Winter Solstice 2012

Winter Solstice 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Today is the winter solstice. This year, I know a number of people in transition, their lives full of change. For some, it is their first holiday without someone they care about. For others, it’s a time of new additions to their family. For a few, it is the first time since childhood that they might spend their holiday alone. As is every year, this has been one full of joy and sorrow.

A number of years ago I was talking with a counselor about the holidays. For me, the holidays have been a stressful time since I was a child. I only have a handful of good memories to look back and smile. More, they have just reinforced the patterns of my life and how it differs from the stereotypes our culture enshrines as normal.

Her advice? Create traditions of your own. Own the holidays in a way that makes you feel good, regardless of the expectations of those around you or society in general. I laughed. Karen and I had started doing that years earlier by lighting the house with only candles on the night of the Winter Solstice. No electric lights, no computers, no cooking after dark. The only exception we make is for the stereo to play Anonymous 4, a cappella medieval music that we find soothing. We reflect on the previous year as most people do on New Year’s Eve and think about what we want from the upcoming one. Sometimes, we share it with friends.

What started as a single night has become a 21-year tradition. Where I suggested marking the winter solstice, Karen has become more and more attached to it. This will be the first year we give each other nothing for Christmas, only a Solstice gift, only one. Don’t get me wrong, we buy gifts for other people and some things for ourselves this time of year. That is part of the society in which we were raised. Those are hard traditions to break. But as time has gone by, we both feel more and more detached from the official holiday, religious or secular.

People forget that the Christians co-opted a host of pagan symbols to celebrate the birth of their spiritual leader. Christmas trees, wreathes, stockings, Santa (or Father Christmas), Yule logs, tinsel, candy canes, holiday lights, even December 25, do not appear in their core mythology. Most originated in much older and richly varied traditions. Or maybe there was a lot more snow and reindeer in the Middle East a couple millennia ago than I thought.

Some people see that as a problem. I do not. Traditions change. We are not the same people we were two thousand years ago, just as each of us is a different person than we were two decades ago, or two days for that matter. We don’t have the same values or priorities. The pagans who converted to Christianity brought their own traditions to make their new religion seem at least familiar in order to integrate it into their lives. In synthesis, they laid claim to it. There is nothing wrong with that. Anyone who thinks there is might need to reread how the Christian New Testament changed almost all the traditions of the Old. Or examine how fervently the Celtic converts defended Christian traditions through some very dark times, at points keeping better records than Rome. Life is change. Only in death does it cease.

In medieval Europe, Christmas was a minor church feast. In fact, the church outlawed several traditions, like singing carols, as they could lead to dancing which might detract from the meaning of the day. Easter was their largest celebration. Candlemas (Imbolc) and Epiphany loomed large among a host of saints’ days throughout the year. With any hero that attains mythic status, their birthday becomes a convenient day to mark in remembrance, but their deeds are more important.

As are yours. Do what brings you joy. Give gifts, send cards, attend parties. Go to a movie and order Chinese takeout. Drink wine. Light candles. Sing and dance. Walk in a park. Play in the snow. Share your day or night with someone special, even if she’s only your cat. Bake something.

Both my sister and I remember a braided Christmas bread my mother (and then grandmother) used to bake. Independently, and with vastly different holiday traditions, we both make it this time of year. We both draw comfort from the memory of that childhood tradition. Sometimes, it is the smallest things that bring us joy. As we get older, we recognize that more.

Once again this year, we will light our candles on the longest night in celebration. Whatever your tradition, new or old, may your Solstice be warm and bright.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Stealth Burial

Stealth Burial - a reading (on YouTube)

I’ve gotten good at stealth burials for my family. Checking locations, scouting out the blind spots, making sure the coast is clear. I am humbled that distant people I don’t much know have entrusted me with this duty.

Our room is hidden on the back side, around a corner out of sight. The sound of surf creeps through the windows like the shadow of a thief. On the beach, the water is flat, like a mirror of our lives, two above, two below. Only ripples in the sand mark the passage of the tides.

Mackerel feast on fingerlings, leaping briefly into our world near the shore. A weathered cross marks an estate to the south of us, abandoned and empty houses lie north. The sun sinks under the clouds near the horizon, casting a deep orange glow like a torch or a lantern. A guiding light. 

An hour after sundown, we slip out to perform an early evening recon. Not a soul stirs along the beach. Just dark water against a dark horizon. I retrieve my burden and wander out.

Night blind, I wade knee deep into the ocean, a baptism of sorts. I spread their ashes, first one then the other and rinse the plastic clean. I mark the spot by the shadows of the landscape. After a moment of reflection, I wander back to change.

Focused on the deed, I’ve forgotten the scotch or cognac. I guess simple wine will have to do. A toast and a smoke, an Italian white and the pipe my father gave me. On the deck, bright stars peek through breaks in the clouds. The diamond of Delphinus swims along the Milky Way, ready to guide them home.

The next day, Poseidon or some other pelagic god offers up mementos from the sea, the perfect shell and shark’s tooth. A lone dolphin transits just offshore. At sunset the next evening, a double green flash echoes on the horizon.

That night, I dream of them on a journey by road. Before the bridge across that familiar river, I step out of their car. They say nothing, don’t even turn around. I awake in the dark, wishing them Godspeed wherever their destination, hoping that someday someone will do the same for us.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Samhain 2012

Samhain 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

On a high, rugged hill, a ruinous castle perches, its crenellations forming a gap-toothed grin. In the donjon its hidden garrison is poised like a falcon ready to stoop upon its prey, playing draughts until their time is nigh. Inveterate gamblers, they wager on our lives.  Tonight, the portal opens.

Storm clouds mar the horizon. Bass note moans of thunder resonate below a howling soprano wind. Rain beats a cadence against rooftops like drum. Whipped into a furor by the rhetoric of the air, the sea renews its ancient rivalry with the land. Moiling up beside the water gate, ranks of waves surge forward to briefly reclaim their birthright before retreating in a Pyrrhic victory.

As the storm abates, spirits emerge through a postern disguised as a cairn-like opening, the cave of cats. Green-eyed and hungry, they creep through the savage garden, shadows against a bloody harvest moon. This one night, they knock like missed opportunity, soft yet insistent. Through a tatting of ice-worked windows, they eavesdrop on our lives.

Sheltered in warm yellow light beside a trestle heaped with bounty, we sing and eat and dance. We care not for the ancient spirits. Like the fading colors beyond our windows, we set no place for them at our table. With pastries and sweetmeats we bribe them to favor someone else's feast.

