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The White Lodge


 She Was Breeding A Dwarf
 

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I wrote a Bansee story years ago called "Queen of the Park" which was very courteously rejected by several magazines. I would have to entirely re-write it.

What does this have to do with the music, you may ask?

Ah, says the Squabbler.

Ah.

Nothing.

The story was about a fellow named Jeremiah O'Nale who lived with his wife, Dierdre, their son, Jerry, and his Aunt Kitty in a house in a cul-de-sac in an unfinished housing development in Upstate New York. Jeremiah and his family were the only residents of this cul-de-sac so far. Empty houses - apart from his - surrounded them. A tiny park containing a single bench, a tree, and a flower bed was in the center of the cul-de-sac.

Jeremiah had been having dreams that he was running - and indeed he was a world famous marathon runner who had written several books on the subject; it was his obsession - along a treeless country road with high ditches on each side. In his dream he comes to a black horse-drawn coach which seems to be awaiting him 'round a bend in the road. He finds that he cannot stop running towards it, though he suddenly wishes to. In fact, he suddenly wishes to run away, for he is consumed with an inexplicable terror. Each time he has this dream he awakens with a start. The man driving the coach has turned to look at him, and while he cannot discern the man's face he is close enough to see that the two bridled horses are headless.

Now, Dierdre is a frequent business traveler flying home from Chicago in a terrible storm on the night Aunt Kitty prays at her beads, convinced that she is dying, and young Jerry - sickly from birth - is running a terrifyingly high fever, and Jeremiah is trying to deny the fact that his heart is acting funny. His fame as a runner is due to the fact that he overcame heart disease through physical fitness and clean living. And he is not a superstitious man, but all in the family have heard the wailing of what seems to be a Banshee.

The apparition of a white clad old woman has appeared in the tiny park, and young Jerry has christened her the Queen. His father says, "Come away from the window, Jer. Come away right now."

Oh Lordy - Mom and Dad and sister Swill just loved that one!

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I had different endings written for the death of each O'Nale family member. In the climactic tumult of the tale Dierdre's plane is crash landing, little Jerry is limp in his father's arms, Kitty's eyes are going dim and her throat is parched beyond imagining, and Jeremiah's heart is pounding most irregularly. The rain and hail is Biblical, the thunder crashing, as Jeremiah strives to revive his unresponsive little son as the ambulance is (presumably) making its way up the hill to them. But who can tell what is siren wail, what is thunder, what is Banshee?

Suddenly, there is a loud rapping at the door, as if to break it in. Jeremiah flies to open it and flings it open to the driving rain. And there -

And there

stands the black coach, the driver's strong arm hurling a bucket of blood into the open door.
Posted by John, the Squabbler at 6:56 PM - 10 Comments   Add a Comment  
 
 I (Heart) Banshees
 

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A bumper sticker provides the title. An image search reveals that the owner of the car which bore the bumper sticker loves a Rock n' Roll band, or a type of ATV (all terrain vehicle), or a ghostly apparition from Irish folklore tradition which is actually not a ghost at all but rather a certain very specific kind of solitary faerie.

Well, when I saw this bumper sticker I immediately affirmed that I too love (heart) Banshees, assuming we are talking about the latter, and then it occurred to me that I had not yet written about that subject though it was dear to me.

Many are the misconceptions about the Ban-shee, or Bean-Sidhe, literally "Faerie Woman," or "Woman of the Sidhe, or faerie realm," the most common being that she is a ghost. But she does appear in a ghostly form in some other traditions.

For instance, in East Anglia, about as far from Ireland that you can get in the UK, there is a ghost known as "The White Lady," or "The Grey Lady" who foretells imminent death just as the Irish Banshee does. Some folklorists have placed this apparition in the Banshee category, and there is no doubt there is a relation - that "The White Lady" of East Anglia evolved from the Banshee story.

Banshees also make a rather sinister appearance in Japan. Isn't that interesting? But there's a large difference between the Irish faerie and the Japanese demon, and that difference may just be the subject of my post this morning - that is, there is a big difference between Evil and Innocence.

Innocence can be much more terrifying than Evil.

