Three or Four Views of Florence

I spent some time tonight looking up paintings by artists of the Italian Renaissance described by another writer in her memoir of Italy. Whether it was something in her descriptions that moved me or the power of the paintings themselves speaking through her (or both), I'm not sure--but I made a note last night to get online and look for digital versions of the works. Many of the frescoes, paintings, and statues she mentions are familiar to me from a long-ago art class as well as my own brief visit to Florence years ago, but I hadn't thought about them in a while.

One of my clearest memories from my visit is climbing Giotto's Tower on a sunny afternoon and seeing the hilly Tuscan countryside, already resident in my imagination from that undergraduate art class, unroll in full, three-dimensional life from horizon to horizon. I have been trying to think of the word that describes that experience--it wasn't surreal, or even hyperreal, though it was more than a little magical, like any experience in which something beautiful, imagined, and hoped for turns out actually to exist in the material world. Saying that I had a sense of shocked (delighted) recognition probably comes closest to the truth.

While looking tonight at online versions of Fra Angelico's frescoes in the monastery at San Marco, I started to think I was right about a suspicion I began forming last night that this monastery was also a place I'd visited on my trip. I recall being in an ancient and intensely cold thick-walled building, traipsing around from monk's cell to monk's cell with the tips of my fingertips practically blue, looking at some famous art. The author of the memoir I'm reading was obviously not there in November, since she said nothing about cold and was apparently at leisure to contemplate the paintings without brain freeze or actual frostbite entering the picture (in fact, I believe she was there in late spring). Tuscany was beautiful in the sunshine but also turned out to be surprisingly cold, especially in some of those venerable interiors.

I was only in Florence briefly but formed an impression of an elegant and severe beauty softened by the enfolding countryside. The author of the memoir, who knows Florence intimately, writes of the simple happiness she experienced sitting in public squares, visiting shops, observing architecture and people, and partaking in the rituals of daily life. She made me believe that many of the things I only glimpsed in my brief stay would be there waiting for me should I ever chance to make my way back. Dante, Giotto, cappuccino, gelato--what more could you possibly hope for?

It was only on the heels of reading an excellent crime novel set in Florence that I decided to revisit Ms. Harrison's (also beautifully written) memoir. I picked up the novel at the library a few weeks back, thinking it would be interesting to read something set in a city I had visited and found intriguing. I hardly recognized Florence in the novel, which was written from the point of view of an embittered ex-policeman turned private investigator. Though he obviously loved his city, it was a love without illusions, born of long experience as a police officer. He saw it with warts intact, cheap cafes and sketchy riverside districts included. I believe I imagined him as something of a latter-day Dante, with the poet's somewhat embittered love for a place that had turned its back on him.

Contrasting my memories with the points of view of a fictional Italian PI and an Italian-American memoirist has taught me several things: Florence is prone to devastating floods (I must have missed all those historical markers); there is a place called the Boboli Gardens that evidently didn't figure prominently in our guidebook; I didn't spend nearly enough time just sitting in piazzas; and if I ever go to Florence again, it will surely be in the spring. I hadn't even read Dante in a serious way the last time I was there, so that alone is reason to go back. I trust and believe that the Tuscan landscape is still as beautiful and inspiring as it was 26 years ago, and that my own eye, veteran of many more sunsets, sunrises, and hilltop views since then, will appreciate it even more.

Masks

The fall colors are turning fiery, the autumn wind is blowing ("O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being"--Shelley), and my Halloween cookies are baked. This, then, is my Halloween post. I'm always bemused by Halloween. As a kid, all I had to do was dive in and enjoy it, which I did. Once you grow up, and going around asking people for candy (with every expectation that they'll give it to you) is no longer an option, your choices, in my opinion, are much less satisfying.

You can become the kind of adult who goes to costume parties cleverly attired as a zombie or a politician and stands around drinking spiked punch, or you can be the kind that sets out spooky and/or humorous yard displays and hands out candy to the kids. There's also a third set of options if you're like me and live in an apartment building that doesn't get pint-sized trick-or-treaters or offer any lawn decoration opportunities--in which case, you can either do nothing, watch a scary movie, set out a themed candle or candy dish, or bake cookies in Halloween shapes. Since your actual responsibilities are zilch, any degree of participation is up to you. 

I usually just think about how much I enjoyed Halloween as a kid, feel a bit nostalgic, and eat some cookies (I used to set out a "pumpkin" candle holder, but I think it's in the back of the cabinet somewhere). I'm guessing that most people with kids at home re-live their childhood memories by making Halloween fun for their own children, and that sounds to me like a reasonable way to approach things. 

Many people will disagree with me on this, but I'm not really a fan of adults dressing up as ghouls and things on Halloween. One of the things I remember about childhood Halloweens was that the fun was anchored in a sense of safety. You were wandering around outside after dark in a way you never would normally, dressed as someone you definitely were not, tripping over your hem and wearing a mask, and there was certainly something at large, a special Halloween spookiness. Then you'd knock on someone's door and a solid and ordinary-looking adult that you'd seen dozens of times would answer with a bag of Butterfingers or boxes of Milk Duds, reminding you that no matter how thin the membrane between ordinary reality and the otherworld on All Hallows Eve, you could reach out and touch normal reality at any time. When there are too many big people running around in masks, it starts to seem more like real pandemonium.

I have a prejudice against masks. I was thinking about this the other night and how much in the minority I may be on the issue when I happened to read, in a memoir, about someone else's distaste for masks in the context of her visit to Venice. I think my dislike stems from the knowledge that the human face itself is a mask par excellence, requiring much skill and patience to read. If the human countenance is already a disguise (and I admit that it may sometimes be a protective disguise--a necessary thing), adding additional layers of covering seems to complicate reality a bit too much. It's a little like Inception, the movie in which dream architects find a way to enter into and function in alternative layers of consciousness, making base-level reality difficult to ascertain after a while. Which face is really yours, this one or that one?

I'm not against costumes, though. Who doesn't like to dress up? My idea of fun would be to separate the adult festivities from the children's on All Hallows, so that the adults were there to supervise the kids on Halloween and then had their own parties on All Saint's or All Soul's day. I could see saying something like, "OK, the theme is the Eighteenth Century." Or possibly, "Come as your favorite character from either Shakespeare or Mark Twain. Interpret this any way you like--only no masks." I think the fun of seeing people caught in an out-of-context sartorial challenge would be much greater than trying to figure out who's behind what mask.

You'd always have to keep a few straw hats or jerkins on hand for people who showed up without one, and you'd have the burden of trying to figure out what kind of food to serve to people dressed up as Mozart or Martha Washington. But it would be worth it, wouldn't it?

Winnowing

Last week, I didn't wax poetic about the beauties of autumn, so this week, I will. A lot of us have mixed feelings about fall, but it has its compensations. Why it is that I find myself wanting to write about it in rapturous tones every year might seem a bit mysterious, since it actually isn't my favorite season. I've thought about that, and here's what I think explains it: the movement of summer into fall is more momentous than anything else in the year other than the transition from winter into spring.

Around here, spring changes into summer almost imperceptibly, and there's not that much difference between a day in late autumn and an average winter day, at least to look at. All the bright colors of mid-autumn, the golden light, and the harvest festivals mark the culmination of the year and its fulfillment. It's a burst of exuberance before things settle down for the long sleep of winter. Underlying the celebration is the knowledge that the light and warmth of summer are going, and there's cold and snow and windshield-scraping somewhere ahead, but somehow you don't think about that on a beautiful Indian summer afternoon with leaves drifting lazily down and acorns crunching underfoot.

I seem to recall past times when fall colors were brighter than they have been in recent years--I may even have read something about climate change potentially affecting the vibrancy of autumn leaves--but I'm not sure I could reliably call it a trend. It does seem to me that both spring and autumn have been somewhat delayed in their arrivals of late. On the other hand, I remember a particular autumn day in college when a class held outside a few days before Thanksgiving had the benefit of a gorgeous blue sky and leaves of every riotous hue imaginable still on the trees. I usually think of October as the colorful month, but that's proof it isn't always the case.

You can be happy in any season. I've been elated on gloomy days and out-of-sorts on sunny ones and think it's best to let the seasons be the background to life, not the map to it. Still, it's never bad to enjoy the things that only happen at certain times of the year. Emerson said that "each moment of the year has its own beauty . . . a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again." Earlier this evening, for instance, when I took something to the recycling bin, I glanced toward the west and noticed, behind the trees, a sunset not particularly showy but unique in being a particular shade of orange I don't remember seeing in the sky before. I had to look at it for a minute to try to figure out what it was. Apricot? Peach? The color of a creamy orange sherbet, melted in a bowl? A quiet color, but a pretty one, framed by houses and subtly variegated foliage, and I bet I never see another sunset quite like it.

