The King of the North

There was once a King of the North and he was very mighty. His palace was made of marble, metal and wood, but most of all wood, of which he was very fond. He had many royal carpenters and woodworkers whom he kept close at hand. The King of the North lived with his wife and Queen. They had many servants between them, and a vast fleet of ships at the King’s command (made only of the finest timbers of the Northern Wood), and a huge hoard of treasure, which the King guarded jealously. He had wealth, power and fame throughout the world, more than anybody could imagine. And now he was soon to be expecting a child.

It was only weeks until Christmas, and the Queen’s belly had grown large as a sail in the wind. The baby would come at any moment. “I do hope he comes out right on Christmas morning!” the King would say, drawing circles around his wife’s belly with his mighty hand. He was very proud to have a Christmas baby, and not just any Christmas baby, but an heir-to-his-entire-Northern-Kingdom Christmas baby. They invited the other rich Kings and dignitaries of the world to visit them for a baby shower. The biggest, mightiest ships would sail in carrying exotic spices and treasure, all for the infant. The King seldom let anybody else visit, and when they did it was only if the visitors had mighty gifts to give, which would be thrown on top of his already humungous pile of goods. When the lowly, poor and sick would knock at his door, a servant would open up and say “Go away! Can’t you see it’s Christmas? The King is trying to spend time with his family!”

The King commanded his carpenters to build a Nursery, a mighty Nursery fit only for the offspring of the King of the North. He wanted the best trees in the world to be hewn down for this Nursery, which meant the trees in the Valley of the North Wind, the very seat of the North Pole. His carpenters warned him against it. That was the one forest no one on Earth, not even the King of the North may cut down. They implored, they begged him not to do it. Some even outright refused, and the ones who did he sent straight to the stocks, stark naked in the snow. They begged and they begged until he rose from his throne and said “Enough! Is there a tree on earth that is too noble for my Child?” To which one carpenter said “It is not the trees that we fear, but the Northern Wind.” The King’s face turned cold and hard like a grim monument. “Shall man bow to the winds? Or does he make them his subject as well? Does he not yoke the wind to move these mighty timbers across the sea? Thus are both the forest and the wind made the humble servants of Man.” So spake the King, and nobody dared dispute this point. “And furthermore” he added, “This must be completed by Christmas Eve, for my child shall be born on Christmas morning.” The carpenters exchanged glances and bowed before their sovereign.

So his carpenters and woodsmen went into the Forest in the Valley and began cutting down the trees to build the mighty Nursery for the King’s child. It took two weeks to complete it, running on the schedule that the King set for them, and by Christmas Eve, there was a great wooden hall erected on the ridge overlooking the Valley. Down below there was a wide-open clearing where the trees had been, now nothing but dwarfish stumps. Right on cue, the Queen felt the baby coming, so the King rushed her to the Nursery on a mighty horse-drawn sleigh. On the entire ride to the Nursery, which was a league from the palace, the baby was trying to get out, but the King commanded that she keep him in until morning. The Queen nearly hurled him off the sleigh at this remark, had the midwife not been there to pacify her. When they reached the Nursery, the midwife suggested it was best that King go back to the palace and return in the morning, which he agreed to without a second’s hesitation.

That night, Christmas Eve, he slept not a wink, but celebrated with his guests in the hall. They feasted on meats, wine and nog, singing gay songs and dancing on the table. At length the King left his guests and stepped outside to see the Nursery. Truth be told he was very anxious about the whole business, and wanted to see his wife with a child in her arms. The light of a fire, a mere dot of light, flickered through the windows of the mighty Nursery a league a way. He smiled—an oafish, drunken smile, but genuine no less—before going back in and joining the throng.

And then midnight struck.

At once, all the fires burning in the hall went out, plunging them in darkness. A great shrieking noise rattled the windows throughout the palace like a howling banshee. The other kings yelped and hid under the tables. “The Second Coming! The Second Coming!” They shouted. The front door burst open and a fierce, icy gale blasted through turning their wine and nog to frost in their hands. The King, all warm from his drink and not fearing the cold, staggered out through the open door, which had come off its hinges. He looked to the Valley and saw no light coming from the mighty Nursery any longer. He hitched his mightiest horses to his mightiest sleigh and sped thither with all his might. Driving a sleigh while drunk is no easy or advisable task, but the King managed. It swerved and zigzagged often but he did his best to navigate through the snow and the pinesm and finally before dawn he reached the Nursery up atop the ridge. His feet were blue from wearing only slippers, and a small icicle had grown on the tip of his nose.

When he came to the front entrance, he saw the same thing as had happened in his palace. The door was wrenched open, barely hanging to its hinges, and inside was darkness, but for the arctic moon spying through the windows. In the middle sat an empty crib, and beside it, the midwife lay unconscious on the ground. The Queen sat in the rocking chair, weeping. She clutched her now flat belly, empty, drooping like a sail with all the wind sucked out. The King’s eyes grew wide, to take in what the dark and the drink had hidden from him. He approached her cautiously, and touched her belly. “Where is my child?” He asked, his voice trembling. The Queen continued to weep. “WHERE IS MY CHILD?!” He bellowed. This cry was answered with an even louder one: “YOU THINK YOU CAN SHOUT ME DOWN, DO YOU?” It was a deep, deep, deep voice, like something submerged at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean, with no warmth or light in it. Within it the King could hear high tones whistling like a storm. It chilled the King’s bones until he felt like they would shatter like glass. He turned around to see the source of this voice, and it was the very doorway itself. “I am the Northern Wind, and you have sinned against me.” The King dashed to the door and tried to pull it closed, but the Wind knocked him on his back. “I AM THE NORTHERN WIND AND YOU WILL NOT SHUT ME UP AND KEEP ME OUT.” The Wind had fashioned a mouth for itself out of this Nursery-door. The whistles blew in through the windows, till the entire house was but the very jaws of the Wind. “I have taken your child,” said the Wind. “I have taken it and hidden it among the children of the world, so you may never find it.”
“And what is my crime, you devil of the North?” the King shouted.
“Your arrogance. You turned away the lowly, the sick, and the weary, and you have hewn down the trees in my Valley when you knew it was forbidden. You have taken my children, so I have robbed you of yours. Now you and your wife must suffer for your arrogance.” With that, the wind sucked itself out from every crack and slammed the door behind it, leaving the king on his back, and the Queen sobbing by the crib. The dawn had come, and it was Christmas Day.

The King and Queen rode back all day. The Queen was barely alive now, but the King burned deep down inside, and every breath further steeled his will. He would not rest until he retrieved his child, even if it meant knocking on every door, going into every house, turning it upside down and shaking it if he had to. He sent envoys to every country, and threatened open war to anybody who refused to give up his baby. The mighty King of the North would not be denied his property.

A year passed, and every envoy returned with nothing. Most of them did not even set sail, because the North wind refused to move them. He also told the other winds to refuse them as well. The ones who traveled on foot either lost their bearing in fierce storms, or were eaten up by bears. The ones that did make it through found nothing. No other ruler of any other country said they had a share of the King’s child. Some welcomed an inspection, but most of them just laughed and shut the door on them. The King’s wrath would not be so easily sated however. He gathered his mighty fleet together to war against the other nations, North Wind or no North Wind. He hewed down another quarter of the Valley forest for new oars, oars that could thrust the ships through any windless sea. But the North Wind rose up in anger and stirred the Sea to such a fury that almost the entire fleet was dashed to pieces and swallowed up in a mighty maelstrom. Meanwhile the Queen said not a word, and would only eat when the servants forced her to. She would not bake, nor tell her cooks what her recipes were, so the meals were never as exquisite as when she made them.

Near the end of the year, the King decided to end this war in one fell swoop. He ordered all of the trees in the Valley to be cut down and burned in a large pyre for his child, so the smoke could rise high into the sky and choke the Northern Wind. On Christmas Eve his men went down into the Valley and one by one the treetops plummeted to the ground, and they dragged each one through the snow into a mighty infernal heap in the middle. The flames rose higher and higher and the smoke grew thicker. The King stood on a ridge and looked down, and then looked over to the Nursery to see if his wife was watching. The pyre raged for hours.

And then midnight struck.

