Pages

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Clawmarks in the Blade of Chronos' Scythe

I am the sidhe of iron
My hands are smooth and worn
I am the wolf with monkshood in his veins
The lonely gallows tree
The dragon armored king
My hands warm silk tiger by the tail

Every day

Do you want to change the world

I feel the dragon veins
Through the palm of my hand
I see the bones come down through the leaves and snow
I hear the shadows dance
In the frozen reign
In the candlelight tiger screams again

You’re going to be changing the world even when
The worms are getting fat on you

Do you want to change the world
Tiger by the tail

Every day
They vomit their commands
That the stars shall lose their wonder
The billboards flash their lies to you
That you’ll never change the world

And the worms are getting fat on you

Tiger by the tail
Dragon by the horns
I can see the bones through the palm of my hand
I hear the old serpent play his pipes again
The tiger dances with him and rakes his back

Do you want to change the world
Every day

Tiger by the tail
Every day
They vomit their commands
That the stars shall lose their wonder
The billboards flash their lies to you
That you’ll never change the world

And the worms are getting fat on you
Every day
That you’ll never change the world

I am a sidhe of iron
My hands are smooth and worn
I am a wolf with monkshood in his veins
You’re going to be changing the world even when
The worms are getting fat on you
Every day

Tiger by the tail


--Coyote

Friday, April 20, 2012

Gods of the Curriculae




Summer is coming.
The rains have fallen, the birds have returned, green shoots are writhing up from beneath the softening ground, and the nighttime sky, far from being overcast, is positively pocked with stars.
Summer is coming.
I can smell the changes in the air, in-between the days of autumnal chill.  The rains are coming, the nighttime storms, the jewel-coloured lightning in blue, red, green, yellow, and silver.  Veins of treasure scrawled out on a velvet background.
Summer is coming.  But it is not here yet.
Long, it seems, have I worshipped at the altar of knowledge.  And, in recent times, I have embarked upon my pilgrimage through the wilderness of Formal Education.  There have I wandered all but aimless, unguided, foundering unfed, seeking in vain a Promised Land of green days and warm summer nights.
Unguided, said I?  No.  For there have been those who have spoken, those who have made themselves known, that I and others with me might hear and understand.  Here within the shadowed halls of Wotsamotta U, I and those with me who have persevered this Exodus have found voices that speak to us, if we dare to listen.  They taunt us, guide us, neither friends nor enemies, seeming as the gods themselves.  And, godlike, they bestow their magnanimity and smiting from beyond the clouds, where they dwell in mystery.
And we call them . . . Proffessors.
* * * * *
Friday, Sunday and Monday I sing of Dignified Gibberish.  Here have I found my Deism.  The professor’s writ is plain, his book huge and bopping, his lectures all pre-recorded years ago, sought out by the faithful on the Internet.  His tests are many, accessed through Angel programs and overseen by his choir of TAs, while he himself rests enthroned to pass final judgment over his creation.  He is not without compassion, and answers the emails shot at him like payers with an alacrity rarely seen among those in the god trade.  Yet though he is benevolent, he will not disturb the balance of the universe he has created, for he has said and will not change his mind.  All must marvel at his mystery.  Indeed, who has seen his face and lived?  His machine is sound, and full of wonder.  I believe in a Clockwork God.
Tuesday I witness Public Shrieking, and the glory I have found therein.  Here my professor is as the Olympians, and she is content to walk among us.  Her rules are few, and undemanding.  Unless you are dedicated to kinslaying or desecration of her altars Elysium is almost assured.  She is my Apollo, my sun god, my archer and my lyre.  Yet, for all the light she shines down upon us, she is not to be taken for granted.  Though she has never turned fleeing maidens into laurel trees, nor driven men to madness, I did witness her wrath when two defilers were sharing answers on a test.  She turned them both into rutabagas.  She turned them back, of course, once class ended.  But though the lady of the pair is seen to this day, resentful as any Medusa, the gentleman dropped the course shortly thereafter.  I don’t think he ever truly recovered.
On Wednesday all must be pure, and bow West to Early History.  Here, boundless and full of fire, the professor guides her followers with crook and flail, with PowerPoint, lecture, and Socratic discussion.  Even when suffering and positively green, always she has been there, with handouts and questions to test and aid our understanding of Truth.  When students are suffering and ill, she answers their pleas with emails of handouts and assignments to guide them.  Always her website has posted copies of the slides from her lectures for study, and when her exams have left us burned with multiple-choice questions too horrific to contemplate, she wraps us in comforting linen, with essays and extra credit as our balm and salve. She is my Osiris, my Sacrificed God, and she does not seek my death, only to guide me where she has gone before.
Thursday is Modern Alchemy, where the prof smites us in his mercy.  It is not necessary to love chemistry to reach paradise, only to live as though we do.  Good thing.  He has likened his course to a marathon run – harder and faster as you reach the end – and, since he competes in long-distance racing, he would know better than most.  There are less than a third remaining in his class now, not quite as many losses as in Dignified Gibberish.  Yet, he has shown us favor, even unto us has he revealed that we few are his Chosen People, for we have not worshipped the golden calf of Withdrawal Forms.  He is my Jehovah, my Alpha-Omega particle, my AC/DC God.  For though he may smite with chemical diagrams, papers, and a fully-comprehensive final . . . lo he has revealed that the final shall be almost entirely multiple-choice.  Hallelujah, my brothers.  Hallelujah.  After Exodus, Caanan awaits.
And on the Sabbath, I rested.
--Coyote.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