If there's any poet who captured the feeling of autumn successfully, it has to have been Keats. I think of his ode "To Autumn" every fall, and various lines about "mellow fruitfulness" and "ripening to the core" start running through my head round about September each year. There's his famous personification of autumn as a woman(?) winnowing her hair in a barn, a sort of late-in-the-year Botticelli or Pre-Raphaelite type, I would guess. A lovely image, and a poetic one, though I can't help thinking that if I had a barn and saw such a creature sitting in it, I'd have to ask her what she was doing there. It's my practical streak, at war with my aesthetic side. (You never know--she might be the Loathly Damsel.) Even poetry has its limits.

But enough of that . . . it's almost time to start baking gingerbread cookies for Halloween.

Mythologizing the Election

Well, it's October in Kentucky, which may not be quite the same thing as Morning in America, but it's pleasant enough weather-wise. I could wax poetic about the golden afternoons, the bluebird I saw on my walk tonight, how pretty the sumacs are, or any of a number of other things, but it's also election season, with thoughts turning not just to this year's contest but to next year's presidential race. The debate season is now underway for both major parties, and the jockeying for attention will only get more intense as time goes on.

So what's a mythologist to do? My feeling that politics is a strange business remains undiminished and actually increases the more I see. It seems to me that there's a lot of "mythologizing" going on, which has probably always been the case but is something I'm more attuned to now. I wish these mythic plays were for the benefit and edification of all but it really seems to be just another way of manipulating perceptions. We were told, when I was in grad school, that politicians and other officials use mythologists and archetypal psychologists to help craft their messages, and even if I didn't know that, I'd suspect it. The one about it being time for the Great Mother to assume the reins of power has been getting especially heavy play.

I'm not a journalist (unless I'm an occasional mytho-journalist, which I guess could be a thing), and this isn't a place where you're likely to find political endorsements. I have more ideas on who shouldn't be elected than on who should be and am more convinced than ever that things are rarely what they seem in politics, where a lot of sleight of hand takes place. I watched the rise of Bernie Sanders this summer with interest, reading as much as I could to try to assess him, his background, and his policies. The word out among many of his followers was that he wasn't being treated by the media with the same seriousness as Hillary Clinton, and it's true that I would sometimes go straight from reading an article about a huge crowd he'd attracted to yet another headline talking about how unelectable he was.

It did seem that some of the coverage was slanted against Senator Sanders, though it got to such a point of ridiculousness after a while that I wondered if it wasn't actually helping him in some quarters by making him a more sympathetic candidate (and could that even have been the intention?). I know that sounds Machiavellian in the extreme, but if I were a novelist, I'd have no trouble coming up with a plot in which a political party hedges its bets by manipulating voter perceptions so that they believe they have a real choice when in fact all the flavors are actually vanilla. They just look different in the freezer.

I applaud most of Senator Sanders' political views, and I think he's absolutely right about the need for people to become more involved in their government. If he's elected, he won't be able to bring about the kind of changes he talks about without strong support from the electorate and the cooperation of other officials. I've been through the bread and roses talk of promising candidates before and have seen it come to nothing, though I do give him credit for consistency in his views. He has been saying the same things for a long time. And I was surprised at all of the criticism directed against him over the Black Lives Matter activists this summer, which seemed to me rather peculiar. Bernie Sanders, clueless on race? That seems like a stretcher. I honestly think if you're looking for someone who would work hard against institutional racism, it would be Sanders. When Mrs. Clinton met with BLM activists this summer, she came across as tense and almost hostile in the encounter but somehow received less criticism on this score than Mr. Sanders. Strange.

I am concerned about the admiration Senator Sanders expresses for not only President Obama but also Vice President Biden and Mrs. Clinton. I see all of them as mainstream, establishment politicians cut from the same cloth, part and parcel of some of the very problems Mr. Sanders wants to fix. I'm not running for president, and he is, and I suppose it's not politically savvy for someone who's only recently joined the Democratic Party to express anything but respect for its major players (aside from the fact that Sanders has said repeatedly that he doesn't want to run a negative campaign). I think sticking to the issues is commendable, but I hope it doesn't extend to a partisan "circling of the wagons" in the event, for example, that negative information does come to light from the Benghazi committee or some other source.

Many people are talking about the "people are tired of your damn emails" comment from Senator Sanders to Mrs. Clinton on the debate stage Tuesday night. Perhaps Mr. Sanders thinks it's better to steer clear of the topic until (and if) there's more "there" there, but I question his assertion that people "are tired" of the emails. Rather, it seems to me that people are actually concerned about some of Mrs. Clinton's practices as Secretary of State and that this has been reflected in the polls. While there has been some political theater around the Benghazi committee, I think the fact that Clinton's email practices became common knowledge in the course of its inquiries suggests that perhaps the prior investigations missed some things.

Senator Sanders qualified his comment after the debate by saying that he felt the investigative process needed to play itself out, which to me is different than saying it's not an important issue. I would have liked it better if he'd made this comment during the debate rather than afterwards and hope that neither Senator Sanders or anyone else will object if negative information comes out about the Obama administration or any other entity. Truth shouldn't be a partisan perception, as I think Mr. Sanders would agree, if he's the politician many people hope he is.

Well, to paraphrase Bette Davis in All About Eve, "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy ride"--as always, when it comes to politics. And I haven't even talked about the Republicans.

Congratulations--You're a Grail Author

When I started reading (or actually, finishing) a children's book series in July that dealt with British mythology, I didn't know I'd be spending a month's worth of blog posts writing my own version of the Grail story. It was completely unplanned, as my blog posts usually are. I found out, though, that I haven't been able to let go lately of what's sometimes called the Matter of Britain, a key part of which is the Grail literature. It's not all that surprising since I've never really gotten over my fascination with King Arthur, the Round Table, and the Grail that started around age eight. It only takes a little encouragement to reignite the spark.

From what I can tell, Arthurian studies is a subset of medieval studies (or possibly Celtic studies, depending on whom you ask), and Grail literature is a further subset of that, so it's sort of like that riddle wrapped in a secret rolled up in an enigma that you've heard about (apologies to Winston Churchill). My initial research into this area a few years ago showed me that there's a lot of controversy surrounding the "origins" of the Grail material. It's a fascinating subject, but the great thing about just trying to tell the story is that you don't really have to worry about who's right or wrong on all of that. There are many versions of the Grail story, and while there are common elements, there are so many differences between them that it's hard to say just what the "official" story actually is. There really isn't one, unless you consider Chretien de Troyes' version as a starting point (and he actually didn't finish his).

I really just thought it would be fun, considering all the different versions of the story that are out there, to put together my own narrative with all the parts I like and some bits of my own thrown in. Being completely ad hoc and spontaneous, it's certainly no more the cat's pajamas than any other version (and probably less so), but it did satisfy my yearning to tell a cohesive story, and more than that, to try to get at that most elusive idea of all--what is the Grail, exactly, and what does it mean?

What initially attracted me to the story as a child had something to do with this indeterminacy. Arthur's world, as I experienced it, had a mysterious quality that made it hard to pin down. While the setting had an ostensibly Christian background, there were supernatural elements that made it uncanny--wizardry, inanimate objects with a life of their own, strange beasts, magical occurrences, and an atmosphere both solemn and eerie. It didn't belong to the world of fairy tales exactly, but it seemed to hail from some long ago and far away iteration of medieval Britain, or at least a through-the-looking-glass version of it. There was nothing else like it.

Anyone familiar with the Grail story in any of its renditions would have recognized in mine such standard features as the Quest, the Grail Castle, the Maimed King, the Perilous Bed, the Chapel of the Black Hand, and the Loathly Damsel. I didn't necessarily order the elements in the same way or put them to the same use as other writers have done, being most concerned with just playing around and seeing what I could come up with within the broad outlines of convention. In other words, I did the same thing as everyone else and used artistic license.

To my own ear, my version picks up on some of the tragedy depicted in renderings such as Tennyson's, in which the Quest for the Grail, ostensibly begun as a high adventure, is actually the beginning of the unraveling of the Round Table. I initially thought Gawain's stay in the Grail Castle might be somewhat light-hearted, more in the spirit of Wolfram von Eschenbach's humorous telling, but as soon as Gawain encountered the lions in the vestibule, things started going in a different direction. I initially pictured the great hall of the Grail Castle as a more welcoming place, comfortable and luxurious, but then a monkey appeared on the candelabra and things took on a more haunted aspect. To be true to what I think of as the spirit of the stories, I had to adhere to a serious tone, though I found Gawain's (understandable) reactions to things to be sometimes humorous.

If you were expecting Perceval, Galahad, or Lancelot as the hero and wondered why Gawain is in there, that's easy. Gawain does appear in some of the traditional stories as a Grail knight, and I consciously settled on him because I wanted more of a workaday, everyman knight than a paragon. Given all the fantastic adventures he was about to encounter, I thought a more lucid, practical-minded character would be a better foil to the general strangeness than a saint would be. While Gawain is a fine knight, he is also a human one, and I wanted someone I could relate to, someone whose reactions I could understand. (This isn't necessarily the way I would have seen the story as a child, when all of the knights seemed much alike to me, but as an adult I tend to differentiate more.)

