An Exploration of Old English

Here's a brief school report, detailing - indeed, Old English.

I chose to study Old English, not simply because things of such old age as Old English utterly fascinate me, but also because I am deeply engrossed in the Latin language as well, and knew, on the outset, that the two were inevitably linked. Without Latin, Old English would still likely have existed, yea, too, modern English, but in a far more Germanic form: it likely would be considerably different from what we, as English speakers, have accustomed ourselves to. But the paper will explore more than this simple enigma; first will come the history of the language, followed by such information as general structure and vocabulary, and then a quick section on usage during the time of its use, especially detailing oral poetry. And, through this, I hope to relay, within five pages, as much about the Old English language as I have learned through my research.
Here shall begin the brief detailing of the history of the language. English as a whole can be broken into three segments of history – Old English, Middle English, and Modern English, the latter of which can be subdivided into Early Modern English, which is what Shakespeare used, and Late Modern English, our own dialect. Old English, also widely called Anglo-Saxon, can be dated from about ad 449 to 1066 or 1100. In fact, Modern and Old English vary to such a degree, that on occasion it is appropriate to call the languages separate, but linked by time. “Old English, a variant of West Germanic, was spoken by certain Germanic peoples (Angles, Saxons, and Jutes) of the regions comprising present-day southern Denmark and northern Germany who invaded Britain in the 5th century AD. According to tradition, the Jutes were the first to arrive, in 449. Settling in Britain, the invaders drove the indigenous Celtic-speaking peoples, notably the Britons, to the north and west. As time went on, Old English evolved further from the original Continental form, and regional dialects developed” (“English Language”). These dialects included Kentish, which was originally spoken by the Jutes, first to arrive in Britain; West Saxon, a branch of the dialect spoken by the Saxons; and Northumbrian and Mercian, which were subdivisions of the dialects spoken by the Angles. By the ninth century CE, the West Saxon became prevalent in prose and literature, influenced very likely by the influence of King Alfred, king of the West Saxons and first ruler of all of England. Such great works as the epic poem Beowulf and even contemporary elegiac were written in a mixed Mercian dialect.
Old English can truly be called a Germanic language (derived from a group of languages spoken across northwestern Europe that form a branch of Indo-European), heavily influenced by Latin; and albeit influenced by the Romans it is necessary knowledge that English, as a whole, is not a Romance language (though about 75% of its vocabulary was derived from Latin, as well as considerable grammatical sense). However, its primary grammatical concepts were derived from this Germanic sense, and give English today such things today as ambiguity in verbs and adjectives (as the genders are undefined), and verbs without declensions – ‘he walked’ are two separate words, instead of ‘walkedhe’ or ‘hewalked’. In all, Old English was far more inflected than Modern English – there were strong and weak verbs, a dual number for pronouns (such as the difference between ‘we two’ and ‘we (as a whole)’); adjectives were twice-declined, likely being masculine and feminine, depending on the gender of the noun coupled with it. Structure such as this can still be seen in modern Romance languages. Old English had something of an original vocabulary dearth. What words the language itself had coined, in other words, were few. Many proper nouns, especially those that may have described landforms, came from the language of the conquered Celts, Celtic. And ten words, three of which are cart, down, and clock, surely derived from Celtic use in Old English, and survive today. Surprisingly, the number of estimated borrowed Latin words at the time of Old English was about one hundred forty; a few were likely introduced through, again, the Celtic language, but others brought to Britain by the latter Germanic invaders, who had previously come into contact with Roman culture. Such words included not only ecclesiastical terms – altar, mass, priest, psalm, temple – but also many other of less specialized significance – cheese, wine, street. (Most Latin words spread as a result of the spread of Christianity, which fell between the end of the Old English period and uptake of Middle English – this may even have been the instigator for the change; with a new need for others beyond only the aristocrats to read such texts as the Bible a new language, or new dialect of an old language, would be needed, something easier to learn, and less difficult to pronounce; something more organized and less sloppy – for that really was what Old English was: a hodgepodge of its Germanic base and heavy Latin influence, which was very rough. Perhaps Middle English came to be a bit more organized and original.) About forty Scandinavian, or Old Norse, words were introduced into Old English by the Norsemen – Vikings – who invaded Britain periodically form the late eighth century onwards; first introduced were words pertaining to the sea, and to battle, but after these initial invasions other words were used in the Scandinavian social and administrative system: the word law entered the language, as well as the verb form ‘are’ and other such commonplace words as ‘take’, ‘cut’, ‘both’, ‘ill’, and ‘ugly’.
“Old English poetry was meant to be declaimed aloud before an audience, the poet, or ‘scop’, being both a creative and a performing artist. Accompanied by harp he would entertain the guests of his patron with tales of past deeds, battles of old and the prowess of his lord's ancestors” (Ða Engliscan Gesiþas). In this manner was history kept alive for the Anglo-Saxons. The scop had to be a master of his art, being able to recite thousands of lines from memory (the epic Beowulf alone has three thousand one hundred eighty-two lines) and no doubt poor performances would mean ridicule for the scop and the withdrawal of patronage. This is not to mean that the scop worked purely from memory, as there is evidence that the swift composition of fitting verse was also the mark of a skilled man. Old English poetry was very formulaic, with the same patterns being re-used with variations time and again. Additionally, alliteration and stress were used in the place of rhyme, which can sound strange but powerful to the modern ear. Another striking feature of Old English poetry was the use of many metaphors or ‘kennings’ for common subjects: the sea could be referred to as the ‘whale's way’, ‘gannet's bath’, ‘swan's riding’ et cetera. Unfortunately, being an almost purely oral tradition, only about thirty thousand lines of Old English poetry remain today.
Through this I have learned a fair amount about Old English, about its origins, its structure, its vocabulary, some about lyric poetry and its important role in the preservation of Old English and history for the time period, and, of course, even a little concerning Modern English. My hopes are that your reading experiences were worthwhile, and that you learned something, as a reader, quite practical and applicable to your life. Thus we reach the end of my knowledge concerning Old English.

Ephiphany in Ireland - Extended

Virgil's orchestra instructor informed him that the piece of a similar title (posted earlier) worked so well for its genre that it could be played for concert, if longer. Here is the restult, and link:

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=RJ453OQDUXYA

Very much enjoy.

The Disgusting Review Guide

'Tis indeed a day bygone piteous
inasmuch as a fraction of assigned work
be done by the doer, whose sloth
is equal to sin.
'Tis Virgil and a World History review guide.

Prologue

Here is the Prologue to a story, long and still in development, which Virgil and a friend have constructed. Thus far the story remains unnamed.

The Vials of Good and Evil were housed, in the beginning, in the Realm of Good, where the gods took residence, and enjoyed their existence. Together, the vials emitted the Essences of Good and Evil, so that all might be in harmony with itself and with everything about it. Thus there was Limbo, a realm between Good and Evil, which even bridged them (demons lived in the Realm of Evil.) Limbo was territory not for the gods, but far too pure for demon’s tread. In the Realm of Evil, the pervasive stench of demons scented the air, and in that odor the demons would gather together, feasting in their evil, and would conspire against the gods, cultivating hope that they might steal the vials from them.
These vials represented and were supremacy in the Realms of Good and Evil – having possession of both sealed the owner’s power, whilst possession of one would send power into a state of equilibrium between both wielders. So it was that the power of the Gods outweighed that of the demons. These creatures were unable to bear, over the eons of their existence (they had subsisted since the Realms themselves came into being, and would die at only the hand of a god or demon) the inferiority of themselves in the shadow of the mighty gods. And so throughout these eons of time, the demons developed their minds, whetted their plans for attack – they pooled ideas, developed them, until at length a set of tactics had been developed that could very possibly have outweighed the power of the gods, that might very well have granted them the Vials of Good and Evil, so that Evil might eternally reign supreme.
A demon managed to snatch the Vials from the Realm of Good, thus beginning the first Holy War, as the mortal annals have recorded. To accomplish this, he had crossed Limbo, a realm that was enterable by both gods and demons, but unpleasant for both. Upon retreating back to the Realm of Evil with his loot, he was assaulted by the gods, who had chased him to Limbo; there the gods were greeted by the demons, and the war was waged, eventually won by the gods. The number of lost gods and demons following this is unknown. And so in the Realm of Good, a place that would have stemmed even further the power of the demons, the gods imprisoned them.
And so the Earth was created, whose purpose was to conceal the Vials from the demons (the power of the gods still rested with them, as they were the last to wield the Vials.) To act as guardians on Earth, the Immortals were brought into existence, one to represent each race of Earth. And they expanded their races, the Immortals never to die, whose sole purpose was to protect the Vials, and whose successors populated Earth, created small civilizations, towns, countries, regions of division. The souls of those who had died on Earth would travel across a bridge built by the gods to the Realm of Good, where they would live in harmony with the gods, and live as gods themselves.
But the blood of the gods did not run true.
There was a perpetrator, who released the demons, out of the sight of the gods, and who fled to the Realm of Evil. His soul was now tainted with this evil, and was evil, and would likewise live most comfortably in that Realm. He told the demons of Earth, of its purpose. They constructed a bridge of their own, unbeknownst to the gods, to Earth. The crossed it, located the Vials, overcame the might of the Immortals, and broke the Vial of Good, snatching the Vial of Evil for their own.