In Dedication

 (In my Public Shrieking course, there is a lot of presentation before the class. Most of them are short-notice practice speeches, but a few of them are researched and prepared ahead of time.  The following is a speech I did recently for the section on Tribute Speeches.)



Years ago, an old man faced a small gang on the nighttime streets of San Francisco.  Caught in such a position, an angry man might have fought.  A scared man might have tried to flee.  A normal man might have begged for his life.


But the man they had chosen to attack that night was none of these.  Instead, with great, kingly dignity, he knelt down where he was, placed his hands together . . . and began to pray.


The street rats paused, looked at each other in confusion.  And, ashamed, they left.  Maybe his prayer reminded them of the values of their childhood, or maybe it confused them just enough that they remembered whatever tattered shreds of conscience they could still claim as their own. 


But maybe, just maybe, they recognized him, and realized just who they had accosted.  Because the man they left in the street praying for their souls was Norton I, Emperor of the United States and Protector of Mexico.  And they were all his subjects.






Our Emperor was born Joshua Norton.  He spent years building his credit, his resources, and his options, until finally in 1855 his career culminated in a $250,000 speculation that should have allowed him to corner the rice market.  But the rice market unexpectedly flooded, driving the price down to almost nothing.  Joshua Norton had lost everything.  Once a commander in shipping, now he was cast adrift, penniless and homeless, in a world of sharks and lampreys.


A normal man in such circumstances might have become a monster, taking his rage out on everyone around him, including himself.  A normal man in such circumstances might have become depressed, taking up drinking, drugs, and eventual suicide.  But Norton was no normal man.  Rather than become either sullen or wrathful, Norton became a king. 


Was he mad?  Sanity is a chameleon, always changing to match whatever culture surrounds it.  Everyone who spoke with him, from city officials to Mark Twain, agreed Norton was intelligent and rational – save that he claimed to be Emperor.  So before you answer, consider the reign of Norton I.


He sent the proclamation of his coronation to the San Francisco Bulletin . . . and they printed it.  He wrote a variety of proclamations to the San Francisco papers, point of fact.  And they printed them all.  One called for "a suspension bridge to be built from Oakland Point to Goat Island, and thence to Telegraph Hill."  Today there is a plaque on the San Francisco Bay Bridge commemorating Emperor Norton's part in its construction. 






He wrote his own currency, and banks accepted it as tender.  Norton I made money for rent and food by selling his Imperial promissory notes to tourists, and to this day an Imperial note is a valued museum piece.





Norton I lived his life with dignity befitting his royal office.  He never caroused, and treated women always with respect and chivalry.  He strove in all ways to live his life as an example for his subjects to follow. 