The giant inferno vanished right before the men’s eyes, like a candle snuffed out in a careless breath. Another blast of wind came through the Valley and blew his men away, clean off the face of the Earth. The dumbstruck King heard a scream coming from the Nursery. He sped down into the Valley on his sleigh, and up again, urging the horses along a steep road. He reached the Nursery and saw the same sight as he did one year ago. Only this time, the house was empty. Completely, empty. This, he did not expect. “Where is my wife? I thought I heard her scream. Or was it just the Wind again, playing nasty tricks on me?”
“It was I,” came that same fell voice. “I took your wife from you.”
“So this was for burning your trees down?”
“This was for your neglect. You were so bent on revenge, that you neglected the dearest person in the world to you, and so you are not worthy of her any longer.”
The King dropped to his knees, his anger vanished in an instant. “Please, take my palace, my horses, my kingdom. I love none of them as much as I love her!”
“If this were so,” said the Wind, “You would have comforted her for the loss of your child, and not let her waste away here in the Nursery while you made war. But you could not let go of your pride.”
The King began to sob and whimper. “Very well. You are the true King of the North. You have won and I am nothing. Is this what you wanted? Please let me see my wife…”
“I have lost as much as you. The Valley is empty now, a graveyard of my children, and I will blow a dirge for them day and night here. It is too late for you. I have scattered your wife among the stars. She is in a far better place, though away from you.” The Wind ceased and moved down into the Valley to mourn the trees. The King wept until dawn. When the sun came up he went down into the Valley and walked to the pyre, now a mighty pile of black, charred trees. He felt very weak at the sight of this. His eyes were now open to what he had done to this place. He reached down into the rubble and pulled out a stick, one that the flames had not licked but rather lay buried in the snow. He used this as a walking stick, and made his way back to his palace on foot.

The palace was empty. All of the servants had either been blown away or fled, or left for new jobs with better pay. The King sat on his bed and took off the charred bark to reveal its bright, smooth insides. He got an idea to take a knife to it. He whittled away at the stick until it would resemble something. This helped to take his mind off of his despair, at least for a little while, and it was his favourite pastime, though he had not made anything since he was a child. The hours passed, until finally at the top of the stick emerged a figurine, a wooden Queen for him. This pleased him greatly. He continued to carve away at this stick; he carved elaborate patterns down its length, pictures of trees, of snow and horses until it was no longer a stick, but a staff. The designs were crude and clumsy, but the King didn’t mind. It was his world, with the Queen at the top. His heart was broken, but this gave him some tiny consolation.

That night, he took the staff to the Valley, and repented before the Nursery.
“Here is a humble gift for my wife, O Northern Wind,” he said. The Wind said nothing. The King laid it down on the steps before the door, and returned to his palace. The next day, he went into the Valley and picked up a larger branch, and pulled it back with his sleigh. He broke it into pieces, and carved little figurines out of it. He made horses, birds, and flutes, each one more and more refined as he went on. He took these to the Nursery and offered them again. “These are gifts for my child. Please take them and give them to him, wherever he is. Again, he laid them down on the steps before the door, and returned to his palace. The next day the King went down into the Valley again, and took an even larger branch, and made larger things out of it: ships, dragons, and trees. He took these once again to the Nursery, and when he got there, he was shocked to see that the gifts from the previous nights were gone. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but it looked as though the Wind had taken them. The King got to his knees, and prayed: “Please, Northern Wind, let me see my wife again, and my child for the first time.” The Wind said nothing. The King’s hopes sunk, as other possibilities crept into his mind. A raccoon or a bear might have picked them up, and given them to their Queens and children for Christmas. Or the Wind may have just blown them away and buried them in the snow. The King returned to the palace.

His hope had not died completely though. Just because the Wind did not answer his prayer, it did not mean that the Wind didn’t take the gifts to the King’s beloved. The King gathered all of the pieces of wood from the Valley that were not completely burned in the fire, and took them to his palace. He made most of the same things as he had done before, but he was perfecting his technique as he went on. He became more and more meticulous and less and less satisfied with each offering, knowing he could do better, knowing his wife and child deserved better. When he ran out of wood, he took apart the remaining ships in his fleet and dragged the timbers to his palace. Soon the wood would turn into hobby-horses, soldiers, tortoises, and then made cabinets, chairs, a doll’s house and a puppet theatre. This gave him the idea to take the fabrics from the wife’s clothes, from the linen closets and even his own, to make little puppets, dolls, hats, masks. When he ran out, he made a crude spinning wheel and learned to weave his own fabrics. He imagined all of the different things a child could want, and then proceeded to make them. Whether his child was a boy or a girl, short, tall, fat, scrawny, adventurous or timid, he had something for it.

Years went by, and his gifts became finer and finer, and on each Christmas Eve he traveled to the Nursery with his stock of gifts, and when he returned in the morning, they would be gone, and every year he would pray to see his wife and child again, and every year the Wind would say nothing. The King grew old. Every year his face would grow another wrinkle, like the rings in a tree. With every year his beard thickened and turned grey. But he was strong still, hauling the timbers, traveling greater and greater lengths to fashion his toys. Soon his supply was greater than his ability to carry it on Christmas Eve, so he would take only portions each year. He could not let it grow too high though, for he could not stand to see them for long, gathering dust, reminding him of his loneliness. He would not stop either. Soon he ran out of ships, so he started taking apart his palace. The metals he reforged: all of the mighty apparel for war that stood idle in his armory he took and melted down into tin soldiers with little muskets, trumpets and horns. The marble he made, naturally, into marbles. The wood of course he continued to use with great reverence. He took apart his palace plank by plank, and moved right into the Nursery, converting it into a workshop. He went on this way each year, working day after day until Christmas, and offering up whatever he had, until he had nothing left but his shop, and his creations. This could have been a lovely souvenir shop for anybody visiting the Kingdom, only nobody did. All the other Kings and Queens and dignitaries of the world never heard from the King again, and some even said “good riddance to bad royalty!” The people of world heard about the King burning down the Forest of the Valley of the North, so every Christmas they erected a pine tree in their homes to commemorate these mighty trees now gone from this world.

In time, the North Wind eventually stopped taking the King’s gifts. The King was down to his crown because there was nothing left to use. On Christmas Eve he removed it from his head and officially renounced his Kingship. “North Wind, You are the true King of the North, I am a humble man; I just never knew it until now.” He stood on top of the Shop and offered it up to the Wind. He stood up there, waiting, for one whole hour.

Then the Wind blew by and knocked it out of his hands. The crown went tumbling off the roof and down a slope leading out of the Valley and into the Wide World. The crownless Old Man yelped. He climbed down as fast as his bones could move him and pursued the crown, which was still rolling along. He followed the crown into a forest—nothing as great as the goodly Valley Pines, but a forest nonetheless. The crown stopped every now and then, getting caught in a bush or a hollow or a under a fallen tree. But every time the Old Man saw its glint in the dim light and reached for it, something kept it from him: first, the Man upset the snow sitting above on the tree branches and it fell on him. By the time he could climb out of it the crown was in the clutches of a white fox. He tracked it to a frozen waterfall, at the bottom of which a frozen brook ran. The crown slipped from the fox’s teeth rolled onto the stream and went its way, slipping and tumbling down the slope, and the Man went slipping and tumbling after it, with much pain and discomfort, (his limbs not as couched with fat as they once were). The man crashed into a snow-bank, face first. When he came to, he saw the stream had led to a clearing overlooking the wood. Here the Man could look out and spy the land before him to the South. The Sun had fallen by now, and little lights shone here and there along the hills lining the countryside, miles away. Smoke rose from them, like chimney tops. He had never seen these before, not in his entire life and career as the King: the only world he had ever really known lay within the walls of his own Kingdom. He longed to see these lights on the hillsides up close—perhaps meet the ones who kept them. They must be villages, he thought. The only fire of his was that of his lonely forge, his only company the wooden figurines and dolls he had crafted. He imagined the people gathered around these lights, singing, telling stories from days past, conjuring visions for the future, holding each other close. He watched the little columns of smoke spiral up into the sky, which by now was decked with stars. They were clear and bright in the crisp, cold air. He had never seen them so clearly before: thousands of them, everywhere he looked there they were, glittering in an ocean on high and he had never felt as unmighty as he did that moment. They shone especially bright over the lights below, as if mimicking their terrestrial counterparts. The fox returned and carried away the crown while the Man looked on, struck dumb. The forest was very, very, very still.

And then midnight struck.

