(Herodotus: Episode 4 soon!!)
It is simple truth that there are the rulers and the ruled, the powerful and the oppressed, master and slave. Most of us are slaves, though few of us will acknowledge this fact. On we toil, those above enriched as we below are impoverished. Labour enervates, time diminishes, yet our humanity is preserved by one grace: struggle. In our chronic rebellion, in our straining at the fetters that bind us we achieve a measure of dignity. "No," we say, "we have some power. My body is flesh, weak, but my mind is steel, hard, and it bends for no other." The body is chained, the soul free. Humanity endures.
Those who do not participate in the struggle, who embrace their servitude, these we call thralls, willing slaves. Their soul is bent to the master's lash, quivers at his mere approach, desires nothing more than to please. We are disgusted. We explain to the thrall the nature of the their condition. We shout. We weep at their betrayal. All to no avail: the thrall glows with satisfaction. Even the cruelty of the master is explained: this is for my betterment/I should have known better/the master's ways are not mine. The body is flesh and the mind is flesh, each awaiting the imprint of the master's steel. Not a trace of humanity in this one.
Thus Kelly.
***
Endless prairie road lies behind you. The roar of the tires on cracked asphalt is a sound so familiar that silence will seem strange. The paper coffee cup, now empty, at each bump threatens to fall; you would welcome the excitement. The licence plate on the RV in front of you has by now given up all its secrets: you've rearranged the characters into every possible combination, turned them upside down, seen which configurations spell naughty words. Your back is sweaty, throat dry. You've fantasized thoroughly about several women (some stunning, some mousy and strange), even had enough time to imagine dinner and the inevitable breakup (always tearless). Your eye passes over the console: still going ten klicks over the limit, engine temperature still good (you guess?), oil pressure still nominal, gas... ah, that's almost empty. Dammit. Why didn't you fill up in Rat River? Or was it Rat Lake? Rat Falls? These towns all look the same: aluminum shacks lining the main street, Greyhound depot at the corner, yokels riding ATVs through the ditches, drunk on love and probably beer. You think of the colour grey when you think of Rat River (Ratford?) - someone obviously put great care into choosing the name. The day is grey.
After another hundred acres of canola, a sign appears on your right: DONNA'S GAS, 10 KM INTERSECTION OF HWY 1 & RT. 77. Good. Maybe there'll be a phone there. You think of calling your wife, but why? She'll have been watching TV all day. You'll get the report. Who got kicked off the island. Who lost the most weight. Who ate the roasted horsehair. The baby kicked. Terrific. When are you coming home? Soon. I miss you. I miss you, too. Wait, that's a lie. The leaden inevitability of it all makes your head hurt. You have a sudden urge to ride an ATV through a ditch, drunk on beer and love. You fantasize about Donna.
The sign was prophetic. Grateful for the exercise, you press the brake and turn into Donna's Gas. Before you lie two sets of gas pumps, each with four handles. You pull up beside the set on your left. You open the door and emerge into afternoon greylight, and blink. It feels good to stretch. You indulge yourself, and then pick up the pump handle. The pump beeps. You select a grade of gas. You turn, and a grey blob fills your vision. The blob is bounding toward you. It has legs, arms, a head. No ordinary blob, you realize. Greasy blond hair whipped by strong prairie wind. Coke-bottle glasses. Prodigious acne. Short stubby legs eating up the distance in clumsy strides. Footfalls whisper-quiet, silenced by orthopedic slippers. A nametag pokes out of the grey: KELLY. The tag has three little metal pump tokens attached to it. Awards, you realize.
The blob stands before you, trying to catch its breath. Its lower jaw separates from the rest of the head, revealing yellowed teeth and a tongue caked with white. It speaks in curious, awful arpeggios, now tenor, now castrato. You cringe.
"HELLO sir, WELCOME to DONNA'S GAS. MY name is KELLY, and i'd be GLAD to HELP you out. how ARE you on this GLORIOUS day?"
You mumble. Fine, just fine. What does the blob want? You're a grown man. You can pump the gas. You move to put the pump handle into the filler neck of the gas tank.
The blob gasps.
"SIR! it is my DUTY to INFORM you that you are CURRENTLY at a FULL-SERVICE pump. The SELF-SERVICE pumps are THITHER." He swins his flabby arm out and points at the other set of pumps.
It's fine, it's the same gas right? I can handle it.
The blob is unmoved.
"the GAS from the FULL-SERVICE PUMP, beside WHICH you are currently standing, IS DISPENSED at a price FOUR CENTS greater than that of the GAS from the SELF-SERVICE PUMP. i simply CAN NOT allow you to PUMP this gas on your own. it would amount to NEGLECT of my DUTIES as an EM-PLOY-EE of DONNA'S GAS."
The blob is out of breath again.
You scratch the back of your neck. Alright, well, I'm already started here, so why don't you finish it up. I'm going inside.
"SIR! do you NEED me to check your OIL or WASHER FLUID or even TRANSMISSION FLUID? may i WASH your WINDSHIELD, SIDE WINDOWS, and/or your REAR WINDSHIELD?"
Sure, whatever.
"OKIE DOKIE, no troubles, no worries at all! be DONE in a JIFFY."
As the gas pumps, the blob pulls a brush from the water bucket. With expert L-shaped strokes he cleans your windows, even takes the time to buff out imperfections in the glass. You turn to go inside.
The blob gasps.
"SIR! i'm AFRAID that with the hood CLOSED, i am UNABLE to determine the levels of EITHER your OIL or TRANSMISSION FLUID, or indeed your WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID."
