Saturday, November 30, 2013

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 11 & 12

     Derin reached the edge of forest and entered the clearing. No one, not even the badger, was there. He looked to the sky but it was grey and empty. The raven had disappeared from view. The boy  thought about the past twelve hours, wondering what had brought him to this point. He felt he had the beginning pieces of a puzzle, only the vaguest outline, and it nagged him as a splinter does when it slips more deeply into a finger.
     He gathered his few belongings and put them in his knapsack. His woolen blanket. The carved stone, his talisman; his leather boots. He pulled the knife out of its deerskin sheath and ran his thumb along the finely edged bone of the blade, wondering if he would use it in ways he never had before. He picked up the two gourds he had played with as a child, the rattles Matthew had made for him, and he smiled as he let them drop. They would be of no use to him where he was going.
     Where was he going? He knew as much about the meadowlands as anyone who lived there, but only recently had he given any thought to what might lie beyond. Beyond lay the Outer Lands. From what Matthew had told him, they were nothing like this. But had the satyr ever been there himself?
     He pushed the last of his shirts into the knapsack and took off for Matthew's granite ledge. When he arrived, the small clearing was empty, though the smell of goat hung in the air. Where was he? Above the boy, the day seemed a well-worn piece of cloth he could put his finger through. The light was furred almost, feathered.
     He though of Deirdre headed out over that dismal landscape, tried to imagine it for himself. There were mountains, he knew, and a long stretch or arid waste, but these were things which had only been described to him, and they were as unclear in his mind as the owl was. Tell me that again after you've seen him, Deirdre had said. He remembered the wind of the previous evening, how it had surrounded him, rushing toward the center of the meadow from the periphery of trees, how it had left him in total darkness, blinded. He sat there, waiting for his friend, as the day seeped away entirely, and he imagined, his skin tingling, the faraway sound of a whirlwind churning across the forest, sweeping birds and animals, trees and bushes, into its hollow fist.

                                                    *                     *                    *

     Matthew plunged through the forest wildly. His headache was gone, and this impetuous rush made him forget the raven, the boy, the journey before him. He was agile, graceful, dodging branches which loomed suddenly out of the air, threatening to brain him. Leaves whirled by, a tunnel of green. He loved to run like this, unfettered, with no destination, through the obstacle course altered by each change of direction. He was used to surprising the animals of the woodlands, but today he saw no other creature, not even a squirrel or bird.
     He stopped, exhausted, and leaned heavily against a hickory, rubbing his back on the coarse bark. Sweat streamed down the sides of his face. He lowered himself onto the expanse of moss at the hickory's base, flung his fleeced legs in front of him, and closed his eyes. The only sound he heard was his own panting. There was no wind, no chatter, no song. He felt the muscles in his neck tense; the silence was odd indeed.
     Suddenly sure he was being watched, he drew his legs back under him and crouched, one hand on the hickory for balance. He looked up into the overhanging branches, searching the receding trunks for a movement, a shadow, but he could see nothing.
     Everything had changed. He took a deep breath. The sweet fragrance he had reveled in the previous evening was missing; the air itself was stale. Even the moss below him seemed rougher, its sheen tarnished. If the raven were telling the truth, there would be no escape from this degeneration. All the running in the world would only bring him full circle, back to this realization.
     Who was this feathered braggadocio, wanting to rule the world? Matthew ruled the meadowlands—everyone knew that. The thought of its decline filled him with fury. But the owl was strong enough, perverse enough to kidnap the moon. He began walking back toward the granite overhang. Though he knew he had no choice, the idea of the journey he was about to undertake, necessary as it might be, angered him. He hated responsibility.
     It had been fourteen years since the hooded creature had forced the baby upon him, a burden he neither wanted nor graciously accepted. He'd known nothing of infants, their squalls of rage, their sudden fevers, and he'd resented the attention the little creature needed. Fascinated by its grasping hands, its toes, its hairless skin with a smell like sun ind windblown water, he'd still felt cramped, walled in by its relentless demands.
     He'd been given no choice—either abandon the infant to a certain death, or attend to him the best he could. Derin had thrived, had grown as tall as Matthew, and sullen. Now, as the stranger foretold, a messenger had arrived from the Outer Lands, calling the boy home.
     He walked until he reached the Rock, a protrusion of granite and shale, its natural steps leading to a pinnacle which cleared the highest branches of the forest. He scrambled up the Rock's side until he stood at the top. The wind was strong there, and he faced it, a lone figure brooding over the trees. If someone had seen him, they might have mistaken him for a natural outcropping of the Rock itself.
     Matthew stood until the wind pulled water from his eyes. The sky overhead was dense and wooly, like the backs of sheep in winter, and clouds could could be seen moving toward the west, unrolling in a single thick sheet from horizon  to horizon as the air darkened. He remembered the stormy night he'd been summoned by a great blue heron from the swamp, who had guided him back to the banks of the Swollen River where the cloaked stranger had handed him the baby. He remembered Derin's first illness as he lay, bundled in furs by the fire, the flames throwing orange wraiths against the treetrunks. He thought of how he'd wished the baby would die so he'd be freed of its hold over him, and then his relief, a surprise, when the fever broke. The memories flooding him were all of Derin's anger; the time he'd broken through the thin ice on the pond; the day he'd fallen from the elm.
     The years had gone swiftly, running into one another like creeks in a spring thaw, until they roared along, a river which was today. The cold wind whipped from him any last vestige of illusion. The time has come for Derin to leave.
     It begun to rain, a fine rain which slanted from the east and struck his chest and legs like thousands of needles. Meager and cold as it was, he took it as a sign to go. He had hoped for something more particular, but he was not in a position to quibble. In leaps and bounds he reached the forest floor and headed for the overhang.