Epiphany in Ireland

Here's a song Virgil composed, intended for full string orchestra. Please prompt him if you'd like the sheet music (includes two treble clef parts, one for alto clef, and one for bass clef.) There is one unexplained error in the audio file, where the dynamics are tainted for a moment - fairly noticible.

And the link:
http://www.supload.com/listen?s=0HI9W7PI9XRD

Please enjoy.

In Material Lust

As much as Virgil would like to continue to add to this blog, he is a definate death of material, and would greatly like some suggestions. If, indeed, any of the readers would like to share ideas for what they would like to see written, please leave a comment in which such contents are addressed.
Virgil's thanks.

The Nature of Mathematics

A brief poem after a long break.

What of numbers?
Can we with them,
number the universe:
is there a pattern to all we do?

What of the spiral of the milky way?
What of the spiral - so similar in essence,
so familiar, a shell within a shell of existance:
- of the great nautulus of the sea?
Is it that we may correlate this spiral to all of life?

But who am I, a mere being,
to suppose the ways of the Diviner:
of the Lord, who rules all of heaven, and
all of his realm of man?

Perhaps I quander, and meander,
but is there a resolved path behind the swaggar.
For this is math at its core.
What is life, indeed?
It is numbers.

The Civilizations of Ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt

Here is another of Virgil's recent school essays. Admittedly not his best, it was written in something of a hurry; critiques are welcome.

Ancient times are fascinating in their many-faceted rivets of unknown, thus unrecorded history. What is recorded must be carefully studied in an attempt to understand the past. Two cultures – ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt, are especially interesting, and quite comparable. That is to say, both share several similarities, whilst varying in their differences. This paper will attempt to compare their political, social, and economic differences and similarities, and should allow the reader to draw what conclusions they might.
The political aspects of ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt will be first compared. To begin, war was constant in ancient Mesopotamia – it was centrally located, and quite exposed, urging itself to battle, it may seem. Thus, the fortunes of its city-states were ever changing over time: primarily there were the Sumerians, who developed much of the original Mesopotamian culture; then in 2340 BCE, an Arcadian leader took precedence for a time, losing the power quickly, and Mesopotamia reverted to another period of warring city-states. At length, by 1792 BCE, a new empire was established under Hammurabi. Egypt, however, had natural barriers that protected it from war, and the culture was one of very little change; these barriers included deserts, rapids, and the Mediterranean Sea. Now, in Mesopotamia, larger cities were constructed, with government-observed irrigation; in Egypt, many small populations existed along the Nile, but also employing irrigation, a similarity. The two had a set of laws which they would follow (though Mesopotamia's was in its latter half –) that was Hammurabi's Code, and for Egypt, Ma'at. And to employ these laws were kings in either culture: these rulers, Mesopotamian and Egyptian, were seen as divine in nature, or concerning natural order. Priests and priestesses also held much power in Mesopotamia.
Next, social aspects of life for the Mesopotamians and Egyptians will be compared. The first culture of Mesopotamian society was the Sumerians, who established several city-states, and set many traditions for future Mesopotamians. The other periods of Mesopotamia had innovations of their own, as well. Egypt, like Mesopotamia, can be split into different time periods – the Old, Middle, and New Kingdoms. The Old, akin to its Sumerian equivalent, developed many of Egypt's traditions and its basis of technology. Literal social groups will now be tried. Sumerian city-states contained three major social groups: nobles, who were royal and priestly officials and their families; commoners, nobles' clients, who worked for the palace and temple estates, and also other free citizens who worked as farmers, merchants, fishers, and craftspeople; and slaves, who belonged to palace officials, using them in building projects, belonged to temple officials, who used mostly female slaves to weave cloth and grind grain, and were the property of rich landowners who used them for farming and domestic work. Egypt's social structure deviated slightly from this: it was organized along hierarchical lines with the god-king at the top. The king, then, was surrounded by an upper class of nobles and priests – this ruling class ran the government and managed its own landed estates, which provided much of their wealth. Below the upper classes were merchants and artisans, but by far the largest number of people in Egypt simply worked the land (the king apparently owned all land but granted out portions of it to his subjects; large sections were in the possession of nobles and the temple complexes). Most of the lower classes were surfs or common people, bound to the land; they cultivated estates, and lived in small villages or towns, providing military service and forced labor for building projects.
And now, the economic portions of the two familiarized cultures should be compared. Of course, taking into account the positions of these two civilizations, within river-valleys, that is, it seems natural to state that both were heavily based on farming. In fact, it was Egypt's immense surpluses of food that brought it some portion of its success. Both civilizations also used systems of irrigation, a near necessity for any farming culture. The Sumerians, like the Egyptians, traded over great distances, the Egyptians up and down the Nile and in markets; in fact, evidence has been found of bartering relationships between Mesopotamia and Egypt themselves. The Mesopotamians imported copper, tin, and timber in exchange for dried fish, wool, barley, wheat, and goods of metal; they largely produced wooden textiles, pottery, and the metalwork for which they were especially well-known. The Egyptians, however, traveled great distances for ivory, incense, and spices, as well as wood and other products; artisans made an incredible variety of well-built and beautiful goods: stone dishes, painted boxes made of clay, wooden furniture, gold, silver, and copper tools and containers, paper and rope made of papyrus, and linen clothing.
From this, it is clear that the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia and Egypt are indeed comparable in their political, social, and economic qualities. Both were wildly successful cultures and made deep impacts as civilizations; it seems traditions and rites are upheld still, in the present day, whose origins can be found to be rooted within these; and though similar in this respect, both were quite varied amongst each other. Indeed, they compare well.

Virgil's New Blog

Here's the link:

http://www.thelifeofvirgil.blogspot.com/

Not that you are required to read it, but if interested in the daily musings of Virgil, you should be sufficed here.

The Standing Rose

As an attempt at creativity, Virgil has written a poem with several personalities, inspired by a poem of Poe's, 'The Bells'.

Life is vibrant,
a rose flowering before you,
the sky clean and blue -
Go on, then: sniff it,
may your nose and its fresh scent engage.
Your eyes alight, a smile spreads about your face;
The chorous rejoices - a melodious drone,
and as it fades, the drone asserts its prominence:
it fills your ears, louder, louder,
eardrums pounding - eyes crossing:
as the hundred stings of a bee's angry mob come upon you.
And black overcomes.

Life is depleted.
Your skin is littered with rounded red sores,
punctured with small needles,
and the swarm lay dead about you.
You peer at the rose, far above the mortified mob.
Its petals are the red of blood,
its stamen in the wind sway,
concealing thier deceit with a mask of innocense.
Clouds shift in the sky's dull blue, the gay orb of above hidden.
And you itch, you bleed.
Blood and its red unite.
The rose soaks it in -
its xylum and floam drinking the liquid of life itself.
And sleep overcomes.

Life is no longer.
Your lids part, and see the sky:
lifeless, leaden.
The air is heavy. Rain falls.
It stings your wonds. They itch.
You scratch, you violently scratch,
the dots swell, and bleed.
You see the dead rose, lying amongst the bees.
You reach for it, pick it up -
but the rose rejects you: pricking your finger, blood welling.
The rose falls to the ground, drops of blood beside it.
The ground soaks in the red juices greedily.
And sprouts a new rose.

Very Vertiable Values

Here is a school paper's rough draft in which Virgil (speaking the first person) discusses ideals central in his life. Virgil invites openly critiques or any mistakes (or found contractions) in the paper, and would thank you heartily for your time in reading.

