Mordin Stormbeard – Part 3

XX  I’m really enjoying writing this story.  I hope you’re enjoying reading it.  I would greatly love feedback on the style and feel of the piece if you have the time XX

During my tenure in the Hammers, I worked hard to get a grip on my rage.  It’s amazing how much hate, hurt, depression, anxiety, and outright fury can build up when you know nothing but war for three centuries.  There were things I needed to do though, and I did them.  The first was learning the value of fasting (Not that you would notice this now.  I’m afraid my paunch has grown a bit in the centuries between then and now.).  Many who have never adopted the practice think it a nonsensical notion.  I must admit, I was one of them.  What I found is that the primary purpose of it is to learn self control in a manner that cannot harm any but yourself.  There is a median point in fasting which takes practice to identify, just as there is a balance learned as one develops skill with a given weapon.  If you fast too little, then you learn nothing from the experience, but if you fast too much, then you damage your health and cannot serve your god or family as you’d like.  Similarly, if you swing your weapon too cautiously, you fail to parry or your opponent dodges your blow, and if you swing too quickly you may lose your weapon or leave yourself open for attack.  Thus, there is a subtle art (as in most things that require skill and dedication) to fasting.  I recommend that anyone reading this try it, but only after seeking the advice of an expert in the methodologies and theology of your choice.

The next thing I really needed to learn how to do was think.  It’s an odd thing when you work with your hands, how little your mind has to do.  Your heart does the work when you shape metal.  Or at least, it does when you’re doing it right.  Master Steelshine had taught me that, and it is still something I turn to regularly to relieve the stresses of my office.  However; beyond analytical thought regarding how much carbon to use, or how many garnets to place where, there wasn’t a lot in the way of thinking in my apprenticeship.  This is normal, I would suppose, as that is the very nature of an apprenticeship.  You learn what someone else knows before you decide to take the concepts and apply your own original twists.  Unfortunately, I was distracted by vengeance before I could tap into my own mind.  I eventually came to value the peace of a quiet room filled with dusty tomes and scratching quills, and started paying attention to what I was scribing.  I learned histories, philosophy of various religions and races, geography, astrology (though why dwarves who live underground look to the stars I still don’t really comprehend), military strategy for above and below the face of Aurill, and even some planar theorem (not for the feint of heart).  I formed my political opinions then.  I won’t go off on a discourse here, but that was the time that I learned the full history of the war we are currently engaged in, including the coming of the Drow, the betrayal of the Duergar clan, the Summoning of Sorrows, and the development of the current stalemate which has held for nearly a millennium.  I truly hope that, in the peace I know in my heart is to come; I have an opportunity to review the other side of that equation.