Grumbling, you turn back and open the car door. You pull the hood-release. In one smooth motion the blob unlatches the hood and props it up. The blob says something, but you can't hear him from inside the car.
What?
The blob, now bent over your engine, straightens.
"i SAID this is a FINE automobile. you made an EXCELLENT purchasing DECISION."
The blob beams.
You go inside. A bland-faced red-haired teenager is reading a car magazine at the counter. You approach him.
You jerk your thumb over your shoulder. What's the deal with that guy?
Oh him, yeah that's Kelly, nobody likes him.
What's his problem?
The teenager thinks.
Clearly something. I don't know, he wants our boss to love him.
But the customers must hate him. I hate him. Doesn't that make the boss hate him?
The teenager shrugs.
He sells the right things to the right people, somehow.
You struggle with the illogic of it all.
The door opens. The blob comes bounding in. You turn.
"sir your OIL and TRANSMISSION FLUID are just PEACHY." His face darkens. "however, your WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID is DANGEROUSLY low." Now it brightens. "may I suggest a bottle of DONNA'S BRAND WINDSHIELD-WASHING LIQUID?"
How much?
"MERELY FOUR DOLLARS and NINETY-NINE cents."
Outrageous. But you tell him to put it in.
"EXCELLENT, sir. you will also get FIVE *ADDITIONAL* AEROPLAN PLATINUM CLUB TRAVELING REDEEMABLE POINTS."
Well, now I can fly to Rat River, you joke, lamely.
The blob lets loose a peal of booming laughter. His body is convulsed by the effort. Several gasping breaths later, he wipes a non-existent tear away from his eye.
"VERY humourous, sir."
The blob bounds out of the building, windshield-washer fluid in hand. You turn to the kid again.
Seriously, what does he get out of this?
The kid shrugs.
I don't know, it's like his whole life. He takes care of his mom and he comes here to pump gas and stock shelves. I guess it's his form of pride.
But I mean, there's pride and then there's this.
Well, you bought the fluid, didn't you?
The kid turns back to his magazine.
You watch the blob through the plate-glass windows. With aplomb he fills your washer fluid, not a single drop escaping the reservoir. A flourish and he replaces the cap on the bottle. He moves to go inside.
As he approaches the building (bounding, of course), you see three figures advance toward him. Teenagers. They're running, carrying something. They whoop and cry as they make their way toward the blob.
The blob turns. His expression, horror.
The teens let fly from their cargo as they pass the blob. Eggs. In seconds he is drenched head to toe in shiny egg white and runny yolk. They run away, laughing.
The blob enters the building, dripping and sticky.
"those HOOLIGANS have BEFOULED my GARMENTS. a THOUSAND CURSES on them, I SAY!" He storms off toward the back of the store.
The teenager, unimpressed, approaches the register.
With the washer fluid that's forty-two ninety. Anything else?
As he processes your credit card, you can hear the blob talking on the phone in the back.
"NO, MOTHER, i *DIDN'T* fight them. yes, MOTHER, i'm wearing clean underwear. No. NO. mother. MOther. MOTHER. *MOTHER*. GOODBYE, MOTHER."
You hear him slam the receiver.
Stepping over the now-hard egg, you get in your car and drive away.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Reflections: Because Why Not
Love is a mysterious and powerful thing; that's probably why so much literature, music, why so many movies which concern themselves with it. Mysterious, we say, because one day it is present, and drives us to undertake Olympian deeds where no impetus existed before (and this is its power), and the next it is gone, leaving us puzzled amid the effects of our labour, the instrument of their creation having vanished. What is accomplished by love now seems alien in its absence, and one is driven to wonder just what it was that fired his heart in the first place. Spurs applied to the memory are no help - the photograph tells a story no longer true; the letter seems cold and calculating, where once it had seemed innocent and charming; the gift appears a debt that needs paying; the promise, obviously broken, if ever made in good faith.
Distressing, perhaps, but love's mystery is also cause for good cheer: it has come and gone, but it will come again. Absence of love provides its own impetus, a new kind of fire, which smoulders rather than rages, a slow burn of determination. Every setback, every obstacle is material for this flame; nothing can extinguish it, and through the harshest solitary winters one remains content.
These are trite sentiments, but human nonetheless.
Distressing, perhaps, but love's mystery is also cause for good cheer: it has come and gone, but it will come again. Absence of love provides its own impetus, a new kind of fire, which smoulders rather than rages, a slow burn of determination. Every setback, every obstacle is material for this flame; nothing can extinguish it, and through the harshest solitary winters one remains content.
These are trite sentiments, but human nonetheless.
H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 3
In which H. maketh a plan - the Streetes bereft of Menne - the linened Headgarb - the districkt of Administration - the Towne crier bekicked - his Exhortatione to the Peoples
3. It was not the best of plans, though H. had to admit that he had few other options. He needed money; to get money he would need to woo a daughter of the nobility; therefore, he had to put himself in a position where he would be in contact with nobles. That meant he had to increase his profile. As a foreigner (a Greek, no less), this would ordinarily be a difficult thing. The only advantage H. possessed in comparison to the average traveler was his formidable education and his reputation as a writer. For, unlike the hordes of semi-literate merchants and dilettante aristocrats who flooded in from the Ionian communities in Asia Minor, H. was already an established author, at least in his hometown of Halicarnassus. Admittedly, his oeuvre was not exactly magisterial, as it mostly consisted of tawdry reiterations of various myths, to be read at the comedy festivals before the main plays in order to work up the crowd, but his name was nevertheless known to a few men. He was already hard at work documenting the histories of a few of the communities he had visited, these being thus far the vast commercial city of Miletus, the island of Samos, and the great and prosperous city of Ephesus.