It was for that reason also that I left out the Siege Perilous, a motif that appears in some of the traditional stories in which the Chosen Knight, by reason of his superiority, is the only one who can occupy a certain seat in the King's Hall without coming to grief. I always liked the idea of this seat, which by some kind of magic is able to differentiate the true from the false (sort of like the Sword in the Stone can select the true king), and I thought about putting it in. I decided against it because in the end it seemed contrary to both the character of Gawain and the theme of my story, insofar as it has one.

Well, you might be saying, fine, but what about those things you didn't explain--like what did the running girl throw in front of the knight that caused the horse to stumble? What was all that about? (The answer is: I don't know, though maybe it'll come to me one night while I'm making dinner or mopping the floor. All I know is this was not a damsel who required rescuing.) Well, then, you ask, what about the Grail, huh? Did you, Wordplay, ever get around to saying exactly what that is?

As far as that goes, I'm not one of those who think a satisfying Grail story is a reductionist one. I will say that to me, the old myths and tales of the magical horn or cauldron of plenty seem to have a strong echo in the Grail, so that there is the idea of a mysterious source of abundance. It's obvious though, that this source of bounty, whatever it is, is tied to much more than just material plenty, seeming to be not only somewhat ambiguous in nature but also somewhat self-referential. If you're wondering how many times the Grail actually appeared in the story, and whether the cup in the Grail castle is the same Grail that appeared in Arthur's hall, I've got to say, those are some really good questions.

I thought I could tell the Grail story in one post, or at the most two, and was really surprised when it took four. I sat down to do each one feeling some enjoyment as the story unfolded but also the dread of someone who's taken on an ambitious project. It was dissertation time all over again! It seemed kind of brazen, to be honest, but I started it on the spur of a moment, and once started, it seemed best to go through with it, one of my motivations actually being to find out what was going to happen.

Somewhere along the way, I started thinking about the great Henry James, a writer whose labyrinthine prose both fascinated and infuriated me when I read him at an earlier stage of life. At the end of his novel The Wings of the Dove, one character says to another something to the effect of, "Well, let's just go back to the way we were before all this happened." And the other character says, quite simply, "We can never be as we were." I had that in mind as I wrote my ending, as something of that spirit of change seems to permeate the Grail story as I understand it.

As for Gawain, I hope he got a good dinner and a good night's sleep after his return, but whether he did or whether he didn't, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Gawain at Camelot

(Many versions of the Grail legend exist, with various authors each selecting and arranging elements to suit a personal interpretation. This is my attempt.)

Gawain's Further Adventures in the Wild; a Nap; a Return

As Gawain journeyed closer to Camelot, some of the blighted look lifted from the land. It no longer appeared barren, and the fields and trees took on the green of early spring, though the air was chill and few birds sang. Gawain made steady progress until early afternoon, when he stopped in a glade to let Gringolet rest, seating himself beneath an apple tree. He heard the sound of bees buzzing somewhere nearby; the glade itself seemed warmer than the open lands he had been passing through, and soothed by the warmth and the murmuring of bees, he fell into a light slumber.

As he dozed, a dream, or perhaps it was a vision, came to him, and he thought he was once again in the hall of Corbenic at night, with the shadows thick in the corners and a pale moonlight streaming through the windows. Before him, Gawain saw the bleeding lance of the strange procession he had witnessed standing upright of its own accord, the blood flowing into the cup that contained it at the base. Gawain saw no one in the empty hall, but he heard someone weeping. Then it was as if he had come back quite suddenly to himself, there beneath the tree, and there was the sound of a galloping horse fast approaching.

A maiden, very fleet, ran swiftly across the glade in front of him, pursued by a knight covered in black armor from head to toe. In the twinkling of an eye, she threw something behind her before disappearing into the trees, and the horse pulled up short, rearing and plunging. As the knight struggled to control the animal, Gawain sprang up with a shout and drew his sword in challenge. But then Gawain opened his eyes, and though he was somehow on his feet, the glade was as empty and quiet as it had been before, except for the droning bees, and though his hand was on his sword, he had not drawn it.

I've been drowsing, he said to himself, and it's time to move on if I'm to reach Camelot by nightfall. But he was troubled by his dreams, even as he readied Gringolet for leaving, and he remained thoughtful even when the glade was far behind, though the lands around him grew ever more familiar and he could almost taste Camelot sweetly on the breeze. And happy would he be to arrive there, in the place he had loved so long and well. And it came to pass, when at last he came out of a small wood to the west of Camelot and looked upon its white walls, graceful towers, and flying pennants, that it was but late afternoon, and he was in time for dinner.

Gawain left Gringolet to a bowing squire in the courtyard and hurried into the King's hall. As he entered, everyone turned to see him, and a hubbub arose as the court realized that it was Gawain returned safely to them; he was greeted on the left and right by the knights and ladies of the court, and Arthur himself rose to embrace him.

Arthur said to Gawain, we no longer have to wait this day for a marvel before sitting down, for now we have one in our midst.

Glad as I am to be among you again, Gawain said, I did not think to have produced such wonderment after only a few weeks' absence.

A few weeks? exclaimed the King. Why do you talk of a few weeks?

I thought it had been no more than that, said Gawain. How long, then, have I been gone?

Truly, it has been three years since we saw you last, Arthur told him, and we thought not to see you again at all. Have you been in the land of fairy, under some enchantment all this time?

That may be, said Gawain (who had heard of such things).

And now you must tell us about it, the King said, leading Gawain to his seat. But, just to show that they were not yet finished with marvels for that day, a commotion near the door brought everyone up short. As they all turned to look, a lady entered the hall on a mule, the seneschals, even including Sir Kay, having been quite unable to stop her. Remarkable as this was, her appearance was even more so, for though she had the form and bearing of a woman, her aspect was hideous. She had the furred face of a bear, the tusks of a boar, the ears of a salamander, and the eyes of a cat, though other than that she was rather fine.

A boon, she said to Arthur. I require a boon, if there is any courtesy in this court.

You have but to name it, Arthur said, and we will assist you in any way we can.

My name is Sovrentee, and my business is with this knight, she said, pointing a finger at Gawain. Though, she added, I doubt he will be pleased to learn of it.

Indeed, I will do what I can for you, said Gawain, if you will tell me what it is.

A little thing, a mere trifle, she said. I crave a kiss from you.

All the court gazed at her silently, knowing that the rules of knightly courtesy required Gawain to fulfill her request and also knowing that Gawain would abide by them, but wondering how he would bring himself to do it.

But Gawain did not hesitate, approaching her with a mannerly air and giving her the kiss she required. But though there were those in the room who might have expected--given the tales they'd heard--that this loathly damsel would suddenly metamorphose into a beautiful maiden after the kiss, no such transformation occurred. Gawain himself stood impassively, but many of those present held their breath to see what would happen next. What did happen was that the merest tip of the lady's snout, black and leathery, fell off, revealing what looked like a pinprick of human skin underneath.

The Lady Sovrentee looked at Gawain then and laughed, loudly and long. I didn't think you'd do it, she said to him, though little good may it do you. Then turning her mule around, without another word, she left the hall, and was never seen at Camelot again.

What means this? Arthur then said to Gawain. Do you know this lady?

No, said Gawain. Though by her manner, she knows us.

Does this relate to the adventure from which you have just returned?

I think, said Gawain slowly, that it bears on that, and also on the court, though it is only my opinion, and I wonder much at the appearance of this lady here today.

Well, what of your quest, then? said the King. Were we not told that the knight who undertook it would come back to explain to us the meaning of the Grail and its appearance in this hall?

Gawain then said, I can only tell you that though I may have encountered the Grail on my quest, it was not in the same manner as I saw it here in Camelot. Ah, me, what a rare gift it is, as I know now and have always known.

And it was only to say this that you have been kept from us all these years! exclaimed the King. Is there nothing more to this mystery?

Yes, Gawain said. It is in this wise: no one knight can achieve the Grail always and forever. You must let each of your knights go, as they wish, and one by one come back, or not, as the case may be, and tell what they have seen, if they are able, and willing.

All of my knights? Arthur said in astonishment. But you have been away for three years! If I were to let all my knights pursue this errand, it would empty out my court. It would break up the Round Table.

That's as may be, Gawain replied. But unless that happens, I fear the visit of the Grail in this hall will become but a fable, a relic, a riddle told by the fireside in ages to come.

But my court, said Arthur, my Round Table, which was established for the sake of honor, courage, and chivalry, and the doing of great deeds! If the Round Table is broken, we will lose all that we have struggled to achieve. Things must remain as they have been, or it is all in vain.

I fear, Sire, Gawain said sadly, that never again will things be as they have been.

--End--

In the Waste Land

(Many versions of the Grail legend exist, with various authors each selecting and arranging elements to suit a personal interpretation. This is my attempt.)