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Thursday, November 28, 2013

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 9 & 10

     By the time light first reached Deadwood Forest, the clearing was empty except for two ravens left to stand guard. The moon, though exhausted, was unable to sleep. The gag bit into her mouth and the effort of breathing filled her chest with pain. In the darkest hours of the night, after the animals had left, she had strained against the gag, pulling as much air as possible through it to keep her fire from going out She needed light to see by; she was looking for an evenue of escape. But try as she might, she couldn't find the slightest weak spot in the oaken fortress.
     She wondered where the owl had gone, would have considered asking one of the ravens if she had been able to talk. The forest lay below her and stretched in all directions as far as she could see. There was no sign of life, no bird song, no rustle in the underbrush, nothing but the two ravens who sat opposite her like stone totems. But most astonishing to her was the total absence of the color green. In the dark, she hadn't been able to distinguish much except the clearing itself. Now, in the milky light of what seemed a very unpromising dawn, she could see beyond the clearing, but there was nothing to see. The few leaves on the bushes were brown and dry, and tree after tree lifted bare lifeless branches. There was no water anywhere.
     Season after season, year after year, the moon had watched the world below her change from spring to summer with its vibrant greens, to the fireworks of autumn and winter's bare sticks. But here in the Deadwood Forest, the moon had the strange sensation that time has stopped. This was not a winter forest, holding deep in its sap the promise of another spring. If the trees here grew at all, they simply grew taller and more threatening, their branches spidering across a landscape like sudden jolt to clear ice.
     This thread of thought alarmed her. If there was no time, if it were fractured, she might never grow older, trapped in her cage. Things would always stay the way they were, and she would never be free.
     As she hung there, she waited impatiently for her sister, the sun, to appear. The sun could burn into this forest, remove the shadows. If need be, the sun could destroy this whole place with a well-aimed ray. What was this but a graveyard of trees and bushes?
     The moon closed her eyes and began to wish. In her mind, she saw a huge conflagration, the flame reaching over the treetops, consuming them, their embers falling away, leaving an imprint on the air. She saw black billows of smoke obliterate the sky. She saw the spirits of birds and small animals ascend to heaven. And then, she saw herself, red-hot, glowing furiously, before she, too, crumbled into ashes and joined the general destruction on the forest floor. Well, she thought, if that is what it will take to be free, so be it.
     But as she waited for what seemed hours and hours, the sun did not appear. All was suffused with the same deadly pallor. Great round tears rolled down her face and soaked her gag so that the wretched linen began to cut even more deeply into the corners of her mouth. There seemed no end to this and no beginning. What light there was was simply light, nothing more, a poor separation of the great blanks known as day and night.
     Opposite her the two ravens sat, unblinking, staring at her with cold and lifeless eyes. There was no wind.