There was one last important step that I faced as a Hammer.  The test of faith.  I had been a member of the Order for 78 years before I knew what it meant to wield true faith.  It’s a strange feeling to wake up and truly accept a reliance on another power, and to use that reliance to form a partnership of service.  At that time, I had taken into my tutelage a young dwarf of my clan.  He was born of my second cousin, Thernal Mudbeard, whose first name has always been a mystery to me.  I’ll never know why a dwarf would be given a gnomish name, but there is a rumor (how true it is I cannot say) that his great grandmother was a gnome of particular beauty who had entranced his great grandfather.  Regardless, Durnin Beard (who had not yet come of age at the time) became my foster son after his father moved away for business reasons.  He was a good young man, always quick to help around the temple, and I think he eventually would have had a lifelong calling to the temple.  Alas, he became enamored of a young lady in the Brewer’s Guildhall and began following her about like a lovesick puppy.  Ordinarily, this would be just another step in the growth of a young boy, but this girl was something else.  Quite literally I’m afraid.  She was a spy for the deep elves, having been bought off nearly a century before.  She was making a “delivery” one night, and young Durnin had followed her, hoping I think, to find some way to surprise her and win her heart (Ah, the naiveté of youth.).  Unfortunately, his quiet demeanor, earned no doubt from his time in the library with me, earned him a closer spot to the transaction than was healthy for him.  To his credit, he managed to injure one of the devil-eared bastards and raise an alarm.  Unfortunately, by the time it was all done, he had been fatally injured and his left arm had been severed just above the elbow.  I found him, having been looking for his aid at mixing a new batch of the deep blue ink he was particularly fond of.  A group of seven Anvils had eliminated the young lady, whose name will never be uttered by dwarf again I might add, and all of her friends.  The only problem was that they had assumed that he was dead, and had taken to mopping up the scene when I arrived.  He was still alive, if just barely.  Now, I wasn’t Durnin’s blood father, but I loved, and still love, him just as I do my own four daughters and six sons.  To see the look of suffering on his face was terrible, and it drove me to tears, even in the pride of my youth it was more than I could cope with.  I wore my priestly garb, but never had I asked for anything from Moradin himself except the comfort of his hearth and the solace of serving my people.  I asked for something that night though.  I asked great Moradin to reforge my son’s arm and make him whole.  Now, ordinarily, I shouldn’t have been able to cast that spell on my own, but I think the Forger knew how much I needed it to work, and how much of myself I had committed to the action.  I swore to Him that I would serve him all my days, if only he would spare my son the pain I saw in his form and allow me to heal that broken body.  Now, while I am right handed, most dwarves favor their left, and this was true of Durnin.  To have been without the means to properly swing hammer to adze, fire a crossbow, or draw the clean lines of a script would have been a death to him regardless of any other thing.  So Moradin healed him, through me.  To feel that rush of power for the first time is more glorious than the first time you finish a piece of armor and get a compliment from your master.  It is a joy like none you will ever know, except perhaps in those first few moments when you view the great Sea of Subtern for the first time, with His Glowing Anvil calling to you, while you gift Charon’s cousin the fare to get to the Hall of the Forge.  Durnin was healed.  A true healing that made his body complete, and left him with no physical scars, though he now sometimes complains of arthritis at the elbow, and him only around 1100 years of age too.  Sadly, he has never, to my knowledge, gotten over the tart’s betrayal.  He has led an effectively cloistered life, though he has excelled as both a historian and herbalist, making simple medicines and poultices for the old or infirm.  He disappeared about three years ago though, leaving a note saying that he had discovered a means of contacting family, and that he felt the need to go to them.  Hopefully he’s not off looking for Svirfneblin.  Those little buggers are hard to track down, and I don’t believe he ever went further than the soft mantle below ground.

I stayed with the Hammers for a total of 322 years, 5 months, 4 days (according to the Order’s official log), and eventually met my first wife, Denova ListBlade.  That was a love affair to talk about, and since it has had a deep affect upon my life and career path, I shall explore it in the next section here.  But first, I’m afraid I must gain rest and offer a libation or three to Great Moradin.  My cup is empty, and I’m afraid all of the apprentices have fallen asleep at their tables.  I shouldn’t like to wake them.  They’re a good group of youngsters, and I believe they provide the hope that I need to see as I face what may become a long campaign if my suspicions regarding the stalemate escalating again come to pass.

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Mordin Stormbeard of Stre’ – Part 2

Let me begin this section with a simple history of my life and professional career.  I was born 1522 years ago, in what many of my people refer to as the Time of Coal.  This is the time when the fires from many battles beneath the ground, the suit from the many forges used to produce the tools of war, and the dingy fumes of funeral pyres had stained the stones of the New Kingdom a dark brown or black color.  No dwarf living in those times could walk the halls of Stre’ without getting the grime upon them, and the people of the surface world often thought that the stains on our skin and clothing were from the coal we mined for our forges.  I lived with my mother during that time, until I reached the age of fifty, and was then on raised by the elders of my clan.  At that time I was taught the usual essential things one learns, history, stonemasonry, basic metalworking, mining, and the basics of religion.

