London, courtly love & another pair

And, before reaching the Seine, there was this.

Cruising the Thames with Fram the First ....

As I promised yesterday, I have delved further into the previously unpublished travel journals of Fram the First. And, what can I say? His travels began as a bad boy. His journals indicate that he was among the rampaging hordes that swept into Britain before moving along and searching for greener pastures and brighter gold in lands to the south.

By all indications, Fram the First did enjoy cruising on the Thames and bobbing in and out of coastal towns, as well. He thought the folk friendly, the girls beautiful and the ale adequate. He did, however, mention in his journal that he preferred traditional, realistic art to the modernistic stuff finding its way into the Saatchi Gallery in London town.

My assumption is that had Fram the First been heard of beyond his 27th year, he would have grown to enjoy art ranging from blue girls to green girls. There might be more to be told regarding Fram the First's frantic existence. Apparently, he did make one earlier, civilian trip in, about and around the Continent, however, he was traveling with tintype camera gear during those voyages, which makes it difficult to relay the sights he saw.

There also exists a legend that he was among the first Norsemen to arrive in present-day Minnesota. I shall check into it.

The lover is bewildered, helpless ....

I became wrapped up in the notion of romance a few days ago, even to the point where I began studying it again in literary terms. (What can I say? English majors, i.e., witless fools.) By study, I mean examining how writers and literary movements over the centuries have viewed romance and recorded it. I have discovered that I probably am a "courtly love" man. A brief description:

"According to the system, falling in love is accompanied by great emotional disturbances; the lover is bewildered, helpless, tortured by mental and physical pain ... He agonizes over his condition and indulges in endless self-questioning and reflections on the nature of love and his own wretched state. His condition improves when he is accepted, and he is inspired by his love to great deeds. He and his lady pledge ... and must remain faithful in spite of all obstacles ... C.S. Lewis has made a detailed study of courtly love in 'The Allegory of Love'."

I did not stop there. I continued by adding historical study of romance to the mix. In this instance, I was thinking primarily in terms of how my Scandinavian ancestors viewed it. From the "The Poetic Edda," specifically within the "Hovamol -- The Ballad of the High One:"

"Soft words shall he speak and wealth shall he offer
Who longs for a maiden's love,
And the beauty praise of the maiden bring;
He wins whose wooing is best."

and this:

"The head alone knows what dwells near the heart,
A man knows his mind alone;
No sickness is worse to one who is wise
Than to lack the longed-for joy."

and one more:

"Fault with another let no man find
For what touches many a man;
Wise men oft into witless fools
Are made by mighty love."

Technology races forward, but wisdom and knowledge were born long before any of us. It is there to assist us if we wish to look for it. No date can be ascribed to the "Hovamol" but, undoubtedly, parts of it are relics of ancient Germanic poetry.

There are women who make me shake in my boots, but .... time to stop writing and to resume my studies before I get any deeper into trouble. To be continued ....

Night run & the magic girl ....

Here are two more true tales told in column form rather than in paragraph form. This is sort of fun.

Night run ....

I miss seeing the stars at night
beneath clean, clear, country skies,
while running along a graveled road
at midnight in January,
with the temperature below zero,
dressed in insulated clothing and boots,
smoking a cigarette, as I run.
I did not dream after such a night,
after running the frozen road beneath the stars.

Magic girl …

I look at her face, I stare into her eyes.
She is there yet, the girl from long ago.
Her smile has dimmed only a slight degree,
but her face shows scars from tears,
a lonely expression there for all to see.

I sense her there, the girl from long ago,
I know she is she, and once she was for me,
but how do I know what is left inside her?
Is she magic still, or has life changed her?
Can a woman return, a magic girl to be?

Music Note: Listening to and sort of watching David Bowie ....
Specifically, the "Glass Spider" tour ....
(Third time in about four or five weeks .... why?)

Does earth end before the right arm fails?

"The sun turns black, earth sinks in the sea,
The hot stars down from heaven are whirled;
Fierce grows the steam and the life-feeding flame,
Till fire leaps high about heaven itself."

From the book: "Poetic Edda"
Specifically, from the poem: "Voluspo"
"The Wise-Woman’s Prophecy"

My arrival at the end of the earth ….

I have not attempted to write a single line of poetry since I was a "college boy."

The mother of a young lady I knew back then gave me that designation when her husband yelled from far inside the house to ask her who she was talking to in the hallway.

"It’s just Cindy, Harold," the mother shouted back to her husband. "She brought home a college boy!"

I think Cindy's father had visions of me mowing his yard while I was waiting for her to change clothes, while Cindy's mother, I am almost certain, immediately began planning a menu for the wedding reception. (All right, all right. I'll get back on topic.)

Don't panic and turn the page. I'm not quite ready to start composing sonnets yet, but reading the poetry of others has gotten me to thinking about it. Thinking about it led to consideration of possible events or milestones in my life that gave me pause, that stirred my emotions, that I might wish to memorialize.