Here laid his plan: he would have to turn what he had already recorded to his advantage. He needed to organize a reading of his work, that men of substance, learned men, might notice him and invite him to their houses. Of course, the cities he had visited were well-known to all in this area, as was their history, and so he would need to emphasize the unusual, the fantastic.
With the help of Pigrites, he had sorted through his scribblings and had found suitable material with which to sway his audience. Such material had of course to be stretched into a new shape; his purpose was not to preserve word-for-word the tales told him, but to cast light on the marvelous while preserving the broad outline of the story. This is what would win him friends.
Now he just had to get the attention of the people. Shouting at the market corner had proved useless, for it was impossible to make oneself heard over the general din. It was already past noon, and the sun beat mercilessly on the uncovered streets of Asur. The number of customers dwindled, as they sought relief indoors. H. was anxious, for he wished to have an audience before the sun set. This was ambitious, he realized, but he was focused on making his way into the more exotic lands of southern Asia. He would need to make his name known quickly.
H. made his way slowly up the street, toward the government district. Sweat began to soak his fine blue tunic.
"Pigrites," he said as he walked, "it's hot."
"So it is," he heard from behind him.
"What do you propose to do about this?"
He sensed Pigrites was no longer following him. Stopping, he looked back and saw his slave pulling from his girdle a linen towel, which he soon wrapped with astonishing dexterity into a kind of head-dress, complete with a trailing covering for the neck. Pigrites advanced, holding out the makeshift hat.
"Sit would be wise to wear this."
H. put the hat on his head.
"Much better," he said. He watched as Pigrites made another covering for himself.
They continued on their way. A dozen blocks later, they arrived at the intersection of the market road with the main boulevard of the government district. This too was mostly empty in the heat of the afternoon, save for a few men lounging under the entrance to the archival building. Gaily-garbed spearmen guarded the entrance to the colonnaded satrapal palace, and these too tried their best to find themselves some shade under the sheer patchwork walls of the palace. At the center of the intersection stood a ring of stones, around which were placed several granite obelisks. Into these obelisks iron pegs had been driven, and from the pegs were hung little notices, these carved into wood or else, more ostentatiously, painted on sheepskin stretched over a wooden frame. This was where the residents of Asur came to exchange information, and this was where H. had the best chance of getting word out quickly. Dozing in the shade of an obelisk he found a barker. These were slaves employed by merchants and others to make announcements and to make known official proclamations from the royal throne in Susa. Some were even freelancers, and would shout for as long as they were paid. It was one of the latter that H. now found before him.
H. gave the man a light kick.
The man awoke instantly. He jabbered in Persian, and Pigrites cleared his throat.
"He said 'what do you want?'"
Through Pigrites, H. managed to arrange terms with the barker: for four obols, for the rest of the day the barker would make known to passers-by the time and location of H.'s reading.
"Uh, where are we having the reading, Pigrites?"
Pigrites sighed.
"The common garden is free in the early evening, and remains lit until midnight. I suggest sir entertain the masses there."
H. told Pigrites to tell this to the barker, who thereupon nodded and took his payment.
It was a little cooler now, and people were beginning to creep back onto the streets. Noticing this, the barker took a deep breath and began earning his pay. Pigrites provided translation:
"WISE AND UPRIGHT MEN, GIRD THYSELVES FOR A VOYAGE INTO THE FANTASTIC. A SCHOLAR OF A THOUSAND KNOWINGS COMES TO OUR PROVINCIAL TOWN AND BRINGS TALES HERETOFORE KNOWN ONLY TO THE SPIRITS OF OUR ANCESTORS. HE KNOWS WHY THE ISLAND CITY SANK INTO THE OCEAN. HE KNOWS WHERE FROM COMES THE CHARIOT. HE HAS CONFERRED WITH THE PROPHETS AND UNDONE THE MYSTERY OF THE SUN AND THE STARS AND THE SEASONS. OUR INDULGENT MASTER WILL ENHANCE, ELUCIDATE, EDUCATE FOR FREE, THIS EVENING..."
H. sat a short distance away and watched those who came within earshot of the barker. A few particularly wealthy-looking men stopped and heard the barker out, even asking him a few questions. He watched them confer with their retinues before heading off. He was pleased.
3. It was not the best of plans, though H. had to admit that he had few other options. He needed money; to get money he would need to woo a daughter of the nobility; therefore, he had to put himself in a position where he would be in contact with nobles. That meant he had to increase his profile. As a foreigner (a Greek, no less), this would ordinarily be a difficult thing. The only advantage H. possessed in comparison to the average traveler was his formidable education and his reputation as a writer. For, unlike the hordes of semi-literate merchants and dilettante aristocrats who flooded in from the Ionian communities in Asia Minor, H. was already an established author, at least in his hometown of Halicarnassus. Admittedly, his oeuvre was not exactly magisterial, as it mostly consisted of tawdry reiterations of various myths, to be read at the comedy festivals before the main plays in order to work up the crowd, but his name was nevertheless known to a few men. He was already hard at work documenting the histories of a few of the communities he had visited, these being thus far the vast commercial city of Miletus, the island of Samos, and the great and prosperous city of Ephesus.