A cultural anthropologist might say that in the development of our Judeo-Christian parent culture the demonization of pagan dieties by ancient people embracing Christianity is the origin of many Western European boogeymen, or boogeypeople, known to us today. That may be the case. In other words, our most beloved spooks - like vampires and werewolves, and the like - may just be the descendants of ancient pagan gods of whom we know nothing or almost nothing today - gods who were transformed from god-like to merely spooky as a result of mass religious conversion over time.

If so, that demonization is really also a villification. In the Hellenistic sense anything which is not human but is endowed with human traits or characteristics is a demon, or a person who is not really a person. In this sense, anything personified is demonic. Daffy Duck is a demon - a personified animal. All the talking animals of Disney movies are demons, technically-speaking.

But we have added another layer of meaning to the word - a layer, or a connotation of Evil. This happened over time. Even though Saint Paul was quite specifically opposed to the idea of incorporating the pagan traditions of converts into the acceptance of Christianity - (Great is Diana) - that is not to say it didn't occur. History informs us that it did. The credit or blame for this is either laid at the feet of the Roman Church or ascribed to the natural inclination of people to understand whatever comes along in the context of their pre-existing traditions. Well, Duh.

(To this day the Catholic Church worldwide, though it has precisely seven Sacraments and no more, also practices literally thousands of Sacramentals, or faith tradition practices which are considered aids in practicing a holy Christian life - basically drawn from cultures. Some of these are rather mainstream - like the Holy Rosary - while others seem inscrutable, arcane, even cult-like, particularly to non-Catholics.)

So, a vampire may be a legend which originally arose somehow from a prehistoric diety and was transformed over time - mingled no doubt with many other influences, remembered events and stories both real imagined - to evolve ultimately into a very malevolent demon in the pure sense of the word. The vampire is evil. The vampire wants to drink your blood and discard the husk of your flesh like a banana peel. Or worse - the vampire wants to turn you into a thing like himself, a half person, an entity that is not human but has the appearance of being human, - a demon.

But innocence can be much more frightening than evil. When I was young I heard all the same stories about vampires and werewolves that you no doubt did. I saw the same Universal horror movies, those great Hammer films - all that. I noticed something watching these, and hearing the stories 'round the campfire, and reading Gothic literature, Bram Stoker, Sheridan LeFanu, et al. I wonder if you noticed it too? Evil always loses, in the end.

Evil always loses, in the end. The good always triumphs over evil. The vampire will meet its wooden stake, the werewolf his silver bullet. The Devil himself will be cast back into his lake of fire. The dragon will be slain.

Why is that? Because of Christ conquering death. Even the secular, the non-religious person deep in his heart has inherited as a cultural birthright this notion that good triumphs ultimately over evil. He may define these things differently, but the idea is written on his heart.

There is nothing evil about the Banshee, so the Banshee frightened me as a lad - and even today - far more than any boogeyman dreamt-of in all the campfire stories there are of spooky things. To me, the Banshee and things of her kind - Irish things - are much more frightening than the mythological creatures of any other folklore tradition precisely because of their innocence.

For instance, the Banshee never causes death to occur. She merely mourns the loss of a life. She does this in advance of the death so you might say she is foretelling it. What is frightening about her is the fear of death itself - not whatever she may do to you; she does nothing.

The Banshee is like the Scottish Brownie in that she is attached only to the ancient blood nobility - and therefore an honor to have around - except that she is concerned only with death itself, the primordial horror of humanity, and not its cause.

Stories of the Banshee are extremely eerie because she is inevitable and unstoppable, as is death itself. Imagine her appearance as it has been described: a woman who is not a woman, nor a ghost, nor a devil of any kind, who is entirely consumed with the expression of extreme sorrow. And who cannot be killed. And who cannot be driven away. Who cannot be excorcised and returned to Hell, or wherever she comes from, because she does not come from there. She means no harm. Like a rabbit she is innocent. Like the weather she is innocent. She is a reminder of mortality who appears at a fundamental level without the context of Good v. Evil, or its comforts.

Now, that same cultural anthropologist I mentioned earlier may tell us that the Banshee is the descendant of an ancient pagan goddess who was demonized in the process of religious conversion in Ireland but not villified by that process. That's possible. Why would that be?

Ireland was literally the 'last place God made,' according to the Roman missionaries whose job it was to propagate the faith throughout the known world. Its geographical isolation made it impregnable against many primitive forms of conquest, apart from the fact that few were inclined to try. To the center of the civilized world at the time of Saint Patrick, Ireland was still considered the farthest frontier and the most primitive backwater there was. Missionaries in Ireland were more 'on their own' than in most other places.