The name my clan loosely translates into “Beard of the Elements” in the new tongue, but has been shortened into simply “Beard” over time.  This is in reference to Father Moradin’s beard, which all dwarven men wear their beards long in homage to.  Dwarven naming conventions being what they are, we are given a full surname upon reaching our 250^th year, when we are submitted to the guilds for an assigned apprenticeship. I had just finished my tenure in the Hall of History, carving the fourth quatrain of what is now known as the Septic History (That time between the first attack of the deep elves and the time of the Great Migration, when we intentionally left Klendt in order to fortify our borders and ensure the safety of Moradin’s people.  It was my honor to carve the walls that may one day lead to the vengeance due our ancestors.), and I began my apprenticeship in the Armor Smith’s Guild.  I was quite happy with my assignment, which I had essentially chosen when I befriended the guildmaster’s (a good man by the name of Clanth Steelshine.) son in my sixty-seventh year by saving the boy from a cave-in.  He later died at the afore-mentioned Battle of Doover Trench, under my brother’s command.  That was indeed a sad day.  Regardless, by the time I had reached 250 years, my beard, though only grown but to perhaps the bottom of my breastbone, had turned a deep gray prematurely, along with the rest of my hair.  Thus, my full surname was given to me as Mordin Stormbeard.  I was bitter about this naming for a few decades, before I figured out that the more discerning dwarven women prefer men with a bit of dignity in their beard.

I spent a full 250 years in my apprenticeship with Master Steelshine.  He was a good dwarf, and taught me much.  It was there that I learned to craft shields for the church, and thus began my interest in public service.  I was never so at home as when I brought silver, steel, oak, leather, and gold together in the pattern held holy by the Church of Moradin.  I am proud to say that I became quite well known for this work, and eventually religious armors were all that I labored at.  To this day I try my hand at it now and again, and the smell of a smithy always makes me smile.

Eventually, a series of especially fervent raids by warbands consisting of deep elves, Duergar, and Derro (what some believe to be the result of infernal violations of the Duergar’s women folk).  My cousin, Agate, a fine dwarven woman with a heart of purest mythril was killed in a raid.  Well, at the age of 326, she had been my favorite relative for at least a good century.  She was a gem setter, working under Master Steelshine, and had accompanied a new set of armor that had been commissioned for commander Burke, another dwarf brother similar to Minozh.  He was a half-orc, who had allied himself with the dwarves in their fight against the deep things shortly after the death of his father at the hands of his mother.  He had redeemed himself quite well, and so had earned himself a place among clan Steel, with his clan-father being Hammer Klendtson Redsteel.  Regardless, my point here is that Agate was killed in battle at the youthfull age of 623 years.  The rotten bastards had diced her up so badly that there was no way to resurrect her, despite our clan’s ample finances at the time, and she had very heartily resisted the idea of reincarnation.  So she was allowed return to the earth from whence she came, and I of course, being a loyal son of my clan, and having a vengeful heart, joined the Thane’s Army.  Two years later, we slew those infernal betrayers.  Every last demon-spawned one of them was crushed under good dwarven steel, and let me tell you, no few of those crushing blows were my own.  I only wish I could have slain more.  I felt a fury I can put to neither paper nor stone.

I campaigned with the Thane’s Army for 176 more years, and I’m not entirely certain I ever got over my rage.  There comes a time though, when a dwarf needs to seek peace with the gods.  Not just Moradin, but all of them.  Aye, it may sound odd to hear that from the head of a dwarven religious order, but tis the truth.  Once you begin cursing Lolth so vehemently as I did, you begin to find it easier and easier to curse all the gods.  There is a bottom to rage.  A bottom of white heat more painful to endure than the forge fires that refine mythril or agamorr.  It hurts the soul, and eventually you find yourself cursing all gods and the mother that bore you.