                                                         *              *              *

     Derin glanced at Matthew, who stared upwards at the bird as though he saw a ghost. It sat on the branch, its throat and breast covered with short black feathers, its beard giving it the appearance of great age and strength.
     "Corvus corax!" sad Matthew with awe. "I haven't seen one of you for years."
     "Corvus corax?" Derin said.
     "My formal name," the bird said. "I'm a raven."
     "But you don't live in the meadowlands, do you?"
     "Does a peanut have whiskers?" the raven said, "No, not for many years. And what are you, if I may be so bold?"
     "He's a boy," the satyr said quickly.
     "Boy. A boy," the raven said, intrigued. "A new species to add to my life-list. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I was wondering what happened to the fleece on your shanks and where you'd misplaced your hooves. Never seen anything like you." Derin blushed. "I'm familiar with satyrs, of course, this one in particular," the raven continued. "No shock of recognition in that horned head of yours? Your name is—don't tell me—Martin, Mason.  .  .  ."
     "Matthew," the satyr said.
     "Matthew. How absentminded of me." The raven pecked under a wing, a self-conscious gesture that made him angry.
     "I'm supposed to know you?" he asked.
     "I'm hurt you don't remember. I used to ride your shoulder when I was a fledgling. You were decidedly rambunctious, years ago."
     "You're.  .  .  ."
     "Deirdre," the raven said. "Daughter of Orak and Oda."
     "Of course," the satyr said. "That uppity little.  .  .  ."
     "Pardon me," Deirdre said. "I think the word is 'precocious.' "
     "Wait a minute," Derin said. "What's going on?"
     "I used to live here, you see," the raven said. "I was kidnapped from this place a long time ago. One night I was awakened from sleep by a noise like rushing water. I was huddled with my parents on the limb of a beech, and they slept on while the noise grew louder. I hadn't any idea what it was. I looked and saw a wall of darkness moving through the trees, and it seemed a waterfall but it was only wind. It picked up dirt and branches as it came until it was a landslide. My parents awoke, cawing, and we tried to fly, but it caught us and in that maelstrom were other animals, rabbits, and foxes, and all manner of birds. We rose in a black funnel. Over and over I tumbled until I lost my senses. When I came to, I was what seemed hundreds of miles west of here, in a place called the Deadwood Forest."
     "It was before he was born," Matthew said.
     "How old is the boy?"
     "I'm fourteen," Derrin butted in.
     "Is that right?" the raven said. "Could it have been that long ago?"
     "What's past is past," the satyr said. "I'd forgotten."
     "There are some things one doesn't forget," Deirdre said heatedly. "There are times which live on in the memory with the vividness of dream so that life becomes a simultaneity of past and present. Both my parents died that night. I saw them drop through the whirlwind's center, plummet to the ground. I remember every detail as if it were yesterday. I vowed then to avenge their deaths; I have dedicated my life to that."
     The satyr stared into the woodlands, as though looking for a particular tree, as though he could fasten his life there and keep it earthbound. "It was a terrible night," he said. "Squirrels were taken, and ferrets. Foxes were thrown in the air like so many leaves. The wind stole every living raven from the meadowlands. The only ones left were dead or dying. I thought I'd seen the very last of them. In the morning the ground was covered with bodies. The water in the brook ran blood red."
     "But why go on in grisly detail?" the raven asked brightly. "There;s something of more immediate importance." She paused, and her red eyes glittered. "The moon has been stolen from the sky."
     Matthew stared at the bird in stunned disbelief. "You're crazy.  .  .  ."
     "The Deadwood Forest is ruled by a great horned owl," she said, "Fourteen years ago he sent the wind which brought us west. Last night he abducted the moon. Before I flew here, I went to the great sea cliffs where I was born, the cliffs still farther to the east. The ocean is still as a dead rat's teeth, and the beach is littered with fish. The tides have ceased, and the vast hood of the sky is blank as snow."
     "You're lying," Matthew said. "These things can't happen. The tides never stop."
     "A week ago I would have said the moon could not be purloined from the sky," the raven said. She was annoyed, her tone haughty. "But last night we were sent with a net. It was easier than you'd imagine."
     "You helped steal the moon?" Derin asked. "You were there?"
     "Of course I was there," she snapped. "What was I supposed to do? Sometimes one has no choice. I've lived in the Deadwood Forest nearlt all my life."
     "You might have done something," Derin said. "You could have stopped the owl."
     "Tell me that again after you've seen him," Deirdre said. A shiver shook her from the point of her sharp beak to the elegant wedge of her tailfeathers. " "He's cold and analytic, diabolical, preternatural. He means to rule the night. For years he's held the Outer Lands in his thrall. Now he's stretching his talons still further. But enough of this. I didn't come all these miles for the purpose of narrative exposition."
     "You have come very far," Matthew said. "At least a week's journey." He reached up and covered his eyes with his hands, as if he were waking from sleep. In his mind, he stood in last night's forest as the pool of darkness gathered around his hooves.
     "By air, only six hours," the ravel said dryly. "It is a hefty flight. Yes. I will take credit for that. Now pay attention." The satyr bristled at her order. "Years ago," Deirdre said, "when I was little—mind you, I'm not prone to such emotional declarations—I admired you above all other creatures, excepting my parents. Because of those memories I've come here today. You've got to help. You're the only one I can think of. You've got to help me rescue the moon. You do understand how serious this is?"
     "Of course," Matthew said, angry. He could feel the blood rising in his face. "You hot—mouthed condescending little.  .  .  ." But Deirdre cut him off.
     "Good," she said. "I knew you would. Now I've got to get back. I'm afraid they'll notice I'm missing. The moon hangs incarcerated in a tree in the middle of the Deadwood Forest. I'll be expecting you." Without another word, she ascended into the air and vaulted like a meteor toward the west.
     "How do you like that?" Matthew asked. "The nerve of that bird. Not so much as a by-your-leave. And last night I thought we were in for a heavy rain."

                                                       *                 *                 *

Thursday, October 31, 2013

The INTERNET is populated by horny teenagers.

     What the fuck?!? All I see online these days are lewd drawings and text written by hormones. Now, it is no secret that between ages 15 and 25 young people get horny as fuck. Everyone knows that. I know that.
     But you know that? I don't want to listen to them! I don't care how much they want to fuck, and who they want to fuck. They always want to fuck. I don't even know which kind is worse, the ones who fuck all the time and brag about their "accomplishments", or permavirgins who fap to their waifus and talk about that all the time.
     And the usual method of 'not going to the dark corners of the web' does not work anymore. Every website with forums or some sort of 'social' integration gets this problem. Horny teenagers spill over from the bad places, and into what previously was civil territory. Horny teenagers everywhere, and I cannot escape!
     And worse of all, in out glorious postmodern society, no one has to feel shame anymore. Motherfuckers can talk about fucking anywhere they FUCKING want, and you cannot drive them away.

     Is the first world getting hornier, or are we losing what little shame we used to have as a society?

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 7 & 8.