Norton understood that the Crown served the People.  He walked his streets every day, seeing that his police did their duty, that his city was maintained, that his government was free from graft.  When his old finery became too tattered to suit a king, the city set aside funds for attire befitting a monarch.  When his Police Department marched in the parades, he led them.  


His proclamations included cessation of war, women’s suffrage, and dissolution of Congress for corruption.  And what if he had no executive power?  The British monarchy hadn’t had that for centuries.  The people respected Norton, because he respected them, and he always acknowledged their bows, curtsies, nods, and waves.  When he attended plays and operas it was at no charge: he was an honoured guest.  And when a member of high society would introduce him to the audience as a personal friend, he stood to thunderous applause, and accepted it with a Caesar’s good grace.


The question of the Emperor’s sanity finally became a legal matter when a young police officer arrested him for lunacy.  The judge chastised the officer in his ruling, saying:


Norton has shed no blood, robbed no one, and despoiled no country, which is more than can be said for most fellows in the king line.”


Norton walked out a free man, legally sane, to the adulation of his beloved people.


Norton I died January 8, 1880, after 21 years of rule.  Mourners gathered from across the country, and as many as 30,000 people gathered at his funeral parade.  Norton did not merely live his dream.  He became his dream.  And then he shared his dream with the world.


And to this day, if you want to make the pilgrimage as so many have before, you can go to Woodlawn Memorial Park, and see the grave where the old king is buried.  And you can read the inscription, lovingly carved into his tall, black monument:

NORTON I
EMPEROR
OF THE UNITED STATES AND
PROTECTOR OF MEXICO
JOSHUA A. NORTON
1819-1880


 


Dedicated in memoriam to His Imperial Majesty.


Saturday, April 14, 2012

My apologies for having no post up yesterday.  This week I had tests in every class again, and there was no time.  Yesterday's blogspot entry will post on Wednesday, and the following post should be on Friday as usual.  My thanks for everyone's patience.

--Coyote

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Leto




Of all my women memories of her still haunt me best
Images of her at night still keep me from my rest
She looked at me from over her laced fan with harlot’s eyes
Her smile was something feline her desire was undisguised
At first she feigned ignorance, then pretended she would fight
But then she cried out endlessly I knew that I was right
She was a lady and a whore yet there has been no other
Don’t you fret petit I’ll treat you right I used to know your mother

Hear the horses run
Feel the rain on your skin
The heat on your face is the dawn
The damp on your cheeks just the rain
Hear the night winds howl
They rage until your voice aches
Taste now the salt of the sea

Pretend that you’re someone who’s free

I remember well the candlelight upon her perfect skin
The shape and texture of her treasure as it called me in
I pulled the hairpins from her hair it fell from her in waves
Her heartbeat struck against my chest a thousand tiny staves
She fought against me for an hour I thought we’d both expire
Then she locked her legs around me and she set us both afire
She’s married since that day but I know part of her still yearns
Even more than I do for the day that I return

Hear his footsteps come
Feel his hands on your skin
The heat on your face is his breath
The damp is just what money buys
Hear the night winds howl
They rage until your back aches
Taste now the salt of the sea

Pretend that you’re someone who’s free

You’re the richest flower girl I know your rags are made of silk
You live rightly in the gutter with the mermaids and their ilk
I cross your palm with sterling and imagine my surprise
When I open up my present and you have your mother’s eyes
I lead you to the coach I hired and tell you it’s a game
The world may spin forever but some things remain the same
And later when the curtain falls I know I’ve made my choice
When you squeeze your mother’s eyes tight shut and cry out with her voice

Hear the horses run
Feel the rain on your skin
The heat on your face is the dawn
The damp on your cheeks just the rain
Hear the night winds howl
They rage until your voice aches
Taste now the salt of the sea

Pretend that you’re someone who’s free




--Coyote

(Photograph, Crying Rain, courtesy of photosandmemoirs@blogspot.com.  Photographs are exclusive property of their creators, all rights reserved.)