Enraged by their irrelevance, they vex us with misfortune. Their mischief comes to naught. We no longer heed the rites of kith and kin. Until they prowl the night on tiny goblins' feet, changelings of our hearth and home. It is only in that self-imposed darkness that we remember and regret.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

In My America

In My America - a reading (on YouTube)

Flat tax. I like this idea. In my America all men were created equal. No one should have to pay more. Let's see, $3.6 Trillion/330 million. That's only $11,000 each person in this country owes each year. A bargain at twice the  price. That's every man, woman and child. No exceptions, no deductions. Add another $3000 a year and we'll eliminate the debt in 12 years. That's only $56,000 a year for the average family of four.

But Ed, I can't afford that. It's way too much. Ok, just for you, citizen, let's see what we can do.

In my America, we don't support freeloaders. Let's cut out all that Other Mandatory spending. I don't know what it pays for anyway (Welfare, Food Stamps, Congressional pay, Military pensions, VA benefits, etc). That saves us each $1400 a year. Every hand to the wheel and nose to the grindstone.

In my America, we believe in smaller government. We don't need all that Discretionary spending (EPA, FDA, State Dept., Justice, FAA, CDC, NASA, Parks, etc.). Sounds like an alphabet soup of subsidies and job killing regulation. There's another $2000 a year we each just saved.

In my America, healthcare is a privilege, not a right. It's time to say goodbye to Medicare and Medicaid. Though I'd put that $2500 a year you save under a mattress, because when you're old and sick it will cost you an order of magnitude more. Though maybe you could just die sooner. That sure would keep medical costs down for the rest of us.

In my America, we take personal responsibility for our own retirement. No more Social Security or Disability. Though I'd invest that $2200 a year wisely, perhaps in something with a lot of growth potential. I'm thinking a mortgage derivative fund.

In my America, the Founding Fathers never intended for us to keep a standing army. If you love this country, you'll truly volunteer. And bring your own gun (because in my America, we take the 2nd Amendment seriously). Your civic-mindedness will save your fellow citizens another $2100 a year. The Minutemen are doing a bang-up job of holding down the border in Arizona.

What's that leave us? Oh, right, just the interest payments on the debt. A paltry $700 a year. Plus you still owe that $3000 a year for the next three Administrations. But we can't eliminate either of those. Because in my America, we always pay our debts.

But Ed, what will we do with the people who can't or won't pay (all those pesky poor, elderly, disabled, and, oh yeah, the children)? In my America, we'll punish them like God intended: Debtor's Prison, to the seventh generation if necessary. Hell, I'm from the South: we know how to get our money out of prisoners by putting them to work. And we don't coddle anybody. That'll solve the unemployment problem in one throw. Two birds, one stone.

The more I think about it, the more I like it. Fair's fair, right? I'll stroke my check tomorrow.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Fall Equinox 2012

Fall Equinox 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Fe-fi-fo-fum. Frost kills the giant and down he comes.

When we bought this house just over twenty years ago, the real estate listing said it sat on a well-treed lot. When I first stood on the back porch and heard the wind whispering through the pines, I knew it would be our home. The voice of the Green Man calling.

Since then, we’ve sacrificed to that sylvan spirit by planting even more trees, though you wouldn’t think there was room. I remember being told how patient we were, how many people could never wait for trees to grow so never planted any. It’s just something we do, if not for ourselves, for the next people who come along. The Green Man smiled upon us. The survivors include six oaks, two pines, two maples, two crepe myrtles and a spruce.

Until two weeks ago we would have numbered a ficus tree among them. At its prime it soared twenty to thirty feet above the rooftop of house. We had planted it the year we moved in, a houseplant we’d set free. As free as a tree can be. Seventeen years later, it repaid us in shade every afternoon. Its bower provided refuge for squirrels and birds. Its boughs even sheltered the occasional sick raccoon.

On a long winter night two and a half years ago, a rare hard freeze descended from the north. Within days the ficus had dropped all its leaves, some twenty bags full stacked at the curb. That spring, we called in a tree service to trim it back to live wood. The arborist was encouraged it would survive. Though it no longer soared as a statuesque giant, we weren’t too worried. As a sapling, this tree had survived a similar freeze, one that had claimed its companion along the fence. That summer, we saw the Green Man’s spirit still lingered as a balanced course of bright green leaves emerged.

The next winter, Jack Frost again came calling, this time accompanied by the chorus of a stiff north wind. Once again, the ficus dropped all its leaves, barely a dozen bags this time. That spring and summer, it struggled to renew. What new growth sprouted came in much farther down the branches almost exclusively on the sheltered sides. The rest remained as barren as a skeletal oak at Samhain.

That summer, a woodpecker began hollowing a nest in one of the high, thick, dead branches. He or his kin had lost their previous nesting ground when a small deadwood tree at the top of the street finally collapsed and was removed. Unfortunately, the nest remained empty as his handiwork never attracted a mate. As the summer rains settled in, bark began to peel away. Colorful, intricate fungi began to grow along the branches and in the hollows. Midday sun once again caressed almost the entire backyard. Grass that had thinned in the ficus’s shadow wove itself back into a thick, green carpet.

Last winter, no fresh freezes fell upon us. New growth returned though in a deeply lopsided fashion. Ropes of live wood threaded their way around the dead using old, gray branches as support to reach back to the sky. Another, smaller variety of woodpecker bored a nest in a different branch and raised a clutch that sought out their own place in the world come spring. The majority of branches remained barren and denuded. In a late spring storm, one came crashing down on the park side of the fence without damage. That should have been a warning yet we did not heed.

We had intended to cut the ficus back again before summer. We had hoped to balance it and remove the bulk of the deadwood before hurricane season blew in. That was not to be. Our spring was consumed with unplanned travel centered on my mother’s life and my father’s death, quickly followed by my stepmother’s. When we finally returned home, we crossed our fingers, putting off that like many other chores until the fall.

This summer, the rains descended in force, thirty-one inches total, a full nine above average. Most of that fell in five or six inch deluges, with two multi-day inundations spun from tropical storms lingering in the Gulf.

The surviving greenery filled in and thrived. The back porch returned to shade each day by mid-afternoon. The first woodpecker returned to his construction, continuing to make improvements in hopes of catching some female’s approving glance. More bark peeled, more fungus grew. We eyed the deadwood in calculation to be sure that if any more came down it, none of it would clip the porch. By the time we left for Atlanta on Labor Day weekend, we were hopeful our ficus had survived the worst.

