between the rock and the cold, cold sea

I'm sitting in my freshly re-organised front room, trying to convince my hind-brain that this is where work happens now. I don't know how successful I'm being at it, or how I might increase the amount of success. On the other hand, the cats seem pretty pleased that they have a whole bed to sprawl on beside a human.

We apparently also have a family of juvenile brown rats in our back garden, so there's probably several nests lurking in the shrubbery. Have a poem!

Fire-Flowers
by Emily Pauline Johnson

And only where the forest fires have sped,
Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands,
A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,
And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,
It hides the scars with almost human hands.

And only to the heart that knows of grief,
Of desolating fire, of human pain,
There comes some purifying sweet belief,
Some fellow-feeling beautiful, if brief.
And life revives, and blossoms once again.

"Beyond Human Strength"

One cannot weep for the entire world: it is beyond human strength. One must choose. - Jean Anouilh (1954)


Love is. Love is. Love is.
Love wins. Love wins. It wins.
Please may it win yet.

"Love wins." Grief is all around.

I am not yet resigned
to the shutting away
of loving hearts

But the ground
is cold
and all the voices
silent.

I cannot speak
for my mouth
is stopped up with wanting
and my tongue is torn
and out of this silence
what is to be borne? It is too heavy
and too worn.

For years too worn
with wanting safety
and out of sorrow still
love wins and feeds yet
out of ashes sown in salt.

This grief belongs
in leaden caskets
with history and with the dead
this grief belongs
to love and daring - who dares
wins - who cares if
this grief is also mine?

And if this were a choice
I would not choose.

"Cry havoc, and let slip."

Flags on a billboard like a washing powder ad:
"Vote yes for stability!" - we'll give you samples
of new improved political detergent
gratis, free: and freely launder sticky fingers
for the banqueting class. Let Kenny fiddle, go
cooking the books, basting his mates: for us, too late.
In back streets and broken new estates some trampled
tinder-sparks of our eternal conflagration
are forced out the pressure valves of emigration.

Remember twa corbies, the twa named Brian?
And one unto the other one said, "I wot
we'll find ourselves behind the dyke (with our boney
hoors) long before the waters flood. No Tribunals
will sit next year. Not here." Irishmen and Irishwomen
- but see, old traditions of nationhood are dead:
by hooks and crooks we'll cling to treaties that can't bring
either peace in our time, or plenty. Still looking
east for a saviour, or south, or west: devil's deals
pass for miracles if alternatives look worse.
Curse Labour, and their so-shattered promises!
Those dole-swingers grow lazy now, so Burton said,
and washed her hands, and shook her head. Name of God!
Of the dead generations, so easily forgot.

But they are liars and the truth is not in them.
I come to bury Caesar - should Caesar swiftly die:
only let Caesar die and pass like other men,
then we will move. Then we will recognise our chains,
and cast them off, and make new peace with the world to come.

---

A terrible political poem. Still, prose does no better on this subject.

Monday, met a rysmiel for lunch on what seems to have been the last day of summer. Said rysmiel was, as on our previous meeting, a scholar and a gentlebeing. That was a very pleasant afternoon.

Since then, I have occupied myself with work and with an unusually high proportion of suicidal ideations. Sometimes it seems as though the most painless option would just be to lie down and wait to die - but I can't do that, since it would leave the IIHSA in the unenviable position of having to find a replacement co-guide for the study-tour on uncomfortably short notice. Likewise with having a screaming frothing nervous breakdown.

Therefore, onwards.

Books 2011: 47-49


47. Richelle Mead, Iron Crowned.

And my trend of picking up middle books of series (in this case, third and presently last) continues. Urban fantasy. Sort of. High levels of angst and sex. Not so happy with the amount of sex relative to plot, but I cannot deny the plot is entertaining.


48. Ben Aaronovitch, Rivers of London.

Published in the US as Midnight Riot, this is what the Dresden files would be if Harry Dresden had a)started out with a better sense of humour and higher levels of genre-savvy and b)was a PC in the London Met. This book has a fantastic voice and feels like London all the way to the ground. Also interesting plot developments, but I'd read it for the voice and the sheer depth of London in it anyway.


non-fiction

49. Chris Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome: A History of Europe from 400 to 1000. Penguin History of Europe, Penguin, London and New York, 2010.

