehand, but now their demeanor digressed to lethargy. Some now seemed to be napping.

“It’s been a long time,” began Brice.

“Indeed, it has.” Auguste returned to his large leather chair. “Please, has a seat.” He motioned towards a dilapidated folding chair dwarfed by his oversized desk.

“Have,” corrected Brice. He placed himself, carefully, into the uncomfortable seat, ignoring the layer of flour. He noted that his eye level was now scarcely six inches above the desk’s remarkably clean surface.

“I was serious about what I said before. This place doesn’t really seem to be your… style.”

“I am not a stylist or decorator, monsieur. I must use whatever locations are most effective.” Auguste seemed to be having trouble not speaking French. His accent became more prevalent as he relaxed. “Now, let us go to business. Have you not come all this way to catch up with an old friend?”

“Yes… no, I mean… I came here with a special order.”

“Do you mean special, as in a wedding cake or something? I am sure Jimmy could have whipped it up for you without incident. He’s really quite good.”

“No, Auguste, I am insinuating that I require an item which only a connected man such as yourself could acquire.”

“Ah, I see, you need something special…er?”

“More special.” Brice corrected.

“S'il vous plaît. Well, I certainly can provide such service. What are the item?”

“Is.” Brice corrected him again. “The antidote to the Neurouturno toxin.”

For the first time during the meeting, Auguste’s thin lips stretched into a wry smile.

“Why yes, Silver, such a thing can be done to you.”

“For me,” responded Brice. “Merci. How much would you consider the agency indebted to you?”
“Oh, payment?” The Frenchman’s smile uncoiled farther across his face. “What is a little antidote between old fiends?”

“Friends, you mean.” Brice smiled back, hiding his uneasiness.

“Yes, of course.” Auguste grinned ever wider. “Friends.”

SilverEye

February 2nd, 7:54am

Brice's eyes burst open. His instincts shook him awake. He was in a hotel room. Clean. Empty. Something was amiss. He could feel it in his bones.
*Beepity beep beep boop boop*
His spy phone chirped to life. An incoming call from the agency. He retrieved the phone, opened it, disabled the self-destruct mechanism with a passcode, and held the receiver to his ear.
"Go."
"Hello Silvereye. I have a mission for you. Top priority. Top... danger."
"You never were great with words H."
"Sigh... anyway, there is a crisis in the works Silvereye. Your partner was poisoned yesterday during a mission in Hong Kong."
"Blast!", exclaimed Brice, suddenly becoming quite upset.
"Cool down Silver. You will need your head on you for this mission. There is an antidote for this poison, we believe, in the south of France. But you have less than twelve hours before the deadliness of the poison becomes too..."
"...deadly." he finished H's sentence. "I'll take the jet." He was already jogging briskly towards the grove of trees where he had landed it last.
"A crime lord is in procession of the antidote. He operates in Marseilles out of a small pastry shop called, ‘Jimmy's Fine Meets.’”
"That's a confusing thing to name a bread shop."
"Pastry's, Silvereye, there's a difference. Your partner is holed up in the Hotel 'Dang Wing Long' in Hong Kong. Good luck."
"No such thing." He tossed the phone into the duck pond as he changed his jog into a sprint. Moments later, the pond lifted several meters into the air, and the ducks enjoyed a bit of surfing.

* * *

February 2nd, 3:38 pm

The tiny bell on the pastry shop door jingled merrily. The man at the counter expectantly looked up. His eyes sparkled with anticipation. He had been setting out crème cakes inside the glass display counter, but now he snapped to attention.
“Welcome to Jimmy’s Fine Meets! We have lots of seats, and no one beats our… pastries.”
The man he addressed strode through the door and past the neatly arranged displays with confident swagger. His fashionable suit made him appear overdressed, though his pants were slightly rumpled from travel.
He responded, “Hello Jimmy. It is fine to meet you.”
“It always is!” cried Jimmy exuberantly, “What type of pastry can I provide you with today?”
“I see that you have many lovely breads-“
“-pastries.”
“Right, pastries.” Brice approached the counter. “However, I have a special order.”
Jimmy stared blankly for a moment. Then, leaning slightly forward, he responded in a hushed and slightly irritated tone.
“By ‘special’ do you mean a straight croissant, sardine filled choux, or perhaps a wedding cake?”
Brice slowly shook his head.
Jimmy’s eyes suddenly narrowed. He spun around and shuffled into the back room, mumbling to himself.
“…let a boss set up in the back, and everybody wants to see him. No cakes, no strudel s, no sales, besides his stupid…”
Brice stood in the empty shop for several minutes, pretending to examine the pastries within the counter but actually watching the exits. Finally, a stocky and gruff man in a dirty brown coat emerged from the back. He was unshaven with beady eyes and an extremely muscular build.
“You.”, was all he said, pointing at Brice with the index finger of one overly muscled hand and towards the back with the thumb of the other. He turned around slowly and began to walk menacingly into the back room. Brice quickly fell in stride behind the intimidating man.