Gawain's Sojourn in the Wild and What Availed Him There

It would not be true to say that Gawain had an uneventful journey back to Camelot. He had set out on his quest late in the month of May, in mild weather, but his return was accomplished through a land sere and barren, as if it were late in the year. All that had been green and fresh had withered, and chill winds blew the few dead leaves remaining in listless eddies along the ground. Gawain traveled for several days without seeing anyone, until late one afternoon he encountered a maiden sitting beneath a tree, cradling a dead knight.

Sir, she said, looking up at him. Will you give aid to one in distress?

Gladly, said Gawain. But what has happened?

I've lost my champion, she replied, and I would ask you to help me bury him decently.

Since there is nothing else to be done, I will, Gawain said, and together they buried the knight under the tree.

I charge you not to seek vengeance for the killing of my knight, the maiden told him, but to crave justice from the king when you return to Camelot.

That I will, Gawain said, though it seems little enough to do. Then they parted.

Gawain traveled for several more days without seeing anyone before taking shelter one night in a wayside chapel. The crumbling shrine looked abandoned but had candles burning inside, and Gawain stretched out on a bench, intending to rest there until day. Hearing a scuttling noise, he opened his eyes in time to see a white arm, clothed in black, reaching out to snuff one of the candles. Gawain sat up with an oath; at this, the arm flew toward him, attempting to grab his neck. Gawain struggled for several minutes to pull the arm off his throat, finally succeeding in seizing it by the wrist and flinging it with all his might against the wall. At that, it shriveled to dust and disappeared, and Gawain spent the rest of the night in peace.

Gawain traveled for several more days without seeing anyone before being caught in a storm one night, a wild tempest that bent the bare branches of the trees nearly sideways and almost blinded him and Gringolet with stinging rain. They were deep in the forest when this happened; branches fell all around them, the wind shrieked barbarously, and the lightning struck here and there among the trees, leaving charred remains that smoldered briefly in the downpour. Gawain had seen neither dwelling nor hermitage since entering the wood, which was knotted with undergrowth and vines that caught at him and tripped the horse.

A more desolate place Gawain could not imagine, and seeing no choice but to go on, they continued, as the storm seemed to reach even greater heights of ferocity with every step they took. Then Gawain thought he noticed a faint light, so faint and far away that it might have been illusory, and he dismissed it at first as a trick of the night and the storm. Although he paid it little heed and merely tried to find any way forward that he could through the undergrowth, the light, instead of disappearing, slowly became more definite. Whether Gawain turned aside to avoid a hanging vine or went out of his way to skirt a fallen branch, the light never disappeared, seeming to shine softly but steadily far ahead of him.

It may be, he said to himself, that there is after all some hermit who lives by choice in this wild place and will offer hospitality to one seeking shelter on such a night.

And although the thickets and branches appeared almost to conspire to drive him far off to the left and right of his chosen way (which was quite possible, since the wood was an evil place), the light never seemed to wane or grow dimmer, until finally, Gawain found himself at the edge of a small clearing, looking at a tidy stone dwelling with a shed attached. After leading Gringolet into the shed, Gawain knocked at the front door; hearing no answer, he tried the handle, and the door opened into a small but neat room, furnished with a sturdy bed, table, and chair. A fire burned in the grate, filling the room with the pleasant scent of aromatic wood, and the dwelling was warm and dry, though there was no one in it. The table was set for one, with a plate of meat and potatoes, and bread and cheese.

Gawain sat down and looked around for several minutes, listening to the rain and wind, and waiting to see what would happen. For it's unlikely, he said to himself, that anyone would be abroad for long in this storm, with such a shelter available. But although he sat until the fire burned low and he had to get up to add a log to it, no one came.

Finally, Gawain ate the food, and after adding another log to the fire, he lay down on the bed and fell asleep. When he woke up in the morning, the fire had burned down to embers, the cottage was still warm, and a sunbeam lay across the foot of the bed and the floor of the room. When he went out to get Gringolet, he saw that though the storm had left a good deal of wrack in the woods, the area around the cottage was clear, and a path led from behind the dwelling into the trees.

Thinking it just as well to take an open path after so many trackless days, Gawain went that way, riding Gringolet to the top of a small rise. He saw then that the forest came to an end a few yards past the bottom of the hill, and that beyond, the country consisted of meadows and small hills. Unbeknown to him, he had come in the night to the very borders of Arthur's lands, and Camelot lay a mere day's ride to the east.

To be continued . . . 

Good Day for a Grail Quest, Continued

(Many versions of the Grail legend exist, with various authors each selecting and arranging elements to suit a personal interpretation. This is my attempt.)

The Grail Castle: What Gawain Saw There and How He Sped

At the top of the stairs, Gawain paused in a vestibule. Ahead of him was a short corridor with a closed double door at the other end; to his left and his right, stony corridors, lighted only at the near end, stretched into darkness. Before Gawain could take another step, a low-pitched growling issued from both sides, and two enormous lions emerged from the dark, moving toward him as with one accord. Gawain waited as the lions advanced, their heads held low and eyes burning, until they reached the edge of the vestibule. The lion on the right snarled and bared its teeth, while the lion on his left stretched one paw into the antechamber--whereupon Gawain drew his sword. 

Though I would do no unnecessary harm to man or beast, he said, God knows, if you accost me, I will cut off your heads. As you will.

After a brief pause, both lions retreated into the shadows. Gawain, sheathing his sword, proceeded to the wooden doors, which opened noiselessly at his approach and closed with a thud behind him. In the spacious, high-ceilinged chamber in which he now stood, a throng of richly appareled people was gathered, talking together animatedly. They all turned to look at Gawain, though their conversation continued as before.

Couches and benches with embroidered cushions were scattered about; stone steps at either end of the room led to an upper gallery on the opposite wall. The few windows were high overhead and blank with night. Tapestries hung here and there, and the floor was covered with black and white marble tiles. In one corner of the room, a harpist was accompanied by a dulcimer, timbrel, and flute as a trouvere sang. From a hanging candelabrum in the center of the room, a monkey in vest and breeches swung, eating a pomegranate and eyeing the crowd with glittering eyes. In front of the fireplace, a crowned, gray-haired man, clad in robes edged with fur, reclined on a sofa, playing chess with a courtier.

At Gawain's approach, the gray-haired man raised his head and lifted a hand in greeting. Welcome, knight, he said. Welcome to Corbenic. I have a wound that troubles me, so forgive me if I do not rise, but such as we are, you see us. He waved his hand to encompass the hall. I am King Pelles.

Corbenic, said Galahad. Then I've come to the Castle of the Grail.

Yes, and just in time for dinner, the king said. I commend you on your alacrity. You were not hindered at the gate, I take it.

No, Gawain said, though I wonder at your keeping such a pair of greeters when a couple of strong watchmen would do.

One of our idiosyncrasies, said the king. You must indulge us. But now, dinner.

As he said this, the light in the hall dimmed and all conversation from the assembled ladies and gentlemen ceased. Soundlessly, they melted away into shadow; the courtier sitting with the king arose and disappeared with the others, leaving the game unfinished. The king motioned for Gawain to sit down.

No sooner had Gawain settled himself than a strange procession entered the hall, issuing from a set of steps half hidden in the corner beyond the fireplace. Foremost was a squire grasping the hilt of a broken sword with both hands, the shattered blade pointing straight up; he was followed by a damsel carrying the rest of the blade on a cushion. Next came a knight holding an upright lance that bled profusely from its tip, followed by a gentleman carrying a boar's head on a deep platter. Lastly, a maiden entered, bearing a silver cup that glowed with an inner light. Passing slowly and without expression in front of Gawain and the king, they crossed the dim hall wordlessly and disappeared.

As they did so, light sprang up in the room, and Gawain could see all the courtiers now seated at couches and tables set with gold and crystal. The tables were weighed down with everything from fish to nuts, and delicious aromas wafted through the hall. In front of the king, a repast had taken the place of the chessboard, and the king indicated that Gawain should serve himself first. Gawain found that, though it had been long since he had last eaten, he had strangely little appetite, despite the fabulous display in front of him. But after rinsing his hands and wiping them, he took some soup, potatoes, and a dish of meat.

Murmurs of conversation and strains of music reached Gawain from the assembly, though no one spoke to him. The king ate his dinner without comment, only looking over now and then at the courtiers gathered in his hall. Gawain noticed that despite his wound, which seemed to prevent the king from sitting up straight, he was strong in appearance. I hope, sir, he said, that your wound doesn't trouble you greatly.

Ah, said the king. You wonder, I guess, what sort of wound could keep a strong man recumbent. Self-inflicted, I'm afraid, and of a rather delicate nature.

A sporting accident, then? Gawain ventured.

It was a--ah--hunting accident, the king replied. It does not prosper me, but I've learned to live with it. No physician can help me with it, you see.

I'm sorry for that, said Gawain.

The king was silent then, and after eating enough for politeness' sake, Gawain spoke again, saying, sir, I wonder at the meaning of the procession in your hall of those carrying relics. These are hallowed objects, I presume, and the ritual has purpose.