Looking within oneself, and carefully selecting a brief list of accepted values about life and humanity and the people populating the Earth is a rather daunting task, for what limited number can describe a creation of such infinite possibilities? I suppose this manifests in different values for a diverse people. Nevertheless, the values that I have come to accept, to cherish and myself attempt to emulate in the forming of my person are intelligence, diligence, courtesy, and independence. These four values, I like to think, describe me, my ideal self – a goal to which I take aim to become. And so, reader, I invite you to delve far into my mind, into what has made Virgil himself: read on.
Intelligence, by definition, is mental acuteness. Surely of each of the principles presented here, this one ranks highest, but too, was the first I recall hanging upon my Wall of Accepted Values. My founding of intelligence began when I first visited the greatest of my friends at his house during the second grade. He was called Jeff Kolodner. The first I observed at his house, around his family, was that each of the Kolodners were brilliant, in my sight, each in their own ways. Jeff’s father was an assistant minister at my church, who, whenever he might speak, would draw attention in. His mother was musical – I can still hear the ringing of her harmonious piano playing. His brother was an artist in his own right – pencil drawings, without color, so lifelike and accurate, expressed more to me at the time then than did any of Picasso’s works. And Jeff: an appeasing blend of each of these unique traits. I felt so small intellectually, and wanted to be just like Jeff. He taught me to play chess, and gave me my first lessons in basic strategy. He taught me to use my brain, and to not allow others to do the thinking for me, in everything he did. I remember coming home and turning the television on that night, seeing a glimpse of mindlessness in a cartoon, then immediately switching it off. Instead, I picked up The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, which Jeff had loaned to me, and reading until embraced by sleep. Jeff had a great influence on my life, and I think his family, to me, symbolizes what true intelligence is. Every time I thought of Jeff from then, I would strive to know more about everything taught to me, which, I believe, lead me wholly to my placement in the Extended Learning Program in elementary and middle school, which some might call ‘the apex of public schooling.’ After Jeff moved to Virginia in fourth grade, perhaps to quell my weeping soul, I stove to outdo my contemporaries by all intellectual means, realizing that doing my best, and being smart about life, thinking each day, challenging the brain, would bring success to this: rather like a very lifelike game of chess.
I also value courtesy, which is rather like consideration, or cooperation. I think anyone will eventually come to value this, not necessarily within themselves, but in others. Perhaps, walking through the hall, one slips and spills his textbooks, and another immediately aids the first in restoring the books to their previous position – that is courtesy. Simply doing unto others as one would have them do unto him. Some may know that teenage girls and their mothers are predestined to argue. I had, in third grade, both a teenage sister and a mother, who both were wont to argue very audaciously every off-night. Doing my something to my musing, this was a distraction, and I would tell myself, ‘I wonder if they’ve any courtesy for those about them?’ I never voiced this, but bore it in mind, and applied it to life. Whenever I might prepare to take offence at a friend, or brag, or anything cruel akin to that, I would remember that self-taught lesson about courtesy. Everyone appreciates it – a please or a thanks, something to brighten a dull day. And thus it became adopted into my being.
Diligence became an integral part of my lifestyle in fifth grade, and I am all the more pleased that it did. For this I can doubtlessly thank Mrs. Allen, my teacher. Of course, her class was an ELP course, but what I had seen of the program in fourth grade (my first year in it) had nothing to compare with hers. For the first time, two to three hours of time would be devoted to homework and studying nightly. Her class was rigorous for a fifth grader – diligence was desired. My grades, in the first half of the school year, were lower than those of the second half, largely because in the first I would take frequent breaks to assuage my homework boredom, and in the second I realized that homework would not do itself. This was diligence. With it, I became a greater studier, learned more, and remembered more of what I would learn. And from then, I can recall literally enjoying homework for the first time. Maybe this was the realization that education was precious. Or questionably it could have been that our homework just grew more interesting: but I believe that with that diligence I actually accepted a scholarly lifestyle and adapted to find pleasure in knowledge, and this has carried through to the rest of my school career thus far. Diligence is essential.
The final of my most esteemed values is independence. Apparently studies have been conducted that enlist teenagers to desire this very thing from their parents, and those elders that have influenced their childhood. This is not the independence to which I refer. I mean to write the independence to work alone, to sustain oneself by oneself. In eighth grade, there was a program called Finance Park which was a simulation of life, I suppose. All the participants had a job at a business, were made to pay taxes, and purchase cars, to donate to charity, to raise a family. Not literally, of course, but it taught us eighth graders what the real world would be like. I believe myself to have taken home an altered view of life after school from then – the world in which we live is harsh, and to survive, everyone must work to their fullest. That means that not always will there be someone to dig me from a rut, that there will not always be another person to lean upon. Instead, I should be independent – surely accepting the help of others when given, but able to do all I produce alone. I believe this value to be second only to intelligence, without which independence would be, to me, quite useless – for why depend upon oneself if his mind is not conditioned for it?
Now, reader, I have given to you a list of values which I form my life about – a set of ideals to which I hope to aspire, and fulfill in their entirety. With these I have given the genesis of their induction into my soul: intelligence, courtesy, diligence, and independence. They are integral to me, and to my lifestyle, and I find them used endlessly throughout my life. Without them, I certainly would not be the person I am today, the person I have become comfortable and quite satisfied with. And I invite you to contemplate, now, what values do you cherish in life – for what do you aim?

Virgil and School

Alas, school for Virgil has once more recoursed, the summer concluded.

That means several homeworks a day.

Virgil apologizes for the lack of recent posts, but will try to develop new ones as frequently as possible.

Best of wishes.

The Gifted Child

Here is a poem, rahter depressing, about the choices of morality in our world, within a parallel world, with magic. Virgil grew rather found of it whilist writing, and though much darker than others, is anxious to present it to you.

It was an accident, really:
that is all I may say,
no words to contribute,
no quotation to pay.
The Deathly Gates before me now,
wreathed in flame, untamed,
admit me to Death itself,
where forevermore, and nevermore,
I shall reside.

The sun had set beneath the village that night,
the hooting of the owl,
the screeching of its prey mouse;
these sounds greeted me as I left the hut of my house.
The stars seemed to shed a tear even for me,
walking unbeknownst into eternal misery.

Corpses would litter the ground tonight,
all dead by my right, by my deed.
It was not intentional sadicy,
but felt so good to me --
to my empty heart and me.

I was raised without parents,
in the hovels of the poor.
I was fed gruel and glop and others galore.
My clothing was none, my eyesight crossed,
my mind so slow, as if it would rot.
But I had not Love, upon recollection,
which lead me now, to my ultimate destruction.

That was the emptiness to be found in the cavities of my heart,
that was that vacuum of nothingness, that black hole,
which allowed me to possess -- yes: the magic.
Perhaps it would replace my lack of all else,
for I was quite adept, you should know.
Adept enough, even, to pass beyond that realm of sorrow,
into pure evil. But it was an accident, and he made me do it.

He was called Satan, and seemed so kind.
He showed me images of what I might become, and it was appealing.
I saw endless riches, and houseservants,
and the prime foods of the world, all mine.
All mine, with none to slap me, to bleed me,
to make the empty space hurt.
But the empty space was no longer.

I suppose that was why Satan befriended me:
he said I was special, he told me I had a gift.
Such kind words had never met my ears.
And I was pleased.
He reminded me of the images
of great grandeur,
and told me instructions, which I should follow.

They seemed rather nasty, really,
the deeds ahead, but all to the riches,
all to the glory. I would do it.
I heard Satan's cackle, a sound that had become solace to me,
after my years of misery. I smiled myself,
and I hugged him.

I swear I was not in my right mind,
out of it, even. But someone had to use the magic.
Satan told me about a nasty man named Jesus,
and how he had whipped himself up a following --
and many of the village's people were amongst them.
Satan wanted them dead. For they were cold,
and could not comprehend eternity, what the world's ways were.

And so I departed from my little hut,
and stroked my little face,
a face that had never seen love before.
With crossed eyes I seated myself in the cave,
and prepared the magic.

Now I chanted, and I stood.
My eyes glowed red, they burned.
My hands were illuminated.
Continuing my rant I left the cave,
back up the path to the village.
I released the spell, and they all fell dead.

And I smiled as I joined them.

As I looked upon Jesus, standing in the clouds,
I felt, for the first time, true warmth, true love,
and it surged through me.
I knew I had misplaced my friendship.
For Jesus frowned at me, and shook his head.

As the Heavenly Realm dissentegrated before my eyes,
I now knew how to properly fill that empty space.
There was the love of God, and the endless companionship of Jesus.
The true master of the universe, was about me all the while.
But I never listened.
And now I've Hell to pay.

The Deathly Gates before me now,
wreathed in flame, untamed,
admit me to Death itself,
where forevermore, and nevermore,
I shall reside.

A Sickening Rollercoaster

Here is a second video, this one featuring a rollercoaster made in a game called 'Rollercoaster Tycoon 3.' The video was well-named.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=t8O-3GioTkw

'Many Meetings' on Viola

Here Virgil introduces himself by playing his viola. The song is 'Many Meetings', from The Lord of the Rings score. It's not the best, but an honorable attempt. It's also slightly awkward as his arms aren't seen. Please enjoy nonetheless. The video can be seen by clicking on the link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SLvvEaX9J7I

Mountain Dew to Mount Doom

Here is a picture edited by Virgil, in homage to Lord of the Rings.

Also posted is the original photograph.

Government Systems Depicted in Watership Down and the Author’s Opinion of Them

This is exclusively for those who have read Watership Down, by Richard Adams.