This book does exactly what it says on the tin. It is a wide-ranging survey of European history - which, as and when it's appropriate, includes the Ummayads of Damascus, the Abbasids of Baghdad, and the Fatimids of Egypt in the category Europe - from the fifth to the eleventh centuries. It is divided into four parts: the break-up of the Roman Empire, 400-550; the Post-Roman West, 550-750; the Empires of the East, 550-1000; and the Carolingian and Post-Carolingian West, 750-100. These are subdivided into chapters, which deal with separate geographical, chronological, and thematic chunks of the very large amount of information Wickham aims to cover.

It is a fascinating and very readable history, and it cracked my brain open and let new light in concerning Roman and post-Roman political systems, and how each can be expected to function. The chapters which survey the Arab invasions and subsequent polities were very helpful in understanding the forces which shaped the early medieval Mediterranean, and are not always included in general surveys of this period of "European" history.

I recommend it without hesitation. I think this may be one of the best works of narrative history I've read in the last while - on point, focused, clear about its biases without being obtrusive with them, and immensely knowledgeable. Wickham dedicates it to his students - fortunate students, I would say, to have the opportunity to learn from such a mind.

---

I am tired and feel sick and stupid, and want very much not to have to get up tomorrow and pretend I care what college bureaucracy is doing. Particularly when they have scheduled me to invigilate during the times when I am supposed to be taking an exam after I specifically emailed to inform them of this.

Oh, well. I need the money, even if it's not nearly enough. (I need a job, but who the hell is hiring? And Tor.com has not begun to pay me for my work for them yet, which - argh! - is money I am counting on to be there. Eventually. Soon would be nice.)

---

When the wide world comes winding to a close
where shall we be? Who knows? That day is yet
beyond reach, unconsummated. Time flows
in one direction only, oily, wet,
impermeable to the human eye
impermeable to answers. What, why -

I saw the sibyl caged at Cumae
when every word she spoke became a lie.
This is the truth of oracles. Like us,
they guess how the dice fall before they die.


....I appear to have committed poem. I should really stop doing that in public. Or at least make sure it has a title, first.

Still, why not?

Photographs line one arm of the stairs of the grand neo-classical Museum Building in college. Dead men, bright and shiny - even happy - in their military uniforms.

I sometimes wonder why they volunteered. I wonder if, at the end of the Great War, their comrades who survived really believed it was the War To End All Wars, that there would be no real wars to follow it.

---

"In Memoriam"

Now let the silent cannons fall,
and roar no more, but overturned
in silence still the bloody call
for wars in whose fires we burned.

Turn us now to deeds of peace: let
soldiers rest in home's green fields,
reap for their harvest grain, and set
in hand no weapon, no cry of "Yield!
Or die!" in our peace-yearning throats,
no killing winter to slice our coats

To ribbons on a foreign plain,
far from home and the lives we knew.
Make amends. Let us now attain
our glories not through the red hue
of slaughter, but by building hope anew:
learn healing; heal ourselves. Live free: speak true.

---

I might not mark it to the minute, but it is worth marking.

This one's for katallen. Probably not the poem you might've been looking for. And I'm trying to play with form, which is generally a bad idea, too.

"III. A Death in Winter."

Snow-shrouded graveyard | church and steeple
in silence they come | black-booted tromping
past white-mounded tombstones | carrying the bier.

Elves die on Tuesdays.
You can't bury them
inside the churchyard:
it wouldn't be right.
So they dig the grave
- black icy earth -
out of unsanctified ground,
ground set aside
for parricides, blasphemers
and people who don't belong.

The surpliced priest, shivering
mutters a few words about
immortal souls, and peace
- if they have souls, these
beggars out of Faerieland, these liars
selling dreams and visions
for a place at the fire.
But God knows his own.

Look at the brother, so pale
and so fey, so resentful
alone by the graveside
(they say the mother came
from the city, you know,
years back, she was born there).
And why can't they go back
where they came from,
these elves, these dreamers,
these good-for-nothings?

Famine their plate | hunger their knife
from strife fleeing | dreamers and visionaries
past white-mounded tombstones | carrying the bier.

Books 2010: 2

2. Vaughan/Jeanty/Whedon, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: No Future For You (graphic novel).

The sparkle and wit of BtVS doesn't translate so well without the actors to carry them. But it's entertaining, nonetheless.