Sir, said the king, you are right. I thank you for your consideration and your acuity. But let us not speak of it. It touches on my trouble, and my kingdom, and more besides. I would not have you sit at my table and listen to tales of woe all evening.

Soon after that, the king signaled to pages stationed at the edges of the room. All of the courtiers rose, and as they did, the lights went down once again in the hall, the music stopped, and the squire, the knight, and the gentleman of the procession appeared at the king's side, along with the chess player from earlier in the evening.

I bid you good night, the king said, and such hospitality as my hall affords. You are welcome to it. Then each of the four attendants lifted a corner of the couch on which the king reclined and carried him away. Gawain was then approached by the same maiden, remote and pale, who had earlier carried the silver cup. She now held a torch.

Sir, she said. I will light you to your room. Gawain followed her across the hall, noting in the torchlight that tables, couches, courtiers, musicians, and pages had all disappeared. In a chamber off the main room, plainly but adequately furnished, the maiden lit a candle, leaving it on a table. In the torchlight, Gawain could see that the bed coverings were figured with an intricate wheel-like pattern. The walls of the room were of thick stone, and the floor was of the same black and white marble as in the main hall. The room had two windows but no fireplace.

I will leave you now, said the maiden to Gawain. And fare you well.

Well, said Gawain. I hope so.

As this damsel retreated, Gawain noticed that an owl had perched in one of the windows. As he approached, it swiveled its head to look at him before flying away in a rush of wings. When Gawain looked out, he was surprised to see the faint outline of the causeway visible in the foaming sea below. For, he said to himself, I entered this castle from the opposite side, and there the causeway ended. It's a strange thing that it should now appear on this side, as if the castle had turned--though one hears tales of such things. Then he closed the shutters, got undressed, and climbed into bed, blowing out the candle.

He had no sooner lain down than came a sudden whistling noise, and out of nowhere a spear was flung hard at him. Though caught off guard, Gawain managed to catch it. Anticipating further attack, he leaned over to grasp his shield, which was propped against the table. He was just in time, for something heavy leaped at him with a snarl from another quarter, and though he tried to beat it off with the lance, he found it as much as he could do to hold onto his shield, so he threw the lance away. He then discovered that the bed itself was not stationary, but whirled about the room of its own accord, banging him against the headboard and the walls and making it that much harder to combat his unseen foe. For what seemed half the night, he fought the malevolent creature, whose strength never appeared to wane.

At last, Gawain saw an opening to use the moving bed to his advantage. As it twisted past the wall where his sword leaned, he reached out just as the weapon came within reach and snatched it from its scabbard. Striking at the creature, he elicited a blood-curdling howl as the blade hit home. His enemy, which he now saw bore the vague outline of a huge wolf, fled immediately. Gawain, exhausted but unhurt, lay back on the now unmoving bed.

It seems, he said to himself, that I have not come to a restful hostel. I will keep watch. Propping himself against the headboard, he made ready to spend the remaining hours until daylight awake. But his plan did not succeed, for sitting up in bed, with his sword in one hand and his shield in the other, he unknowingly fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

How Gawain Found Himself on the Morrow

When Gawain awoke at last, he lay for several moments with his eyes closed, unable to recall where he was. When at last he opened his eyes, he was no longer in bed, or even in the room to which he had retired. The room, the castle, the causeway, and all had vanished, and he was resting on a grassy dune near the sea, with his sword at his side and his shield covering him. His horse, Gringolet, was nibbling at the grass nearby. Gawain had awakened to a gray daylight world, and though he was dry, a heavy mist was on the land. 

Inspecting his shield, he saw that the creature he had battled the night before had not only gouged the shield with its claws but had left them embedded in it. On the other hand, it seemed wonderful to have fought a mortal combat and yet find no trace of it on his sword. For Gawain's sword was entirely clean, as if he had just polished it.

Looking out long at the sea, Gawain saw nothing but a featureless sky merging into empty waves.  After a time, he turned his back on the water and faced the land, which stretched out eastward in small hills tangled with gorse and trees. It seemed both colder and more desolate than he remembered it. No particular path recommended itself, but it was certain there was no going back to the Grail Castle--even if, he said to himself, one wished to prolong one's stay. Calling to Gringolet, he walked straight to the edge of the waste land, and pausing for a moment to grasp the horse's bridle, began to pick his way through the scattered shrubs.

To be continued . . .

Good Day for a Grail Quest

(Many versions of the Grail legend exist, with various authors each selecting and arranging elements to suit a personal interpretation. This is my attempt.)

How Gawain Put His Impertinence on Hold and Took Up an Adventure

In the days of Arthur, it was the custom at Camelot to await the onset of a marvel before sitting down to Sunday dinner. One particular Sunday in spring, when it was raining, the King had almost decided to forgo his usual custom for that day, due to dampness, when a sudden breeze penetrated the hall, slamming all the doors and nearly blowing out the candles. A single beam of piercing light entered through a high embrasure, and a sweet odor filled the air with a wonderful fragrance. Before the astonished eyes of the court, a shining cup appeared, shedding a soft radiance through the silky veil that covered it as it wafted gently over the heads of all assembled. When the ladies and gentlemen looked at one another in the strange light, each appeared as his or her best self, astonishing in grace and comeliness.

Speechless as they were, each went quietly to his or her seat, wondering at the beauty evident now in every face. None of them had ever looked so fair! Silently, as the cup passed over each of them, all of the things he or she loved best to eat and drink suddenly appeared. Once everyone had been served, a crack of thunder and a sharp blaze of lightning occurred simultaneously, and the court was momentarily blinded. When they could see again, the cup was gone, but something of its soft light still shimmered in the hall, and the odor of rare and precious flowers and elixirs lingered delightfully.

Breaking the deep and profound silence, Arthur said, well, we have seen a marvel this day, for certain. I wonder if any assembled here can explain the meaning of this thing.

The king's bard spoke up then, saying, I have heard tell of a wonderful cup from the Otherworld, a Grail of plenty, but the stories, truly, do not do it justice, from what I have just seen. It is said that when the Grail appears, it heralds the start of a great quest, and those who make it their business to seek it will have many adventures. Yet few who seek it shall ever find it. It is a high quest, but perilous.

And the purpose of this quest? Arthur asked. For if any of my people were to undertake this adventure, I would have them know to what end.

It is said, sire, that the meaning only becomes clear to the one seeking, who may then return to reveal it to others. The appearance is a rare gift and carries no obligation, except for the one called to follow the Grail.

Gawain, who sat near the king and was known for his surly and outspoken disposition, surprised them all by saying, I have a mind to seek this thing, although I do not know the reason. I have not much use for nonsense, but this Grail has moved me. It's a thing I will never forget.

You, Gawain? said the king in surprise. I would have thought Perceval, or Galahad . . . and he gestured towards these two noble knights, known for their high-minded and spiritual natures. Yet neither of them spoke.

Yes, you doubt that I am the one for the job, said Gawain. But after all, an irreverent fool may be best suited to such a strange adventure and may succeed where the pious fail.

No one doubts your courage, Sir Gawain, but I would have thought that a more tender nature . . .

It is hard to say what one may encounter on the way, said Gawain, and they all could see that he was determined to go (and many in the hall that day, though they ate and drank all the good things gladly, were happy with all their hearts that someone else undertook the quest).

Two days later, Gawain, fully appareled as befits a knight, took his leave of them. All of the deep and winding ways he traveled would be a long tale to tell, though he encountered nothing out of the way for a knight used to deeds of errantry. (Truth be told, Perceval or Galahad might have fared differently, but Gawain was notoriously level-headed, and marvels tended to stay out of his way.) At the end of two weeks' ride, which took him well beyond the borders of the king's lands, he found himself at the edge of a sea, with a storm coming on.

Strange though it seemed, he descried many lights far out across the water, though in the darkness, he could not tell what they might signify. Stepping forward into the surf, he found the beginnings of a stone causeway beneath his feet. As the moon rose, he began to see the vague outline of a castle whose many windows glimmered through the rain. Climbing onto his horse, he set off at a gallop, hoping to reach the gates before the storm broke in earnest.

In that, however, he was disappointed, since no matter how hard he rode, the castle never seemed to draw nearer. On and on he went, with the rain in his eyes and the wind in his hair, with huge waves crashing across the causeway, almost as if they would wash it away before his eyes. Yet he rode on, never stinting, and after what seemed endless hours on the causeway in the howling storm, he at last discerned the gates. As he slowed his horse to a walk, he noticed a faint glimmer in the churning sea on either side. Looking down, it seemed to him that there were faces in the water, though, he thought, it might have been the merest fancy.

If Galahad were here, he said to himself, he would doubtless believe he had seen mermaids and mermen and even a selkie. I am not so sure that it isn't some type of sea creature, because, for certain, the light is bad, and being a landsman, the sea is strange to me. Perhaps it is what they call dolphins or some other fish.