Of each government system depicted in Watership Down, Richard Adams favors democracy, as can be drawn from his text. Socialism and totalitarianism are also shown in the novel, each having their ultimate failures, as will be seen.
Socialism, in all, means that all are equal: all share the same property, the same food, work together in hopes of a greater good. But the advancement of actual life in a socialist government, as seen in the Warren of the Snares in Watership Down, that of the buck Cowslip, is actually very limited. Yes, each of the rabbits in the warren were happy with their lives, gorging themselves on lettuces and carrots each day, sharing stories, playing rabbit games, and the like. But their lives were not natural, something that in Adams’ opinion is necessitous to successful government development; they allowed a man to hunt elil for them, instead of fleeing or hiding; their food was grown and harvested for them, instead of being found by themselves; and all the while each knew of the impending danger – the man only wanted plump rabbits to himself consume, or perhaps stuff for hangings, or ever to take its fur; they had deviated from the natural order, and thus their government system was a failure. They lacked a leader, who would have displayed a bit of common sense; for each acting as a whole were content with their pampered life, but an elected leader, thinking for the betterment of the whole, would have to progress away from that which hindered progression – the snare; he would have kept the natural order. Thus, in Adams’ opinion, the archetypical socialist government is a joyous one, and a fair one, but not in the natural order of things, and thus, ultimately, a failure.
Efrafa is by far the most powerful of the warrens in the story. It’s got Long Patrols, organized divisions of rabbits who silflay at set times, an Owsla, of course, a council of rabbits who decide the best for each of the other rabbits in the warren, and even an Owslafa – a Council Police. All of this is headed by a rabbit called General Woundwort. While innocent to the glazed eye, this is a totalitarian government, smothered in its own power with minds perverted by it. Adams clearly does not like this system, as he displays it with the greatest amount of resentment. The rabbits who aren’t in the Owsla or council are miserable, overcrowded, starved, hidden; as if they do not exist, as if their lives are utterly nothing to all the world. The primal difficulty in this environment is the overlord himself, General Woundwort, who first lusted for power, and continued to lust for more after he had gained it. His original vision had been a warren secure from all elil, which again suggests deviation from the natural order that he has so broken, for no warren can seek absolute sanctity from natural predators. After this has been secured, however, he desires further power, more and more of it, until he becomes thoroughly engrossed with it. He feels safer in battle than fleeing, as was stated in the novel. Certainly this is not how any rabbit was meant to act? His perversion of power, and awe-inspiring vision to some, the higher in the warren, whilst being just that, bartered for this an unhappy life for the others in the warren. So while this warren had a leader, that leader was corrupt in his power, thus spoiling the rest of the warren. Adams does not like totalitarianism, from this, and is all the wiser because of it. This warren, only after adapting to become something of a democracy after the departure of Woundwort, succeeded.
The democracy of Watership Down was a success, clearly. All were happy, healthy. The warren was pleasing to the rabbits within it. It was natural. There was a single leader, chosen, more or less, from the rest – and that was Hazel. He was the archetypical “leader” character: never hasty, always one to risk his own life for the greater good, who acted for the better, was courageous, who trusted in other rabbits and animals, bringing further benefit to the warren, was himself something of a generalist, but with a sharp mind – a great tactician, who knew how to use each of his fellows to an advantage, including other animals beyond rabbits, took advice from anyone who would offer it, charging its sensibility, and more. And thus the warren prospered – because all were happy under a great leader. Now, Sandleford Warren was too a democracy, but had one principal flaw. The Threarah would not take advice from each of his rabbits, would not consider it wholly, as Fiver had predicted to him the downfall of the warren, only to be rejected. He was foolish. So, even in a democracy, favored by Adams, when the leader makes a mistake, the whole suffers; but a leader is undoubtedly a necessity. The warren was later destroyed by men.
So, conclusively, it is safe to say that when treating each distinctively in government, traits of socialism, and when balancing the power of a tyrannical government, a democracy, under strong leadership, in Richard Adams’ opinion, will surely succeed.

This is a school essay, so if you've any suggestions or find any mistakes, please e-mail Virgil (to be found on his profile page.) Many thanks.

Virgil Hasn't Died

'Tis true -- Virgil is not dead. He's grown busy with summer school, studying for exams, things of that nature. But, he promises a full post soon.

Best of wishes.

Penny and Flay

There was once a young lad named Penny,
who rather preferred not his name,
so he went to have it changed one day --
at a mystical man named Flay.

Now Flay was an odd one,
that much is certain,
red hair about his puffed about his larger head:
he was Jewish, as were his curtains.

When Penny approached the delipidated home,
the sky had broekn into storm,
the roar of thunder bellowed overhead,
followed by a streak of lightening far from the norm.

He knocked thrice with the screaming head knocker,
as the plaque requested of him,
stood back,
as the door opened to accept him in.

Flay was waiting in his waiting room,
dressed in fine linen gowns,
a scarf pulled close about his very thin neck,
and shoeless, with both of his socks pulled down.

He smiled that wicked smile,
and opened his arms,
and with a voice more sour than honeysuckle weed,
said -- 'Hullo, what are you doing here!?' quite alarmed.

Penny responded that he wished his name be changed,
to something rather more masculine,
to which Flay responded (now quite calmed down),
'Why not feel my linen?'

Penny wonder what was averting Flay,
from changing his name -- this was the day!
No longer would he be called Penny,
lost in insult.

But Flay would not alter the name,
albeit how hard Penny may have made his attempts,
unless of course, he was given his pay.

And pay he was given, in generous amounts,
much the to pleasure of the mystic,
and he sat down at his battered round wooden table,
and began applying lipstick.

'What is this?' Penny asked,
naturally taken aback,
by the awkward act of feministm eminating from this man.
'Why do you apply lipstick, at the changing of my name?'

'Only to tell a story, my dear,'
was the quick repose of Flay,
'for a story I shall tell, and a message
you should endear.'

'My name was also Penny once, as it happens to be,
but since it was altered to Flay, now, my life
has not been kindly to me.

'Odd habbits have developed,
as this application,
and I only wish for you,
to carefully consider the situation.'

Consideration Penny took,
and carefully, as well,
and decided, for the sake of decision,
that some things are better left alone.

A Brief Etude

In a state of utter desperation to post something, here is some roughly-hewn sheet music -- 'A Brief Etude' as indeed it is.

Briefly Brass

The resident blogger must confess in his pride to bring to you a song that has been procrastinated for about a year, and is, at length, completed, albeit witha rather choppy conclusion. Please enjoy:

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=S3hkGI29g37

The Hill of Holy Water

Here is a written poem about Jack and Jill. For nursery rhyme enthusists, it should seem familiar.

Jack was a prince,
but now a king,
whose father simply was unfit
to do continue ruling.

This was becuase the man was ill --
so terribly ill:
his life would be nihil,
without expediant aid.

So he told to the king Jack
(this was his son in fact)
that a cure he should seek
at the highest and meanest and purest of peaks.
Its appellate was simply 'Hill.'

There a stream would be found
from which holy water abounds,
and this alone, poured in the wound,
would prove a worthy cure for the cruel buffoon
(for so the wound was christened.)

Jack told his wife --
this was Jill,
who was the queen,
of his father, stricken ill.
He told her of his intentions to climb the Hill.

But Jill refused his offer for leave,
without her too, you must now see.
She feared for the life of her husband,
so youthful and prudent and intelligent.

With reluctance it was indeed,
that Jack did ever so much as concede,
to undertake the quest to find,
the Holy Water cleverly confined,
at the source of the stream of Hill.

And so Jack, armed with a pail and crown,
his face set in a staunt frown,
and Jill by his side,
ready to abide,
set off to climb the great Hill of olde.

They approached the base,
and looked upon the face,
of the great Hill mountain they would climb;
and within them fear was struck,
for it would take some carefully placed time.

As thier eyes rolled about the mountain
never did the peak greet them,
but Jill found a stream,
with which they would climb, even.

Up they went, to the right of the stream,
past boulders and rocks, and salamanders and things;
the air grew ever thinner,
and the atmosphere colder,
but the stream, nearing the holy water with each step,
even purer.

Some rocks hopped about,
greeting them with a shout,
whilst others snored very loudly;
one boulder did belch such a one,
that the air grew quite cloudy.

The hillside was alive, and friendly it seemed,
all but the terrain, which was rugged and mean, and would not falter.
But still Jack and Jill,
went up the hill,
to fetch their pail of water.

The peak now in sight,
the duo mustered thier might,
and hastened their step,
nearing the end of thier quest.

At the peak Jack nealt down,
looking into the purest of pure waters,
and lowered his bucket,
but his foot slipped into the stream.

The current pushed him down,
the bucket remaining,
Jill nearly fainting,
and found at the bottom,
with a crash into water,
that he was near death,
and broken was his crown.

Jill pilfered a bucketful of holy water
and nearly tumbled downthe mountainside of Hill,
in fear for her husband Jack,
whose soul might rest at the base of the rock.

She reached Jack,
after a time had past,
breathless and panting considerably,
and poured in his departing mouth,
a single serving of the holy liquid.

He awoke with a start,
life in him no longer stark,
and the two happily returned to the castle,
in which the king of old was stricken ill.

And they gave him a drink,
and saw him blink,
and all lived so happily
ever after.

The Most Extraordinariest Pup -- an Extroadinarily Brief Story

Here is a fable about a very smart doggy.

There lived once a small dog, an extraordinary dog if ever one did live. The creature, in humane terms, was brilliant. It could do things that many humans were unable to. It could play a concerto on a piano with such ease and grace one would mistake it for a Beethoven blessed with hearing once again. It could solve mathematics unlike anyone since Pythagoris had lived in ancient Greece. The hound was, if any word were better fitting, awe-inspiring.
But the dog also had an unusually large fondness of barking, howling, growling, and other motley noises that dogs are so fond of making. The dog would literally deafen one as frequently as it would astonish another. And clearly, this was a problem. Who would hear the mutt's volin solos if wearing earplugs whilst listening for all of that barking? Who would bear concentration with the blessed thing if it continued to howl whilst stylusing away at a mathematical algorithm? Eventually, the barking became such nuisance that none would bear speak the thing's name. It sim-ply wouldn't quit. People tried tying its muzzle shut, but the rope came loose; tehy tried calming the thing with herbal seditives, but that failed as well.
And so, for the sake of the populus, those unaware of the dog's penchant for deafening others, the dog was kept in isolation. There, it continued barking, howling, snarling, and grew increasingly more vicious, for this is what it's inner nature instructed it to do. When the thing was relased from isolation, its larynx had failed, and thus its voice had died, as well. But no longer would it perform concerts or display public mathematical seminars, for it was a wild beast.
And here is the moral: One can never be the best in everything he might attempt, for this only results in an equal measure of malignment against this effort. The dog's barking, of course, had not originated until it had receivedf praise for its talents, at which point it knew none other than to rejoice -- by howling, growling, et cetera. This became so much habit, that it reverted to its instincts in isolation, becoming more of a vicious wolf than any well-trained pup as it was ever.

Along a Beach

Here is a poem lacking rhythem that entails beaches. And morals.

Once upon a time
in a land akin to this one,
there lived a being, understand,
with a conniving passion at the sea.