     Derin woke at what should have been dawn. The sky was a milky grey. The trees circling the meadow were ragged and badly in need of water. Their lowermost branches almost touched the ground, and the leaves were parched and dusty. The air was curiously still, as though it had never moved, had always hung heavily, pressing the earth.
     He knew, even before he was fully awake, that everything was wrong. All the sounds he was used to, bird song and river song, the low sweep of wind across the meadowgrass, were missing. He sat, rocked to his knees, and hunched down, peering around to see what was threatening him. But he was totally alone.
     Seeing nothing to make him flee, he stood up. His movements were quick and angular, and his thick blond hair was matted with burrs. His eyes stared out of a face marked by an expression almost feral, as though he had been hunted all his life.
     The grass ebbed around his knees, the only movement in sight. Still cautious, he waded through the meadow to the creek. Water, brackish and warm, hung between its banks as though suspended, more like a puddle than a stream. A dead lizard lay belly-up on the bank. Derin splashed some water in his face and wished he hadn't. It felt slippery, left a slimy film on his hands.
     From across the meadow, Derin heard a familiar noise, the faint grumbling morning song of the badger as he made his way through the thick grass. Most days Derin avoided the lumbering slow-witted animal, but today his approach felt like a gift. The boy could see the meadow part and close as the badger made his way toward the stream. But well before he reached Derin, he went underground, burrowing. Finally he arrived at the edge of grass by the water and surfaced again.
     "Morning, badger," the boy said, but instead of the rough greeting he expected, Derin heard what sounded like the clicking of tiny teeth and the animal stuck his head from his burrow only long enough to motion to him. Puzzled, Derin walked closer. "Get out of there," he said. "I like to see who I'm talking to." But all he got in reply was the click of the badger's teeth. He got down on his hands and knees and peered into the burrow.
     "That's better," the badger whispered. "I don't want anyone to hear us."
     "Who can hear us?" Derin asked, quickly looking behind him. "There's no one around but the two of us. Where is everyone?"
     "I don't know," the badger replied. He hunkered further down into his hole so that Derin could hardly see his snout. "Something is terribly wrong, Derin," the badger said. "Something is terribly wrong." The blond hairs on the back of the boy's neck twitched. For all his faults, the badger was not an alarmist. "It's been this way for two hours now," the badger said. "Grey as doom, grey as a wolf's coat in winter."
     "The sun will be up soon enough," Derin said.
     "I'm not so sure," the badger said. "She should have been up hours ago. It's later than you think."
     Derin looked at the sky suffused with this unfamiliar light. He thought of the trees, drooped and dusty, of the brackish water in the brook.
     "I had the weirdest dream last night," he said. "A sheet slipped over the moon and a wind put my fire out."
     "A sheet of what?" the badger asked.
     "I don't know. I thought I was asleep and awake at the same time."
     "I wouldn't know anything about that," the badger said. "I never dream. I never hoped to dream. But now, today, for the first time in my life, I hope this is a dream and that I'll wake, come out of my burrow to find the sparrows fluttering in the maple by the pond and the sun hot and silky on my coat." He slunk still deeper into his burrow until Derin couldn't see him at all. The boy had never known him to go backwards, and it seemed a bad sign.
     Without waiting to see if the badger would return, he got up from the ground, started to run, and soon reached the woods at the edge of the meadow. The trees were silent as he passed through, and he thought of the soughing they made when the wind aroused them. The woods were dark and quiet. None of the animals seemed even to have awakened. If they had, they'd gone back to their nests or burrows to wait for the true day to begin, not this false dawn.
     He had to find Matthew. Matthew would understand the silence in the meadow and forest, the badger's paranoia, the prickly sense of dread he'd awakened with. The satyr slept under an overhang of rock, a granite ledge about a mile from the clearing. Derin made good time. Today there was no one to stop and talk with, and the trail was well-tramped and clear.
     Matthew was still asleep when Derin found him. Out of breath, the boy stood over him with clenched fists, stared down at the body which changed so suddenly from man to goat. He had expected the satyr to be awake, but Matthew lay unconscious, one arm thrown over his eyes, blocking out what little light there was. "Get up!" Derin said urgently. He knelt and shook the satyr's shoulder. Matthew stirred, groaned, rolled on his side. "Wake up, I said," the boy repeated, shaking his friend again.
     The satyr uncovered his eyes and looked at the boy. "Stop yelling, damn it," he snarled. "You sound like something bit you."
     "What's going on?" Derin demanded.
     "I'm trying to get some sleep, you fool. Go away, will you? Come back this afternoon."
     "It's late, Matthew. Something's wrong."
     "I know something's wrong," the satyr said. "My head feels like it's coming apart."
     "Were you drunk again last night?" Derin asked.
     "What business is that of yours?" the satyr asked. "If you think talking to you is what I want to be doing. . . ."
     Derin felt a tide of panic rising in him. He stood and gave Matthew as kick which almost raised the satyr's hindquarters off the ground. Matthew howled in pain and instantly was on his legs, his face twisted in rage. "You monster," he yelled. He swung at Derin, missed, howled again. He sunk to his hocks and cradled his head in his hands. "There are bats flapping in my skull," he said. "Termited destroying whole forests."
     Above Matthew the branches parted and a dark shape filtered down, across the edge of Derin's vision. It was a bird, unlike any he had seen before, black as midnight, its beautiful glossy wings outstretched. Without making a noise, without a flick of wings, it landed above them, light as a milkweed seed, disturbing not a single leaf.
     Derin was startled. Even Matthew was amazed enough to remove his head from his arms and stare at the bird.
     It sat on the limb, slowly folding its wings, until it was still, its red eyes intent on the two of them. "Corvus corax," it said, simply. "I have come from the Deadwood Forest, beyond the Outer Lands."

                                                                   *              *              *

     It was not, of course, the first time Matthew had been drunk, nor the first time Derin had struck out at him. As the boy had grown older, he'd become more silent and withdrawn, would erupt in flashes of anger which Matthew didn't understand. He would suddenly pick up a rock from the ground and dash it into a lake, throwing a rainbow of water high in the air. He smashed his fist against the trunks of trees. And occasionally, for no apparent reason, he struck out against his friend. The satyr was prankish, sly, given to perverse twists of humor–ha trampled the first leaves under his hooves, he stole from the nests of birds–but he was neither vicious nor vindictive.
     Derin had known Matthew all his life, and the satyr was the only creature in the meadowlands even vaguely like him. The boy had grown up learning the language of hawk and deer. He'd swin in water so sold his toes had turned grey. He'd climbed to the top of the highest tree in the forest and stayed there all day, watching night fall over the country like a flat hand. He had grown tall and thin and muscled, fierce, strong-willed, silently proud. His body was scarred, impervious to weather. His skin was darkened by the sun and wind, his feet crusted with calluses.
     And though he was now Matthew's size, he knew he was not yet Matthew's equal. The satyr's power in the forest was unimpeachable. Too many times the boy had seen the respect given the satyr by the other animals, a respect he'd never known from them, being too foreign, too strange. Matthew bridged the gap between him and the animals; he had his hooves in two worlds at once, and though the boy would never have admitted it, he was in awe of the fluid grace.
     So why wouldn't Matthew tell him who he was? There could be no reason for holding that back; it seemed another of the satyr's jokes. Why was there no one around like him–only badgers, opossum, skunks, that impossible satyr? Derin had the growing sense that the answers to his questions lay elsewhere, not in the meadowlands. And then the bird dropped down like a blessing, a sign from another place.