Riding up to the gate, he gave it a hard knock with his fist, whereupon the metal grate rose and the wooden doors swung inward into a spacious forecourt with columns, hanging greenery, and a plashing fountain. The doors closed behind him immediately, shutting out the sounds of the storm. He might have been, he thought, at any richly endowed castle in Logres or Brittany. A squire came forward to take his horse, and Gawain climbed a set of wide carpeted steps toward a lighted doorway.

To be continued . . .

Original Sin, or . . .?

There was an article in The Hill about a former U.S. congressman, J. C. Watts of Oklahoma, who defines the difference between Democrats and Republicans on the basis, essentially, of belief in original sin. He believes that Republicans think human beings are bad at heart, and that when bad things happen, it's often the fault of the individual--hence the Republican disinclination to extend help to the poor or disadvantaged, who, it is thought, should be able to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps. Democrats, on the other hand (says Mr. Watts), believe that everyone is born good, and that when bad things happen, it's often due to injustice or forces beyond the individual's control. For that reason, safety nets and assistance in the form of social programs are said to be necessary.

I think there's some truth in what Mr. Watts says (and some depth psychologists have identified competing archetypes behind many political disagreements, such as the arguments over health care, abortion, and national security). But I don't think his argument holds up completely. For instance, when you think about gun control, many (though not all) Republicans don't feel the need for stronger laws, and many (though not all) Democrats do. If people are basically bad, wouldn't stronger gun control be an easy sell for Republicans? And what about the fact that so many progressives (many of whom are Democrats) support the need for stronger regulation of corporations, corporate CEOs, and financiers? If people are essentially good, why regulate these people? And why is this an area where so many Republicans are against more regulations?

To me, this latter circumstance points to a more telling way of slicing the differences between "Democrats" and "Republicans." Differing attitudes toward money, economics, and power, at a time when wealth inequalities are very much a part of the political discourse (and much on the minds of most Americans), is, in my view, a crucial reason why there's so much stalemate in Washington. Those who believe that capitalism and market forces should be allowed to proceed unhindered and those who believe that they must be regulated to prevent money and power from being concentrated "at the top" have profoundly different worldviews. Arguments that focus on dividing people on dimensions of virtue and vice often obscure that important fact.

It's certainly possible for people of good will to disagree. The perception of many in the American public, however, is that, for a number of years now, the Wall Street bankers, the CEOs of major corporations, and their cronies have held far too many of the cards, and that politicians in general are no longer listening to their constituents in favor of these oligarchs. According to a poll done last year by the Pew Research Center, most Americans, despite considerable polarization of views, still want their government representatives to work together to iron out differences--but this is what we fail to see happen.

I've read recently that some policy proposals regarding taxation and other matters, now considered wildly radical and progressive, were actually in line with the policies of self-respecting Republicans a generation ago, proving that political policy is not as set in stone as it sometimes seems. By the same token, I believe that many Democrats (though not all) who espouse the "traditional" Democratic platform of workers' rights, equality, and social welfare actually do not serve these interests, having moved their allegiances from the middle and working classes to the wealthy and powerful. They just don't acknowledge that this is what they've done.

Is there a solution to all of this? Maybe less attention to the issues that divide us and more to the ones so many of us agree on would be the place to start. If voters let their representatives know their priorities and their interest in keeping power in the hands of the people, where it belongs, politicians can't say they don't know where the public stands. Too much of the conversation seems to be driven by the forces at the top; let's hear from the American people.

A Blessing on the Road

Last week, I wrote about the imaginative possibilities of walking. I know the area surrounding my home intimately as both a walker and a driver, and this past week has ushered in a new era for those of us in south Lexington: a major connector road, closed all summer, has reopened, newly realigned and boasting not one but two rotaries. Rotaries are relatively rare around here (I know of one other in town), and I was curious to see how people would take to them. So far, everyone seems to be taking them cautiously but in stride.

I set off down the road myself the first day I saw it open, and it was a bit like a circus (no, really, a circus) to come upon the first rotary, bristling with crosswalks and traffic signs where there used to be a simple four-way stop. At the old intersection, there was one crosswalk, not clearly demarcated, and it was always a question when you were on foot whether the driver would stop (or even see you). Navigating the rotaries takes a little attention, so it does require drivers to slow down. If you're making a left turn from either of the rotaries, your semicircular sweep is a little like a twirl on a carnival ride, with the caveat that you may have to stop.

Work on the street took all summer, starting in May, and I remember the first time I crossed the newly closed road on an evening walk. The familiar pavement was simply gone, leaving a dirt road leading off through the low hills into the middle distance. In my reading lately, which has focused on Celtic mythology, there's a lot of emphasis on shapeshifting, mythic events impacting the shape of the land, and the existence of an Otherworld often contiguous with the everyday one. My first glimpse of that formerly busy road suddenly transformed (almost overnight, it seemed) into a dirt track gave me a little of the feeling of all three phenomena rolled into one: the same familiar hills and trees, the same sky, the same buildings were there, but--poof!--the road had vanished. What was once suburban now looked like the country, and I hadn't had to go anywhere.

Now, I have to say I haven't encountered any even remotely Otherworldly beings all summer (though I have seen a few mortals who may have gone astray on their way home from the pub). No Sidhe, no bards, no supernatural warriors, nor even any wandering knights, magical horses, or enchanted deer. But I'll always remember the day I crossed the street and the road was gone, giving me a quick glimpse of what the area might have looked like before there were any roads (though I bet there were more trees then as well).

It's ironic that this brief, bucolic experience came about as a result of progress; new dorms and a big new parking lot have brought more people to this side of town, and the old road was no longer adequate to serve the increased traffic. But actions sometimes have unintended consequences, as may happen when you tear down a road to build a new one and shift the view temporarily. As to whether all the new bustle in the neighborhood has bothered the Sidhe, if there are any about, I'm not really sure. I believe some people think that they don't like busy places and lots of people, but if my understanding of their essential nature is correct, they're not likely to care one way or the other. If they did, you'd be the one discommoded, not them.

May the road rise to meet you. Oh, no worries, it already has.

Shakespeare and Alice

I once read a novel called Mythago Wood in which a forest was a sort of otherworldly zone from which mythical figures occasionally emerged into the everyday realm. The main character saw this happening and kept trying to cross the barrier that kept ordinary humans out of the mythical space, which turned out to be a tough go. The idea of the forest as a sort of zone of the unconscious is a familiar one to most of us, so the existence of a patch of woods next to our local arboretum may help explain why walking there is often such an imaginative exercise.

Then, too, I've seen a number of Shakespeare plays produced in the arboretum in the past, which probably helps explain my penchant for peopling the park with his characters. I once had the idea that it would be fun to have a free-roaming theatre company enact scenes in various parts of the park instead of on a fixed stage, so that playgoers would stroll from one scene to another. Since the idea occurred to me, there's been no looking back. I'm sure this would entail a lot of logistical headaches, but just think how much fun it would be.

You might stage the beginning of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the parking lot to represent Athens, then move the bulk of the action to the park itself, with lovers, fairies, and rustics continually stumbling onto one another under the trees. Think how magical it would be on a summer's night to eavesdrop on the fleeing lovers in one leafy corner of the park and overhear Titania quarreling with Oberon in another, as the fireflies winked and the moon rose over the trees. I've been living with this idea for so long that I sometimes stage scenes in my head when I'm walking, picturing the mortals waking up in this particular grove, Puck flitting about behind that oak over there, and the rustics enacting Pyramus and Thisby using that low wall as a prop.

And why stop with A Midsummer Night's Dream? There's an open grassy area in back where I occasionally imagine Richard III stumbling about, calling out for a horse. That quiet corner with the arbor would do admirably for Friar Lawrence's cell, while the gazebo works for Juliet's balcony and bedroom. A patch of hilltop trees sheltering a shaded path translates in my mind into the gloomy corridors of Macbeth's castle, and over there, behind the hedge, is Ophelia's pond. That bowl-shaped meadow is plenty big enough to represent Agincourt and the meeting of Henry's army with the French. The garden, with its series of outdoor rooms, is the perfect spot for staging Much Ado About Nothing, while Julius Caesar could meet his murderers on that narrow walled court down by the roses.

Probably, the nature of the park itself--an open space of trees and fields shaped by human hands and filled with paths--situated next to a small but thickly wooded forest--contributes to my tendency to see it as a stage. It's part nature and part human and has, as a place set apart for no purpose other than leisure, a bit of a liminal feel. Your mind wanders as your eye roams over broad vistas punctuated with many intimate spaces, and there are numerous ways to explore aside from staying on the main path. Paths into and out of the woods provide access to a deeper imaginative realm. It's a writer's and an artist's dream.

The park tends to be well populated these days (see my post "Is That Really Necessary?") and much noisier than it used to be. It strikes me that the increased noise works to decrease the park's liminal qualities, making it harder to imagine Athens, Rome, Verona, or the English countryside. It's more of a neighborhood circus many days than a "thin place," but if you cultivate mental self-containment, it's still possible to have stolen moments of reverie, which gives walking there a sort of fitful charm.