I found myself on what the humans might call “R&R”.  My battalion had just finished a campaign to clear out some kobolds and goblins which had set up camp in a gold mine to such an extent that the miners there were no longer able to deal with them.  We cleared them quickly; such cretins being no more than an ant to squash under our mailed boots.  When it was done, we all had a week off to rest and recuperate (though I believe the humans call it rest and relaxation).  I had gone into the village that the miners had carved out for themselves.  It was a quaint little place, with its history carved into the vein marble in the city center, which twisted about like a bolt of green lightning so beautifully that it nearly made even old Commander Lightsteel sog up his beard a bit.  I had begun drinking Sulfur Spirits (an evil brew made from cornmeal, a silvery fungus from the caverns of the southern peninsula, and seeded with human whiskey) and eventually got myself quite drunk.  Contrary to the belief of many of the races that live above the ground, a drunk dwarf is a shame to his community.  It is generally forgiven in the young, but I was in my 476^th year, and dishonored myself and my clan with my actions that day.  I eventually burst into the small temple of the Order of the Heat of the Forge that was located there.  I cursed both Scarn and Moradin for their inaction that let so many friends and clansmen die.  I screamed at the statue of Moradin that he was worthless to me if he didn’t do something to correct his apathy that instant, and threw my mug at Scarn’s feet.  I was fortunate that night, and Moradin heard my prayer.  Though, as most who serve know, the answers to our prayers aren’t always what we expect.

I had collapsed onto the edge of Moradin’s altar, blubbering into my mustache like the drunken idiot I was.  My arm was draped across the anvil that rested next to me and I leaned against Moradin’s knees like a child who’s fingers were burnt his first time at the forge.  So, I was surprised beyond words when I heard a slight grinding sound, as of stone on stone, and something flicked the back of my right ear.  I looked up, and I swear to you it wasn’t the alcohol talking, but that statue of Moradin winked at me and said, “Well.  You asked for it.”

I soon found myself sober, sitting in a city I had never seen before.  On each side of the road, rows of dwarves both male and female sat in the stone sleep, but I could feel them watching me.  In the distance, a light shone that was both red and gray at the same time.  Somehow, I was seeing both the heat of the earth and the colors of the sun at the same time, and I knew I was in a place both holy and defiled.  I felt myself lifting from my connection with the stone street, and was pulled towards the light in a rush of dwarven faces, some which crumbled with the passing of my spirit only.  I raced along through this city, obviously dwarven though gnomish work was scattered about as well, and found myself in the middle of combat the likes of which I have never again seen, though I know I will again.  A group of heroes fought a horde of darkness.  I know each of these heroes were mortals, not unlike myself, and that amongst them I walked as one of them.  But their forms were not the forms of mortal coils; rather, they wore their true selves on their sleeves.  One, whose spirit was a resplendent yellow unto mine eyes (yes, I wax poetic here), shone with wings of gold and eyes of silver fire, jets of holy energy flying from her bow so quickly it hurt the eyes of even my spirit.  Another stood next to her, his hair a plume of white fire, and he seemed to be covered in scars of darkness the likes of which made my heart ache.  Behind him, a glowing elf made stood, her spear shot archs of silver blades before her which lanced through the darkness like sparks from the forge of Moradin himself.  A loving goddess was held in the heart of her mighty avatar, but that goddess knew a fury that made my prior rage look like mere coals, burning a dull red.  A bright thing mirrored the dark thing she faced, with sparks of enigmatic magic flaring between them, cancelling one another out, while both kept laughing maniacally into the air, glorying in their power.  Finally, there were two familiar figures.  I knew them to be dwarves.  The soul of one was six feet wide and hovered slightly above the ground, anchored to it, as if he was a part of it, red flaming hair lashing left and right with each swing of his shillelagh and warhammer.  Next to him, I looked and I gasped, though no one heard in that morasse of noise and ethereal power.  I stood there.  No avatar shined above me; rather, a god stood behind my back nudging my arm in yet another swing at the darkness.  Parrying blows that I could not see.  The scene paused, Moradin turned to me, stepped forward and said quite simply, “Little diamond.  I shall have you serve me, and in your service, you will learn to bring my wrath to bear on our foes.   You will end your people’s suffering, save the gnomes their enslavement, and bring back light to the Forge of the Earth.”  I smiled then, realizing what needed to be done.  I was again sitting on the altar, but a young acolytle stood staring at me, his childish face shocked to see the stains on the statues and my patent disregard for the two deities which were more father to him than anything else had ever been.  I asked him for some rags, and he eventually got them.  I cleaned up my mess, and went back to the camp of the Thane’s Army.