It wanted to count the grains of sand,
that so cluttered about the seashore,
and rambled in from the deepest of depths,
riddled with assortments of shells and creatures.

A life's work it would become,
but it was set in its ways,
and pulling on trowsers,
from its family it farewell bade.

It began by cupping the sand
within its hands, counting the grains with its eyes,
but when this did not work, he found a board,
and decided from this to derive.

From here it kept a tally,
of all the counted grains,
upon a sheet of wax paper
(all the better -- it wouldn't taper)
writing with a stylus of octopus ink.

It grew the wiser,
and less a miser,
as it began to bag the sand;
and with the passage of time,
so too did fall the beach level,
with the sagging grassy knoll,
aside the bareing shoreline.

Yet more time slipped away,
and there it was, anyway,
growing older, set so in its ways;
it would not stop until the grains
would drop, to nothing more that.

And here at last, it was,
its once clean trousers tattered,
a beard several miles long, growing upon its gaunt face;
the beach was no more, but the sandless sea rolling into its sandless banks,
each grain counted and tallied.
The man smiled and died.

But here the question remains:
what should happen after the wax paper degrades into the ocean,
as it did?
Who will know of this limbless stride?
For the man was just that -- human indeed,
and imperfect --
we never should attempt the impossible.

A Solemn Solute

Yet another post today. Desperation ensues after a long respite baneful of nothing. This post features another of the blogger's songs, a bit more peppy than the previous one, entitled 'A Solemn Solute' (but only the start of it is truely akin to 'solemn.') And the link:

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=SagQ2VLEHpO

Please enjoy.

Arabian Mystique in G

Here's a link to a nice song made by the resident blogger. Its title is 'Arabian Mystique in G.' The end's a bit mushy, but it hopefully is still worth something of a quick listen.

http://www.supload.com/listen?s=SqA1s-jAP3M

A Poem About Pi

Here is an attempt at a subtley more mathematical poem, concerning the infinate property of the proportion pi.

Have you ever so quandered
at the sky's utter blueness,
or a pleasure's newness,
or other things of the like
throughout your merry day?

The answer, in all, is very simple you see:
it is the propotion of pi, and its
infinitesimal-decimal property!

3.14 may accost for that squeaky old door,
quite loud in the winter, but more softly groaning
throughout the blissful summer season, moanin.

. ...999999 will be the absolute blame for
why a mime so accurately mimes his mime,
when pulling a rope that does not exist,
or entrapping himself within a box in a jist.

It is . ...567's fault to be taken,
to explain to us all why dogs may pass to heaven,
while kittens and thier breed must remain on earth --
counterparts, indeed, as much as seekers of vengeance
at the double-sided dirk!

And we can call . ...5116 to the stand
for such a reprimand
as to why fully-grown branches may drop small sticks,
when they are quite capable, really, of supporting the lot.

These questions and more may be found within pi,
a woundrous number if ever any,
whose digits all of whom to espy
will never pass nor occur, in the infinitismal pi.

A Continued Apology: An Exponential Reader

There once was a small boy,
thought to be a clever reader
who could with his eyes scan a page,
with more haste than could a 'pecker but meager.

His room was quite cluttered,
with tomes of all sorts,
each page of which showed little exhaust,
from the boy's speedy eye contorts.

His mind was stationed properly,
for reading surely is no sin,
it was a fact, in fact,
that he had the Bible through.

He read so much that his eyes
unseeing and unsightly
were only of use
with the thickest of the spectacles
in all of Brightly.

He could scan two pages at once:
one with each eye,
and would do exceedingly well
for but a short amount of time.

And this was the difficulty aroused
in his reading perusals,
that his comprehendable reading
was lack of infinity.

He could not recall what book he had previously read,
nor whatever was within it,
or the author, nor the plot --
it simply was not in his head.

So a moral is apparent, now,
within these rhyming verses,
that one should never do,
what but with time rehearses.

An Apology for the Previous Installment

The author of the below poem dearly apologizes, for he only came to realize how rotton the poetry was after posting, but would be dubiously worse for removing the post altogether.

Hands -- An Unneccessary Poem

The resident blogger has taken an overlong respite, rather doing more reading and less writing than asked for a blog upkeeper; here, then, is some desperate attempt to reestablish a promising page.

Hands undoubtledly mark
to humans, all hark!
The mark of supreme superiority, you see,
for it is the thumb that makes superemecy.

Without a thumb, we may not pinch
that poor fellow on his birthday, who has just grown an inch;
and without our thumbs what will we do,
as we kneel upon a knee, and attempt to tie a shoe?

It is the thumb, without doubt,
that makes the heart humble and stout,
for without the thumb and the other four quintupled,
what have men to scuffle
the ruffled hair of a pooch or kitten?

Hands, oh hands! You are two, indeed,
the duet of the body in utter symmetry.
What shouled become of the race of man
without his necessitious hands?

D=D^2?

It's been several days since this blog's been updated, and for this the author lays blame entirely upon his sloth at the keyboard, as well as his remounting school work, and dearly begs for your acceptance of apology.

I stumbled upon something very mathematically odd recently, and found it to be worth note, which will be taken up here; it concerns the relationship between a circle's circumference (measure around the circle's outermost bounds) and its diameter (measure across the center of the circle.)
The term 'pi' can be expressed as C/D, where C is equal to circumference of a circle, and D is equal to diameter of a circle, and as all circles are proportional, this should remain eternally true, without acception. The value of pi will always be expressed as 3.141592654... infinately, thanking the perfect, utter roundness and infinitimal propert of this, about a circle.
Thus stated, if a circle's circumference, then, is expressed as C = Dxpi (diamter times pi) then it could also be stated as C = DxC/D (circumference equals diamter times (circumference divided by diameter.)) Now, to simpify this, one could divide C/D from both sides of the equation, to accost (C)/(C/D) -- that's circumference divided by (circumference divided by diameter --) = D. Sorry -- here it is again: (C)/(C/D) = D. Now, to simplify the terms, one could multiply both sides by D, to find the result CD/C = DD, or D^2 (D squared ( that is, to the second power.)) And now, in CD/C, the two Cs cancel each other from the equation, leaving the final result to be D = D^2, which makes very little sense to my perception.

That's saying the the diameter of the circle is equal to itself times itself. Terribly false is such a statement: a diamter, be it integer or decimal, or irrational, equals itself, or is proportional to another circle's diameter; never can it equal itself times itself all at once, leaving the author now to collect his thoughts concerning such an oddity, and perhaps mathematical fluke, and begging hope to leave the readers with some semblance of clarity on the matter for themselves.

Ichealious Borge

In light of my dearth of creativity today, I found a poem I wrote last year. Its title is, 'Ichealious (ick-eel-ee-us) Borge.

Ichealious Borge, sitting upon his outside porch, grew bored one summer day
so he said to his wife, sitting by his side, 'I do wish this sun would go away.'
And in return she looked at him, her face anything but grim
and sent him on his way.

Up from the porch stood Ichealious Borge, stretching his long, lean bones,
he was going to grab the sun from the sky, and put it back to where it had come
and then once more he and his wife, and his children, too
could relax in the summertime sky of blue.

He took an axe with him, to chop down some trees for wood,
and left on nothing else food-wise, than what his spinal cord withstood --
and many a mile he hiked, the slender old man,
until he came to a dense forest, a new tree growing at the breadth of a baby’s hand.

With his chopping tool, dull from many time’s past use,
he cut down tree upon tree --
and he never bothered to yell “Timber!” upon their falling, mind you.

And Ichealious Borge hacked and he thwacked his old axe about,
forgetting entirely, food or sleep to aid his bout --
but a month passed before he realized
that he had a much greater bounty of lumber than what was worth twice his trouble.

In the heart of the green forest the man did lay,
his stack of wood, now neatly chopped,
piling itself up to where Heaven did drop.

And the next morning Ichealious awoke, only to find, to his absolute horror,
a great oak taking a smoke, a pipe wedged into its widely grinning lips.

It opened its eyes, and found Mr. Borge, his mouth rather open, limply,
and asked the man kindly if he could turn himself about, for the tree was not people-friendly.

That day Ichealious wove some twine
from the roots of plants and things upon the vine --
for to bind together much of his wood,
and then attach it together: make a ladder, it would.

He would work without tire, and the sun would refuse to expire --
but sometimes while Ichealious Borge did labor, the trees would gather about him,
much to his unbeknownst,
and would watch, taking mental notes.

Alas! the ladder was complete -- only half a month of binding, it did replete;
to no being in particular he mumbled words of thanks, forced the ladder upright,
casting deep shadow over the nearby mountains, and stone cliffs, and river banks.

To his dreary, his greatest demise, the ladder did not touch the sun, in his eyes --
it passed over a few clouds, scraping the sky slightly,
and as Ichealious looked upon his month-and-a-half’s work,
he was certainly not proud.

After dismantling the behemoth, the smoking tree approached him,
holding out a handkerchief for his weeping to loan him.
And the tree said, “We’ll help you, never fear.”
“How so?” cried the old man. The tree beckoned him near.

And as Ichealious Borge was led away from his small camp,
the great oak burst out in some horrid song,
music to the trees,
but to humans -- torture, prolonged.

In a little grove the smoking tree had led him,
and the old man looked up, with shocked contentment:
for playing before his tired eyes, the entirety of the forest was climbing upon itself,
a makeshift ladder that would reach to All Else.