I often encounter rabbits in and around the park, which takes me in a different but related direction, making me think of Alice drowsing on her river bank on a summer day--a subtle reminder that the world of the imagination is never far away, if indeed, there is really any distance at all. (Alternately, it's a reminder that any time spent in a public space these days, from the park to the shopping mall to social media, carries the possibility of falling down a rabbit hole--but let's accentuate the positive.) With the busy outside world surrounding the arboretum on all sides, the park still manages at times to fill the important function of providing room for imagination and untrammeled thought. For that, I thank it.

Battle of the Bulls

Following up my interest in Welsh and Irish mythology from last week, I've been re-reading The Tain, Thomas Kinsella's translation of the great Irish epic, Tain Bo Cuailnge. The story concerns a great cattle raid in which Ailill and Medb, king and queen of Connacht in west Ireland, attempt to steal the Brown Bull of Cuailnge from Ulster in the east. (I wrote about bulls recently in recounting the story of King Minos and the white bull from Greek mythology; a bull is a potent symbol in both stories, though I wouldn't say it necessarily represents the same thing in both cases.)

The idea of stealing a bull stems from an argument Medb has with Ailill concerning which of them is worth more. She's greatly displeased at finding, after an exhaustive inventory, that no matter how closely her wealth matches that of her husband, she is one down because of the defection of a prize bull, Finnbennach, the White Horned (which, we're told, didn't care to be ruled by a woman), to the king's herd. Determined to fix this, she sends around the whole of Ireland to find a bull to replace it. After being told that Donn, the Brown Bull of Cuailnge, has no equal in the land, she decides to get him for herself. When the owner balks at lending him to her, Ailill and Medb amass a great army to go after the bull, despite omens of certain disaster for their warriors.

When I started the story the other night, I sat up in disbelief at the part where Medb and Ailill agree to go war to obtain the bull. What started as a marital disagreement quickly turns into a full-fledged military campaign, with Ailill's full participation. I'd forgotten how foolishly it all started . . . though the reasons for fighting in many of the old Irish stories (and not just the Irish ones) often turn on something this seemingly insignificant.

The story is full of death, destruction, foul deeds, and the exploits of the hero Cuchulainn, the famous Hound of Ulster, a one-man fighting machine who adroitly destroys a whole host of Medb's and Ailill's warriors. Despite the epic's bloodiness, the story is told with great humor and wit; Cuchulainn's outsize accomplishments and outrageous feats of arms provide, in my reading of it, an ironic commentary on the supposed heroism of the entire affair. So much is attempted for so little, and so many lives lost; the countryside is hacked and hewn so that ever afterward place names reflect the deadly events that took place there; friend fights against friend and alliances are broken--but Cuchulainn's superhuman acts will never be forgotten.

That the war comes to nothing in the end is no great surprise. As the Connacht faction attempts to escape with the Brown Bull, they come across his counterpart, Finnbennach, and it is the two beasts' turn to give battle. Following an epic struggle, the Brown Bull shows up the next morning bearing the mangled remains of his enemy, and after staggering about for a time, mortally wounded, gives up the ghost. Ailill and Medb make peace with the Men of Ulster, and everyone goes home. So much for the urgent imperatives and well-reasoned arguments of war. This is one epic that seems to turn on the futility of war, not its nobility.

When I first read this story a few years ago, it was entirely new to me, or so I thought at first. At some point during or after my reading of it, the phrase, "the Brown Cow of Cooley," surfaced from somewhere in the past. It was a phrase I remembered hearing my mother (who was Irish) say when I was little, and it occurred to me that her Brown Cow and this Brown Bull must surely be one and the same. I can't remember the exact context in which she spoke of it, but I seem to remember some exasperation in her tone that went with the phrase, as if it represented some great undertaking that was either impossible, not worth the effort, or both.

The story itself, if not the battle, is well worth pursuing for the verve and humor of the telling. When Medb, who does not know Cuchulainn, asks who he is, she is told, matter-of-factly, "You'll find no harder warrior against you--no point more sharp, more swift, more slashing; no raven more flesh-ravenous, no hand more deft, no fighter more fierce, no one of his own age one third as good, no lion more ferocious; no barrier in battle, no hard hammer, no gate of battle, no soldiers' doom, no hinderer of hosts, more fine. . . ."

"Let us not make too much of it," Medb said.*

*(Quotation from The Tain, translated by Thomas Kinsella from Tain Bo Cuailnge. Oxford University Press.)

In the Day of Trouble

I had a curious dream the other day, which I was moved to jot down. It seemed more amusing than anything else, but it left me feeling oddly cheerful and optimistic. At first I couldn't see a relationship between the events of the dream and waking life, but as often happens, connections appeared after I started thinking about details, such as the bottle of Frangelico that popped up in the middle of the dream, seemingly out of nowhere. Yeah, really--Frangelico!

In the dream, I was stranded in an affluent suburb outside Omaha. I know: why Omaha? I've no idea, except that to me, the city seemed to be somewhat farther south and to the east of Omaha, more in the vicinity of, say, Saint Louis. Nevertheless--Omaha. It was an attractive retail area and actually had more of an urban feeling than the word "suburb" indicates, but I really wanted to get back downtown, where I was staying. I seemed to be there for a conference at a university and had somehow gotten stuck in the outskirts, where I was repeatedly frustrated in efforts to catch a bus.

I had several bus tickets with alternate numbers written on them, along with a bottle of water and some other items. I kept seeing buses go by, but never the one I needed. There was a chic little restaurant just off the street, and I passed a little time inside at a table. (For a moment, I seemed to be in my own neighborhood at home, but that feeling passed.) When I got up to leave, I had the bottle of Frangelico in my hand, and my bottle of water was nowhere to be seen.

As far as I know, I've only had Frangelico once, in a delicious chocolatey sort of drink. It was very good, and I'd certainly have it again, but in the dream I was incensed that my bottle of water had disappeared. I complained to the cashier, who, while polite, seemed mildly obstructionistic as I tried to exchange the Frangelico for my bottle of water. It didn't look like a real Frangelico bottle but was instead fairly small and flat, like a flask. The liqueur was golden brown and had small brown seeds at the bottom similar to cloves.

I'm not actually sure whether I ever got my water back, but I was outside and sort of flying around chasing a bus when Harrison Ford showed up. Then we were both chasing the bus, and I had the feeling that I'd known Mr. Ford before and that we were actually old friends. It finally started feeling like things were going my way, and although we still seemed to be pursuing a bus, it was now a fun sort of pursuit and no longer worrying. Then I woke up.

I may have known that Frangelico is made from hazelnuts, but if I did, I'd forgotten, until I looked it up. I then had to look up hazelnuts, remembering vaguely some associations they have with Celtic mythology. In fact, I had just been reading about hazelnuts in the last book of "The Dark Is Rising" series (which I wrote about last week). In the book, two heroes on their way to retrieve a crystal sword stop to eat some hazelnuts and apples given to them by a character who may or may not be Taliesin, the mythical bard and sometime god.

You may be wondering what that has to do with waiting for a bus in Omaha. Me, too. I note that I was not particularly happy to have a bottle of hazelnut liqueur instead of the water I started out with. Frangelico didn't seem like a practical beverage for a long bus journey, but more than that, I seemed to be saying "no" in some way to an idea of someone else's. In some of the old Celtic stories, hazelnuts are a source of wisdom (obtained in one instance by eating a salmon that had previously eaten hazelnuts). You'd think a mythologist would be the first one to say "yes!" to hazelnuts, but apparently it's different when you have a bus to catch. Maybe a jar of Nutella instead?

The beauty of the old tales about Taliesin, Fionn, and the Salmon of Knowledge, slippery and shape-shifting, has long appealed to me, and I had a good time today re-reading just about everything I've ever read about them. One nugget I came across was the idea that Elphin, the hapless youth who fished Taliesin out of a weir and was rewarded a thousandfold for his act, did this on April 29th. This is so close to the cross-quarter day of May 1 that I assumed a connection, and, yes, there are stories linking Taliesin and the salmon to May Day. Wisdom (and possibly fertility) is a special gift of Taliesin, who told Elphin, "In the day of trouble, I will be of more service to you than three hundred salmon." And he proceeded to make good on his word.

I actually had my dream not on May 1 but on August 1, which happens to be the cross-quarter day of Lughnasadh, an early harvest festival and celebration of the Celtic god Lugh. Lugh, by the way, had an emblem, a spear that never missed its mark. I may have had Lugh in the back of my mind, since I've written about the cross-quarter days before, and his spear certainly has a connection to a magic sword, the sword of Nuada; together, they are two of the mythical Four Treasures of Ireland. Apparently, reading about a magic sword and hazelnuts shortly before having this dream triggered an association.