A tiny, slight breeze danced through and whispered in the man’s ear in the tiniest, slightest voice. He gasped and nearly fell off the edge. “There is one way.” Before the Man knew it he was swept off his feet and rolled through the air, back to his workshop. “Gather your things,” said the Wind, as the Man struggled to gather his wits. But before there was any chance of that happening, from the other side of the Valley came a ship, speeding through the air toward him. Where it came from he did not know, for it was not one of his own. It had a hull of white timbers and silver sails that surged with the North Wind’s breath. It was a magnificent sight not of this world, and it docked right in front of the Nursery. A causeway lowered itself from the deck, while the Man brought all of the gifts onboard at the Wind’s urging. Once he was on with all of the gifts he had crafted over all the years, the vessel rose and rolled through the cloudless sky.
“Northern Wind, where is this ship taking me?”
“To find your child, you must follow the map your wife has laid out for you.”
“What map? My wife never laid out a— ” Before he could finish, something caught his eye. Among the multitude of stars there was one that burned a little brighter on the nearer end of heaven. Perhaps this was it, he thought. Directions—it had to be! At this point the Old Man was willing to believe anything. He set sail for the village that lay beneath the star.

Within minutes they were hanging over the village. The Old Man lowered a ladder with a sack over his shoulder, ready to adorn his one and only child. When he landed, he peered inside the nearest window of the nearest house, and on the first try the Old Man saw a child sleeping, a boy. But before he could act, there were things the Man had to consider: how would he know that it was his child when he saw it? He had no idea how many children there were in the world, but he assumed a lot. How could he possibly find his among them? The Wind said nothing of how, so the Man chose to trust the map in the sky and perhaps he reach his destination on his own.

This boy lay in bed, shivering without a blanket. So naturally, the Man took out the most beautiful, and more importantly the warmest quilt he had. This one he didn’t make, only his wife could have made one this beautiful. It was thick and soft, but light as a feather, and it was made for this child. How could it not be? The window was open (in fact, it had no latch at all to keep it closed), so he snuck the blanket in, draped it over the boy and tucked him in. As soon as he finished this, a star above him burned a little brighter for a moment. Was this boy in fact his child? He examined the child’s features, searching for something familiar. Somehow it didn’t matter. In a way he could not explain at that moment, it was his boy. And then the star dimmed, and one beside it lit up. The Wind came down from the ship, and nudged the Man to move on. The next star hung over the house of a girl, nine or ten perhaps, who could have very well been his child in the peace of that night. He gave her the first doll he laboured over for hours to perfection, laying it beside her in bed. He was extremely pleased at the thought of her discovering it tomorrow. He slipped away as quietly as he could, and made for the next house. Again, the star above burned brighter before taking its place among the rest, making way for the next one. For every child in that village there was a star, and when the village was taken care of, a star would burn somewhere else in the firmament. The Man climbed back into the ship, his sack empty, and ready for the next port.

He went on for what seemed like years, yet nighttime remained, as far as the man could tell. The moon itself stood still, while the stars waited patiently above each household, whether it housed rich or poor. This was incomprehensible to the Man, but he simply took advantage of it rather than question it. The ship swept across the sky, borne of the North Wind. Every time a star lit up, it reminded him more and more of the light in the Nursery, the one he saw when he looked out so many years ago on the eve of his child’s birth. Every gift he offered, every child’s face he saw got him closer and closer to his own.

He did not return to his workshop until every child on earth was accounted for—and every child was accounted for—and only then did the moon pass along and make was for the morning. He sat down in his wife’s rocking chair and put his head in his hands and wept. He did not find what he was looking for. In fact, he found something quite different.

There were some things even the North Wind could not change, but at the very least that night he took mercy on the Man, and did what he could. He entreated the help of the other Winds and allowed the Man to be with his wife and child every Christmas Eve. But only on Christmas Eve could he do this; any other time was forbidden. That was all the Wind could do. The only other thing that could explain what happened to the Old Man was Grace. Rather than complain, the Old Man accepted the Wind’s offer, whatever chance he had to have his wish fulfilled. Every child he saw was a gift in itself. Only Christmas Eve was no punishment to him. On the contrary: it was his night, when the Winds held the sky still, and the lone Old Man sailed from star to star to rain gifts on the children of the world. It no longer mattered which one was his.

The next year he would do the same thing. The year leading up to it would be spent in seemingly endless toil. The perpetual labour would be eternal torment to anybody else. But no Sisyphus was he; everything he made of his own hands was born of love, and so he would continue to find joy in his work, a joy he had never known in is idleness as King. The North Wind would never howl in the Valley again. Instead, the Valley would heal and trees would grow again, because of the kindness these two Kings showed to each other. The Wind would even rear up a grove of magic firs that grew to full height just so they might lay low their necks in sacrifice to the Man’s axe. But the Man would not take any more than he needed. The Wind would labour with him in the Valley, and every year he would be guided by his Queen; who some say is the Northern Lights, dancing in the sky at night. And every year he would greet his child in each child he visited, offering his humble gifts. The Man would grew rich again, but it was that special kind of richness, the one that comes from the inside, starting in the heart and reaching all the way to the highest hairs on your head and down to the soles of your feet.

The Old Man started his work over again the next day. There was much work to be done until the next Christmas, and he would only stop when his heart was absolutely empty. The funny thing was it just kept filling up again.

THE END

Merry Christmas, everyone!

-Liam

Myth-crafting

In an attempt to further develop my ideas for my fantasy story, I need to bounce them off of somebody else. Language is a form of loving others, as Alberto Manguel said. I cannot find the story I’m looking for until I share it with others, so here goes.

WARNING: If you have no interest in or detest anything to do with the genre of epic fantasy then I suggest you read no further. It’s a genre fraught with awful clichés unfortunately. I will do everything in my power to do away with them, or renew them, but right here and now is not the time and place that this will happen.

This is the blueprint for the background story of Gondoth and Lalíth, the two Gods who are the cause of the entire story: for siring the Fays, and for their opposing views on the fate of Mortals.


First off, at the very beginning of Time, there is an order of beings born (their origins I haven’t decided quite yet) who are destined to govern the universe, and make sure its laws are upheld. They are the Gods, naturally. The eldest of them is known in the tongues of Man as Albourak. He is the wisest, and is charged with the task of foreseeing the future and advising his brethren accordingly. He receives his visions by consulting a basin filled with a cosmic water, giving him messages only he can interpret. Albourak is recognized as their leader, although no formal hierarchy is (yet) established. The youngest of them is known as Gondoth, the brightest, the most inquisitive, the most cunning and the most ambitious of them all.
Eventually Albourak prophesies that these Gods will be superseded by a younger generation of Gods (These Younger Gods are to the Older ones what the Olympians are to the Titans, and the Aesir to the Giants in Norse myth). The Older Gods must eventually either renounce their power and become servants of the new Gods, or recede back to the cosmic primordial Waters from whence they came. Gondoth objects to this, however. He does not understand why he must bow down to a new generation, especially when the World and their place in it is still so new. And to his credit, Albourak can never quite explain why this is the way things must be, only that they are. The Gods are controlled by a fate, which even they cannot influence. It is one which seems arbitrary when viewed from up close.
When the Younger Gods arrive, the Older ones are permitted for a time to dwell with them. Gondoth rallies many of the Older Gods against this decree, and those allied with Albourak are few. Gondoth meets Lalíth, the youngest and most beautiful of the Young Gods. He woos her and they marry, and in that matrimony is Gondoth preserved, his Godhood intact. The others are not so lucky. The ones whom Gondoth convinced to oppose the decree are stripped of their beautiful bodies and their spirits are mangled and transformed into foul, chthonic monsters. Gondoth detests them, but he vows to protect them and one day return them to their original forms. Of the ones who did not rebel, but accepted their fate, Albourak was preserved, because the Young Gods begged for him to stay and guide them. He consults the water, and it tells him that he must stay. But he renounces his lordship, and may only act as an advisor, having no executive power. He becomes known as the Grandfather God. Because He was preserved, Gondoth comes to resent Albourak, but only harbours these feelings in secret.
Meanwhile, Albourak prophesies the coming of the Mortals. When they are born (I haven’t decided how this happens, whether they are in any way created by the Gods, or separately), of all the races, Gondoth is most intrigued by Man. They are most like him. There is a debate over whether the Gods should dwell among them, or remain hidden from the Mortals. Albourak receives no prophesy about it, so they must decide for themselves. Albourak has misgivings and advises against it, but Gondoth wants to go forward. The Gods would not agree to this, except Lalíth backs Gondoth. She is regarded among her peers for her compassion and wisdom, and because of this, they believe that the Mortals are in good company. That, and there is no explicit rule that they cannot mingle with these new beings. So Gondoth, Lalíth and the Young Gods walk among them, living side by side with them and teaching them. In this time, Lalíth and Gondoth sire a new race called the Fays.