A week later, on a Sunday after dinner, the remaining twenty feet of that green hope came crashing down. The Green Man attended its fall, ensuring it landed in the only place it could without damaging anything, missing the porch, the birdbath, the power line supports, the statue marking the grave of one of our cats. It clipped the juniper we had once used as a Christmas tree but only bent it over.

Within days we had another tree service out to cart away the body. Two days later, it was gone. The Green Man must have watched over its final passing. One of the last two remaining branches the tree service dropped came within a foot of our roof. The other did a half-gainer over the chainlink fence without bending the support bar. The wood was too rotted to be predictable. The central stump, between two and three feet across, is an amazing pattern of individual six inch stalks from the original houseplant fused together over time. We will wait until next spring to get it ground to see if an ember of the phoenix lurks within.

We spent the next Saturday afternoon planting a crepe myrtle to honor my father’s and stepmother’s memory. I think she especially would be pleased by the new myrtle’s dark pink flowers. We plan to trim it up to be more tree than bush. One day, we hope this myrtle will shade the back porch like its lavender flowered cousin in the courtyard. Perhaps one day, it too will brighten our lives with fluttering, deep pink rain.

I will miss the ficus but will not mourn it. Death is just the balance of a natural cycle. Even fallen, none of its leaves had even begun to wilt. The only sad part to me is that had it lived in its natural habitat, it might have re-rooted with stringers, or provided a rich environment for a new life to take seed. Its end, while painful, opens space for something new to grow. I see that as a metaphor for most loss in this life.

The equinox is a time of balance between light and darkness, a twilight buffer between the summerlands and the land of the sleeping dead. In autumn, the Green Man dons a brightly colored mask, reminding us to celebrate not to mourn. We will see these souls again if only in different guises.

Fe-fi-fo-fum. Frost kills the giant and down he comes. Be he live or be he dead, may he rise again to shade our bed.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Democracy at Work

Yesterday, I attended my second political rally at Obama’s Seminole, Florida whistle-stop. Back in ’83, I heard Gary Hart speak at the University of Illinois at Champagne-Urbana before some monkey business derailed his candidacy. Yesterday was Karen’s second time seeing a President. Her first was a speech in ’88 when Reagan bribed and bussed in a bevy of federal workers to the Capitol steps so his speech wouldn’t seem unattended. Ah, the good old days of graft.

Were the President not speaking within walking distance, I doubt either of us would have gone. I am half a political junkie though I prefer the clarity of transcripts and certain insights on the internet to partisan rallies. But how often in this life would I get to see a sitting President in person? Not very. Four years ago, friends of ours made the pilgrimage to witness his first inauguration. Theirs was truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

So we braved the line at SPC Seminole on Wednesday evening to get tickets then wandered down on Saturday morning two hours before Obama’s speech. Like the President, we approached from the north. By the time we hit 113^th, the road was already closed and guarded. Police, parks and community officers manned the intersections and outposts. Red and blue lighted sedans, SUVs and pickups lined both sides of the road.

Once on campus, we were greeted by a sea of diversity, with a fleet of busses crashing like waves upon the shore, each moment disgorging more. Across the street, a Civil War skirmish line of protestors, perhaps a hundred, shouted their rallying cries, armed with the same battle flag that adorned our side.

A Disney-esque line snaked its way through familiar parking lots. A lone helicopter circled overhead. Pinellas’s finest were in charge of the somewhat chaotic crowd control, complete with conflicting lawful orders. As President’s motorcade crept nearer, they diverted and rediverted the line back and forth from the road to the sidewalk before deciding where we posed the minimum threat.

We formed an instant bond with the party of twenty-somethings in front of us who came up from Sarasota. Their day had started early. They were witty and knowledgeable, the perfect companions for our wait. They even tried to convince a deputy we were among their merry band of brothers when he broke the line just in front of us. But we came together again soon enough. The only problem we encountered was a herd of a half dozen self-identified and seemingly self-entitled fifty-something Republicans trampling their way through the line. We ignored them as their t-shirts professed they were engaged on the correct side of the argument.

At the end of the line, a mobile, scissoring sheriff’s watchtower overlooked a gatehouse garrisoned by a company of uniformed Secret Service. We entered a portcullis of a dozen metal detectors complete with magic wands. The whistle and mini-flashlight on my keychain garnered extra attention but otherwise there were no issues. A clutch of forcibly abandoned umbrellas lined a table just outside like an impromptu, OCD garage sale.

The cordoned field enclosed a crowd eleven thousand strong. Black uniformed silhouettes on the rooftops scanned us and the nearby woods for threats through their binoculars. Inside, as in line, volunteers distributed free water as light shields against the Florida heat. Though the staffers trying to energize the crowd met with more muted success. Despite the cloud cover, it was just too hot.

The day had dawned cloudy but not threatening. The field was muddy, humid and stifling from a deluge two days before. The pleasant breeze died as the sun emerged just in time to bear down upon the public press. We later heard one hundred people collapsed from the heat, ten of them hospitalized. One young woman was carried from the field by EMS like a wounded soldier about ten yards in front of us.

The President was a fashionable fifteen minutes late, which allowed most of the line behind us to file in. In later reports, we heard some were turned away when we hit capacity. We were lucky to get in. Perhaps we should have started our trek earlier.

Charming Charlie Crist performed the introduction. I will resist using his other sobriquet as he has become an ally rather than an adversary. He stood before the crowd as a former Republican governor citing how his erstwhile Party had abandoned him. If nothing else, as a former Rockefeller Republican from decades ago, I could empathize. The follies of my youth.

Here is where I must come to full disclosure. I am a Democrat. Although Obama wasn’t my first choice, I want him to succeed. I have a laundry list of reasons that it is unlikely I will ever again register as a Republican, at least until they undergo some very serious reforms. In that party, in my estimation, change must come from within. Still, I try not to let that distort my lens.

After a series of chants and very eerie “four more years” salutes from the crowd, Obama alighted at the podium. First, he recognized his allies, Gov. Crist, Sen. Nelson, Rep. Betty Castor. Of those three, Crist received the loudest cheers even though, unlike the other two, he is currently without portfolio. Nelson’s name received only a slightly worryingly, tepid response.