Here laid his plan: he would have to turn what he had already recorded to his advantage. He needed to organize a reading of his work, that men of substance, learned men, might notice him and invite him to their houses. Of course, the cities he had visited were well-known to all in this area, as was their history, and so he would need to emphasize the unusual, the fantastic.
With the help of Pigrites, he had sorted through his scribblings and had found suitable material with which to sway his audience. Such material had of course to be stretched into a new shape; his purpose was not to preserve word-for-word the tales told him, but to cast light on the marvelous while preserving the broad outline of the story. This is what would win him friends.
Now he just had to get the attention of the people. Shouting at the market corner had proved useless, for it was impossible to make oneself heard over the general din. It was already past noon, and the sun beat mercilessly on the uncovered streets of Asur. The number of customers dwindled, as they sought relief indoors. H. was anxious, for he wished to have an audience before the sun set. This was ambitious, he realized, but he was focused on making his way into the more exotic lands of southern Asia. He would need to make his name known quickly.
H. made his way slowly up the street, toward the government district. Sweat began to soak his fine blue tunic.
"Pigrites," he said as he walked, "it's hot."
"So it is," he heard from behind him.
"What do you propose to do about this?"
He sensed Pigrites was no longer following him. Stopping, he looked back and saw his slave pulling from his girdle a linen towel, which he soon wrapped with astonishing dexterity into a kind of head-dress, complete with a trailing covering for the neck. Pigrites advanced, holding out the makeshift hat.
"Sit would be wise to wear this."
H. put the hat on his head.
"Much better," he said. He watched as Pigrites made another covering for himself.
They continued on their way. A dozen blocks later, they arrived at the intersection of the market road with the main boulevard of the government district. This too was mostly empty in the heat of the afternoon, save for a few men lounging under the entrance to the archival building. Gaily-garbed spearmen guarded the entrance to the colonnaded satrapal palace, and these too tried their best to find themselves some shade under the sheer patchwork walls of the palace. At the center of the intersection stood a ring of stones, around which were placed several granite obelisks. Into these obelisks iron pegs had been driven, and from the pegs were hung little notices, these carved into wood or else, more ostentatiously, painted on sheepskin stretched over a wooden frame. This was where the residents of Asur came to exchange information, and this was where H. had the best chance of getting word out quickly. Dozing in the shade of an obelisk he found a barker. These were slaves employed by merchants and others to make announcements and to make known official proclamations from the royal throne in Susa. Some were even freelancers, and would shout for as long as they were paid. It was one of the latter that H. now found before him.
H. gave the man a light kick.
The man awoke instantly. He jabbered in Persian, and Pigrites cleared his throat.
"He said 'what do you want?'"
Through Pigrites, H. managed to arrange terms with the barker: for four obols, for the rest of the day the barker would make known to passers-by the time and location of H.'s reading.
"Uh, where are we having the reading, Pigrites?"
Pigrites sighed.
"The common garden is free in the early evening, and remains lit until midnight. I suggest sir entertain the masses there."
H. told Pigrites to tell this to the barker, who thereupon nodded and took his payment.
It was a little cooler now, and people were beginning to creep back onto the streets. Noticing this, the barker took a deep breath and began earning his pay. Pigrites provided translation:
"WISE AND UPRIGHT MEN, GIRD THYSELVES FOR A VOYAGE INTO THE FANTASTIC. A SCHOLAR OF A THOUSAND KNOWINGS COMES TO OUR PROVINCIAL TOWN AND BRINGS TALES HERETOFORE KNOWN ONLY TO THE SPIRITS OF OUR ANCESTORS. HE KNOWS WHY THE ISLAND CITY SANK INTO THE OCEAN. HE KNOWS WHERE FROM COMES THE CHARIOT. HE HAS CONFERRED WITH THE PROPHETS AND UNDONE THE MYSTERY OF THE SUN AND THE STARS AND THE SEASONS. OUR INDULGENT MASTER WILL ENHANCE, ELUCIDATE, EDUCATE FOR FREE, THIS EVENING..."
H. sat a short distance away and watched those who came within earshot of the barker. A few particularly wealthy-looking men stopped and heard the barker out, even asking him a few questions. He watched them confer with their retinues before heading off. He was pleased.
Monday, October 12, 2009
H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 2
In which H cometh to the Highe Streete - The Peoples in their Many - Accounting of the Journey of H. - The Mysterie of Pigrites - Congress with a Breadmonger - Successful transaction - The Poore and Betrodden - H. to marryeth a Fine Woman of Virtuous Charackter
2. Freshly bathed and glistening with olive oil, H. stepped out onto the market-street of Asur. Pigrites, letting down the door-flap through which his master had stepped, followed close behind. They beheld a river of humanity surging along the market-course, lapping up the goods along her banks, carrying them away to destinations unknown. This brook babbled unintelligibly, at least to H.'s ear; a thousand sounds issued from a thousand exotic tongues, and their congress made them all the more incomprehensible. He watched as representatives from dozens of nations passed by: Phoenicians, Thracians, Bithynians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Lydians, Medians - these among many he could not yet name. Each, he knew, carried a story with him, a fragment of his nation's history, wrapped up in shawl or robe or chiton or vest.
He breathed in the dry summer air and stretched out his arms, as if to take in the entire scene before him.
"Tell me about this place, Pigrites. I was occupied with my writing in the carriage, so much so I hardly noticed when we arrived at the inn. I couldn't even tell you how we got here, or from where we came!"
Pigrites sighed.