So that’s the beginning of their history, these two. Obviously it’s just a sketch, an extremely brief narrative summary. I’m not completely satisfied with it right now—I haven’t developed Lalíth’s character in any detail for one, but that will come. For now I need to show it to some new eyeballs.

What I need in regards to input are these questions answered:
Is this premise clear? Otherwise, what needs clarification?
What do you think of the names?
Are there any visible loopholes or flimsy bits?

If you, reader, do care to offer your commentary, I appreciate your complete honesty. If there isn't enough material yet to merit any effective critiquing, I understand that as well. If it’s rubbish, please tell me, because at this point it’s hard for me to tell what’s working and what isn’t.

Sing, Heavenly Muse...

So, I recently finished reading Paradise Lost. No big deal. I managed to do it over a hectic semester by reading mostly on my bus ride to and from school, and a little bit before bed. Some times I just had to force myself to read it, because 17th century verse isn't always my first choice in reading material, especially when we're doing it 7 days a week in school. But after being up to my eyeballs in Shakespeare, it became less of a challenge to wade through John Milton's meandering syntax than it was when I first bought it a couple of years ago. Actually the language itself is a little easier to understand than Shakespeare, as it was written nearly half a century after Shakespeare stopped. Either way, it' done, and not only did I finish it and understand it, but I really enjoyed it, too!

Some of the imagery was quite powerful, and some moments were downright cinematic in scope. The War in Heaven, for example, is narrated in dramatic detail, from Lucifer squaring off with Archangel Michael on the battlefield, to God blasting open a huge hole in Heaven to run the rebellious angels into, banishing them to Hell. They fall for days on end through Chaos, which such an amazing and myth-sized image, falling for so long, through a dimension we can't quite comprehend. The descriptions of the angels in their war array, and Raphael when he visits Adam in Eden, and Eden itself--all of these are quite a feast for the imagination.

I found it curious that Milton used Biblical and Classical myth as metaphors and references to what was going on in the story. Obviously he was just tailoring it to the audience, which was fluent in those stories, and using them the same way any other writer of that time did (and still do); I still found it funny that they should be used to explain what in this context were the very first events to happen in Time.

Now I'm no expert on Milton, but I couldn't help but notice a few interesting aspects to this poem, which its Introduction provided by Stephen Orgel and Jonathan Goldber can back me up on.

An aspect that changes the story quite radically is the presence of the Son of God, who in the Christian context, has existed since the beginning, in an immaterial form. He is the one who does all of the Father's bidding in the story, including pursuing the angels out of heaven, and discovering Adam and Eve after they've eaten the Forbidden Fruit. And he is the reason that Lucifer rebels in the first place. It is God's appointment of the Son as heir to His entire Kingdom that makes Lucifer jealous and wonder why they must be ruled at all. This serves as an interesting plot point and inciting incident for Lucifer, and something we see in stories throughout time--I can think of a couple of political dramas that deal with this exact scenario.

One of the most interesting parts of the whole story was its objective which Milton states at the beginning, to 'justify the ways of God to men'. This very statement, as the Introduction observes, suggests that the good in God's works aren't necessarily self-evident, and that they need to be justified. This suggests as well that this was something that Milton struggled with in his own faith. It also makes sense considering Milton's political alignment--to my understanding he supported Cromwell's Commonwealth and the upheaval of the monarchy. This is probably most clearly shown in the character of Lucifer/Satan. I found myself sympathizing with him, in his discontent with the way things are run in Heaven. He questions God, and sees him as an autocratic ruler who must be challenged. Perhaps he's misguided in this, but it's a sentiment I can definitely understand. He's painted more as a tragic hero than an outright monster: deeply flawed because of his pride, but, to us, deeply human. I don't think Milton means for us to root for Satan necessarily, because as the story goes along he becomes less and less heroic. But all the same, it's familiar, and I don't doubt that Milton would've given him the same complexity of character if he didn't have the same questions in his heart. While reading these early chapters, I was even wondering how I might adapt it into a piece for the stage. I'm sure it's been done before, but I'd like to try myself.

Milton was also very good at equivocating between the Ptolemaic and Copernican systems of the universe. Milton was apparently friends with Galileo, so he was familiar with the concept, and it was a hot topic at the time. He would use both models when describing heavenly bodies and their functions in the course of the narrative, which means that while he wasn't necessarily saying that Copernicus and Galileo are right because that might get him in trouble, he acknowledges them, which means he isn't saying the model is wrong. It's little things like this that can make this work more incendiary and subversive if they were less subtle.

I also sympathized with Adam and Eve of course. Like any good tragedy where you know the ending, it is only tragic because you feel for the character. Especially because after they're punished for their crime, you can't help but wonder if it was such a bad thing, really. God says they're born with free will, and yet you can only be free to choose if you have at least one other alternative to choose from, i.e. good, and evil. They are warned that if they eat from the Tree of Knowledge, they will die. Only they don't completely understand the gravity of such a thing until they eat the fruit, so they are kind of set up in this. Obviously this is a concept that people still struggle with, because the answer is never wholly satisfying, and even after the poem ends, the ripple of that feeling still remains. Milton does an admirable job in trying to justify the ways of God to men, but it's something I'm sure even he knew he couldn't do with complete success. I also get the feeling that he didn't want that either. If he gave a straight answer, that God is good, Satan is evil and Adam and Eve did wrong, then there would be no complexity, thus no drama. But that's not what the story sets out to do. Like a good piece of writing it doesn't prescribe a solution, but invites us to search these waters for ourselves. The Introduction goes into all of this in greater (and more eloquent detail), but they are things that I came upon myself in the reading of it.

It's 4:03 AM, and I'm wide awake.

My mind is absolutely reeling. This is the second time this week that I haven't been able to sleep, no matter how hard I tried. This isn't necessarily a bad thing though. Two nights ago I was awake until morning, only after my family left for work and school, and in that time I came up with what I believe to be a really good Christmas story. I'd always wanted to write a story for this time of year--something in the same vein as Stuart McLean's Christmas stories--only I never had any idea. Now I do, and the idea is NOTHING like Stuart McLean's but that doesn't matter. It's still a Christmas story, and that's what matters. This was the result of a sleepless night. It's hard to say whether it's a good thing or a bad thing. Inspiration struck me so fast that I would be foolish not to do something about it, but I just wish it could happen in the daytime. But, c'est la vie. And here I am again.

It started with me watching an episode of Battlestar Galactica before going to bed. This probably was a bad choice, because as soon as I was done, my imagination was fired up. This is going to sound ridiculous, but I started thinking of different, wacky ways to perform the To Be or Not To Be speech which we already worked on in Voice class. Still riding on the emotional residue I had from watching the Galactica episode I managed to bring myself to hysterical extremes--at some points maniacal laughter and others the verge of tears--all in well picked moments of the monologue, of course. Needless to say I was very much in the moment. In my room. By myself. Lying in bed. Anyway, my mind moved on to my still unwritten magnum opus of epic fantasy which I started thinking about writing ten years ago and never really got beyond jumbled notes in a journal. As usual, I puzzled over the perfect names for particular people and places, and the details of plot. It seems like an ass-backwards process, having a rough plot for the story when you don't even quite know what the characters' names are. I had names for everybody, but I've changed them many times, and now I have no idea. If a character's name is supposed to suit them, which should come first, the name or the character, since both are so interdependent? I managed to decide on the name for the capital city of the Great Kingdom, but not the name of the Great Kingdom itself. I feel like I will be able to write with much greater ease once I have solved this complex question. Good thinking, Juliet: what the hell IS in a name? Thus far my characters are only instruments of plot, not actual characters, so I need to give them names. But ones that suit them, and are fitting with their respective culture and language. Ganny is the most developed character (which isn't saying much), because he is the closest to myself in these circumstances. His name means nothing etymologically speaking, but that doesn't bother me. I had this name for him since I was ten years old, and I don't intend on changing it.

I realized thinking about this was keeping my mind awake, so I tried reading more of William Shatner's autobiography--which is extremely entertaining so far, I must say. So far (and I'm not very far) he has lead a very interesting life, some parts of which seem too crazy to be true--this only exacerbated things.

Eventually my mind moved to what I think is my good idea of the night. I've decided that this upcoming year will be a Year of Extraordinary Thinking. Let me explain.