                                                      MORE LATER!~!

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Make up your mind, christians!

     It's about time you finally made a choice. Was Jesus supposed to be a literal son of God? A reincarnation of God? Or was he simply a messenger of God? It has been two thousand years, for God's sake! Make up your mind already! I mean, Jesus!

Friday, September 27, 2013

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 5 & 6.

     As Derin slept , strange noises filled the meadow. The sound of water from the stream stopped, and the whole world of night was changed. Everywhere diurnal animals woke from their sleep. A badger stuck his snout from the mouth of his burrow, hurriedly looked around, and disappeared. A squirrel ran up the trunk of a maple, sat on one of the higher branches, and chattered as though she were dying of cold.
     Still Derin slept on. He trembled in the grasp of troubled dreams. In one, his friend Matthew was a great brown bear who lumbered through the clearing on all fours, ripping everything in his path with his curved claws. The animal was not frightening, not even particularly vicious, but he was so unlike Matthew, yet had Matthew's face, that Derin cried out in his sleep.
     The squirrel quit her chattering and swayed on the branch. The badger did not reappear. Above the clearing, the sky was dark and thick, a solid cloud. Like a fine rain, dust begun to filter through the air, falling on everything, on the leaves of trees, the stones in the brook, on Derin as he slept.
     His cheek twitched as though a fly had alighted on it. Had he been awake and had he the ears of a great horned owl, he might have heard a very distant noise, days distant, faint as fingernails on slate, stopping and starting, very like the noise of a heavy object being raised off the ground with the aid of blocks and tackle.

                                                                 *             *             *

     The ravens had fastened ropes to the moon's cusps, and she felt ashamed hanging upside down and powerless, a foolish golden bowl. They used the dead trunk of an elm as a weight, and in fits and starts she was jerked into the air. The overhanging branches jabbed at her, but she could make no noise, being tightly gagged. Her usual weightlessness was gone, and she strained as the earth tried to pull her back. She was afraid she might break and crash to the ground in pieces, or if she didn't break, she might bend until her horns were joined and she was a crasy lopsided circle with a hole in the middle.
      After what seemed a very long time, the moon found herself hanging opposite the clearing in the oak's branches. Ten ravens flew at her, pushing, and ten more maneuvered the ropes. She swayed into the middle of the cage, and with a crash the branches closed around her. The ravens gnawed at the ropes holding her, and one by one they snapped.
     From below her came the laugh she had heard before. The ravens returned to their branches. And then responding to a summon never openly given, the animals came.
      From dry bushes among the dead trees, from the recesses of darkness, from the branches of forest hidden from view, they came in double file, quartering the globe, the reptiles, black snakes and puff adders, rattlesnakes and copperheads. Toads and scorpions hopped and slithered into view. Timid field mice followed a band of rats with yellow teeth. Behind them came rabbits and woodchucks, skunks and opossums. She saw deer, squirrels, wolves and foxes and boars. And from the air, like the descent of snow, came the birds.
     They'd been hiding since the darkness had fallen and now, gathered at the owl's command, they cowered before the moon. All their lives she had crossed the expanse of night above them; now she was sequestered among them, caged, a symbol of his power.
     The owl sat in absolute stillness, his fierce yellow eyes surveying the assemblage. In concentric circles, far beyond the reaches of the clearing, the animals encompassed him. Slowly he turned his head from side to side as if to say, This is good.
     "I have been successful," the owl said, "as you can see." With a powerful flick of a wing, he loosed a feather which floated up toward his prisoner. "The moon no longer rules the night. That is my domain now, all of it. Every creature of the Deadwood Forest, every citizen of the Outer Lands, will pay homage to me."
     Not an animal made a sound, but even from where the moon hung, it was as though the air had soured. "Does anyone have anything to say?" the owl asked imperiously.
     A small band of rats suddenly broke for the forest. Their squealing, the startled noises of the other animals they attempted o push aside, cracked the hush which had fallen over the clearing. The owl puffed up his chest and gave two powerful hoots. From the trees behind him, a squadron of peregine falcons, their talons gleaming, swooped from the sky and surrounded the rats. Each of the birds wore a slit leather hood and out of that darkness their eyes and beaks shone.
     The owl stretched his wings until they almost covered the clearing. Under him the animals huddled in his shadow, but the moon doubted they felt protected by that outstretched canopy of feather. Slowly the owl folded his wings. "Bring them here," he said. As if in deep thought, he surveyed the trembling group at his feet. He lifted one of his claws; talons as long as the blade of a boning knife closed around one of the rats. "Do not try that again," he said, and tossed him back to his fellows.
     The owl's eyelids drooped, as though he were about to fall asleep, as though the power of the moment had exhausted him or made him drunk, but nothing moved in the clearing around them.
     The moon looked down with awe upon that fur and scale. From the air above her, she heard a noise, a faint flapping, like wings. She strained to see, but could make out only a blur in the darkness. What-ever it was was headed east.
     A look of pure pleasure shone from the owl's round face. If he had heard what the moon heard, he gave no sign.
     "You may show your love for me," he said. "You may prove your fealty."
     So, one by one, the animals kneeled and then rolled over, baring their throats and stomachs, their softest, most vulnerable parts.

                                                          *               *               *

More later! Next post will be a rant.

Friday, August 16, 2013

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 3 & 4.