After some time, waiting, in the deepest amusement,
Ichealious was called to climb upon the trees, but to be careful in his movements.
The forest had its feelings, too,
disrupt them over-terribly, and surely one would be slew.

Now Ichealious Borge was a clumsy man in all,
and found that ladder of trees intimidatingly tall --
but his efforts persisted, nonetheless,
with the same determination as he had given the rest.

Some trees, upon his passing, gave him cries of happy greeting,
while others yelled, 'Watch it, man, can you not see that I am eating?'
Some tries writhed after the quick touching of their ticklish spot,
and from these Ichealious Borge hoped he would not fall off.

When, at length, he came to the top, many trees were deeply asleep,
while others wanted only for the climbing to stop;
and Ichealious looked at the sun to his left, taking out a large canvas bag --
he swiped the orb of light into it and -- Ha! -- the sun was had!

Though now the sky was bleak and gray, the air no longer heavy,
the atmosphere about him, cold and not making him sweaty,
when Ichealious Borge reached the base of the ladder of the trees,
he found that summer had passed into autumn had passed into wintry freeze.

Ichealious Borge promised no longer to reach for things out of his grasp.

The Snakes and the Sheep

This is a story I wrote for a friendly church competition (I am a Christian.) Sorry about the single-post length; it's a bit small for chapters, so you needn't read it through without the desire to do so. Its title is, 'The Snakes and the Sheep.'