I've often wondered what it is that seperates an extraordinary human being from, well, an ordinary human being. This is rather subjective and muddy territory I realize, but let's assume for all intents and purposes that there is a difference.Now, I have a very wide definition of extraordinary. Something I find extraordinary might be perfectly mundane to somebody else. Let's just establish that right off the bat. Basically anybody I see doing their damnedest to live a meaningful life, to live exactly the kind of life they intended, to be true to their hearts; this I find extraordinary. And to be one of these people, I've come to the conclusion that, of the factors that a human being can control, it is their imagination and will to act that can get them there. An extraordinary person will do what ordinary people might just talk about, if they believe it is important enough to sacrifice their time and effort. They put their money where their mouth is, and they follow through. Beyond that, it really depends on the scope of that person's imagination. I do believe that, within reason, a person can achieve just about anything. But they have to want it bad enough, most likely to the point of obsession, and this will fuel their will to follow through. This is nothing new. And you might say "that's all well and good in theory, but..." yes yes I know. But. It's this kind of foolhardy thinking that seeks to defy that argument, to debunk that little three-letter word. It's extremely optimistic in tone I realise, and quite cliche, but I would not believe this if I hadn't seen it proven true on countless occasions, throughout history, and in my own life. It is an empirical argument which others have observed as well, to make it become a platitude. I think it takes an extraordinary amount of time and energy to be an extraordinary person, but it can be done. And I also said a person can do anything within reason. I'll be first to acknowledge that outside factors play a huge part, i.e. economics, social status in that particular society, personal physical and mental health, luck, timing etc. Obviously if anything was possible then we wouldn't have wars and poverty, embroiling honest people who never have justice no matter how hard they work. I know there are people who have a vast inner brilliance that will never be known because they are barred from the opportunity to show it. But if these things are not an obstacle, or are not an obstacle that cannot be overcome, then this is when this theory can operate in reality. A person has more power than they may think, and the key is coming to understand this. If there is a way, then the will will find it. It is a spiritual power, at heart. It is the 'inner space' which the Dalai Lama speaks of. It's what I believe is what allowed survivors of the Holocaust, of imprisonment and torture without trial to be survivors. To hold on to their humanity. The true story which Someone Who'll Watch Over Me is a testament to this. Not only did those men survive, which was mostly good fortune, but they survived with their souls intact, which was entirely because of their inner strength. But now I'm rambling...

In this Year of Extraordinary Thinking, I want to devote my time to expanding my mind. It's something I never stop doing, really, but I want to do it in a higher concentration. It originated with reading Into the Wild this past summer. Christopher McCandless was on an ongoing quest to become one with Nature. I don't necessarily condone what he did nor would ever want to follow his footsteps, but I couldn't help but admire his passion, and his will to follow through, risking a lot to stay true to his values, to the very core. I asked myself, what is keeping me from acting so purely and truthfully? Well, a lot of things. But it would hardly be worth it if it wasn't hard. Half the joy is in the trying. Trying, failing, and trying again. It's a cyclical process that can't be avoided.
In the summer while I was doing Rent I decided I could coast through it until I got back to Victoria and have a fun, but meaningless summer, OR I could invest as much of myself as I could, and becoming exhausted in the process. I wanted a restful summer, but I felt that it might be more fulfilling to go for the latter. I tried, and I am so happy that I did. I know a large part of me still resisted and dragged my heels. There was always more I could give, but it was definitely not half-assed.

I also got the idea that I wanted to try tree-planting next summer. This also came out of my hatred for the customer service industry; I really wanted a job that didn't require dealing directly with people. Tree-planting seems like the perfect fit for me: it's out doors, it doesn't require dealing with customers, if you can get good at it you can make good money, and it's physically (and so I hear, emotionally) taxing. Jackpot. It's something I've never done before and usually would never have considered, and that's precisely why I want to do it. A small act, yes. It's not going to garner praise, it's just a job. But this to me would be an extraordinary act, to expand my realm of experience. So this was my first act of extraordinary thinking.

Later on, in Victoria, I got an idea to have a Storytelling party. This is basically where everyone involved gets together and shares their favourite stories, be it poetry, drama, fiction, or non-fiction, original or someone else's, anecdotes from the day before, etc. Anything, as long as you get up, and tell it to your captive audience. It's to revive the art of oral storytelling, an art which intrigues me greatly, and to share it with each other and enrich each other. And I'd like it to be semi-classy, with wine and cheese. This, I'd like to do some time in January. Again, another small thing, but I feel like it will yield something very lovely indeed.

In September I also contemplated doing the 3-Day novel writing contest. I said I would've done it if I wasn't doing the Fringe at the time. So, next year, if I'm not doing the Fringe, I'm going to do the 3-Day Novel writing contest. What have I to lose?

I also decided I would like to submit something to SATCo at least once before I graduate, so over the summer I'm going to work on adapting one of my short stories from my Fiction workshop last year into a play. With my current plan, it hopefully involves character mask-work.

Finally, I think one of the biggest hindrances to my development as an artist is distraction. So I'd like to organize a brief, one or two week-long retreat somewhere in the summer, to use this time to develop my craft in a removed, concentrated environment. Most importantly, I welcome anybody else who would like the same experience. I thought about Stanislavski and Chekhov and Meyerhold and those theatre artists at the turn of the century who went away to a summer home and did just this, experimenting and developing their ideas. It helps to be rich enough to have a summer home, but I'm sure there's something we can find. Yes, school is a concentrated environment for the development of my craft, but in some ways, it's still not enough. A student's schedule can get so ridiculous that often it's impossible to go as in depth as you'd like. And I specifically want this retreat so I can work on my other passions: writing, music and visual art. I'm also toying with the idea of doing a collective creation project (a la Theatre Passe Muraille and the other Toronto Alternative Theatres of the '70's) in this time--we shall see.

So, I think these ideas aren't necessarily extraordinary on their own. The extraordinary thing would be to do them all in one year, or at least set the ball in motion for the future. It's certainly ambitious thinking. But again, these are things I genuinely want to do. I have no doubt that they will fulfill me. If it is at all possible, these are projects I would like to devote my time and energy towards. On that note, this is a challenge for you all as much as it is for me. It would be even more extraordinary if some of you out there were up for this challenge as well--perhaps can even better it. So, it's 5:33 in the morning, and I'm pretty sleepy now, I think, and I end with this question: anybody interested?

Hi folks! Back from the dead I am, and barely living it seems. I've survived the first semester, and like clockwork I get a cold as soon as I'm finished. But it's been a good semester overall. I worked hard, and I feel like I've earned a little rest. I'm back in Calgary right now, which is great. It's covered in snow and I'm gaining Christmas cheer with every day. Some say it's a superficial holiday, and I wouldn't argue that point. But I think it's all the more reason to reclaim it for ourselves. It takes more imagination the older you get, but I believe it's worth it.

I don't have much to say right now, but I'll be on here more often during the break. I promise. Hopefully an obligatory reflection on the decade, you know, that sort of thing. Regardless, you shall be hearing from me anon (that's right, anon)!

At last! My long (un)awaited return to the Blogopshere!

It's been almost a month since my last post I regret to say. I had a few opportunities to chronicle my adventures, but have been for the most part too tired or lazy to do so. I'll hopefully get in a few more in the next couple of months, I hope. I want to at least geto fifty by the end of the year. And by Blogopshere I meant Blogosphere. That's right, I chose not to correct my typo! I'm just crazy like that. You never know when I'll go off the deep end, man. Anyway....

Rehearsals have been going well, with their expected ups and downs. We're about to embark on Tech Week as of Monday, which means we go up in less than two weeks!!!

What I wanted to mention was the great couple of weekends I've so far had. Last Saturday night, after rehearsal, me and a bunch of us from the Phoenix attended my very first Buddhist wedding, for our friends Kathleen and David. Besides the wonderful fact that they were getting married (again, back here, as opposed to when they first actually got married this summer in SCOTLAND!), This ceremony--which was led by none other than Eshu himself!--took place in a Christian chapel, which was rather strange. It was odd chanting about the Three Jewels and Bodhisattvas in the midst of the eyes of Jesus at his various stations of the cross, in front of the altar of the Abrahamic God. But it kind of worked, too. The place had great acoustics for chanting, making the whole place ring like a bell (thanks, Linda Hardy). On that note, probably the most interesting part was the chanting. Just like in the Zen Meditation sessions at the chapel, we all chanted the Heart of Perfect Wisdom Sutra, all in unison on the same note. It feels bizarre at first for two reasons: 1. You kind of feel like you're in a cult when you do this. Obviously to be brainwashed to a particular idea is the exact opposite of what the exercise is trying to achieve, but it's hard to slough off those connotations. The point, I think, is we're finding a collective awareness, chanting all as one, and focussing it on the two betrothed. 2. With all the work we're doing at school in our acting classes, this kind of chanting is the polar opposite of what we're doing. Generally you have the impulse to add some kind of intonation, inflexion, expression, and intention, to the words you're speaking. But you don't do that here. The words take on a different purpose and a different shape in this context. It was great to stick our heads into a different world altogether from what we're used to. Because too often we simply don't.