     The boy was hunched by a fire when the moon disappeared. He had gathered wood in the late afternoon, dragging it from the forest surrounding the meadow. He's kindled the fire as the sun's last rays faded around him and ate his supper by its warmth. He was waiting for Matthew, but the darkness thickened and the satyr never arrived. It seemed he was often waiting for Matthew, whose arrivals and departures had no pattern, who could never be counted on.
     The moon appeared in the east over the fringe of trees, rose higher in the sky. Derin grew tired and fidgety and bored; when he finally allowed himself to sleep, he slept fitfully. A twig cracked and he awoke, expecting Matthew, but it was only a squirrel come to share the fire's lingering heat. He looked up again and saw what seemed to be a solid  black sheet move from the west. It swept across the sky, bringing with it a subtle thunder. He stared, transfixed, as it slipped over the moon's horned face and the light around him disappeared. The stars to the east still shone, more brightly now, but the moon and the western sky were dark.
     Around him, the trees circling the meadow writhed in a heavy wind. He was suddenly very cold. The wind bore down on him and its chill damp entered his shirt, crawling over his chest and back. In a panic he threw himself on the ground and rolled. The wind passed over him, harsh as sawgrass, and when he slowly stood again his fore was out, stone dead.

                                                                   *           *           *

     The moon thought she would never breathe again. Down, down she went through an air so liquid she knew she'd been dragged under water. Then the falling stopped. The wings surrounding her beat themselves to a halt. She felt a slight pressure on her side and it terrified her. Whatever was under her was moist and chilly, the touch of decay.
     Out of the darkness, through the gauze which trapped her, she heard a voice. It had nails in it, the sharp glitter of quartz, the brushing force of unquestioned power.
     "Unwrap her," the voice said.
     She felt the net unwind, and as the layers grew thinner, dark forms materialized. She could breathe again, and her light returned to her, only a little, but enough to see by.
     "And gag her when you're through," the voice said.
     She lay in the clearing of a huge forest, amid dirt and rotten leaves. All around her stood trees, leafless and gaunt, their angular branches reaching into the dark air. On every limb for as far as she could see perched the ravens who had captured her. They hunched deep in their lustrous feathers, their beady eyes bright with malice. In the clearing in front of her sat a huge black rock the shape of an egg.
    To her horror, the rock began to turn. It wavered from side to side on the enormous gnarled claws at its base until it faced her. She gasped and caught her breath so sharply she glowed for a moment and then went out again.
     In the brief light she cast over the clearing, she saw a great horned owl. Its slow breathing ruffled its feathers. Its beak was hooked, like a sickle. its eyes, yellow as jaundice, were the size of gold ducats. And on its neck and chest, where the bib should have been, was a wet swatch of red the color of blood. The owl fastened the moon in his somnolent gaze and held her there.
     She was about to cry out when two of the ravens standing guard clamped a gag over her mouth. It was made of linen so tightly woven that only the most sustained effort pulled air through it. As she breathed slowly, she seemed to herself ridiculous, trapped, blinking on and off like a firefly, a small curved flicker in the night. From the owl's maw came what must have been a laugh, but it was ugly as a mauled animal. The ravens hunched deeper in their feathers until their red eyes disappeared.
     "Let me look at her for a while," the owl said, "and then we'll fasten her in the tree."
     The owl stared at his captive, his great eyelids drooping. Behind her, the moon heard a rustle high in the treetops, and turning, saw a small group of ravens readying a series of ropes and tackle. They were nearly hidden among the twisted branches of an ancient oak, one of the tallest in the forest. Its upper reaches did not move in the wind.
     The ravens were preparing a cage, tying back the branches at one side with great effort. In the center of the oak was a hollowness around which the branches naturally tightened.
     "I have you," the owl said. "You are not mine, but I have you. The nights will be very dark without you."
     He laughed again As before, the ravens sank in their feathers, all but one who sat on a branch near the moon. This raven was preening herself, pecking under a wing for fleas, and as the moon watched, amazed at what seemed a display of sheer arrogance, she couldn't help imagine that the raven looked straight back at her and winked.

                                                            More parts: l8ter.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 1 & 2.

We live in an old chaos of the sun
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable...
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambigious undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

                                                       -"Sunday Morning,"
                                                              Wallace Stevens


     It was just past midnight and the air was filled with wings. An army of ravens came out of the west like a cold black storm. Leaves rustled in the deepening chill, and over the ground a wind rolled, a darkly visible tumbleweed of air.
     But in the sky was a rumble such as a distant earthquake might have made. The moon was startled by the sound. The night had been peaceful, its curved sweep studded with stars. Above her, their sharp sparks bristled. She had followed this course forever, her bright edge unfolding until a pale medallion hung full in the sky. Balanced between the earth and the pincushion of stars above, she remained pleased with herself, the axis of night, the interlocutor. But now she was waning, past half, growing weaker with the loss of light. And this rumble behind her was frightening.
     Over her shoulder the moon watched the ravens approach. They came like a rippling sheet, its slow waves caused by unseen hands, the fury of its organization apparent even at this distance. In an instant the ravens were cawing. The first hoarse streaks of sound reached the moon and multiplied until their monotonous echoing rattled the night. Crauk. Cr-r-cruk. It came from everywhere, its hard consonants scratching at her, and under the surface a denser noise, the violent reverberations of their wings.
     The moon thought the whole of creation was screaming. The earth disappeared. Ravens swooped under her, so thick she could only see her dim light flung back at her by their glassy blackness. Thousands still flooded from the west, a turbulent stream curled in a sudden arc and the bright red darts of the ravens' eyes pushed past her face, in front of her.
     Only then did she see the net. Hooked in the ravens' talons was a fine gauze, black as their wings, hardly visible in the reflected light. As the birds whirled around her, the net caught the horns of her crescent and stuck, drawn even more tight. She was imprisoned by layers of gauze; she was strangled by them. The hoarse screaming of the birds grew, pulsing through her until the cawing seemed to be coming from inside.
     She could see nothing more. She felt herself stiffen, the sudden onset of vertigo releasing into the certainty of fall, and she groaned as the ravens wretched her free from her path over the earth. Her fire went out. The night filled with horrible rush, the dissonant flapping of thousands of wings, the hollow suck as she left her orbit, and the creeping cold of the wind which took her place.