"Sir hired a carriage from Ephesus with his considerable inheritance. We followed the course of the south-flowing stream Erydna, a branch of the Maeander. Having travelled for thirty-five parasangs, we arrived in Asur, which lies near the terminus of the Erydna. It is not a large place, but the market here is, as you can see, quite popular. It's one of the few places at which one can stock one's provisions before making the southern overland journey into Pisidia, and so plays host to merchants from all over. It started as a Doric colony, but the population is mostly Carian now. Though under the broader administration of the satrap of Caria, the tyrant Hadocles is still in charge of local affairs here."
H. let his arms fall to his side. He spoke without turning his head.
"How do you know so much, boy?"
Pigrites thrust out his chin.
"My people are taught to pay the utmost mind to everything that falls under our gaze."
"Your people?"
"Yes."
H. turned around and gestured in annoyance.
"No, who are your people? You look Italic to me."
Pigrites grinned.
"Tyrrhenians sell their slaves far and wide."
Unwilling to pursue the matter further with his reluctant slave, H. turned his attention back to the market. He was hungry, and the breakfast of cold lamb brains offered by the innkeeper had turned his stomach. Wading into the crowd, H. eventually managed to fight his way to the stall of a fruit vendor.
The vendor, who had been with cupped hands crying out in Persian what H. could only assume were the types of goods he was selling and their prices, turned his attention to H. as he approached. The vendor addressed H. in broken Greek.
"Ah, you a Greek, yeah, yeah, I speaken it good. Okay, Greek, you liken dates. I know this. You liken olive oil. I know this. You liken the barley-grind and raisins. Yeah." He removed a cloth which had been covering a wicket basket. "'Beholden, Achilles!' like says your Homer." H. peered into the basket. Inside were round flatbreads, brushed with olive oil and studded with dried grapes and dates. They smelled wonderful.
"How much?" asked H.
"For you is special price. I taken one-sixth obol, and you getten one delicious khurpatzum."
Pigrites suddenly came up from behind and began shouting at the vendor.
"Outrageous!" he said in Greek, before switching to Persian, in which he accused the merchant of a wide array of crimes and religious offenses. The merchant raised his hands and began screaming back at Pigrites. Back and forth the accusations flew, until the vendor at last put his palms up, facing H., and said, in Greek:
"Okay, your friend is good guy. One-sixteenth obol, special price only today."
H. looked at Pigrites, who nodded. He pulled a coin from his pouch and handed it to the vendor, and he in turn reached into his basket and gave him a khurpatzum.
"Light of Ahura Mazda be with you, friend Greek."
H. sat beside the vendor's stall on the steps of a covered portico, glad to be out of the harsh sun. Pigrites stood beside him and pushed away or kicked any beggar who got too close. The streets were full of these bent, almost-naked, sometimes limbless men and women, and while at first their wretched condition stirred H. to pity, their unbearable smell quickly drove away any charitable thoughts forming in his breast.
He ate quickly, eager to get on with the day's work. He had, on the advice of a certain merchant in Ephesus, planned to meet with the tyrant in Asur in order to get funds for his trip, but that design had produced no fruit. He was planning to travel to Egypt overland and to write down the history of all the peoples encountered, no small endeavour, and his inheritance, though ample, was nowhere near large enough to sustain him and what he hoped would be his considerable entourage; he needed a patron. If the tyrant wasn't going to help him, then he would need a Persian noble or a rich merchant.
As if monitoring his thoughts, Pigrites broke in.
"Perhaps sir should marry a daughter of the nobility."
H. was stunned.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
Pigrites looked off into the distance.
"I have no idea what sir is thinking. My thoughts are simply on the attractiveness of Persian ladies. Their long dark hair, their lush lips. Why, if I were free, that's what I would do."
H. took another bite of flatbread and munched pensively.
2. Freshly bathed and glistening with olive oil, H. stepped out onto the market-street of Asur. Pigrites, letting down the door-flap through which his master had stepped, followed close behind. They beheld a river of humanity surging along the market-course, lapping up the goods along her banks, carrying them away to destinations unknown. This brook babbled unintelligibly, at least to H.'s ear; a thousand sounds issued from a thousand exotic tongues, and their congress made them all the more incomprehensible. He watched as representatives from dozens of nations passed by: Phoenicians, Thracians, Bithynians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Lydians, Medians - these among many he could not yet name. Each, he knew, carried a story with him, a fragment of his nation's history, wrapped up in shawl or robe or chiton or vest.
He breathed in the dry summer air and stretched out his arms, as if to take in the entire scene before him.
"Tell me about this place, Pigrites. I was occupied with my writing in the carriage, so much so I hardly noticed when we arrived at the inn. I couldn't even tell you how we got here, or from where we came!"
Pigrites sighed.
"Sir hired a carriage from Ephesus with his considerable inheritance. We followed the course of the south-flowing stream Erydna, a branch of the Maeander. Having travelled for thirty-five parasangs, we arrived in Asur, which lies near the terminus of the Erydna. It is not a large place, but the market here is, as you can see, quite popular. It's one of the few places at which one can stock one's provisions before making the southern overland journey into Pisidia, and so plays host to merchants from all over. It started as a Doric colony, but the population is mostly Carian now. Though under the broader administration of the satrap of Caria, the tyrant Hadocles is still in charge of local affairs here."
H. let his arms fall to his side. He spoke without turning his head.
"How do you know so much, boy?"
Pigrites thrust out his chin.
"My people are taught to pay the utmost mind to everything that falls under our gaze."
"Your people?"
"Yes."
H. turned around and gestured in annoyance.
"No, who are your people? You look Italic to me."