Unlike Crist, the podium was not miked well for Obama. The President was witty and interactive, improvising with the crowd. Unfortunately, that meant each time he turned to speak to an individual supporter, he turned away from the mikes at times leaving the rest of us in a Monty Python skit. ("Blessed are the Greeks?" "Oh, it's the MEEK!") Crist definitely knew better how to work the crowd and still maintain the microphone. That was perhaps the most disappointing experience of the day. 

Obama spoke for half an hour almost precisely to the second. It took the celebratory crowd five minutes before they calmed enough to listen in. He sprinkled several clever sound bites in with a detailed, four-point plan for moving the country forward. Prosperity comes from the middle out, not the top down. This is an election about choice not cynicism. We have a responsibility to keep the promises we’ve made.

His four points centered on creating manufacturing jobs, not rewarding corporations for outsourcing; controlling the nation’s energy through a diversity of domestic production; focusing on education to provide people with the skills, degrees and financing they need to succeed; and responsibly reducing the Federal deficit by rolling back taxes on the wealthy to the levels under the Clinton Administration and the prosperity it saw, as well as using the savings from ending two wars to pay down the debt.

Throughout, Obama came across soft-spoken. His speech was full of light, prosperity and solutions, and a quiet hope, though he never invoked that word. He sounded a clear counter-note to darkness and doom I constantly hear from the other side, which seems to say that our best days are behind us, and that tax cuts and gutting regulations are our only hope at salvation. As with many points in their platform, their arguments seem to ignore the economists and the advice of experts in favor of ideology.

The response from the crowd was more intriguing than the speech itself. In rising levels of applause, people admired, third, Obam’s bullet point on education, then, second, that bin Laden was finally dead. But the single most uniting issue that saw the crowd spontaneously erupt to drown out the President? His support of gay marriage and gay rights. That was perhaps the most surprising response. Seminole is not exactly a bastion of liberalism in admittedly moderate Pinellas County. In fact, our state rep climbed into office two years ago from the depths of Tea Party central.

In closing, Obama encouraged everyone to talk, not just to people who shared their opinions, but to people who didn’t, Democrats, Republicans and Independents. Dialogue is the mainsail of a successful democracy. He then encouraged everyone to register and to vote. To reinforce that point, he gave out a website: Gottavote.com.

With that, we began the long, overheated walk back home, downing more water, thankful that our training for Dragon*Con had prepared us for the noonday sun. Just as there was a line to get in, there was a narrow, funneled line to get out, directed by our county’s finest into trampling the landscape.

Tired after three hours of walking and standing in the Florida heat, it took me the rest of the day to recover. After napping and downing a couple Gatorades to rehydrate, Karen and I swung back by the campus on our way to grab a quick dinner out. All the busses, staffers and supporters were gone, leaving a only handful of workers to clean up the mess. Watching them bag up the litter and discarded bottles, I saw a metaphor. The still cordoned off scene seemed to resonate with so many experiences from the past four years and the fundamental nature of democracy at work. In this case, perhaps, a work in progress.

A worthwhile experience despite the energy-draining heat. One I’m sure I will remember fondly for many years to come regardless of the outcome of this election.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Dragon*Con 2012: Notebook

This year, I am trying something a little different. Every year when I get home, I page through my notebook looking for ideas that resonated (as well as books I want to buy and websites I want to look up). This year, I thought I would share. They may seem choppy, but they are meant to stimulate conversation rather than just provide information all on their own. If you find something intriguing, give a shout and we can discuss it. It's likely I have more notes.

If nothing else, it will give you an idea why I keep going back to this convention and attending panels, or at least the types of information I enjoy. I smattered some links throughout.

So, here are the highlights of the notes in the order and context that I took them.

Storytelling:

Plays focus on dialogue and location.

TV and film focus on external action.

Novels focus on internal dialogue and thought.

Computer games focus on character and their position in the game.

Creating characters in art:

You always follow the eyes of a character as you scan a picture. Instinctively, you want to know what they are looking at. Western eyes scan from left to right, like we read.

Part of the process of creating a character:

1. Get visual references (research in writing)

2. Understand the character's environment (character sketches in writing)

3. Tight work in the details draw the eye. Shadows let the eye rest. The mind fills in what's missing (descriptions in writing)

Moon base fundamentals:

If viewed by an external culture, the Earth-Moon system would likely be classified as a binary planet because our moon is so large, proportionally larger than any other moon in our solar system.

For an example of extreme solar radiation, look up the Carrington Event of 1859 on Wikipedia (and apply to modern electronic technology).

Space propulsion 101:

For use of ion thrusters, look up the Dawn Mission on Wiki.

For nuclear thermal rockets, look up NERVA on Wiki.

For nuclear pulse engine, look up Project Orion on Wiki (would reach a Centauri in 140 years).

For Low Earth Orbit, look up space tethers on Wiki (electrodynamic).

For higher orbits, look up space tethers on Wiki (momentum exchange).

Philosophy in science fiction:

Most people think of Batman as the archetype of The Law and The Night, and Superman as Morality and Light. But if you examine Batman through the works of Kant and Superman through the works of Hobbes (Leviathan), they exchange those two roles.  

The Buddhist Warrior takes on the Karma of killing in order to create a Utopian society, knowing full well when it is brought about, s/he won't be able to live in it and will live as an outsider (I bounced this off a panelist in a later panel on Dynamic Character Identity to apply to Scott Westerfled's Uglies trilogy).

Storytelling in Film:

The story in any film gets told three times. First in the script, then as in the shoot and finally in the editing. 

Film is a director's media.

TV is a writer's media.

The story arc in a short film includes an abbreviated three act structure.

Act 1, inciting incident.

Act 2, problem solving.

Act 3, outcome, success or failure.

Running a business with your SO:

Each relationship has three parts: who you each are; who you are together; who you are apart.

Dynamic character identities:

We recognize people through two sets of features:

1. accidental features (physical, like hair color). If they change, we don't see the person as different.

2. essential features (psychological). If they change, we see a different person (like a soldier coming home from war).

In literature, we identify characters even though their accidental features change (the actors who play Hamlet). In comic books, we identify characters even though their essential features change (Batman always looks the same but acts completely differently through the decades of the series).

Book cover design:

Lines, eyes and hands move the viewers eyes around the drawing.

Every project has three phases:

1. Excitement (this will be the best).

2. Problems (this will be the worst).

3. Acceptance (this came out ok, time for the next).

Believable lighting make any painting look real (same works for small details in writing).