Red was the sky, pierced by the parting sun, denoting a day’s denouement, illuminating in this light a large greensward, barred on one side by a large, craggy cliff, nearly engulfing the ball of flame sinking in the west behind it. The grass about was fertile, and a farmer, upon setting home in such a place, would undoubtedly prosper. But now there were several sheep. A great many of them, indeed, and their wool brilliantly white, a white indescribable by what words here vested, whose light alone struck power enough to blind that same farmer, shrouding them in their own aura of divinity. There was no visible shepherd to tend them, yet, by some unspoken will, they were still, as if governed by a single, omnipresent entity for the welfare of the whole. Each sheep comprised a fraction of the flock, and all were orchestrated as One. And they coincided, thus, in perfect harmony and serenity.
Then a stirring came upon the body, and select few quelled in terror, as long blades of grass about the flock seemed to dissipate to pools of viscous liquid, and stir into thick coils, lengthening, passing into the hideous form of venom-bearing snakes, whose hissing broke that sylvan peace held by the sheep, and whose eyes, bright as the light of the sheep were, could still be looked upon, black, beading, sharp, cruel. Their fangs were as long as they were sharp, both of considerable note. And their numbers swelled, and now the body of Sheep were an island, surrounded by Snakes. Their hissing was maddening. All of the stretch of grass was filled with them, pressing in huge numbers as far as the rock cliff, which crowned the stretch of grass, still illuminated by the red glare of the falling sun. There were snakes atop snakes, and no stepping space between them, a sickening slick blending with their hissing at the friction of their lank and menacing forms together. There was only the circle of sheep, without defense nor aid, yet entirely innocent in their right; the horde of snakes pressed ever louder, pushing further to the tight circle of sheep.
But a flame, deriving from the piercing sun, shot from the sky, long and mean, and struck, in a great, broad column, nearly as tall as the cliff itself, a great many snakes, who burned and shriveled, leaving the ground beneath them charred and brown, without vegetation. And the flames pulsed in a single breath throughout the horde of snakes, who seemed to recoil, but only the most scrawny amongst them shriveled as the first, and the rest were burning in a harsh ring of Divine fire, between life and death, and if their voices permitted speech, each would roar in their agony such maddening wails of their unending holocaust about them; their scales sunk into their bodies, their eyes lost sight and glint, they could no longer breathe: but they would not die, and this was, without opposition, Hell, that now surrounded the quite untouched body of sheep, hardly startled by that commotion about them, but gazing pointedly, each of them, at the cliff-top, apparently unmoved at the sight of the harsh sunlight. Black in this light, now, they could view their shepherd, tall and proud, holding his gently hooked staff of the trade in his masterful hand, and looking with gaiety upon his own sheep, regarding the snakes about them without start, but instead with utter disgust and lack of remorse. The shepherd’s voice rung out above the chaos:
‘The Age of the Lord is upon you; emulate My sheep; practice My will.’
And the blackened shape of the shepherd vanished with the sinking of the sun.
Betokhn Oyspruvn jolted upright from sleep, large beads of sweat rolling past his nose from his forehead. His breathing was not forced, but very heavy, and his eyes were red and strained, his eyebrows arched, and entire countenance laced in obvious shock and fear. Straw was resilient to fall from the palms of his hands as he left his slight straw mat, and peered about him. This broadest room of the House of Believers in Jerusalem was still, most at slumber, and a few roused from their rest nearby from Betokhn’s startled awakening.
The House of Believers was a place for those who took a Christian living, a practice very much shunned by the general public of the time. Jesus Christ was thought to be a false prophet, but his coming heralded Christianity, for it was there, in the House of Believers, where the term had been coined. Before Christ’s rising to Heaven, he had told of his Witnesses (the apostles) that he would return, and they should spread the good news of his reincarnation and return, and the word of the Lord to all. They were charged with this, and from that small body, nearly three thousand, in a collection of homes akin to this one, were gathered together, a single body, governed by the omnipresent will of the Lord. All of their materials they shared, and they pooled any money they had together; they split meals amongst themselves, and if anyone amongst them were in need of assistance, it would be given.
The starry mass outside had begun to vanish, with the lighting of the sky, seen through a window in the chamber, of the sun. In moments, all about Betokhn were finding awakening themselves, coming to -- stretching, yawning, greeting their companions. His wife rose beside him, still standing in contemplation of his dream; he had decided that, as all dreams were believed to be, the Lord, his motives unknown to Betokhn, had enlightened him. They exchanged smiles, and she observed a rift in his usual pleasurable greeting; looking about her feet at their three still resting children, as if to make certain they would not be troubled with the conversation that she knew would be pressed, she glanced back upwards, meeting again the eyes of her husband, still red and etched with fear.
‘You are troubled?’
‘I am. I shall not conceal it from you.’ There was a pause, Betokhn collecting his thoughts. It would be best, here, to be quaint, and so he was. ‘In the night, I believe the Lord to have brought upon me Holy Enlightenment, as all dreams are supposed by us to be, and now cannot decipher his will, nor if my thoughts are correct; and if they are, why should such a meager fellow such as myself be burdened with the personal Will of Our Father?’ He had blanched without falter, now, and after having spoken this, pressed his eyelids tightly together, released them, fervently looked about at his fellows (that stare of concern) and crossed quickly over several slumbering bodies to one of the room’s four broad, wooden walls; he supported himself against it, and allowed a pool of perspiration to gather about his lower nose and upper lip, where his clean-shaven countenance told of his inner turmoil.
His wife had followed by his heels. In a pressing, hushed voice, in some attempt to gather the wits of her husband, she spoke; ‘Do you doubt the intentions of our Lord? We are mortal beings, placed on Earth to prepare ourselves for his realm after our parting from this world for which he has created for us. His methods perhaps are unclear to us, but we should not set up query for them. Whatever message was delivered to you in the night, it was meant so.’ A pause. ‘If it does not bait trouble, what did your vision entail?’ This brief speech did nothing to soothe the nerves of the fretful Betokhn, but for the benefit of his loving wife, he stood as erect as he could manage, and related to her his tale of the burning field of Venomous Snakes coiled about the Divine Sheep, and the message of their Shepherd to him.
To them both it was clear the meaning of the vision; it was why their lives were lived as missionaries, spreading the word of the Lord amongst all who would bear tide to hear it. The time of Christ was passing to Earth, and any disbelieving mortals would be dispelled to Hell. The urgency for repentance was great in the sinful body upon Earth, and now Betokhn was asked to offer for the cause more initiative, more urgency.
His heart was heavy; the Roman government of Jerusalem had already brought to death several martyrs who had passed themselves before the Sanhedrin of the city representing Christ. They were determined the message of his being brought to life from death, his rising to some heaven beyond any human tellings, was absolutely ludicrous, and simply propaganda for an up-rise to unseat them. They would stone to death any such fools. The Christians were given leave to Solomon’s Colonnade, for it there was public, and the Sanhedrin could not by law dismiss them; but any singularity found along the streets preaching these things would be brought to them promptly. Only those who sought for healing or for money would ever cross to their meeting place on the outskirts of Herod’s Temple, whose walls of pale stone shone golden nonetheless, and they would receive what they had requested, and would find the way of the Lord themselves. But none else would dare venture forth. They would not afford themselves to be seen in public eye as fools to believe lies spread by mad and raving men. Their mortal dignity was more valued than a fate resultant of an unending burning and torture in another plane, more fabled of by these men, which merits no mention here. Thence, the group of Believers remained concise, with no influential voice to speak for them, or gather the boldness to cry to those in the marketplace, where greater crowds gathered. No; the Sanhedrin would likely find no guilt of dissimulation in a rich merchant, for then they would be shunned by the public.
The Lord’s message to Betokhn, however, seemed to urge him to step beyond his safety of the Colonnade. He could only wander if those felled before then had received a similar vision. The Lord’s will would not be ignored. He had meant Betokhn to accomplish whatever it was that the vision would drive him to do, and if he refused it, the Lord would continue, not in tantalization from freedom, but in grim urgence, simply stating his superiority, and prompting him to complete his will, for the wellbeing of all. His creation was loved, but those who turned from him would be made to suffer, and this God would not favor.
The cavernous room had been nearly cleared during this infusion of thought by Betokhn and his wife, and flecks and grains of dust wafted gently from the ceiling high above, a thatched roof, revealed in the light of the early sun. A few remained behind, kneeling at their mats in prayer, and now three children, standing from their knees, crossed the room to their parents, whose faces seemed to tell of fear and of worry. Seeing this, Betokhn and his wife came to silent tacit, and ushered their offspring away towards the doorframe, and out into the new day.
The sky above was blue, infrequently mixed with pale shredding clouds; but the sun was reveled in its entirety; Jerusalem was in heat. The collection of Houses of Believers were near Herod’s Temple (whose western side faced the city) and the three proceeded east, along a tightly-packed dirt road, a few wooden market stalls set along the way, owners holding various flashing jewels and rich cloths as they passed by; there were mules tied outside other small homes, and what vegetation there was, there was little. Herod’s Temple was set away from the main market of the city, and thus was away from the bustle of it all, as well. After a few more minute’s walk, passing the similar scenes to those above entailed, the five could view spanning before them as far as their eyes would permit, north and south, a wall of tall pillars, reinforced on occasion by gatehouses (there were four on this western wall.) The stone was actually gleaming in the sunlight. The path faded into a great stretch of pale-colored ground, almost dark sitting below Herod’s Temple.
They came to the Golden Gate (this was the main one in that wall.) The pillars were twenty feet in height, and as they passed beneath the broad archway, onto a floor of shining stone, a second row of pillars could be seen bordering a massive court yard, the size of a quarter of the Great City. It spanned atop the same dully adorned ground further from north to south than it did from east to west, and situated facing the Golden Gate, in the center of the lot, was a mammoth temple complex, which in itself would serve as a sufficient city. There appeared to be several tiers of buildings, all clustered into a single unit; this was Herod’s Temple, constructed entirely of the same blinding stone its walls were fashioned from. Between the two rows of pillars (wrought of shining stone) before the temple, the family turned north, and made their way to the Porch of Solomon, which comprised all of the northern wall of the temple’s perimeter. Several others were drifting the same path; this was their daily pilgrimage, where the Believers would collect themselves into a single body, and sing praises to the Lord, and pray, and worship his name.
At Solomon’s Colonnade, Betoken flashed a brief nod to his wife, gave a cursory glance to those kneeling in the hall, some standing at the northern gate, ushering in the weak or poor, others raising their hands to the heavens, and a tear stung his eye. Blinking furiously, it retreated, and he wavered away from his wife and children, the latter of whom had not taken heed to his departing. At the House of Believers, it was agreed by the man and his wife that, after escorting his family to the Temple, he should return back to the main Jerusalem, where he would begin his public teachings of the Lord. It was not a choice easily come to, as it was invariable, with the number of those in the service of the Roman government, nearly, that he should be found guilty in such hypocritical acts, and would be tried before the Sanhedrin, who had warned their body several times against public speeches of such a nature, as previously detailed.
Betokhn retreated back along the barren ground, rejoined the dirt path, returned past the market stalls, the flashing jewels and greedy eyes, the flea-ridden donkeys tethered to withered trees outside dusty homes, past the several cavernous Houses of Believers, and heard at length a gathering hum of people below him, down a long slope which passed his straight dirt road, into the market. He espied a heavy throng bustling about a large square, a motionless fountain perched in the center, all marked with the same dirt path (but as a square) which he had been trotting upon. About the perimeter of the square solid walls of stalls, canopied white cloth roofs shading the merchants and their customers and goods within the open tents. Larger booths were near the fountain, and people shrouded much of the rest of the open space. The path, sloping gently down the earthy, loam-less, hill, found its way into the market square by a break in the skirting lesser stalls, and now Betokhn could discern several merchants’ backs, arms flailing in gesticulation to potential customers, tempting their wares before passing eyes.
He came at length to the opening in the stalls, and stood beside a stand, citizens passing in and out of the hubbub of the market. Glancing about, he hastily tried to make his own way through, but presently faltered with a sudden heart’s pang. He stepped back to the stall, and there waited, his breathing slightly agitated, his eyes distant and unseeing, despite their sight. The pleasant scent of salted salmon came to his nose, and he turned to see his wagon of refuge was rather clumsy in appearance, constructed of quick slabs of wood, with a dirty brown canopy stretching overhead. Beneath it behind its counter stood a short, stubby man, who wore a red beard, and was holding up a large grey fish tantalizingly before passersby. He lisped as he spoke, his voice hard and forced, yelling above the crowd’s bustle quite difficult for him.
‘Have thammon, you! Freshly caught, and thalted with care!’ He was now waving the fish at a hooded, pale woman, who appeared to regard him with contempt, and quickly walked by. He turned to Betokhn. ‘Hullo, there! You should need thume thammon. You look it!’ He pushed the fish before his downcast eyes. Its own dead eyes returned his glance, and remorse for the fish, now being whipped against the countertop, accenting the vender’s words, spread through him. To what degree had the fish earned its premature death? What right did this fisherman bear to kill it? What sinful body were about him? Such thoughts coming to mind, he pushed his way silently through the crowd, and to the fountain. Before his eyes passed a flash of his vision: hordes of venomous snakes, faltering in a burning Hell -- and a small gathering of faithful snakes looking in awe to the supremacy of their cliff top master, silhouetted against the red setting sun. He was a lamb, and those pressing about him were each snakes, lost in the woes of their own perpetual sin, perpetuated eternally in the domain of the Fallen Angel if they were not to right themselves before the Coming of the Lord, and accept him as the Creator, to which, indeed, he was rightly titled.
Betokhn began preaching, thus, the Lord’s will, instructing the snakes in emulation of the sheep, and practicing the Lord’s that same will. He knit of listeners had gathered about him now, forced into the bustle of the marketplace, some eyeing him with wonder, and others with questionable sanity, some with contempt.
‘You who surround me here -- listen! The Time of the Lord is upon us, and his son, cast into a mortal body on Earth, was hung on a cross by you people, and buried in a tomb. From that tomb he was resurrected, and returned to Earth, scars of his sacrifice for our sins still embellished in his ankles and wrists. He is risen now, in the Heavens, looking down upon us all. And he will return once more, and with his return, will be the denouement of the mortal Earth, and the coming of the Age of the Lord in Heaven, where all his believers will live for eternity; anyone who has not righted their path will fall to Hell, then, in unending suffering. Ere the rising of the sun this day, a vision had come to me, further impressing upon me the potent nature to which this must be concerned. A select group amongst our following have witnessed Christ’s rising, and will attest to his not being a false prophet, or another man, lusting for fame and for fortune. Your idols did not bring you life, they did not breathe from sand and dirt men! Your petty gods and carven images and statues will not bring messengers from Heaven upon his own creation to sacrifice life and shed deep pools of blood for the sins of his people against him! Listen, each of you; come to Solomon’s Colonnade, the northern wall of the Temple of Herod, and be amongst the Believers and Witnesses, and be saved! Leave your lives of sin, and malpractice against the Creator, and praise his name in song and in prayer. Leave all of this behind you; what you stand in now is preparation for life after this death, so says Father of Nations Moses, in his enlightened manuscripts of our laws. Be free!’
At this moment in his preaching, Betokhn met the eyes of a hallow-faced man, hair gray and thin, who pushed his way from the knot of people surrounding the speaker, and made out of the market to somewhere in the East. His eyes had been wide, but their depiction was unclear of either fear or greatest anger. He had preached further for about one hour, and the sun was now edging off into early afternoon, lengthening the ground’s shadows, and the market had become louder and thicker, when the sallow-faced man returned, two temple guards bearing armored vests, vambraces, and studded pants and helms, and each holding in one hand a long, pointed iron spear, walking behind him, and the man pointing an accusing, madly quivering finger at Betokhn through the gathering, heeding the guards that this was the lunatic and hypocrite who was preaching against the government of the people, and speaking of impossibilities, and Creators, and eternal suffering for all who refused acceptance to his cult.
The crowd parted in stead of the guards, and they shackled Betokhn without question, their faces stern and without emotion. One pushed Betokhn from the fountain where he was perched, and stationed himself behind him with a length of rough rope tied about the prisoner’s waist, whose opposing end was held firmly in the rear guard’s hand. A second rope was with the front guard. The elder man was slipped a weighty bag of coins, and slinked greedily further into the market plaza, eyeing the stalls with renewed favor. The guards took Betokhn to a prison just outside the temple walls, and here he would remain for the night. His cell was displeasing. No windows accompanied it, and as it was deep within the hold, without the light but of a single, meager candle, it was quite dark. A low, slim bench of stone pressed against one wall of the cell served as a bed, and Betokhn had made the corner across from this his point of relieving. No straw padded the stone bench, and the iron-banded wooden door was thick and serviced little air into the room, so that, despite the cold stone and chill air of such an enclosure, the resultant breathed air was severally-used, and thick, uncomfortable. He would be lead before the Sanhedrin in the morning, and they would consider him. Found to be guilty of what he had been accused, he would likely be stoned to death, or some equally displeasing sentence to his fall. But he would be greeted in Heaven. He had done the Lord’s work, and perhaps had brought the Way to previous people previously bathed only in sin, who now would be anointed with the Lord’s own water in baptism, and they, too, would be saved. Betokhn did not fear death. Kneeling at his bench, Betokhn prayed in silent meditation, asking for the favor of the Lord in the looming trial, and that his loss on Earth would not be wept overmuch by those whom he had made close acquaintance and family. But he only desired to bid his wife and three children fair tidings, before his certain death.
Betokhn had sat praying through the night, and was roused from his meditation by a guard similar in appearance to those who had taken him into this captivity, but in place of a spear, he bore a torch, magnifying his shadow against the wall, black and prone to disfiguration in the flickering firelight. It stung Betokhn’s eyes, but he did not call out, and accepted his wrist braces in peace. He was also blindfolded (for he was unworthy to behold Herod’s Temple, a sinner, and against the motives which had brought its building, as all those brought before the Sanhedrin in consideration of religious felony were supposed.) The Sanhedrin actually assembled in the Great Temple of Herod’s Temple, the heavily-columned building, the largest and highest, and the Holy of Holies was tucked furthest in the back of this building, where no member but the High Priest of the Sanhedrin were permitted. It is prudent to note, too, that the Sanhedrin were comprised of Jewish peoples, and they were devout men, as all who followed their example in the city were; they sought to obey God but had become spiritually blinded by their own ambitions sprouting new traditions not ever mentioned in Moses’ manuscripts, wringing what had once been a devout and God-fearing people into a Jewish sanction of their own, while still worshipping God, committing several sins against him in the act of it, as well as going against his word in numerous other ways. They were, albeit Jewish, sinners, no doubt, in the eyes of God, and were disgusting men. Even the high priest, the only to enter the Holy of Holies, turned a blind eye to this flaw, and found nothing but piousness in his composure, as well as those of his comrades in the Sanhedrin.
When the blindfold was removed from Betokhn Oyspruvn’s eyes, a magnificent, open court spread before his eyes. Its polished dark wooden ceiling was vaulted with iron shingling, supported by carven white marble columns, thick and towering. Oblong nooks in the wall of that same golden stone comprising the outer wall of Herod’s Temple found flickering torches chancing high in the room every occasional foot. The floor gloated a grand mosaic, something much too broad and vivid for Betokhn to make out at his present low perspective. Marble sculptures were lined along the walls as well, and tapestries of deep hues of purple and azure hung in their rear. Seated at a series of long, dark wooden tables, highly polished, sat a council of seventy-one men, crowned at the rear by a high-backed golden-wrought seat on a small marble stage sat the high priest, who was Annas. His family in the Sanhedrin, who included Caiaphas, John, Alexander, and others, were seated at the smallest table and nearest to him. Annas rose, his lank dark hair framing his clean-shaven, rather pudgy face; but nothing in his countenance reflected humbleness to the prisoner in his midst. His eyes were dark with contempt. He spoke.
‘You are brought before us as a defiler of the Jewish belief to which we all here are entitled. You have spoken openly in the market of falsehoods, witchcraft, and have presented severe threats to your equals. Will you admit to this?’
Betokhn’s eyes were set on Annas, unblinking, but he smiled, presenting him instead with the love of God. ‘I do not preach lies, high priest. You know well the people from whom I have been collected and brought before you, and you are well-acquainted with our cause. The Time of the Lord is indeed upon you, and you shall not doubt it, or if you do, when the Son marks his return on Earth, you and any who choose to march in your stead will fall to eternal burning in Hell. I do not speak lies, high priest, I do not wet my lips with a false tongue, for I have, since witnessing miraculous signs and wonder by one of the very Witnesses to Christ’s rising have set my path firmly in the course of Heaven and God’s will, and now myself have been given a vision, but two nights previous to this day, and now am without doubt that what I have credited to truth to be just that.’
‘The Jesus Christ you speak of was a false prophet, each of us are aware of this!’ The Sanhedrin nodded, and a murmur spread through it.
‘This Jesus Christ was and is none other than the son of God himself, the son mortally, but God, indeed, for the Holy Spirit cannot be broken, nor can his trinity, and he is everywhere, the Creator of all things, even you, so base as to not find truth in what we Believers determine to be so. For what cause would we forget any Earthly goods, including riches, sexual pleasure, the richest of foods, but for one that we confirm -- utterly -- to be truth? The Jesus Christ whom you brought to the Cross, whom you hung, died for you, died for each of you in this hall -- died for all of our sins, for our cause, for our forgiveness, and what now do you do in repayment but curse that shed blood on the ground, taunt him ‘King of the Jews,’ and then continue your sinful nature, cursing the sacred blood? Will you not see the way, you foolish man, each of you in this room, each of you so set in sin and so lost in your fabulous riches and fame that you are blinded to true immortality, and shifted inevitably to eternal sufferings?’
Annas stood, his face contorted in something far beyond anger, lips stretched taught, eyebrows furrowed, pale features flushed, and black eyes steely and glinting. His breathing was forced and hard. ‘You will reclaim these words with which you address me, Annas, high priest of the Temple of Herod! What mutiny is this? Who, a fool in your own right, surely, do you think yourself to be? If you do not enlist for services in this court, to serve me and the Sanhedrin as a fine, for you have confessed to what is firmly against our law, then I shall stone you to death.’ He stared. ‘Your family will also be killed. But, oh Believer, whatever path you choose, you will be saved will you not? What is that? Ah! your Lord cannot liberate you from this, can he? A martyr for a god who does not exist! Indeed you are a knave. Now come, confess before us the falsehood of your cult, and that its primal focus is to gain power and wealth, and to unseat the Roman government to whom you speak.’
‘I will say nothing of the sort. If what you claim is true of the Believers, of myself and all of my fellows, than our morale would have been lost with the death of Jesus Christ upon the cross. But he was reborn, and then risen, and there are witnesses of this amongst us, and now there are Believers, who will, upon the return of Christ to Earth once more, having his acceptance, be brought into Heaven, and all others will be entitled to suffering, unless you find truth in what I say, friend; for truth it is that I speak, and I detest your sin as much as the Lord God, which is great indeed, for he does not like the sight of his own creation turned against him, and the punishment that must ensue thence. It is falling to the temptations of the Fallen Angel which you must overcome, friend, which you must accept and deface. Then be saved in God’s Holy Water, and live eternally in serenity in the Heavens. This is all I say, be it death such forced death to part me and all of my family from this Earth, for all the faster will we congregate in Heaven. But, high priest, we may only hope to see you join us at a later time.’
Annas grinned. ‘Be it so. You will be stoned; you know your charges. Your family will be issued the same punishment, and all of you are to be stoned to your death. Perhaps, if your god is indeed as wonderful as you speak, he will turn you deep pools of blood into nicely fermented wine for us to enjoy.’ Annas resumed his seat, and gave a nasty snigger and grin; with the Sanhedrin glaring, and a few accompanying Annas’ grossly-exaggerated chortling, the blindfold was returned over Betokhn Oyspruvn’s eyes, and he was ushered back to his dark stone cell.
Betokhn Oyspruvn, his wife, and his three children, each died in the name of Christ Jesus, in the name of God, and were martyrs. They met again in Heaven, and worshipped the name of God. They died in the name of God, and for their want to bring others to the Love of the Lord as they had. The war still rages today, but the Lord’s return to Earth is imminent. There are only snakes and sheep, and nothing comprising both. The return of the Lord is neigh.