Pigrites grinned.
"Tyrrhenians sell their slaves far and wide."
Unwilling to pursue the matter further with his reluctant slave, H. turned his attention back to the market. He was hungry, and the breakfast of cold lamb brains offered by the innkeeper had turned his stomach. Wading into the crowd, H. eventually managed to fight his way to the stall of a fruit vendor.
The vendor, who had been with cupped hands crying out in Persian what H. could only assume were the types of goods he was selling and their prices, turned his attention to H. as he approached. The vendor addressed H. in broken Greek.
"Ah, you a Greek, yeah, yeah, I speaken it good. Okay, Greek, you liken dates. I know this. You liken olive oil. I know this. You liken the barley-grind and raisins. Yeah." He removed a cloth which had been covering a wicket basket. "'Beholden, Achilles!' like says your Homer." H. peered into the basket. Inside were round flatbreads, brushed with olive oil and studded with dried grapes and dates. They smelled wonderful.
"How much?" asked H.
"For you is special price. I taken one-sixth obol, and you getten one delicious khurpatzum."
Pigrites suddenly came up from behind and began shouting at the vendor.
"Outrageous!" he said in Greek, before switching to Persian, in which he accused the merchant of a wide array of crimes and religious offenses. The merchant raised his hands and began screaming back at Pigrites. Back and forth the accusations flew, until the vendor at last put his palms up, facing H., and said, in Greek:
"Okay, your friend is good guy. One-sixteenth obol, special price only today."
H. looked at Pigrites, who nodded. He pulled a coin from his pouch and handed it to the vendor, and he in turn reached into his basket and gave him a khurpatzum.
"Light of Ahura Mazda be with you, friend Greek."
H. sat beside the vendor's stall on the steps of a covered portico, glad to be out of the harsh sun. Pigrites stood beside him and pushed away or kicked any beggar who got too close. The streets were full of these bent, almost-naked, sometimes limbless men and women, and while at first their wretched condition stirred H. to pity, their unbearable smell quickly drove away any charitable thoughts forming in his breast.
He ate quickly, eager to get on with the day's work. He had, on the advice of a certain merchant in Ephesus, planned to meet with the tyrant in Asur in order to get funds for his trip, but that design had produced no fruit. He was planning to travel to Egypt overland and to write down the history of all the peoples encountered, no small endeavour, and his inheritance, though ample, was nowhere near large enough to sustain him and what he hoped would be his considerable entourage; he needed a patron. If the tyrant wasn't going to help him, then he would need a Persian noble or a rich merchant.
As if monitoring his thoughts, Pigrites broke in.
"Perhaps sir should marry a daughter of the nobility."
H. was stunned.
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
Pigrites looked off into the distance.
"I have no idea what sir is thinking. My thoughts are simply on the attractiveness of Persian ladies. Their long dark hair, their lush lips. Why, if I were free, that's what I would do."
H. took another bite of flatbread and munched pensively.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Sad Romance Fills Diaries: The Misspent Youth of K. Thor Jensen
Founder of the once-popular Portal of Evil site, Kristopher Thor Jensen also maintained an online diary, into which he poured his woes and miseries, thereby making a stew best described as bittersweet. One can't help but be moved by his tales of bungled romance and teenage anxiety, can't help but notice that his acute self-awareness and self-obsession conceal a real talent for putting the right words in the right places. So read the tale of Jenny, and sup at the table of self-imposed sadness.
If one could die of stupidity, I'd have croaked a thousand times. Thankfully, moronism is not fatal, and I've lived to tell about my mishaps. This is one of the worst.As I graduated high school, I had managed to alienate most of my friends. I borrowed $250 from Malia to pay library fines, and then couldn't pay her back, so felt very guilty about hanging out with her; Nate and Ethan, my former bandmates, had recoiled in terror from the sadly non-punk direction my lifestyle was going; and most of my other pals weren't really all that close anyways. I had started to be friends with people I'd never really hung out with before, but not that often. I was planning to move out ofmy mother's house and start a new life.
And then Jenny called.
She was one of the most depressing people I'd ever known; exuding a complete disaffected entropy, she slept through her life like I slept through my Physics class. And she called me and asked me to go to a memorial for the 51st anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. The perfect goth date.
We met by the shores of Greenlake, floating paper lanterns with Japanese writing painted on the sides; tiny points of light floated off into the distance. I wore a tweed coat and felt uncomfortable. She asked if she could hug me, and I assented. I become very uncomfortable when I was touched, in those days. A finger on the arm would send me into a flinching paroxysm. It was pretty sad and contributed greatly to no dates for me.
This still happens.
She hugged me and I twitched away inside my tweed coat. It was pretty sad. We went and waited for her mother to come and pick her up, and I walked to the bus stop and home, quiet and seething in the cool summer evening. I went over to her house. We made out in the basement with her parents upstairs. A dog was locked in a room off of hers, scratching and yelping. I had never kissed anyone before and it was a fairly inauspicious way to begin a fairly inauspicious career. My timidity irked her; it was here that I first concieved a usage for the word "inept." I would use it constantly for the next two weeks.
I was throwing a going-away party for Nate at my mother's house while she was out of town on a business trip. I cooked jambalaya. Jenny helped; she was there to give Nate his shirt, and had to leave at seven, when the party started. Seven came and went, and nobody showed. I lost it, freaked, started calling people's homes, panicky at every continually-ringing phone, unanswered. Jenny stood, watched. I finally reached Ethan, at home."Nate told everybody not to come..." and I threw the phone across the room, against the wall, shattering the plastic case, bending the antenna, and ending the conversation before Ethan's "...until ten."