It has been suggested that these facts account for a unique condition to have occurred in Ireland, and that is her dieties remained benign; her ancient gods did not become personifications of evil. Legend would have it that the Faeries, though not converted, retreated into that same limbo of invincable ignorance where one may find Socrates and other grandfathers of our Western faith tradition who did not have the opportunity to know Christ. And like Socrates they exist in this limbo, this suspension of judgment - and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

Those of you who enjoy, as I do, the stories of J.R.R. Tolkein will recall that the elves of his fiction withdraw, or retire, in the end to a place which has been set aside for them. This happens in order that the Age of Men in his imagined but very well-imagined world may begin. They are consigned to a world where they may now exist only in memory, and while that boundary line may never again be crossed - the return trip may never be made - the world would be a boring place indeed if we could not speculate about what the results might be if that were not the case.

The Banshee is like that. And therefore the Banshee is more terrifying than any mythological creature that man, armed with the supernatural weapons of righteousness, can conquer.   

Posted by John, the Squabbler at 6:40 AM - 13 Comments   Add a Comment  
 

 Spaghetti Dinner
 




Posted by John, the Squabbler at 8:22 AM - 3 Comments   Add a Comment  
 
 Dream of Dust
 

Guess what? It can't be done, at least not with that one voice box. When I try it times me out. Ah, that's so much like it shouldn't be. But it is, nevertheless.

When I say Kill me it's with the certain knowledge that you can't. But you can be angry with me. You can burn my photograph and watch the smoke rise. You can shoot me and deprive me of my body. It will happen anyway; I don't decide when and how. But you cannot kill me. Every time you are angry with me or you think ill of me you kill me. But you cannot kill me.

We try to live we get timed out. I think of The Great Divorce, how the people on the bus to Heaven decide not to enter Heaven. They decide not to enter Heaven because there is still so much to do in Hell. It is a city of ever-widening circles they come from. It is Purgatory that becomes Hell the longer they stay. Will that be you? Will that be me? Will we cling to life instead of entering Heaven by our own choice?

Perhaps we will do this because we must bury our father. And Jesus said, Let the dead bury their dead. You see?

The great novelist refused to enter Heaven because he still had that novel to write, his life's work uncompleted. Oh, he would come along, he said, once he was finished leaving his footprints in the sand of time.

Here comes the thunder.

Suddenly,

the children are pitiful, unfunny clowns in plastic helmets,

and the devil has made us all counters of crumbs

talking about nothing into our hands,

our houses of plywood on foundations of sand.

 

All for one last glimpse of Beauty

be naked for me.

And I will have surgeons put out my eyes,

And I will see you forever,

your low apron of flesh,

your time-weighted breasts,

your baby-worn thighs.

 

So I wanted to read that to you out loud. I'll find a way, a way that won't time me out.

I'm going to have to unplug this machine because of the thunder. Here it comes.

There is a world beyond this dream of dust,

as you know deeper in your heart

Than any thought you thought you must -

This world is a dream of dust.

 

This is the place from which we start,

We drown ourselves in Love and Art.

My hunger for you plays its part

in this world, this dream of dust.

 

This is the Flesh and Blood of Faith,

This is the Truth I cannot speak;

This is the Wonder in your face

When my love for you comes to grief.

 

I see them fading from my view -

All the people that I knew,

Their little struggles and ideas,

And I see their feelings too.

 

Is this the Faith I thought I knew?

Why am I still loving you?

Will I always want your touch

in this world, this dream of dust?

 

You are the eyes, and I the words.

I can't explain this voice I heard

Instructing me how to distrust

This world, this dream of dust.

 

 

Posted by John, the Squabbler at 8:11 AM - 8 Comments   Add a Comment  
 

 Holy Thursday
 

I want to write a post but I have nothing to write about. Or I have too much to write about and not the skill to arrange my words in such a way that you can understand what it is I wish to convey. Perhaps I should solicit recipes. Yes - that's good. If you want to comment then leave me a favorite recipe. "How to Cook a Blogger."

First, remove the horns and tail...

Please - none of this low fat plastic safety helmet bullshit. I want real food, cakes with sour milk, buttermilk, butter fat, chowders and stews and bisques with whole cream, clotted cream, Devon cream, the stuff of dreams. I want Turkish Delight. I want meat. I want potatoes. I want the whole pig. I want bakala as long as a surfboard.