An Instantaneous and Rambling Poem

Here follows a poem whose lines need no plan, but are written at thier first coming to the mind, and are unaltered, thus:

The day was bright,
and the dusk was dark,
the moon was bashful,
and yet the sun was midly-stark.
Such paradoxes as these,
and others, too
accompanied the coming
of that man with a third shoe.

In fact it was, that not but legs he had three,
but arms as well, and eyes -- you see!
He had thrice lungs:
(all the more he needed)
and his breathing was heard more the better,
with a third, quaintly-placed ear, behind a head feather.

So it was that he was not boy nor bird,
but something between these, but of a beak was unheard;
he could squak when he wanted,
or he could speak with some fairness,
in the language of Men, and their wives with finesse.

Now with his three eyes,
one day he espied,
coming upon his roost,
a new man, with whom he was unacquanited,
a large cap wrestled atop his larger head,
whose fingernails were brightly painted.

A malignant grin was smeered on his face,
in a state of some inward self-pity,
for his head, understand,
beneath it nearly concealed,
all of his body's vacinity.

So he requested of the tri-bird-boy,
perched in his roost,
to please spare room for another;
so that two pitied outcasts,
would find friend in each other.

The boy was not accepted as neither bird nor man,
this being discussed in some previous stanza, again;
but the other, I really don't know how it happened,
was refused as either human nor as egg,
and was thus saddened.

The egg's invitation to the bird's humble abode
was with grinning orange lips accepted,
and for time in peace and respite,
the two played and rested.

But time wares all things away,
and if one cannot choose of the first genesis
of the bird and the egg,
let it suffice the reader now that indeed
this latter was the first to be much missed.

For his large head cracked open,
one day in the tree,
and out crawled from the mess
a second of the bird-boy's seed,
but with a fourth arm crossing his breast.

As time further passed another egg-man came,
and found his death in the same way;
a third with five sets of two in his place.

In this way still
that odd species grows,
and some will wonder without content
from where both found thier starts,
but once more let it suffice to say,
with some emphasis, really --
who had come first:
the Bird, or the Egg?