I had sadly miscalculated twice. Once by not knowing when to begin; and once for stopping too early. I broke down and cried, hunching down against the wall. I left with Jenny. We spent the night in Paul Edlefsen's bed, her breath against my neck. Everything I had was ruined. I stayed awake all night, breathing in sync with her, barely holding on. I moved out, into my attic room, rigged up a sad little new life for myself, a life which Jenny was now a part of. Long, weird, tearful conversations over the phone, pissing off my new roommates. It was a mess, and I didn't know how much messier it would get.
When a girl says "I don't want to hurt you," it's going to happen. Don't get all macho and bravadoesque. You will get hurt. I did not know that.
We had our first date. I took her to a gallery opening of "outsider art" We rode the ferry to Bremerton and back, hypnotized by black water. It was all very nice and I took her up to the third floor and we had very bad sex.
Ineptitude.
Things got bad. She brought Max over and made out with him on my bed. She called me up, late at night, and asked, if she didn't get to stay with this one guy tonight, could she stay with me? I loaned her my house key. She dropped it through my mail slot at 3AM. When I opened the door, she was out of sight. I didn't wait up.
If one could die of stupidity, I'd have croaked a thousand times. Thankfully, moronism is not fatal, and I've lived to tell about my mishaps. This is one of the worst.As I graduated high school, I had managed to alienate most of my friends. I borrowed $250 from Malia to pay library fines, and then couldn't pay her back, so felt very guilty about hanging out with her; Nate and Ethan, my former bandmates, had recoiled in terror from the sadly non-punk direction my lifestyle was going; and most of my other pals weren't really all that close anyways. I had started to be friends with people I'd never really hung out with before, but not that often. I was planning to move out ofmy mother's house and start a new life.
And then Jenny called.
She was one of the most depressing people I'd ever known; exuding a complete disaffected entropy, she slept through her life like I slept through my Physics class. And she called me and asked me to go to a memorial for the 51st anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. The perfect goth date.
We met by the shores of Greenlake, floating paper lanterns with Japanese writing painted on the sides; tiny points of light floated off into the distance. I wore a tweed coat and felt uncomfortable. She asked if she could hug me, and I assented. I become very uncomfortable when I was touched, in those days. A finger on the arm would send me into a flinching paroxysm. It was pretty sad and contributed greatly to no dates for me.
This still happens.
She hugged me and I twitched away inside my tweed coat. It was pretty sad. We went and waited for her mother to come and pick her up, and I walked to the bus stop and home, quiet and seething in the cool summer evening. I went over to her house. We made out in the basement with her parents upstairs. A dog was locked in a room off of hers, scratching and yelping. I had never kissed anyone before and it was a fairly inauspicious way to begin a fairly inauspicious career. My timidity irked her; it was here that I first concieved a usage for the word "inept." I would use it constantly for the next two weeks.
I was throwing a going-away party for Nate at my mother's house while she was out of town on a business trip. I cooked jambalaya. Jenny helped; she was there to give Nate his shirt, and had to leave at seven, when the party started. Seven came and went, and nobody showed. I lost it, freaked, started calling people's homes, panicky at every continually-ringing phone, unanswered. Jenny stood, watched. I finally reached Ethan, at home."Nate told everybody not to come..." and I threw the phone across the room, against the wall, shattering the plastic case, bending the antenna, and ending the conversation before Ethan's "...until ten."
I had sadly miscalculated twice. Once by not knowing when to begin; and once for stopping too early. I broke down and cried, hunching down against the wall. I left with Jenny. We spent the night in Paul Edlefsen's bed, her breath against my neck. Everything I had was ruined. I stayed awake all night, breathing in sync with her, barely holding on. I moved out, into my attic room, rigged up a sad little new life for myself, a life which Jenny was now a part of. Long, weird, tearful conversations over the phone, pissing off my new roommates. It was a mess, and I didn't know how much messier it would get.
When a girl says "I don't want to hurt you," it's going to happen. Don't get all macho and bravadoesque. You will get hurt. I did not know that.
We had our first date. I took her to a gallery opening of "outsider art" We rode the ferry to Bremerton and back, hypnotized by black water. It was all very nice and I took her up to the third floor and we had very bad sex.
Ineptitude.
Things got bad. She brought Max over and made out with him on my bed. She called me up, late at night, and asked, if she didn't get to stay with this one guy tonight, could she stay with me? I loaned her my house key. She dropped it through my mail slot at 3AM. When I opened the door, she was out of sight. I didn't wait up.
Friday, October 2, 2009
H. of Halicarnassus: Inspired by Some Things That Might Have Happened, Maybe - Episode 1
In which we meeteth H. and his Manslave - this being PIGRITES - Rude Awakening in Asur - The Haire and the Filth - Origine of the Manslave - Moors and their Paprika spice - Retiring to the Bath
BOOK ONE
1. H. awoke with a foul taste in his mouth. His head throbbed, his muscles felt useless. He opened his eyes, then shut them quickly again, dazzled by the dust-speckled light. It was already mid-market time, and the sounds of a Carian bazaar drifted through the high, narrow windows of his rustic accommodation: voices crying out for buyers and sellers, the bleating of sheep, the grunts of pack-oxen, the shuffle of sandals in the dust, the clink of half-obols and quarter-minas in the brass scales. He rolled over, into a pile of his own vomit, and lay still for a moment.