Commander Lightsteel was reluctant to let me go.  I had become one of the men he depended on to get things done, and acted as battalion armorer on a regular basis.  I had steps to take though, if I were to make my people safe and amend my sins.  I needed a church that would take me, a clan that I could honor, and a bit of time to heal my wounds.  Like many before me, and many after me, I joined the Order of the Hammer of Wisdom.  And so my service to the church began.  Not with vengeance, but with purpose.  I sought a way to cleanse my anger, to make the lives of my people safer, and to return the dwarven nation to its former glory.  I went to Stre’, and there, I worked a long 50 years before they accepted me into the order.  I learned much, and wrote much, and eventually even came to enjoy reading for its own sake.

Anvil Mordin Storbeard of Stre’ – Cleric of Moradin – Guardian of the souls of the dwarven race. – Part 1

I’m not an orphan.  No son of Moradin is.  Although, going beyond that, I should also say that I know my birth parents quite well, though I haven’t seen them in some time.  Perhaps slightly over a century.  Yes.  I believe that’s right.  Onyx, my birth father, took to the stone sleep at about that time.  If I remember correctly, it was the year after my older brother, Creon, died in the battle of Doover Trench, when the Slaad launched their last significant campaign against the New Kingdom.  He was a good dwarf, and I miss his counsel sometimes, especially when it comes to his knowledge fungal incense.  Mine never seem to burn with the same savory odor as his did.  Embral, my mother, left for the mines of Ch’traan about twenty years before that with her fifth husband.  I believe their marriage contract expired some time within the last decade though.  Yes, it must have, just as mine did with Adranna.  We began our marriages fairly close together, and the hundred and fifty year terms would have expired within a year of one another.  Frankly, I’d be surprised if she hadn’t put…  What’s his name?  Findarn maybe?  To the stone sleep himself with all of her nagging.  She was always one to keep an orderly house, but in the last couple of centuries, she’s made it an art form.  I think she would have married Onyx again.  My father, and not her third husband, had he not taken to the stone sleep.  Perhaps it was more than my brother’s death that sent him to his tomb.  Haha!  And with that, this memoire will most certainly have to wait until such time as she decides to be forged again herself.

                My intent here is more serious than perhaps the last paragraph portends.  Essentially, I have been asked to document my career, and how I came to the head of one of the Three Orders.

The three orders are the Order of the Anvil of Light, the Order of the Hammer of Wisdom, and the Order of the Heat of the Forge.  Each Order is tasked with its own domains under the lead of the High Priest of Moradin, currently Feldspar Silverweave.

Regarding the Order of the Anvil of Light.

We are a clerical order, rather than a priestly one, as the Orders of the Hammer of Wisdom (Hammers) and the Heat of the Forge (Smelters) are.  Each represents a different phase from the story of The Becoming.  I shan’t retell the story here.  Greater wordsmiths than I have handled that great tale, and my duty here is to come up with something a bit more pedantic really.  Regardless, the purpose of the Order of the Anvil of Light is to protect the dwarven people during times of war, which sadly has been the case for the entirety of my days.  Occasionally, I am forced to wonder if perhaps our path has been twisted from what it was before the war with the demons and the deep elves came.  I think that, perhaps, prior incarnations of the Anvils might have been a more defensive and healing Order.  However; times have changed, and it has long been our duty to take the fight to the fiends below, so that our clans might live in peace in the New Kingdom.

In specifics, the Anvils are much like the various Paladin orders of the youthful race of humans, who have surely forged their churches by braiding together the practices of the elf and the dwarf.  Our symbol, somewhat obviously, is derived from the anvil which Moradin used to forge the world, and which all other forging tools are but a crude shadow.  Moradin’s anvil glowed with the light of his will in the beginning.  In so doing, it was a beacon to the spirits of the dwarves which came from the ether of chaos and worked into diamonds, which he set in each of our hearts.  Some few others were drawn out as well, and those he reserved for special times of need.  (An example being Menozh, counted blessed among the dwarves, elves, moon-elves, and even some nations of humans.  I shall leave his tale to my worthy apprentice, Hammer Rentyll Foebeard though, as he has a better way with the epic tale than have I.  But I suppose such is the result of being the son of the head of the brewers’ guild.)  As I stated before, it is our duty to protect the dwarven people.  As such, there are stages which one must go through to become an Anvil.  But I shall explain those later, after this overview.