* * *

A Flower Bloomed In February

A flower bloomed in February
And opened wide to see
There was no one there to tend it
No one, that is, but me

Its tiny fragile petals
A perfect violet hue
Bright color beckoned no one
Unclaimed by freezing dew

The world was flat and cold
Frozen all around
Any bees or flutterbys
Were under icy ground

But still it grew undaunted
Unfearful of the gloom
Flowers know their maker
All they must do is BLOOM

Rex Tremendæ Maiestatis

This is the "Dies Irae", a poem/chant which was part of the Catholic mass until 1970. It speaks of judgment day, when all men must give an account of themselves before God. First I give the Latin version, as it was in the Requiem Mass from the 1962 Roman Missal. Second is an English version as it was translated by William Josiah Irons in 1849.

1
Solvet sæclum in favilla:
Teste David cum Sibylla!

2
Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando iudex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus!

3
Tuba, mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum,
Coget omnes ante thronum.

4
Mors stupebit, et natura,
Cum resurget creatura,
Iudicanti responsura.

5
Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus iudicetur.

6
Iudex ergo cum sedebit,
Quidquid latet, apparebit:
Nil inultum remanebit.

7
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus,
Cum vix iustus sit securus?

8
Rex tremendæ maiestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fons pietatis.

9
Recordare, Iesu pie,
Quod sum causa tuæ viæ:
Ne me perdas illa die.

10
Quærens me, sedisti lassus:
Redemisti Crucem passus:
Tantus labor non sit cassus.

11
Iuste iudex ultionis,
Donum fac remissionis
Ante diem rationis.

12
Ingemisco, tamquam reus:
Culpa rubet vultus meus:
Supplicanti parce, Deus.

13
Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Et latronem exaudisti,
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

14
Preces meæ non sunt dignæ:
Sed tu bonus fac benigne,
Ne perenni cremer igne.

15
Inter oves locum præsta,
Et ab hædis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.

16
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis:
Voca me cum benedictis.

17
Oro supplex et acclinis,
Cor contritum quasi cinis:
Gere curam mei finis.

18
Lacrimosa dies illa,
qua resurget ex favilla
iudicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:

19
Pie Jesu Domine,
dona eis requiem. Amen.

1
Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!

2
Oh, what fear man's bosom rendeth,
when from heaven the Judge descendeth,
on whose sentence all dependeth.

3
Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth;
through earth's sepulchers it ringeth;
all before the throne it bringeth.

4
Death is struck, and nature quaking,
all creation is awaking,
to its Judge an answer making.

5
Lo! the book, exactly worded,
wherein all hath been recorded:
thence shall judgment be awarded.

6
When the Judge his seat attaineth,
and each hidden deed arraigneth,
nothing unavenged remaineth.

7
What shall I, frail man, be pleading?
Who for me be interceding,
when the just are mercy needing?

8
King of Majesty tremendous,
who dost free salvation send us,
Fount of pity, then befriend us!

9
Think, good Jesus, my salvation
cost thy wondrous Incarnation;
leave me not to reprobation!

10
Faint and weary, thou hast sought me,
on the cross of suffering bought me.
shall such grace be vainly brought me?

11
Righteous Judge! for sin's pollution
grant thy gift of absolution,
ere the day of retribution.

12
Guilty, now I pour my moaning,
all my shame with anguish owning;
spare, O God, thy suppliant groaning!

13
Thou the sinful woman savedst;
thou the dying thief forgavest;
and to me a hope vouchsafest.

14
Worthless are my prayers and sighing,
yet, good Lord, in grace complying,
rescue me from fires undying!

15
With thy favored sheep O place me;
nor among the goats abase me;
but to thy right hand upraise me.

16
While the wicked are confounded,
doomed to flames of woe unbounded
call me with thy saints surrounded.

17
Low I kneel, with heart submission,
see, like ashes, my contrition;
help me in my last condition.

18
Ah! that day of tears and mourning!
From the dust of earth returning
man for judgment must prepare him;
Spare, O God, in mercy spare him!

19
Lord, all pitying, Jesus blest,
grant them thine eternal rest. Amen

I am not sure why I have become fascinated by this stuff. It certainly differs from the cushy, "Jesus loves you" type mantra which takes center stage in Christianity these days (not that there's anything wrong with that). That is actually why it was removed from the catholic mass; it emphasizes fear of judgment and damnation instead of the love and salvation of Christ.

But this song does not bring about fear in me. It stirs up AWE in me. Awe for the ways of the universe, for the completeness which will take place. The justice and holiness of God is just as awesome as His love and mercy.

The only problem with this is that people lean too far in one direction. We lean too much on God's kindness and love, becoming useless and lukewarm, with no real respect for God. OR we see only his power and justice, creating an unapproachable God who we can never truly be close to. We must seek always to understand God in ALL of His ways. Though they sometimes seem contradictory, they are not! He is a whole and understandable God. We must only take off the lenses of what we want to see and seek to KNOW Him.