This weekend--tonight, actually, I saw Ride the Cyclone. I'd not seen live theatre that could make me cry. This however, made me cry. I really enjoyed this piece, and am both humbled and blown away by all of the collective talent that went into its realization.

I've been thinking about the kind of prejudices I've accumulated over my Uni career about high school and high school students. As we get on in our years here in undergrad we tend to look at high school students as absolute snotty-nosed, bottom-feeding cretins. We look down our nose at them: just a bunch of dumb kids. As we've been going along with work on Shakespeare in class, I expressed my disbelief that people actually teach Romeo and Juliet in high school. I find it funny because there's SO much sexual innuendo in it, and it is in Elizabethan verse after all. But If I remember correctly, I don't think I was a particularly stupid high school student, and the Shakespeare we studied wasn't completely over my head. I'd argue that it's taught all wrong, but that's not the students' fault, is it? And when you think further on it, there's tons of material taught in high school English classes with suggestive content. There's a lot of stupid going around in high school, but there's a whole lot of stupid going around at every stratum, and there's still people there in secondary land who are mature enough to understand and appreciate something like classic literature for what it is. Sure I had plenty to learn and I may have been more naive than I am now, but when you put things in perspective, I have so much to learn in regards to the future. So before we get all self-righteous and congratulate ourselves on how far we are from high school, remember that we are just as much a bunch of snotty-nosed, bottom-feeding cretins to post-grads, professionals, and our elders in general. Why should we be so contemptuous to high schoolers? some of the most brilliant people I've met I met in high school. I know, Westmount might be different in a lot of ways, but there are still many great individuals roaming the halls of high schools all over the world, and if any of them are truly sane, are probably just as eager to get the hell out of it and move on with their lives as I know I was. Why should you hold it against them just because they are going through it at a later time than you did? We all have to go through it.

Today was a successfully busy day. I say successfully in that I did all that I intended to do, and all that I intended to do was all very important to me. I attended the Amnesty International UVic chapter meeting for the first time, and I'm hoping to get involved with them in organizing campaigns, especially the Human Rights Film Festival which UVic is hosting in November. I don't know how it'll pan out for me since Romeo and Juliet will overlap, but I'll do my damn'dest! After the meeting I attended a panel discussion at St. Aidan's United hosted by Canadian Women for Women in Afghanistan. The panelists were women who were either from Afghanistan, worked in Afghanistan, or were Canadians of Afghan descent. Their focus was on the importance of educating women in Afghanistan, and educating men on women's rights in Afghan society, and that the best way to get rid of the Taliban over there is education. The stories from these women were very inspiring, and are another testament to not taking our education for granted in any way. After the talk there was an actual burqa on display in the lobby which guests were allowed to try on. I wanted to try it for myself, but someone got to it first, unfortunately. I asked the old lady wearing it what the vision was like underneath, and she said it was terrible. Besides the obvious social controversy of this garb which I won't go into right now, the thing seems entirely impractical as an article of clothing. All in all it was a great evening.

On another note, I'm reading an anthology on the state of Canadian drama throughout the 20th century for m theatre history class. In it, playwright Sharon Pollock posits that there is no such thing as "Canadian Identity", that Canada is rather a "bureaucrat's name for a geographical area", and what we actually have are British Columbia, Quebec and Alberta, etc. etc., and that we'll only find ourselves when we seek out our roots to where we immediately are, and that those who have found their voices as artists did so because they were grounded in their regional disposition. This is an interesting statement, and quite closely linked to Andrew Cohen's opinion about Ottawa being a capital that seems to have little symbolic relevance to the country it supposedly governs. Perhaps Canada really is too big for its own good. I afterwards read an interview of playwright Rick Salutin who was recounting his experiences in Mozambique. He remarked how refreshing it was to be over there. The interview was done in 1981, so Mozambique was only a few years old at this point. But he was saying how the people came together--people of several distinct languages and customs--because they decided "it would be a good idea to have a country, so they went ahead and did it". They were making up a culture and were quite proud of it, Salutin says. He said he wished that Canadians could be more like this and not obsess so much about the question of our national character, but rather, answer it. That is to say, invent the answer. There's plenty of material to work with.

The Global Climate Wake-Up Call

Here's what Darcy and I participated in on Monday in front of the library!

Trippingly on the Tongue

Last week I made a huge, albeit embarrassing discovery of my own ignorance. I learned that the expression is 'for all intents and purposes', not 'for all intensive purposes', which I had been saying all this time. Yes, I should have known this, and yes, Bryce was right in laughing at me for it. I saw the proper phrase used on my dad's band website. I googled the expression and then came across a webpage with a thread of people listing their pet peeve misnomers, like 'irregardless' and garbled expressions like this one. Sure they're right in being annoyed by these things. It bugs me when people unknowingly butcher the language. But one person went so far as to say 'didn't those people ever pay attention in English class?' And that didn't sit well with me. In my defense, you're never really taught that sort of thing in school, so how can you ever know it other than what people around you say? You pick these things up from the people around you. I think people can take propriety in language too far to be so up in arms about a slip so small. It's like they fear that English will not hold strong unless they are ever watchful and chastise those who try to change it or play around with it, or those who don't even know any better. I think the latter is the majority, but it's still a kind of linguistic dogmatism which I find pretentious, quite frankly. To them I say: RELAX! Kindly correct someone if they make a mistake so that there'll be one less person in the world irritating you. Assuming, of course, they stop when you ask them. But that's another matter.

I've been pondering the nature of language a lot lately. This is in part because it's emphasized in our study of Shakespeare, so it's hard to avoid. But I've always found it fascinating, to begin with. It's strange to think that the English of the Elizabethans was more musical and more onomatopoeic than ours is now, and how we have a more limited pitch and tone in our speech. It just goes to show how language is more utilitarian now than it once was. We use language as a shorthand to get what we need, seldom using it for its own sake. Not only that, but our vocabulary has shrunk significantly since then, too, which is kind of ironic, considering we of the 21st century are supposed to be more sophisticated than our forebears from 400 years ago. We gather a certain amount of words to our repertoire and then just recycle them in different combinations--different, and perhaps large, but not infinite. And that's how phrases become tired and stale, as the pool gets smaller and smaller. What I like about Shakespeare is that it does seem to whet the appetite for words--and not only what they mean, but how they sound. There's a vast ocean of words out there and an infinite amount of ways to play with this trail-mix of a language, and Shakespeare--indeed all the best writers have recognized this. That being said, there are still many people who delight in the power and beauty of language. Otherwise, we wouldn't have so many poets, lyricists, and writers running around. When I went to the Faculty Reading of the Department of Writing I sensed that the individuals onstage reading their original works--especially the poems--spoke the words out loud just to hear how they sounded. They had that verbal relish that John Barton speaks of when referring to the Elizabethans. Not only did the readers last Thursday utter the words, but they took a bite out of them. You could tell they were tasting the language in their mouths as they were saying them. It's a comforting thought that language still has that power. As long as people can be moved, there will be words to move them.

Sir Ken Robinson: Do schools kill creativity?

Here's a remarkable speech that my movement teacher showed us on Wednesday. It's incredibly inspiring and timely, considering the 90% cut to arts funding in the BC government's budget. Enjoy!

A poll in the Globe and Mail on Canadian policy towards immigrants shows that 79% of the voters believe they should be "integrated into the mainstream" while only 21% believed in "respect for different cultures". This was out of 10,959 people mind you, but that still says something. And although it might not be in the forefront of peoples' minds right now, but this does raise some serious questions about us, and the disparity between official Canadian policy of multiculturalism and actual attitudes of Canadians. Is the mosaic so ingrained in our culture now that it can't be changed? Do we pay lip service to Multiculturalism just to seem less like our southerly neighbours?