                                                                  *        *        *

     The satyr stood under the leaves of an ancient maple, out of breath. He scratched his hind quarters, put his hands on his hips, and panted. His two horns glinted in the moon's spare light. He bent at the waist and let his torso hang until his fingers brushed the ferns and moss of the forest's floor. It was summer in the meadowlands and his chest filled
with the fragrance of leaves, rich dirt, and rank smell of his body. Then he straightened and yawned and swatted a mosquito which had landed on his shoulder.
     Matthew swayed and abruptly sat down, his back to the tree. His tangled hair caught on the bark and he grunted in annoyance as it tore loose. And then the pain, like the itch, was behind him, with nothing before him but the two tapered legs, covered with goat fleece, stiff with dirt and twigs. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the reeling; red suns exploded in his head, the aftermath of wine.
     Not even he knew how old he was. For him the past was a blur. What few memories he had were focused against the succession of seasons, a rhythmic celebration the world held, tension and release. Instinctively he'd known these warm indolent nights would soon be upon him when he noticed skunk cabbage jutting from the forest's mulch. Then its leaves untwined, the willow's furred blossoms appeared, the day lingered in the sky.
     Matthew heard a noise in the stand of saplings to his left, his body tensed, and he scrambled into a crouch. From the underbrush a six-point buck stared at him. The animal's eyes were wide, its flanks quivering in the moonlight. The satyr was an awesome figure to the other creatures in the meadowlands, and he was never completely trusted. He had a strange smell, and wilder eyes, sparked with a cunning beyond them. Perversely he leapt at the stag, his arms outstretched. The animal bounded deeper into the forest, crashing through a brace of trees, leaving only Matthew's rough laughter in its wake. The satyr threw back his head again and looked at the moon's horns through the maple's translucent leaves. She hung suspended in the night sky, a paring of her fuller self.
     Tonight he'd drunk himself senseless by her light, run through the forest almost soundlessly, in search of the nymphs who had vanished from the meadowlands years before. He had never abandoned hope that one night he would round an oak and there, glimmering like foxfire, she would appear. She would glance over her shoulder, toss her long hair, and run away from him again. It might have been yesterday, but he didn't remember. Now, still slightly muddled, stirred by his encounter with the stag yet ready for sleep, he thought of her.
     A noise began to build in the forest behind him, a noise no animal might make, a distant sound like the steady crash of waves against a cliff. He whirled around, could see nothing but the retreating welter of trunks and bushes.  Yet the noise grew until he saw what appeared to be a wall of darker air move toward him. Twigs jumped from the ground, the maple began to creak, and its leaves rattled as if someone were shaking the branches.
     It happened quickly; a pool of blackness gathered around his hooves. He turned sharply and looked at the sky. The moon was gone. And then he heard the noise. It was like river ice cracking in a spring thaw, like stumps being pulled from the earth. Stepping to the side, he ducked around the maple's trunk and the wind's full force almost knocked him over. Leaves flew into his face like the wings of bats. He struck out at the whirling air as if he could brush it away.
     He had to get back to his ledge. If the wind were this strong, what would the rain be like? But he was drunk, unsettled by the onslaught of this storm, and he stumbled away from the maple in the direction of home, cursing as the wind rushed him along, howling as it threw him against trees or tumbled him into a briar patch. He'd known only one night to rival this. It had been long long ago, and he'd almost–almost–forgotten.

                                       Part 3 coming soon! (hopefully in less than a week)

Monday, August 12, 2013

In my OPINION, Satydray is AWESOME.

   In the early 80, a one-of-a-kind novel was published by an English professor and poet Steven Bauer, entitled Satyrday. Called a 'fable' on the cover, it is an interesting mix of traditional fairytale and short fantasy. What is most interesting about it, in my OPINION, is that is puts feeling before logic. Sure, there is plot, and there are characters, but the atmosphere is king.

   As many /co/mrades should know, Don Bluth loved the novel so much, he decided to make an animated adaptation. But that fell flat when Steven Spielberg asked the man to direct that mouse movie instead.

   Two paragraphs in, and I still haven't explained what the **** is it about. So, what is it about? Well, I could have made a summary here, but I would rather link to the TV Tropes entry I made:

   After all, it deserves more views, and it is the best summary I could ever come up with.

   Several pieces of concept art by Mr. Bluth survive to this day, and one might find them online, if you ask in the right places *hint hint, nudge nudge*


   The main point of this article is to tell you, readers, that I am going to save this wonderful novel from the Out of Print Hell. I will pull it out of obscurity by printing the entire book in moderate parts on this very blog, starting with the next post. If Steven Bauer contacts me and asks for the chapters to be pulled down, I will gladly oblige, but if that doesn't happen... look forward to Satyrday: a Fable!

Wednesday, July 24, 2013


   So, there I was, planing on doing a deep, psychological, philosophical, buzzword article about the biggest reasons why so much of the INTERNET is populated with pussies who are OFFENDED by you simply saying "hi". But today I figured out the biggest one. Or, at least I think I did.

  I present to you:

       The Biggest Reason So Many Oeople Are OFFENDED on the INTERNET: a Short Article.

   The biggest reason is wanting attention. They want to be comforted by a white knight in shining adamantium armor, who will rush to their rescue, and defend them from all the nasty trolls! Or someone. Anyone, really...... PAY ATTENTION TO ME!~!