Regarding the Order of the Hammer of Wisdom

                The Hammers are primarily a monastic order, though their order is not a lifelong service as it is in other races.  The Hammers today primarily consist of dwarven warriors who have served on the front lines, defending dwarves from grim threats.  As their souls weary of constant warfare, these good priests, usually young and hardy (being usually of an age between 450 and 800 years), turn to the Church to repair the inevitably wear on their souls.  For a person worn with the trials of war and combat, the peaceful life of a scholar can be a comfort.  The duty of the Order of the Hammer of Wisdom is to preserve dwarven heritage.  It lies upon them to care for ancient or holy places, guard the tombs of our forefathers, observe and record our histories (As I mentioned Hammer Foebeard’s treatises on the dwarf-brother Minozh.), and also to lead the sacred rights and high ceremonies of the faith.  They are often expert craftsmen, and each Hammer records his other disciplines throughout his time in the priesthood.  Typical service times are similar to that of the common dwarven marriage term of 150 years, though some few do commit to lifelong service to the Forger of Souls, great Moradin.

Regarding the Order of the Heat of the Forge

                The Smelters are the teachers of the dwarven people.  Working with the Hammers, it is their job to record and protect all of the written history of the dwarven peoples.  Further, and most importantly I believe, theirs is the job of teaching the dwarven people.  Many Hammers turn to the Order of the Heat of the Forge later in life, as they return to the church.  With their knowledge from prior service in the Order of the Hammer of Wisdom and their knowledge gained in their long lives, these elders teach the young of their clan and lead their clans in religious service.  The Order of the Heat of the Forge is a polytheistic group that helps our church bridge the gap between the Churches of Moradin and Scarn.  With the direction of the Smelters, the direction of the future of the dwarven people is kept consistent and strong.  Our churches will never always agree, but with this combined order, our people’s future is crafted with strength and wisdom.

Regarding the High Priest of Moradin

                While this office is currently held by Feldspar Silverweave (a close personal friend of mine who brews a mean moss ale I might add), it has had 23 office holders throughout the history of the church.  Seventeen of those are still alive, though sixteen are interred in various tombs in the depth of the stone sleep, and even five of those are in the tombs of Klendt, so who knows whether their bodies are left undamaged.  The office of the High Priest of Moradin is exactly as it sounds.  The dwarf who holds this position is the chief religious adviser to the Thane, rivaled only by the High Priest of Scarn.  He is the treasurer of the church, it’s most experienced healer, and is the only elected official in the service of the Church of Moradin.  The qualifications and requirement for this office are as follows, though the importance of each depends greatly upon the dwarven needs at the time:

·         Religious Knowledge

·         Service in each of the Three Orders for not less than 150 years each

·         Must have served as a blacksmith for not less than 50 years, and attained the level of Master of the Forge with the Smith’s Guild

·         Must have seen combat on behalf of the dwarven people

·         Must have served as a diplomat for 75 years

·         Finally, he must have been married at least twice in his life to women that will generally recommend him for his commitment to such an important endeavor as keeping the clans strong.

·         Being of an incredibly wealthy clan can be helpful, but not entirely necessary.

Upon reaching 150 years in office, the High Priest is given the opportunity to enter into the stone sleep, using his desk and office as his tomb.  If he chooses not to, he may continue on in that office for as long as he should like with the option to stone sleep ever-available.  His Grace, Anvil Silverweave, has chosen twice now at his 150 years to hold his post.  He knows that I am not ready for the post, and I am honored to say that the politics of this hour would swing my way, and I do not want the job.  I would be tied to a desk.  My war hammer would become a gavel.  My shield, a serving platter to make my sedentary life one of sloth.  Paugh!  I’ll not have it.  I am consent to advise my friend and take the resulting directives and put them into play.  Fortunately, he was an Anvil just before his election, and I believe he still considers our ways the ones that will lead us out of these dark days, as do I.  He also designates emissaries from throughout the church, on an as-needed basis, to take part in special missions of great political importance.  The Thane shares these privileges with the High Priest, and both the religious and political needs in a task are addressed.