Riding the prow of a ship, an event that I wrote about a few days ago, consisted of around 10 minutes that branded themselves into my mind forever. (It really was an actual event, believe it or not.) Maybe I'll try a poetic effort about those minutes. Or, possibly, I'll attempt putting to verse another event that occurred a few days later. Allow me to test the concept.

Imagine, if you would, Moses parting the Red Sea. (Surely, you've heard of that or, at least, seen Charlton Heston do it.) Transfer that image to fog instead of water: A ship is slowly cruising dead center through a "channel" of calm, blue-green water which is glistening in bright sunlight. The channel is, at most, a quarter-mile wide because on either side is a bank of thick fog which hides the vast ocean. Get the image? Instead of a path of land with water on either side, we have a path of calm, listless water with thick fog, perhaps extending a few hundred feet in height, on either side, hiding the endless sea.

Our protagonist (me), comes up on deck from breakfast below, lights his cigarette and walks to the prow of the ship (his prow, now; he has laid territorial claim to it, as males often tend to do). Since it is the light of day, he knows better than to duck beneath the guard chain, so he stands before it.

Abruptly, probably a half-mile ahead, a nuclear-powered submarine emerges from the fog, cutting across the channel of clear, calm water at about a 45-degree angle from the ship. About the time the first submarine reaches the midpoint of the channel, a second submarine breaks free of the fog, following directly in the wake of the first. Our protagonist (yep, me) watches the black creatures in absolute awe as they silently slide through the sunlit sea, end-of-the-earth predators stalking an unknowing target.

The images are locked forever in our protagonist's mind (still me). Within a few minutes, the first submarine has crossed the clear, serene channel and disappears into the bank of fog on the other side. A few moments later, the second submarine has trailed its companion into invisibility.

Our protagonist (yes, still me) knows he truly has arrived at the end of the earth, in time to be a part of the gathering storm which will erupt into the end of everything. It is the eve of Ragnarok, and he will be player in it. (He is a romantic, you see, and prefers the mythology of the Old Norse to the apocalyptic vision in the Old Testament.) Incidentally, did you notice that "end of the earth" can be interpreted at least two ways?

Whatever, I've been wondering how to translate that experience into poetry. It would make a good painting, too, except I cannot paint.

I believe in the strength of my own right arm ….

A visitor here a few days ago, Inanna, brought up the subject of reincarnation in relation to an 1883 pocket watch I purchased. A primary reason for buying that particular watch was because I felt an inexplicable attraction toward a woman whose photograph was contained inside the case.

Inanna said that if I believed in reincarnation, my attraction could be explained easily. The explanation being, I had known this woman in a previous life. I replied that I neither believed nor disbelieved in reincarnation. I said that sometimes it seemed to me I had an opinion on just about everything, but was convinced about very few things. Skeptical about everything; discounting nothing. I said a story told about a priest attempting to convert a Viking to Christianity might explain the structure of my personal system of belief.

I tried, but cannot recall the source of the tale, and have too many books to spend any amount of time looking for it but, in substance, this is the story:

A priest was attempting to convince a Viking to renounce the "old (pagan) gods" and to accept Christianity. After much discussion, the Viking still stubbornly refused to accept baptism.

The priest then asked the Viking what it was about the "old gods" that led him to believe in them.

To which, the Viking replied that while he did accept the role of the "old gods" in his society, he did not, himself, believe in their existence.

The priest next asked the Viking, "In what, then, do you believe?"

To which, the Viking replied, "I believe in the strength of my own right arm."

The story seemed clear to me. The man believed in what he knew with absolute certainty to exist, with what had been personally proven to him to be real -- something he could see and feel and test. Rather a nihilistic point of view. This might be considered a "primitive" position to hold today in the 21st Century, considering the "advancement of knowledge" during the last 1,000 years.

However, when one enters the realm of the "unknown," it seems to me that an individual basically has two choices. He must either choose between faith in an abstract concept or in acknowledgement of what is provable. A third alternative, when circumstances are applicable, is to be an agnostic and to admit you simply do not know the answer. You might have an opinion, but you do not know the answer. Possibly you will know some day, but you do not know right at this moment. I am agnostic about many things, not just religion. I do not know why so many people have a difficult time saying those words: "I do not know."

For me, one of the more enjoyable ways to spend leisure time is discussing personal beliefs with another individual. Generally speaking, people do less and less of this when they move out of the educational system and into the world of career employment. Too busy, they say. Sure, that is true, but more often, I think, too frightened or too narrow-minded. No wonder so many people end up alone.

The last couple of paragraphs of this segment turned out sort of klutzy, but what the heck.

Music Note: Currently listening to Pearl Jam ....
Specifically, "Ten" ....
(Not really a fan, but some of their stuff is good)