Space books:

Solar Sails, G. Vulpetti, G. L. Matloff & Les Johnson

Living Off the Land in Space, G. L. Matloff, Les Johnson & C. Bangs (own)

Back to the Moon, Travis Taylor & Les Johnson

Art/Comics theory books:

Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud (ordered)

Creative Illustration, Andrew Loomis (OOP)

Color and Light, James Gurney (ordered)

Imaginative Realism, James Gurney (ordered)

Frazetta artwork

Fiction:

Going Interstellar (short stories and essays), Les Johnson & Jack McDevitt (eds). (ordered)

Rat King, China Mieville (will Kindle)

The City in the City, China Mieville

Embassytown, China Mieville

Uglies trilogy (Uglies, Pretties, Specials), Scott Westerfeld (read some of his before)

Games:

Eclipse (sci-fi, 2-6 players) (ordered)

Tabletop (board game recommendations by Wil Wheaton, YouTube channel)

CDs:

As the Dark Against My Halo, Cruxshadows (bought)

East, Ego Likeness (bought, signed)

Treacherous Thing, Ego Likeness (bought, signed)

Havestar, I:Scintilla (bought)

Marrow 1, I:Scintilla (bought)

Light Speed, Fader Vixen (bought)

Applied Structure in a Void, Die Sektor (bought)

The Final Electro Solution, Die Sektor (bought)

Jewelry/Chainmail:

Dave Cain Jewelry (necklace and earrings on commission) 

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Dragon*Con 2012: Paint It Black

Noctilucent clouds guide us to the airport. Sterling fire greets us as we return.

This year the weekend flew by as smooth as China silk. We had good flights, good neighbors, and no real waits even at the airport. No trouble with TSA, which had at least twice the normal personnel in Tampa. Registration took twenty minutes during which the line never stopped moving. We were so uncertain what to do with all the extra time we had on Thursday that Karen had time to paint my fingernails black. Idle hands. My avant-garde tribute to her surgeon on her official five-year anniversary of completing treatment.

There were even more people at the Con than last year. The Thursday night crowd was like a Friday, Friday like a Saturday. Saturday and Sunday seemed just as full. Diversity was up with more African-American attendees and panelists which I’m always encouraged to see.

We ended up with a less frenetic schedule, taking more time off to hang with our Seattle friends, managing to meet up with them for lunch or dinner and the odd panel just about every day. I was glad to have the TracFone we’d bought for my father to text and keep in touch. The Dragon*Con app for the iPhone was invaluable for coordinating schedules and updates.

All the panels were generally decent. No walkouts. Music, however, was a bust. Not much new or interesting (one walkout in the concerts that could have been two). The final body count stands at 16-17 panels, 2-4 concerts, 8 CD’s, two shirts and a skirt with a pair of earrings and a necklace on the way. The tracks  divide out into 1 Pern, 2 Film, 2 Gaming, 2 Space, 5 Art, 2 Comic, 2 Writing, 2 Apocalypse Rising, 2 Sci-fi Literature.  Karen added two concerts and a concourse performance over what I did, as well as an extra panel (and we separated a couple times). During some of the down time, I wrote out three pages on a new science fiction story and outlined the rest of it in my head. This week’s project is to finish it.

Top five panels: Using the philosophy of Kant and Hobbes to interpret the morality of Batman and Superman, and the lens of Buddhism to examine Serenity (the most intellectual panel we attended, contrary to one egotistical writer whose panel came in a distant third). Examining the dynamic character identities by comparing and contrasting the accidental and essential features of Batman and Hamlet. Tactical first aid, with as much tactics as first aid, given by a SWAT-trained EMS (complete with a room clearing demo). Writing intrigue and deception complete with a 5-point identification system (and handouts) presented by a former Air Force intelligence officer. The basics of storytelling in film and what to expect as a writer.

The most resonant piece of observation I picked up: my writing process is very similar to another well-known author who writes very finished drafts with no outline without a lot of rearranging. Hearing that was heartening. I still find I relate better to adapting the creative process illustrators and artists share than anything I hear from the writers. Thumbnails, sketches, pillaging the archives for reference, being mindful of how the work moves the eye, those all make sense to me. The most fascinating bit of trivia: The movie Pretty Woman was originally a dark script called 3000 (the amount of money Julia Roberts’ character charged per night) before Disney decided to turn it into a Cinderella story. The most interesting detail: The military performs triage in the opposite order of the civilian world.

Cool rumors: The Comics and Pop Art Conference, which runs at Dragon*Con, is striking for an academic track next year. Theirs were two of our top five. I would definitely attend more. And the exhibitors hall and dealers room are moving offsite to the America’s Mart building (with 25% more room but no additional dealers) which will free up a ton of room in the Marriott.

Over the course of the weekend, four hundred bookmarks and business cards disappeared, including a handful in an impromptu marketing survey conducted by a friend (which oddly contradicted the way the bookmarks disappeared from tables). We’ll see if any of those make their way home by way of hits. 

This year was our tenth time attending in the past twelve years. While I say each year that we make take the next year off, I know Karen will attempt to book us a room in the Marriott in October. She already booked a backup since we’ve been home. So we’ll decide next summer whether our cons go to eleven.

In the meantime, I have an Amazon order to place for a game and several recommended books.

(And now it’s time for the only reason people muddle through this message, the out-of-context quotes. You’ll find them in the comments).

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Self-Promotion

I hate self-promotion. I mean having to do it for my own work, not someone else doing it for theirs. Unfortunately, at this moment in my chosen industry, there is no way around it. It’s like a plague upon the profession. Or a virus. Once upon a time, agents and editors handled these unseemly details, leaving writers to do what they do best: write. Those have become the misty days of yore.

Like many writers, I am a fairly serious introvert. I don’t like drawing attention. I’m not comfortable in crowds. Heck, I don’t much tolerate loud noises. That’s a product of how I was raised. Ironically, I prefer to demonstrate my abilities through actions, not words. Words lie. Actions, less so.

Before I was a writer, I worked as an engineer. A couple years before I became fully reformed, one of my managers shipped me off to Team Member training, along with a few other engineers from our project that management deemed in need of re-education. Ok, in fairness, maybe we were in a slow time and they were just taking advantage of overhead funds.