Regarding the whens, and whys and how I came to hold this office.

To Be Continued …

Tasty goodness…

I’ve been exploring lately, ways of making my imagination grow back.  You see, for a long time now, I’ve been stuck in a rut.  I’ve read stuff that spans between high fantasy and sword and sorcery, but never really looked at other genres in depth for quite some time.  Science fiction has occasionally plundered my mind’s treasure rooms and let things escape, but I was like a child told to eat frozen peas when they’ve only ever had the mushy canned ones.  “Yuck!  Gross!  I don’ wanna!”  Well, apparently, I forgot that I’m supposed to be a grown-up now (Stop laughing! I am too a grown-up!), and that I just might like my vegetables now.

Some of the pleasant surprises have simply been that books I consumed prior to the rut have been read again.  Oh, and they’re tasty.  I’ve refined my palate in ways I didn’t realize.  So, I’ve enjoyed the dry luxury of Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber so much more, though I can feel some of the savory bits running down my chin into my beard.  I can get a sense of what I might find next time I cook that meal.  What a beautiful flambe of fantasy and sci-fi.  Oh-so-tasty.  And I can’t forget the Edgar Allen Poe.  Murders in the Rue Morgue, which I was brave enough to nibble at about six weeks ago, is like eating bits of dark chocolate while sipping hot coffee and inhaling deeply.  It made me feel intelligent to watch the treat brew while the house filled up with that lusty aroma.  (Sweet, I said lusty.)  Yet, I still felt a bit like the child who asks his mother, “What’s for dinner?”, and gets the over-simple reply, “Food.”  But once the table is set, sweet googly-moogly is that GOOD stuff.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve had to eat some liver and onions along the way, but it wasn’t so bad.  It helped me learn what I like, and what I can’t digest (at least right now).  As I drug myself through the drama portion of my Intro to Lit course, it was as if I ate the dessert first, and forgot to feed the rest to the dog.  Oedipus the King by Sophocles was yummy.  Watching Oedipus go through his grand downfall was like watching caramel topping getting slowly oozed over silky French Vanilla ice cream, and reading it cooled the throat and settled the mind’s simple need for a cool treat in summer.   A Dollhouse by Henrik Ibsen was kind of like the fish that you toss in the oven and forget to season.  Kind of bland, but you take it in for the sustenance and after a while, you realize it was good for you because it helped you feel full, and next time you’ll remember the lemon pepper.  Then, I took a big ole bite of Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. This was the liver.  No doubt about it.  By the time I was done reading it, I felt like I had when I was a kid and I had to sit at the table until I cleaned my plate.  Miller took so long to get to the point that I just wasn’t interested any more.  The point was for me to find the scenes of suffering in the play, and the biggest scene of suffering I found was me reading the damned play.  Fortunately, that was when I decided another dessert was in order, and read Poe’s The Raven.

I’ve been enjoying a great deal of the literature that I’ve been reading over the last few years.  I think that’s really the thing that brings about what we seek in education and reading: enjoyment.  Just like we think of a good meal or a luxurious treat and our mouth starts to water, I’m starting to daydream about new adjectives and adverbs, or subtle and deep metaphors (or not so subtle when you look at the prior paragraph), and my mind stats to water as I do.  I’m finding my passion for being something more than I am again.  I’ve found myself in the kitchen of a writer, and I might make a few messes, but damn it, I’m going to be a chef by the time it’s all said and done.

And now, for your dessert, as cooked up by the master chef, Robert Frost.

—

Mending Wall

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors’.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

—

I hope you enjoyed.  I did.  It was kind of like mint ice cream, I think.  J