And while I'm on the subject - the subject being nothing since I have nothing to write about - I would like to read you some poetry by William Blake. I would like to read Holy Thursday for you. I would like to read Never Seek to Tell Thy Love.

That reminds me of a church scandal. If you're confused right now you are probably perfectly sane. If you're enjoying this so far you are in great danger of being different.

You know how I often opine that murder isn't News? Well, that's true. When we read/watch/hear about a murder committed by somebody we have never met and will never meet that's entertainment. I think it is a form of entertainment rather like pornography. One may as well develop a fetish for snuff films. I think the entire offering of our current society's broadcast media in the year 2008 - 7 - whatever year - is pornography. It is like a massive soul-sucking multi-headed hydra made of shit.

Yes, I'm in a fine mood this morning. And you?

Well, Cain slew Abel. In one fell swoop one man killed a quarter of the earth's population - a record that has never, will never, be matched or topped. That's all the News that's fit to print on the matter. People do bad things to each other sometimes. End of story.

The latest church scandals...

It was on a Holy Thursday, I'm given to understand. All the church's priests ran away from their vows, and hid themselves like sneak thieves. One of them betrayed God to his enemies so that God was taken away and tortured and executed. Another denied he knew Him - not once, but three times.

There has never been, nor will there be, a greater scandal.

I think also of young school boys getting into sexual relationships with their older teachers - this so-called epidemic - proof that I have entered an hostile other-world where everyone has lost his memory. When I was in High School, at age 15, I personally knew three boys my age who were in such relationships, one of them quite openly. It was 1977, 78, 79.

I still write 1979 on my cheques sometimes. The bank manager laughs at me. Well, that was the year I opened my first bank account. What do you expect?

There is no "epidemic" of anything, except perhaps institutionalized voyeurism. My children, riding in their innocence in my car, restrained in silly plastic seats required by ridiculous hen-pecking law, would hear about 14 year-old boys and their teachers. So I could no longer listen to the radio with them in the car.

Yes, creating victims is the stock-in-trade of these childish Boomers, and so they wished to victimize my children by covering them in shit. Time was a parent introduced his children to the wide and wonderful world; time is now a parent must shield them from a disgusting one.

That was nobody's business - those silly boys and their teachers. It was a personal tragedy for a family, a silly-girl mistake for a silly girl, not a source of entertainment for a culture of pigs.

The public have a need to know, a right to know.

I already know. People can be daffy. So what?

Never seek to tell thy Love,

Love that never told can be,

For the Gentle wind doth move,

Silently, Invisibly.

Isn't that pretty? Wouldn't you rather we just sent poems back and forth? Or recipes? Something of value? Give me a poem. If you want to comment give me a poem. A recipe or a poem - something real.

Something for the whole family. You know, Sunday dinner? Can you incorporate some Viagra into the meal somehow? Yes, that would be good. Just turn on the TV while we eat.

Here's Jim! Why is Jim smiling? Well, Jim's smiling because his penis is erect!

Kill me.

So, I hear that the opinion of America held by 'the World' is very low at the moment. I keep hearing this. I consider the source, of course. Always consider the source. If you have a good sense of smell you must wear a gas mask as I do when you consider the source.

The truth is the same people who have always hated America still do. And the broadcast media in America also hate America. They send the "Storm Team" out to interview falling snow flakes, and they send their demon fashion models out to interview the people who have always hated America. If they wanted the world to love America again they would send the same morons out with their microphones to interview the people who do.

See how that works? Perception is reality. You are being manipulated. They have total contempt for you, and so do I.

I love you, but I have total contempt for you.

You allow them to continue doing what they do. You want your children to be exposed to "Californication" - apparently - because you keep listening, you keep watching, you keep believing what they say, you keep demanding to be covered in more shit. You keep buying the sponsor's products. You keep subscribing to their world. You keep buying bigger, flatter television sets to view their revolting flatulence. And you take the Soma they sell religiously to make your dicks hard because that's more important to you than a decent salt cod in white sauce or a poem by William Blake.

The free market is the ultimate Democracy, and we get exactly what we want. 

 

     

 

Posted by John, the Squabbler at 6:41 AM - 16 Comments   Add a Comment  
 
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