The piece de resistance of this training was a Team Building exercise. The challenge was simple. After buying components from a list, things like masking tape, sheets of paper, paper clips, paper cups, string, each with their own listed price, a team had to design and build a bridge between two conference tables that would hold as many reams of paper as possible. The instructor had the copier boxes lined up, I forget how exactly many but several dozen reams. She had a secret formula to determine the winner based on the cost of the bridge and the number of reams it held before it gave way.

She gave us a teaser before the exercise, telling us how one of the bridges in the training session she’d been jetted off to, somewhere much more elegant than a manufacturing building conference room, had won by withstanding all the reams without breaking. She wouldn’t say how it was done, but she didn’t expect any of our teams could equal that feat. Not the gauntlet to throw down before a bored and mildly annoyed engineer.

She told us to form up into four-person teams however we wanted. There were nine of us from our isolated project housed in a remote building. So in that ancient ritual I was all too familiar with, I found myself the only one without a team, the kid always picked last for any sport. I ended up on a team with three type-A personalities from the main building who were their own established clique.

The instructor explained the exercise at the end of the day and showed us the list with prices for each component. So I went home and started thinking about it. In the middle of the night, an idea came to me. It focused on only two components, sheets of paper and masking tape. The tape was expensive but paper was cheap. I remembered reading that paper (unless wet or torn) has a lot of strength if reinforced. And even masking tape, if pulled along its axis of attachment, has a great deal of grip. On a note card in a holder I kept beside the bed, I sketched out my idea in diagrams including identifying critical points and weaknesses. Content, I went back to sleep confidant I was ready to present it in the morning.

The next day, we were given an hour to test out our ideas with sample components, each team in isolation. We gathered up our supplies and trudged off to a different conference room. Once there, the other three weren’t keen on discussing the problem. No one else had any real ideas. No one else had given it any thought overnight. They were more interested in gossiping or griping about the exercise.

Once we got on track, I told them my idea. The meeting immediately devolved back into chaos. It would never work. The paper and tape would never hold. I was shouted down before I even got a chance to fully explain or defend it, contrary to our training. Although no one had any other clear-cut starting point, mine was promptly voted off the table. Then they started arguing, each trying to claim the spotlight with some ill-conceived but suddenly cherished idea.

While they bickered back and forth, I brought together a desk and shelf about the same height. Using the samples we’d been given, I taped a sheet of paper between them. We didn’t have reams of paper but I found some phone books. So I snagged the third guy, who was watching by now, to lean on the shelf and keep it from tipping over. Then I stacked two phone books on the paper. It held without a reinforcement. He called over to the other two.

Silence.

Even after that demonstration, they insisted taking ownership of the idea by building support pillars in the center of the free-swinging span. I tried to explain they would serve no purpose except to burn more money, but tired of arguing (and outvoted again), I accepted the compromise, just as our training indicated. Anything to get it done. We diagramed out what we needed to do and called it a day.

At the end of the third and final day of training, each of the teams bought their supplies, then built their bridges simultaneously. The others let me take the lead, as if to distance themselves, dubious once again the idea would work. They really wanted to back out but couldn’t. One of them almost didn’t show up. I directed the construction based on the plan we’d agreed upon. Even then, they were more interested in reinforcing their support pillars than building the main bridge.

Because it was a simple design, we were one of the first teams to finish. Looking around, I noticed people from my project glancing over, whispering and pointing, frowning and shaking their heads. It’ll never work. I just turned away. We’ll see.

Soon we started loading paper. I forget where we went in order, in the middle somewhere. Someone handed me reams as I laid them flat on the decking to ensure there was no torque or potential for a tear. We got half the reams loaded up when the support pillars collapsed with a sound like a gunshot. Our anchor tables jumped six inches closer as the bridge dropped a good foot under the weight.

And held.

I knew then that we had the instructor’s perfect record in hand, so I flew through loading the remaining reams much faster than she liked. Once the bridge was fully loaded, I stood back and waited. It just hung there, perfectly. The room went quiet. The instructor was stunned. Even my teammates stood slack-jawed. The instructor called time and I unloaded it, just as fast so the next team could go.

No other bridge held that day. No other came close. We won the competition without a problem. Though I was pleased, I didn’t say a word. No trash talk. No rubbing it in. No in-your-face grins or high fives. Just another day at the office. I accepted what congratulations came with a thank you, a shrug and a smile. I told them it was a team effort. Then I left. Alone.

Now some people might think I missed the point of the exercise. Perhaps. But they probably have never seen me run a meeting or elicit ideas. Or lead a team, and later a team of leads. Or revive two different organizations from the brink of extinction to where they were thriving years after I was gone. Or ensure a group of friends in varying physical condition all made it to a landmark a mile down a cobblestone, sand and drift log beach, sometimes by picking the easiest path, sometimes by helping stragglers overcome the obstacles.

I understand the stated goal that day was not winning but working together. In my mind it was working together to come up with the best possible design.  Engineering is about design just as much as teamwork. Self-promotion shouldn’t enter into success in that field, but like any job, it does.

In writing, the sheer volume of self-promotion on social media right now reminds me of a stanza from “Language is a Virus” by Laurie Anderson:

“And there was a beautiful view
But nobody could see
Cause everybody on the island
Was screaming: Look at me! Look at me!”

That style of self-promotion is something I’ve never mastered. I prefer to lead by example, not by shouting for attention. It’s not so much what I was taught as what I learned as the only way for a geeky introvert to survive. I’m comfortable with my abilities. I just don’t see the point of having to shout people down in order to be heard. It’s not worth my energy or time. I’d much rather let my words speak for themselves than spam my way through Facebook and Twitter.

We each define success differently. Mine is not based on money or fame, though a little validation would nice. All I really want is for people to read and enjoy my stories. Maybe one day, the right individual will come along who knows how to cut through all the noise. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to get more eyes to the page.

Until then, all I can do is keep writing to the best of my ability. And remember to take in view outside my office window as I keep moving forward.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

"Self-Promotion" - a reading (on YouTube)

Lughnasa 2012

Today borders on two five-year anniversaries. Tomorrow marks Karen's official completion of treatment. Five days later, Noddfa Imaginings was formed. Like the bridge that Janus watches, it is a good day for me to look both back and forward.

About a month ago I was talking to a friend as we were working off the excess beer stock I'd picked up for Karen's party. He's the type of friend that sneaks up on you, the kind that you sit down with one day and find you've crossed some sort of threshold from acquaintance to close friend without ever realizing it. He and I met eleven years ago, at a game of course, through a mutual friend both of us have since lost touch with. He kept in contact during Karen's treatment as well as afterwards. He was one of the first to sign up for the e-mail list. We continue to game off and on as our lives permit.