---

Poems from prompts:

Prompted by spartezda -

i)

Night and Memory lie
entwined in the halls of Aeolus.
Sleeping, the wind-god dreams
of earthen wombs,
caves of eros,
smothering while he slumbers.


Prompted by clarentine -

ii) "Death of an Octopus"

Soft-slime-skinned,
pseudopods curled in
octopodian snarls,
on the rock-shore below
the lighthouse with
salt and ice on the wind,
ice and salt on your lips,
you stood witness
to a silent sin:
let the ink-stained waves
reclaim their kith and kin.


...I did say I didn't promise "good" or "likeable".

---

Yeah, after an hour in the gym (mile in eleven minutes, mile point five in nineteen, and that kind of sucks) I think that's all I've got. I'm going to go slog away at some more of the thesis in a couple of minutes. And maybe see what revenant remnants of food still live in the kitchen...

It has been very strange here, this week. There is snow: so much snow, in fact, that this week the first known mountain rescue requiring the use of skis in this country took place in Wicklow. So much snow, in fact, that this afternoon we had a snowball fight in front of the Old Library, at least a dozen people, out there on the grass for half an hour, throwing snowballs.

This much snow only happens once every dozen years, if that. The last time we had serious snow was in the eighties.

It's making me sleepy and hungry. And strangely thrilled.

---

So I was sitting there for a long while this afternoon, waiting for a lecture on the crucifixion. Trying not to fall asleep, and trying work on my essay. I have three short pages of notes, now, concerning identity and assimilation in Roman Britain: my plan is to assess first Iron Age identities and Roman-British contact after Caesar; then military, urban, and rural identities post-conquest, paying attention to the decline of urbanism in the fourth century. The interesting thing about identity is how little of it we can actually reconstruct: we can reconstruct responses to imperial power, but not, necessarily, the reasons those responses occurred. There, we're limited to supposition, in the absence of literary evidence.

Speaking of literary evidence...

In the end, the lecture on the crucifixion was by a scholar from Edinburgh, one Helen Bond. Despite the title ("Why Was Jesus Crucified?") it was a historically-oriented presentation, centering around what we know of Josephus Caiaphas, the high priest at the time, and the prefect of Judaea, Pontius Pilate, and how and why the trial and execution recounted differently in the different gospel sources took place.

It was extremely interesting, in fact, although not ground-breaking in terms of serious scholarship: it's rather been a tenet of (non-Biblical-scholarship) historical treatments of the death of Jesus of Nazareth that he was executed by the Romans for being a (potential) trouble-maker: Bond's presentation was a cogent summary of how that conclusion is arrived at.

Alas, the question period brought the theologicals out of the woodwork, with one woman accusing Bond of ignoring the 'big picture' of the theological significance of the Christ event (so not what the lecture was about), and one bloke trying, in a very confused way, to represent her as accusing the gospel-writers of conspiring
to lie to their audiences (so not what she said). And after I asked a question and the next person to ask a question referred to me as a 'gentleman' (yeah what?), I left.

Because theology and history, they need to be separate things. Theological types can get rather... crazy when you do not say what they want (expect) to hear, and that is inimical to the critical method. Seriously.

---

Last night at lead climbing was fun. Up on the horizontal, no toprope, just me and the clip - I didn't send the route, or even figure out how to get from the horizontal overhang back onto the vertical, but man, that was fun.

---

( Random poetry )

I appear to have a poem up in Ideomancer.

It's cooler here today. 28, not 34. Can't wait for Friday.

Knossos tomorrow. Wish me luck.

In honour of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I'm posting six poems and a short story.

They're not, I suppose, 'professional' quality, but they're the closest I have.

(I'm posting early because I have a theology essay and a Roman art and architecture test this week, and thus do not expect to be sticking my head up for a while.)

The Poems:

( Symmetries of Stone, April 2004 )

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( Letter to another, who could be me )

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( For Gallipoli )

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( I am a stone )

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( Homecoming, April 2006 )

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( Wrack, September 2006 )

# # # # # # # #

The Story:

( Eschatology of a Witch )

# # # # # # # #

And in the spirit of eternal hope and chancing one's arm:

( and finally )