   And we should not judge those people for being attention whores. We should not laugh at them... too much. In fact,... we should feel sorry for them.

   The reason for so many OFFENDED individuals out there is a simple lack of love. Now, imagine yourself in a situation, where your family doesn't really love you, pays little attention to you, and almost never sees you for being too busy with work, or some shit. That lack of necessary attention from the people you put so many hopes into results in you growing up with low self-esteem. That, in turn, prevents you from approaching other people for support, because you feel you don't deserve their time. You grow up resentful of real human contact.

   In the end, you end up alone, in front of a computer screen, too scared to look for attention IRL (cause other people are scary, wooooo!). You go to some place online, and start a tantrum about SOMEONE BEING INSENSITIVE TO YOUR FEELINGS! You then wait for some e-help, some e-assurance, e-support, e-attention.

   This is no laughing matter; as a matter of fact, this is really sad shit.

   But what should we do about this? Well, if you know someone who is afraid of people, don't just leave them be like it's not your business. Talk to them, befriend them. Do something good for a change! And if you have a fear of people yourself, unless you life in the worst ghetto on the planet, get over yourself, get out there, and talk to someone. It does not matter if you have nothing "interesting" to say; just tell them you are lonely. You don't have to look all sad while doing so; just straight up say "Hey, I'm kind of lonely/bored. Could we talk about something?" It's that easy. And even if you end up talking to a jerk, try someone else. Eventually you will run into someone nice.

   If only we could just be nicer to each other... Then maybe one day there will be less attention whores on the INTERNET, and we will start seeing the word OFFENDED used less often.

   Just kidding!

   Cause being nice is fuking ghey!

   Are you OFFENDED?

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Trying desperatly to be wise.

   So, every now and then I get these "sayings" stuck in my head. Most of the time they are someone else's, but, sometimes, my own. I don't know what to do with them yet; where to put them. So, for now I will just waste an entire post just for one of those sayings. This one is my own, it came to me yesterday.

"If you don't care what other people think of you, then you don't care about other people".

I have thought about this one for hours now, and it... just... seems... right. You can think about the possible meaning in your spare time.

Friday, July 5, 2013

The generation of pussies.

   Let's just say somebody is physically threatening you... bullies you, basically. What do you do? You defend yourself, and, if needed, counterattack. You kick their ass to the point that they lose all their desire to fuck with you.

   Just kidding! You cry like a baby and go tell someone powerful.


   Because we are now a generation of pussies.

   Apparently, violence is apparently inherently bad, even if you use it in self-defense. And that is fucking retarded. Here is why:

   Scenario 1: let's assume you have religious reasons. Your god of choice punishes those who stand up for themselves, because "turn the other cheek" and all that kind of bullshit. What does that mean? That mean your god is a bully. Congratulations on the choice of a retarded god! But if God created the world, would he/she/it want to see his/hers/its precious creations being damaged and destroyed? No! That means when you are preserving yourself, you are fulfilling your god's wishes. Either you are being a bad God's servant, or your religion was invented by someone with terrible logic and split personality disorder (and should be dropped immediately). A loving god would never want his/her/its creation to suffer.

   Scenario 2: you are a Richard Dawkins level atheist. There is no God, and there is no Hell. You are not punished for violence, and as (the Jesus of atheists) Charles Darwin pointed out, it's survival of the fittest, baby! So, why aren't you not standing up for yourself? Clearly, because you are insane.

   Scenario 3: you believe that aggression is inherently bad and letting it into ur <3 will destroy your soul or some shit. That is a textbook definition of close-mindedness. It is just as if to say all british men wear top hats or that all canadians play hockey. Start thinking outside the box, you simple-minded twit!

   Scenario 4: you honestly believe it is possible to build a Heaven on Earth by completely eradicating violence. You think it can be done through education. You think it could be done via your heroic positive example by letting yourself get kicked around. Well, let me bring the bad news: all God's creatures have a dark side. There is evil in the world. Violence (the bad kind) is a part of human nature. It is inherent. It cannot be eradicated just as you cannot stop destruction and death. Just as you cannot cure all diseases. Just as you cannot completely get rid of poverty. There is bad shit in the world. Do you really believe that by letting yourself get bullied you are sending some sort of positive example, and your oppressors will have a big change of heart, Di$ney style? Well, keep on believing! Dumbass.

   Conclusion: if you think there are good reasons why people should not stand up for themselves when oppressed, you are definitely brainwashed. Or just insane.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013


   Good day/morning/evening/night/whatever time of day you may be having.

   Welcome to my (under construction) blog!

   For a while now, as I was studying cultural anthropology, my head had been overflowing with ideas too odd and controversial to put in an academic paper. "Where to put them?", I thought... And then the answer came to me: on the INTERNET, of course! 

   And so, after months of thinking about making a blog, I finally actually did it.

   This will be more or less a personal diary or sorts, to dump all the ideas that have been troubling me lately (only without all the unnecessary stuff about personal life... after all, who needs to read about that??). I will not write what serious people in expensive suits (or white coats) with PHD's would find adequate; NO, I will be writing whatever I feel like, so no reference links will be used.

   Here you will read about my OPINIONS on society, politics, culture, subcultures, animals, people, science, religion, mind, body, universe, multiverse, INTERNET, economy, as well as bits of wisdom I managed to accumulate during my not very long life.

   Actual articles will come soon. For now, you can re-read the introduction one hundred times. Or not; the choice is yours.

P.S. I am not allowing comments on this blog. Not because I am afraid of OPINIONS, but because I do not want to argue on the INTERNET more than I do already. If you think an article of mine has something going for it, discuss it with other people, preferably in real life. If you think this place is full of shit, then just ignore it. Because remember: I do not have the power to affect your life.