He was asking me how writing was going after the chaos of the spring. This was before the floodgate opened that allowed me to finish "Terminal." I was telling him about the difficulties I'd had over the past few months and the decisions I had ahead. I'm always afraid the words will dry up, that my muse with flee screaming into the night. He looked at me and said, You have to write. It's like a compulsion with you, just something you have to do. It's in your personality. He said it in a way that said he both understood and wasn't worried.

And with that, I wasn't either. I knew he was right. Writing is not something I chose to do. It's something that chose me. Some days that's hard to remember that as my age settles on my shoulders like a knapsack slowly filling with sand as I wait for inspiration to strike.

Some days the empty parchment stares back at me smudged only by the smoldering light of another uninspiring dawn. Some days, the sting of rejection transforms into the sweet taste of artistic freedom. Or is that just the poison slipping deeper into my veins? Some days, after several eruptions nearly bury my desk, my notes metamorphose into a pile of karst-like blocks slowly eroding toward amnesia. Some days, I scramble up a midden of words whose meanings constantly shift and slide beneath my pen before I reach the top. Some days, the ink fades a little further from the page until, one morning, nothing remains of each line but the shadow of a memory.

Even then, bright blue ink courses through my veins, just waiting to redden with inspiration. All I have to do is slit my wrist and out it pours. All I have to do is dip my pen and bleed.

Perhaps that pen really is as mighty as the sword. Or in this case than the long spear of Lugh, the bright warrior of Irish mythology and namesake deity of this cross-quarter holiday. Whatever your blood-borne passion, I hope it brings you joy this Lughnasa.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Lughnasa 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Summer Solstice 2012

Today is the summer solstice. I always have trouble writing in this season. This year more than usual, the lines are too bright, the focus too close, the colors oversaturated.

For me, writing is an exploration of the world that plays at the edge of my senses. A world seen only in the interplay of light and darkness, heard only behind the distant wind. It's an unmistakable, yet unidentified scent, a taste without food, a feeling that makes my untouched skin tingle. 

It is a place many have explored but few have charted. Those who left maps drew smudged lines colored by riddle and paradox. The journey is full of obstacles, most of which I create for myself to make the journey seem more hazardous so that when I overcome them, I get a feeling of accomplishment. Another trap I set whose only prey is me. 

I search the landscape not to make a new discovery or to claim some new territory, but to revel in its beauty, ponder its mystery and seek my place within it. On the stained and smeared chart that is my soul, I’ll mark that dark circle “Here be dragons” and call it life.

I know I’ll do better as the winter solstice draws closer. Night is the great equalizer. In daylight, anyone can see.

© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Summer Solstice 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Beltane 2012

Beltane 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)

Beltane. May 1st. May Day.

When you say May Day, most American minds spring to the distress call. Some believe it evolved from the Haymarket Massacre in 1886 Chicago several days after what has become known as International Worker’s Day. Others believe that holiday arose in Communist Russia, though the Soviets only marked it, they did not create it.

In truth, the distress call (“mayday”) derives from the French “(venez) m'aider” (“come help me”) and came into use around 1927 as French desperately clung to its lifeline as the lingua franca of international commerce.

Neither is related to the older, Celtic holiday. May Day marks the end of barren winter in the northern climes of Europe. Mid-spring to some, the first day of summer to the Celts. A cross-quarter day of celebration not distress.

Normally, I would write about the green-root rather than the red-root or pan-pan meaning. Today is not a normal day. My mother is in the hospital, my father is dying, and their surrounding situations seem intent on putting the “fun” back into “dysfunctional.”

Currently, my life feels like a three-ringed circus with me cast as the clown trying to distract a runaway tiger so no one gets mauled. Or a flashback to December, 1942 (there I was in Chicago enjoying a nice game of racquetball at the university when suddenly...). Who knew that two six-month tours in the integration lab dealing with the narcissistically Cerberean egos of hardware engineers was really an Israeli-style commando simulation training me for my future?

So, for me, today is about escape. I don’t distract myself in any of the traditional Celtic ways. I don’t drink. I don’t dance. I don’t don antlers and chase maidens through the gorse and bracken by moonlight. When I have time, I read stories. More often, I sneak in a game.

Some people tell me games are a waste of time. I would ask what purpose is served by drinking? By dancing? By drama, or any other pastime? On the best of days, they make us feel good about our lives. On the worst, they anesthetize our pain.

My favorite games serve as simulations. They present problems with discrete though sometimes complex solutions rather than ones that remain intractable. Most games have preset starting points with definitive goals and objectives. They grant players a stronger measure of control than ordinary life. When we get stuck or find ourselves trapped in a dead end, we can backtrack step-by-step to where we went wrong, restart and try again. Sometimes we succeed. But runs of luck can never be discounted.

Games form one layer to the bedrock of my existence. My father had me playing chess before I turned ten. My mother taught me Spite and Malice. My grandmother cribbage. I discovered a passion for war-games and role-playing on my own. We never had a family game night. In fact, we never had much of a family night at all. Perhaps that plays a part in our ongoing angst.

In times of stress, games act as my reward. I seek them out at every opportunity. Game stores form the constellations that guide my travels, from Maryland to New England, Scotland to Seattle, the I-4 corridor to the dealers rooms at Dragon*Con, even as their individual stars wink out one by one. I can trace the stratigraphy of Sci-Fi City (nee Enterprise 1701) back through four locations. The Fantasy Factory through only three.

On our weary way home from one of several round trips to the right coast of Florida in March, we detoured through Orlando so I could pick up a war-game based on the Crusades that I had hesitated over in January. Reading new rules is a kind of meditation for me. Game tokens have become my talismans. I have more dice stashed in boxes and bags throughout the house than any sane man should. Perhaps that says something but each sight of them brings me just a tiny bit of joy.

In whatever brings you joy this Beltane, I hope your day comes up natural rather than snake eyes or midnight. As I wish you luck in yours, I hope Fortuna grants the same in mine. Regardless, the die is cast, the strategy laid out and opening moves will soon begin.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Spring Equinox 2012

Spring Equinox 2012 - a reading (on YouTube)


Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
Tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(so priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages...