Hey folks, sorry for being so quiet on here. I'll be back on the Blog horse soon, I promise. In the mean time, here's some DELIGHTFUL news:

"http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/british-columbia/arts-groups-hit-hard-by-cuts-to-gaming-grants/article1271315/"

35,000 cut from the Fringe. Ironically enough Front of House has to thank the BC government for sponsoring the Fringe at every show. Sonofabitch.

O Borealia! Our home and native land...

So the next book on my list in my search for Canada (on the literary plane anyway) is A Fair Country by John Ralston Saul.

And if I may add one more thing to Andrew Cohen's arguments is that I think we should dissolve the Canadian Film sections at movie stories. Yes, a tiny little detail to fuss over, but if anything shows our attitude toward our own arts and culture is this. It indicates that Canadian film is either too pretentious or too crappy to be put into the mainstream section. It's one thing to have a Foreign section all to itself, but it's something else to have a Canadian section to itself in our own country, as if it was something foreign. I think the best way to promote Canadian films is not to segregate them, but to plant them in with the rest. I guess the argument against this is that if we did this, then those films won't be as noticed in the mainstream film sections, and therefore Canadian film will suffer. But if all of them are out of sight from the mainstream then they're out of mind of the people who won't ever look outside the mainstream. It's something to consider anyway. None of this is based on solid evidence, just anecdotal. All the same, I can't help but feel I'm the only one out there who feels this way. I want the Canadian film industry to flourish as much as anybody else. A tiny detail though it may be, I am curious to see what would happen.

By the way, here are some other names our country almost had before our forefathers settled on "Canada":
Vesperia (Latin for "Land of the Evening Star")
Ursalia (Latin for "Place of Bears")
Borealia (Latin for "Northern Place")
Mesopelagia (Greek for "Land Between the Seas")
Cabotia (named after John Cabot)
Tuponia (an acronym for The United States of North America)

Imagine that. We could've been called Vesperians. How badass is that? I think it would be, anyway.

On Andrew Cohen's "The Unfinished Canadian"

Well, I guess I should get on with my commentary on Andrew Cohen's The Unfinished Canadian while it's still somewhat fresh in my mind. Let me just say now there is an infinite number of counterpoints to the ones he makes in his book, so I'll grant him that he didn't intend the book to be regarded as hard fact, but rather the educated opinion of one man. But all the same, a lot of the things he says do have weight to them. He has bold opinions about Canada, and a lot of it sounds like he's trying to trash it, but he only criticizes it because he knows we can do better.

Ottawa: he claims that beyond the parliamentary precinct, the city is truly an eyesore. It's poorly planned, and for a capital, it's kind of in the middle of nowhere. His main target however is Ottawa's architecture. He speaks of the "postcard image" of Ottawa, conceived in the last half of the 19th century and the first half of the twentieth century, when "Canada's founders and builders had ambition and taste. They rarely seemed to think that anything was too big or too grand for this land of few people." He speaks of this same vision that inspired the Legislature of Saskatchewan, a "Prairie palace erected in 1905 that rises from the flatlands like a mirage". I'm from Regina. Trust me, it's a marvel. This vision has not survived among architects and city planners, it would seem. People don't think boldly of their capital, and "the reason we don't think boldly about Ottawa is that we are not proud of Ottawa," Cohen says."We have none of the reverence for our capital that the French have for Paris or the British for London or the Italians for Rome." I've never been to Ottawa personally, but now I'd really like to, to connect with my civic roots, and to see what the problem is.


One quote that really stuck out for me was this one, which Cohen quoted from Peter C. Newman: "'This is the only country on Earth whose citizens dream of being Clark Kent, instead of Superman." (Which is kind of funny and ironic since one of Superman's creators is in fact Canadian). What this means is that we are not an ambitious nation. There are numerous arguments against this, but I can't help but feel that there is some truth to this. We have a quieter ambition, not dreaming of changing the world, but perhaps of keeping a good steady job, a nice home, and a happy family. Moderate is us. We are not a country of extremes the way America is. Cohen speaks of the "tall poppy syndrome" we seem to suffer from; that inferiority complex that brings out the worst in us; should anybody rise up with vaulting ambition, we are quick to knock them down out of fear or envy. Cohen remarks that while we have yet to produce a Stalin or a Hitler, we also have yet to produce a Roosevelt or a Churchill, some of the finest statesmen of the 20th century, and this might be due to a lack of big thinking, the kind of risk-taking that would propel us into the next stage in our national evolution. The ancient Greek poets spoke of the virtues of moderation in their comedies and tragedies. Nothing in excess, that is the key to a happy life. Perhaps we have perfected that adage. But I wonder: is it possible to be moderate in excess?

Another quote that I found pretty disquieting was this: "In a sense, our idea of citizenship today is the reverse of John F. Kennedy's ringing appeal of a generation ago: the question is no longer what you can do for your country, but what can your country do for you. As students are no longer really students to universities and patients are no longer really patients to hospitals, citizens are no longer citizens. Today everyone is a client." An exaggeration, yes, but it does make sense. Canadian citizenship is one of the easiest in the world to acquire; it's not uncommon for people from other countries to come here when things are going badly in their homeland, and when they get better they go back home, with Canada acting simply as their back-up plan. Canada doesn't really ask much of us. Pay taxes, vote, obey the law; beyond that, not much else. The downside to the Multicultural mosaic is that there it doesn't require new citizens to be more actively involved in their new home. They remain in their ethnic pockets, segregated from the rest of the community due to cultural and language barriers. So Canada becomes a place to stay, like a hotel room. Not a homeland. To this he says: "We should make citizenship harder to acquire, less a right than a privilege. Extend the waiting period from three to six years; ensure applicants absorb the principles of this country and speak one of the official languages; strengthen the knowledge and language test; rewrite the oath to reflect real obligation. With a Charter of Rights should come a Charter of Responsibilities...much of the challenge here is taking citizenship seriously." Definite food for thought.

Cohen is very passionate about Canadians knowing their history. It may seem cliche, but we really can't know who we are if we don't know where we came from. Cohen demands more robust measure to teaching history in school, not to mention in our day-to-day lives. It's not right that we should know more American presidents than Canadian prime ministers. And while Canadian history is taught in our schools (much to the annoyance of a lot of students, at least that I've known), it isn't necessarily mandatory across the country. The education is a provincial jurisdiction. What Cohen is suggesting is that we make it a mandatory course, from elementary to secondary, and that it be a federal matter."We can no longer afford to be ahistorical. It is time for the serious country to get serious about teaching its history" he says."We should have national standards for teaching history across the country--a clear expression of what any student, anywhere, should know by the time he or she graduates from high school...introducing national standards in history should be part of transferring education to federal jurisdiction, as it is in other leading industrialized states." Outside of school, he says we need to show more respect and reverence for national museums, that we need "to abolish admission fees for all our major museums, especially those in the national capital. (In Britain, attendance at national museums has risen an average of 83 per cent since fees were lifted in 2001. In Washington, none of the museums and galleries of the Smithsonian charge admission.)" Quite a big leap, just because of free admission. "We often forget that Canada isn't a young country, as our untutored leaders tend to call it. In fact, as a constitutional entity, we are old; few nations have been around in their present form as long as Canada." This is a very interesting claim, and an oft overlooked fact. A lot of the nation-states of the world are products of the twentieth century. Look at India and Pakistan. Montenegro. Taiwan. As a modern state, we are among the older ones. And if you look beyond out official birthdate, our history goes back several hundreds of years, if you include the many waves of settlers, all the way back to the Vikings, thousands if you include the rich heritage of our aboriginal people, who've occupied this huge land longer than any of us. Like I said before, I don't think we are a nation of orphans, but we're certainly estranged from our national parents. I know I am.

Cohen goes on to submit a plethora of ideas for improving our sense of self, in the form of:

Mandatory public service. "Sometime in their adult lives, Canadians should serve in the military of in the Canada Corps...or they should work in a hospital, a hospice, a women's or homeless shelter. The point is to serve the country and understand the country."

National Holidays: "Make July 1 Dominion Day again and to declare a national holiday on February 15, the day the Maple Leaf flag was first flown in 1965."

Honouring our own: "It is time that we inscribe the names of the greatest of our men and women in the Hall of Honour of Parliament, distinguishing between the bona fide Canadian hero and the ersatz Canadian Idol. After all, that was its purpose."

Respecting our politicians: "Politicians can be shown more respect, particularly when it comes to their salaries and their expense accounts, which they should not have to post on the Web... [politicians] do not have to insult each other in the House of Commons and they shuold learn to apologize. There are civilized ways of doing things. We are a rich country. We can afford generosity."