But a spear is not a sword, and it wasn't Lugh, Nuada, or Taliesin that I encountered while chasing a bus, but a calm and collected Harrison Ford. While not a Celtic god (or is he?) he is certainly known for playing larger-than-life characters. So the moral of this story is . . . better one good hero of proven vintage or a bottle of spirits of dubious provenance? Well, which would you rather have in a tight spot?

Finding Arthur

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been reading Susan Cooper's "The Dark Is Rising" series for young people. I read the second book, The Dark Is Rising, years ago when I was studying children's literature, but I'd since forgotten most of the plot details. What I mainly remembered was its tone of eerie suspense and the elaborate interweaving of the ordinary with the supernatural in the adventures of its young hero, Will Stanton.

I've been reading the books out of order, which has actually made it more fun than if I'd done it linearly. This is not surprising if you know the story line. The plot involves a lot of time hopping, past lives, recovery of things forgotten, and travel from one world to the next, so jumbling the order of the books just increases the pleasurable sense of not knowing what's going to happen next mixed with a bit of deja vu. It's similar to the way I might have read the books when I was a kid, coming across one at random and not being overly concerned with sequencing. It's a very relaxing way to read, I have to say.

After reading just The Dark Is Rising for class, I didn't realize the extent to which the series relies on British and Celtic mythology for some of its characters and themes. This would have been clear if I'd read the first book, Over Sea, Under Stone, first, because it contains a major plot reveal concerning one of the characters. Finding out the probable identity of that character makes it clear that the series is steeped in Arthurian legend, which for me is the icing on the cake. I knew there was a reason I liked that book!

Taking a children's lit class cured me of any tendency I might have had to think of young adult literature as escapist. The Dark Is Rising (as well as many of the other young adult books I read) has a much more serious outlook on life than you might imagine given the sometimes fantastic elements of plot. All of the fantasy and magic is in the service of a gigantic and ongoing battle between the Light and the Dark, or Good and Evil, in which even a little boy has a great and inescapable responsibility. Young Will, with his unique role in the age-old struggle, sometimes feels the loneliness of a burden that's impossible to share with others, including his family.

The series deftly portrays ordinary time and mythic time co-existing and interacting. A basic dualism in the stories is somewhat complicated by natural magic, which is independent of Light and Dark and not easily biddable. While it's essentially neutral, it sometimes plays a role in the fight by lending its influence to one side or the other. There's an indication that the Light/Dark struggle will end, although I don't know how because I haven't gotten there yet. If the Light wins, presumably this ushers in a Golden Age of some kind, so that although the membrane between past, present, and future is very fluid in the stories, there is a kind of historical movement. Does that mean that ordinary time will be subsumed into eternity at the end of the story? It's hard to say, which is why I'm continuing to read.

I was thinking today about the role of figures like Arthur and Merlin in this story, guardians for the Good with a special authority and responsibility. This is, I suppose, a bit elitist, since they are portrayed as a category of beings with powers and superior wisdom that more or less set them apart. The author plays down the elitism by incarnating her heroes into fairly conventional people who find out that they are not merely who they think they are but something more. Will comes from an average family, and so do many of his allies, but they are born with inherent abilities that are part of their special destiny.

There's an old saying that King Arthur never really died and will come back again in an hour of great need; this series interprets that part of the legend in its own way, depicting a world in which anyone, even the youngest boy in a large middle-class family or a lonely child on a working-class farm, can discover inner nobility and purpose. That matches my idea of the return of Arthur, which is to say that if he lives anywhere it's inside all of us. It's no good waiting around for him to come back; if we want him, we have to discover him in ourselves and bring him back around that way. Even in America, where we don't have kings, this is possibly a good thing to remember.

Is That Really Necessary?

Is it noisy where you are? One of the hardest things to come by in this day and age seems to be the simple ability to hear oneself think. A bit of peace doesn't sound like much to ask, but, even as someone who lives a quiet life, I'm constantly inundated with noise--specifically, noise in the form of loud people. I'm not sure when yelling became the normal mode. I, personally, don't feel the need to announce every idea I have in an ear-splitting voice to all and sundry, so I must ask: Is all this noise, strictly speaking, necessary?

I occasionally switch coffeehouses when the one I'm going to seems to get too popular (which always happens sooner or later). Finding one in an unfrequented part of town, going at off-hours, sitting in an unoccupied corner--none of these tactics seems to hold off the noisemakers for long. People who can't seem to speak without yelling are drawn to me as moths to an open flame (it's a bit like the old saying that cats always seek out the person who doesn't like them. I actually think cats are smarter than that, but I'm unsure of the people).

Not long ago, I was sitting in a coffeehouse wearing earplugs, with my fingers in my ears, as a parade made up (apparently) of every friend and acquaintance ever known to the baristas made its way through the line. In that posture, I usually hear little of what's actually said, though I always feel annoyed that I have to go to that length to maintain psychic space. After switching seats for a corner perch, I got so annoyed with the high-pitched laughter of a woman standing in line that I simply left. It sounded like she'd just come from Bedlam (no exaggeration). I wouldn't be surprised if all the milk in the place had curdled after that performance, but the barista stood there like it happens every day.

Even the public library isn't immune to noise displays. I went to return some books the other day and found myself sitting in the car, reluctant to go in, knowing I'd have to pass through a crush of people just to get to the Circulation Desk. I decided to wait until almost closing time to let the place empty out, which wasn't a bad plan. Understand, I'm not a misanthropic person and generally enjoy polite society, but I don't like wading through crowds of exhibitionists, where it's not uncommon for someone to walk right in front of me, screaming on a cell phone, or even to bump me. For heaven's sake, the place is not that cramped. In fact, it's fairly spacious.

The park is another wide open space that should have plenty of room for all but starts to seem like a very small world indeed once you begin encountering all the declaimers and lollygaggers it pulls in. I hate wearing my earplugs in the park, but if I don't, I have to endure one screeching group after another. It's worse than parrots. This even happens at times when you'd think the park would be nearly empty. And don't get me started on people who stop right in the middle of the path to gab, blocking access for everyone else. I'm assuming that at least some of these people are tourists, because most people would behave more considerately knowing that they're likely to encounter friends and neighbors--though tourism is still a poor excuse for rudeness.

I do occasionally get crotchety with someone over this, and you can never really tell when it will happen. I'm sort of a believer in live and let live, but I also believe in appropriate boundaries, which are really a necessity (not an option) for social living. Here's a hint: If I wanted to hear what you have to say, I'd invite you over for tea. Otherwise, we haven't met but are actually perfect strangers in a public place, and in public settings, a little politeness goes a long way.

Pluto, Is That You?

Yesterday I took an online quiz to test my knowledge of the planet Pluto, and to my surprise I got all the questions right. I didn't know I knew that much about it, but I have seen a couple of news articles about the New Horizons space probe and recently read the story of how Pluto was discovered in 1930. I understand that the photographs received by NASA have revealed the planet to be a bit bigger than scientists thought it was, and I'd like to congratulate Pluto in this regard. It must be hard enough hanging out there in the Kuiper Belt without being demoted; maybe being bigger will give Pluto back its bona fides.

When I was growing up, I thought of Pluto as almost the mascot of the solar system, probably because it shared its name with that friendly but goofy Disney dog. At the same time, its remoteness gave it a mystique no other planet had. Now all these years later, images of its surface are raining down on us from the space probe, and we're getting acquainted with its actual features. Imagine an object the size of a piano traveling safely for nine years across the vastness of space, arriving in the vicinity of distant Pluto in good enough condition to send back crisp images. What a miracle.

I read today that scientists are excited about the size of the mountains on Pluto and the likelihood that the planet has water. Pluto seems to be defying expectations in lots of ways, but surprisingly, the images I've seen don't stray all that far from what I might have imagined if you'd asked me to draw it when I was growing up. I think I imagined it as a very cold, silent, dim place, a place it would be hard to get to know.

As everyone knows from mythology, Pluto was also called Hades and was the god of the underworld--conceived as being below the ground, not out in space. Pluto was in some way connected with wealth, which may have come from the fact that he ruled his own vast kingdom, quite distinct from that of the upper regions. Despite the riches below the earth, his realm was a dim, inaccessible place for the living, not a place to go willingly even if you could get there, in contrast to all the effort it's taken to get to his planetary namesake.

We've sent a spacecraft as our emissary to the planet Pluto, a destination that will, in its own way, have a wealth of features to discover. I sometimes have mixed feelings when I read about explorations of other worlds and plans to possibly exploit them for our gain (though I realize anything like that is probably far in the future for distant Pluto). If only we could get our own house in order on Earth I might feel better about the possibility of colonizing other worlds, but I guess if we waited until we were perfectly wise we might never get anywhere.

I hope the images we're receiving will make all the work that went into the New Horizons project pay off, and I'm glad the ashes of Pluto's discoverer, Clyde Tombaugh, went along for the ride. That was a lovely gesture that puts a human face on the whole enterprise and makes a nine-year voyage seem perhaps a bit less of a lonely ride. It also makes Pluto seem not quite as remote as it once was--though regardless of the distance, Pluto will always be a part of my solar system.