- Geoffrey Chaucer


When spring had brought forth lush flowers in every grove and field and the weather had turned nice, the minds of medieval people turned toward pilgrimage. Their destinations might be a small shrine just a day or two away, a massive cathedral (a crusade in stone) nearer the cultural center of their society or even one of the holy sites beyond the very edge of their civilization. They traveled for a variety of reasons, to seek forgiveness of a wrong, to seek healing, even just to go, to get out in the fresh air and see someplace new. Upon reaching their destinations, pilgrims collected badges bearing devices as confirmation, a scallop for Santiago de Compostela, crossed keys for Rome, palms for Jerusalem.

We don't often make pilgrimages anymore. Or perhaps we do. Weddings and funerals have become our modern pilgrimages. Weddings especially often involve churches or some other meaningful shrine, whether to art or nature. We travel long distances to attend, hopefully somewhere with nice weather in the spring or early summer. Weddings can be redemptive. Nothing heals the soul like seeing two people you care about commit their lives to one another and witnessing the happiness their celebration brings.

Eighteen years ago, just days before our marriage, my then bride and I took our wedding party on a pilgrimage of sorts. We packed everyone into cars and drove over to the east coast of Florida where my wife and I had gone to university, her for a master’s degree, me for a bachelor’s. A friend, who was a member of our wedding party, had always dreamed of watching the sun rise and set over the ocean. I liked the idea so much that we co-opted it. In Florida, it was easier to arrange than had we lived in, say, Kansas.

Our wedding ceremony was patterned on the ancient premise that the world is composed of four elements, earth, air, fire and water, linked by a universal whole. We had used that principle in making mead, an avocation we’d picked up in a medieval society during our time at school. The botanical gardens on campus figured prominently in that activity at the time. That garden, aptly called the Jungle, with its rivulets, paths and pagodas became the object of our pilgrimage, not so much for the site itself but for the peace and tranquility we both remembered there.

Each of the couples in our wedding party represented one of the four elements, with our master of ceremonies being the spirit that linked them all. As such, we asked each of them to carry a particular stone throughout the entire day, jade for earth, moonstone for air, carnelian for fire, mother-of-pearl for water, and a multi-point quartz crystal broken in two for spirit. The men carried the appropriate stones for me, the women for my bride. Plus we each carried a stone of our choosing for the other. We handed them out at sunrise on the beach overlooking the Atlantic then collected them on a different beach as we watched sunset over the Gulf of Mexico.

Those stones went into small leather bags with long straps. I wore mine around my neck at the ceremony and under my shirt at work for a long time after, including the weeks I spent at sea without her that spring and summer. For me, the bundle served as a marker, a pilgrim’s badge if you will, a reminder of the day and all it meant. We ended up replacing the original leather bags that housed the stones some years later. Wearing them so long against our skin had taken its toll. But we each still have them, along with all the stones. As it turns out, the moonstone is one of the last physical reminders I have of the man who stood beside me at the ceremony, one of the witnesses who signed our marriage license.

Out in the Jungle, we talked about marriage and commitment, asking each of the couples what it meant to them. All were married, some for many years, some only a few, some still, some not, some again. In ways, that day is as or more meaningful than the day of our wedding itself. It resonates deeper. Perhaps, that’s because it was based on no societal traditions, just symbols of our own choosing. Perhaps, it’s because on the actual day I spent too much time having slivers of my soul trapped in pictures. Or, perhaps, it’s because I wore that marker against my skin for so long afterward.

So what, you ask, does any of this have to do with the spring equinox? Well, that day, not any particular date in March, marks my wife's and my anniversary. Like the stones, we chose the day specifically for its symbolic meaning, a day made up of equal parts of light and darkness where the light was waxing rather than waning. We both saw our wedding as a marriage of equals and still do to this day, eighteen years later.

Happy anniversary, my love. Even weighing all the joy and tears that have followed, I would make that pilgrimage with you again today. I hope our light is waxing still.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III

Imbolc 2012

Imbolc 2012 - a reading

Every year is full of endings and beginnings. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, memorials. Days, months and years marking events of real or imagined importance. Earth Day, Breast Cancer Awareness Month, the Year of the Woman, the Third Millennium, the Age of Aquarius. Like a long spiral staircase ascending and descending or an intricate double helix twisting and untwisting, the pattern of our lives repeats.

Nine days ago, we entered the Chinese Year of the Dragon, the Black Water Dragon to be precise. The Chinese consider the Dragon an auspicious year. For some, perhaps it will be. Certainly not for all. For a few, it may seem that they’re accursed.

I was born in the Year of the Green Wood Dragon. For many years, I used that sobriquet as a pseudonym on a Daoist discussion board. I loved the juxtaposition contained within that name. I mean, who would carve a fearsome dragon out of green wood? These days, that’s what I feel like, an unseasoned beast ready to crack and split as I age and continue to be tested.

I’ve always been fascinated by dragons. Dungeons and, Uther and Arthur Pen-, the red of Wales. Chinese dragons are powerful and noble. By contrast, European ones are greedy and fierce. The last battle of Beowulf. Fafnir of Der Ring des Nibelungen. The Legend of St. George. These are the dragons of my people.

Five years ago, I stood rearguard as my wife slew such a dragon. The landscape of that quest resembled Cymru, a native land of dragons, cloudy and craggy, shrouded in mist and mystery. The road through those mountains was hard, the siege against her fortress treacherous, the final battle in its lair fierce. Fortunately, she was victorious at every stage and that particular wyrm breathes no more. Though some nights, its long shadow haunts our dreams still. So, at Candlemas, we light votives to aid in our forgetting. Day by day, those memories are dispelled like ripples fading from the surface of a pond.

Since then, for me, each passing year has become a goal to attain, a quest to fulfill, a series of obstacles to overcome on the path to a glittering treasure I likely will never possess. As humans, we long to take comfort in the future. In auguries and names, we search for stability, an understanding of this life. Eons ago, someone categorized and compiled the names of these years based on a perceived pattern of events. Good years or bad, like a face on the surface of a distant planet, we are predisposed to see patterns even where none exist. But their beauty or ugliness is firmly rooted in the eye of the beholder, not the beheld.

Like a lamb stirring in its mother’s womb at Imbolc, the life of this black water dragon has only just begun. Whether it grows in the Chinese or European tradition has yet to be woven by the Norns. I suspect it will bring a bit of both: joy and sadness, wealth and poverty, misery and health. Ours is but to receive its gifts with patience and with grace, knowing that next year it will not visit us again, at least wearing the same scaly guise.


© 2012 Edward P. Morgan III