"Pigrites," he said, his voice phlegmy and hoarse.
Pigrites padded into the room delicately, carrying a large clay pitcher.
"You're awake."
H. hacked and spat on the hard-packed dirt floor.
"Pigrites," he said again, more firmly this time.
Pigrites bowed deeply, hands steepled.
"Yes, your grace," he intoned solemnly.
"That's better. I didn't pay fifty darics for insolence of this sort." He slowly sat up, cradling his head in his hands. "Or was it a hundred?"
"As I recall," said Pigrites, as he filled the washbasin with hot water, "Sir hired me from an Arabian spice merchant in Ephesus at a rate of two obols a day and never bothered to return me." He left and quickly returned with a tray bearing a decanter of wine, one of cool water, and a bronze cup. He poured out an equal measure of water and wine each into the cup and handed it to his master.
H. drank deeply, and began to pick absently at the chunks of vomit in his curly Grecian hair.
"Well, he was supposed to get me an audience with the tyrant here in Asur, but nothing ever came of it. Those damn shifty Arabs. As I see it, you're just a walking debt made good." He tossed aside a particularly large chunk of yesterday's dinner. "Did I ever tell you how Arabians get their paprika?"
"Oh yes, several times on the road from Ephesus, I think. Let's see: young men in Arabia on the cusp of adulthood are given a leather sack and are told they must venture three days into the desert, where they will find the den of a fire-breathing salamander. Such dens are easily found because salamanders sleep right outside their den during the day in order to absorb the sun's rays and thereby stoke the furnaces in their bellies; such creatures being thirty feet long and bright red, their den is hard to miss. By courage or cunning the youth makes his way past the sleeping giant and into his den, where he must negotiate treacherous stone paths laid over rivers of liquid flame. In the bowels of the den our young man, stout of heart as he is, finds endless caverns filled with fine red powder; this, we are told, is what remains of salamanders of ages past, whose bodies are slowly cremated by the intense heat. No doubt by then soaked in his own sweat, the plucky Arab gathers as much of this as possible into his sack and makes a hasty retreat, lest he raise the ire of the elder salamanders, who keep watch over their ancestral burial grounds. And that's why one can hire ten Egyptian mercenaries for a month with a single choenix of paprika."
H. nodded approvingly.
"That's not bad, but you forgot one thing: they have to scoop the powder with a little golden shovel, or else it loses all its flavour."
"Of course. How foolish of me to forget." Pigrites at last saw and smelled his master's unpresentable state. "Let's draw sir a bath."
BOOK ONE
1. H. awoke with a foul taste in his mouth. His head throbbed, his muscles felt useless. He opened his eyes, then shut them quickly again, dazzled by the dust-speckled light. It was already mid-market time, and the sounds of a Carian bazaar drifted through the high, narrow windows of his rustic accommodation: voices crying out for buyers and sellers, the bleating of sheep, the grunts of pack-oxen, the shuffle of sandals in the dust, the clink of half-obols and quarter-minas in the brass scales. He rolled over, into a pile of his own vomit, and lay still for a moment.
"Pigrites," he said, his voice phlegmy and hoarse.
Pigrites padded into the room delicately, carrying a large clay pitcher.
"You're awake."
H. hacked and spat on the hard-packed dirt floor.
"Pigrites," he said again, more firmly this time.
Pigrites bowed deeply, hands steepled.
"Yes, your grace," he intoned solemnly.
"That's better. I didn't pay fifty darics for insolence of this sort." He slowly sat up, cradling his head in his hands. "Or was it a hundred?"
"As I recall," said Pigrites, as he filled the washbasin with hot water, "Sir hired me from an Arabian spice merchant in Ephesus at a rate of two obols a day and never bothered to return me." He left and quickly returned with a tray bearing a decanter of wine, one of cool water, and a bronze cup. He poured out an equal measure of water and wine each into the cup and handed it to his master.
H. drank deeply, and began to pick absently at the chunks of vomit in his curly Grecian hair.
"Well, he was supposed to get me an audience with the tyrant here in Asur, but nothing ever came of it. Those damn shifty Arabs. As I see it, you're just a walking debt made good." He tossed aside a particularly large chunk of yesterday's dinner. "Did I ever tell you how Arabians get their paprika?"
"Oh yes, several times on the road from Ephesus, I think. Let's see: young men in Arabia on the cusp of adulthood are given a leather sack and are told they must venture three days into the desert, where they will find the den of a fire-breathing salamander. Such dens are easily found because salamanders sleep right outside their den during the day in order to absorb the sun's rays and thereby stoke the furnaces in their bellies; such creatures being thirty feet long and bright red, their den is hard to miss. By courage or cunning the youth makes his way past the sleeping giant and into his den, where he must negotiate treacherous stone paths laid over rivers of liquid flame. In the bowels of the den our young man, stout of heart as he is, finds endless caverns filled with fine red powder; this, we are told, is what remains of salamanders of ages past, whose bodies are slowly cremated by the intense heat. No doubt by then soaked in his own sweat, the plucky Arab gathers as much of this as possible into his sack and makes a hasty retreat, lest he raise the ire of the elder salamanders, who keep watch over their ancestral burial grounds. And that's why one can hire ten Egyptian mercenaries for a month with a single choenix of paprika."
H. nodded approvingly.
"That's not bad, but you forgot one thing: they have to scoop the powder with a little golden shovel, or else it loses all its flavour."
"Of course. How foolish of me to forget." Pigrites at last saw and smelled his master's unpresentable state. "Let's draw sir a bath."
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