He has a grievance against our lackluster efforts on the international arena. "While we are increasing international assistance at 8 per cent a year, we have set no target for reaching 0.7 per cent of gross domestic product, the international standard. It is unconscionable--immoral really--that we have not. We are a trillion-dollar economy, wealthier than we have ever been. Before we erase the budgetary surplus through lower taxes, let us remember our obligations to others." It is very hypocritical of us to boast our compassion and generosity when we can't even commit to a target as small as that. Not to mention our lack of commitment to the Kyoto protocol as well.

Cohen spends a chapter on debunking the myth that we are becoming more and more different from Americans as time goes on. He claims this isn't true, though it may be what we want to hear, and that it's not necessarily a bad thing."In our distaste for the misadventures in Iraq and the ineptitude of the president," he says, "Canadians forget the America of Franklin D. Roosevelt and Harry S. Truman, who introduced the Marshall Plan and helped create the institutional architecture of the post-war era, in which Canada played a part. We forget that Eleanor Roosevelt chaired the committee at the United Nations that crafted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights...Canada is blessed to have America as a neighbour. And in many ways it is our model. We can learn much from its ambition, its genius, its enterprise and its excellence, some of which is now demonstrating in innovative ways on the environment. The challenge is knowing what to take and what to leave, recognizing that the bed we share with the Americans is the one we ourselves have made....a self-aware people understands that no two peoples in the world are as alike as Canadians and Americans and says of their insecurity: get over it." That sums it up pretty well, I think. I'm tired of defining myself by what I am not. If all a Canadian is is Not-American, I don't want to have anything to do with it. An identity of negatives isn't much of an identity at all.

Those are some of the main points in his book. There are others on top of this, and I could go further in detail, but I think it would be best to read the book. I don't agree with ALL of the things he says, but I have to admire his daring for saying them. Nobody else seems to be putting forth any ideas. This quote pretty much sums up his views: "No law decrees that we ignore our past, devalue our citizenship, begrudge success, or accept mediocrity. Nowhere is it written that commercial Ottawa must look like the Valley of Ashes or that citizens must denigrate their politicians. There is nothing in our genetic code that says Canada's wealthy must be miserly or that we must abjure heroes or thrive on schadenfreude." We've grown attached to the pettier side of ourselves, confusing it with a quintessential Canadian identity. On the other hand, I like the fact that Canada is so hard to pin down. That complexity is something to be proud of. It's not a simple thing that you can define and categorize and bundle up in a pretty little box. It's a multifaceted organism, ever changing, ever eluding definition. We might be one of the most existentially concerned people on the planet. Then again, perhaps we shouldn't flatter ourselves by believing we are the only ones who have an identity crisis. All the same, that quest for a soul is certainly appealing, isn't it? I do think though, that we should be more actively involved in that search. After all, nobody's going to tell us who we are but us. It's entirely within our power.

Vote and Die

"http://www.cbc.ca/crossroads-afghanistan/story/2009/08/16/afghan-security.html"

"If you show up to vote on election day, you risk being hurt by an attack."

Wow. I can't even imagine what must be going through the minds of Afghanis right now. I hope everyone is very careful about this, but I also hope that the public doesn't let the Taliban or Al-Qaeda push them around. This kind of message is exactly why they need to vote, to A) bring positive change to the country, and B) prove through elections and other civic action that the Afghani people are better than that kind of bullying.

I've just ended my third day in my new apartment, with my new roomies. The place looks great, and it's a good opportunity to get to know the neighbourhood. Into my third year here and there are still so many places I've not explored. I'd like to get a camera to document the sights of Vic.

I've also started my first rehearsal of Someone Who'll Watch Over Me. It'll be slightly less tightly scheduled than the last time we did it, but no less intense, I imagine. This will be my chance to do some networking in the Vic theatre community. And this kind of play is pretty timely given the recent extension of Daw Aung San Suu Kyi's house arrest sentence to 18 more months. A different political arena, but the human rights abuse is just as ridiculous.

My Dream Last Night.

I was the son of Captain America. I was Captain America Jr. and he was Senior and I had taken over the position, while he ran things higher up in the organization (whatever that was). Anyway, there was a threat of terrorists with a nuclear bomb, and he needed my help, and I refused because--GET THIS--I had to go finish my last shift at Rogers Video. I could NOT miss my three hour shift, for the chance for action and adventure and being Captain America. And then I woke up and realized how lame I am.

I finally saw Coraline last night. It's tempting to compare it to works like it, but it's dangerous to do that with anything that stands on its own as an original piece of art. It was a really cool story, creepy as hell and surprisingly funny in a lot of parts. It had all the necessary elements of a magical yarn but with its own style and darkly comic twists to make it fresh. I loved the music too. It was cool and refreshing to hear when you're half expecting a Danny Elfman score to a movie like this (not that I have anything against Danny Elfman). Having seen this and Stardust, it makes me think that I should start reading Neil Gaiman's work, like the Sandman comics and his novels. He's also worked with Terry Pratchett, which is another author I've been recommended on several different occasions.

We've got four shows left in the run. The weather being what it is though, we might not get that many in. But I'm going to stay optimistic. The weather is kind of out of our hands, so we do what is expected of us until we can't anymore, and if anymore shows are cancelled, so be it.

In other news, Ahmedinejad was sworn in yesterday. Woohoo. In 2005 when he was sworn in the first time, Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei drew him close and kissed him on both cheeks. But this time around he did no such thing. As Ahmedinejad leaned in for this honour, the Supreme Leader turned him away, showing that while he recognizes the Presidency, the Supreme Leader of Iran must also recognize the sensitivity to public opinion in the wake of the election protests. The internal conflict sparked by the election 8 weeks is the worst it's been since the Islamic Revolution of 1979, as people more than ever are questioning the Supreme Leader's infallibility. As Ahmedinejad embarks on an unpopular second term as President, many high-profile moderates like Mousavi will continue to give the government a hard time at every turn, so the President should know to be careful.

This is Our Season of Love

Okay! I have some free time, so that means UPDATE TIME! Yaaaay!

Wow, what a whirlwind few weeks it's been! As soon as things have been getting busy, and interesting, I stop blogging. But this is exactly the time to be doing it! So we've moved out of Westmount and we've been down at the Plaza for a week now. We opened on Tuesday to a full house, which isn't too bad for a show we aren't allowed to advertise. The run has been going fairly well, except for Thursday when it was rained out. Keirstyn and Yoshi gave me the mask on the first performance. I gave it to Arash, and I couldn't be more satisfied with my choice. The next day he came up to me and told me that he was up all night trying to think of who to give the mask to. That is why I gave it to him; because I knew he does not take it lightly. He doesn't take any of this for granted. He ended up giving it to Heather, with I think was a fantastic choice. She's a strong chorus member, she's hardworking and a great person. Arash racked his brains and his heart, and as soon as he gave it over, I knew it was the right choice. She gave it to Graham Mothersill, and I KNEW he would get it at some point in the run. If not from one person, then from another. A great performer, a compassionate and intelligent human being. That being said, we're only 3 actual performances in (sadly Heather's night was rained out), so we have a long ways yet to go. And I know by the end of it it'll feel like we've been doing it for a million years. But I should say that as every day passes, I love this cast more and more. And I'm honoured to be doing THIS show with them. Who knows if or when I'll ever get to do Rent again, let alone play Mark Cohen. As a bonus, AIDS Calgary has sponsored us and has set up there tent by our tents on the Plaza. I'm so proud to be spreading a message this powerful and beautiful.

So that's basically what I've been up to. I've had little time to read, so I'm still on The Unfinished Canadian, where the arguments are getting more and more provocative as they go on. I'll publish a commentary on each of Andrew Cohen's points when I finish the book and have a life again. Speaking of books, I have to start brushing up on my Shakespeare pretty soon, too. Romeo and Juliet is coming up in just over a month!

On Thursday night I broke my own rule. When the show was rained out, a few of us went to James Joyce, where I had the Irish Sampler, which is five ounces each of Guinness, Smithwicks, Kilkenny, and Harp. I had eaten virtually nothing for hours, so this was actually hitting me. And beforehand, Graham, Dean and I were casting Stockers in the Lord of the Rings roles. Kevin is Samwise, I was cast as Frodo apparently, Kylian is Aragorn, Graham is Merry, Dean is Pippin, Arash is Wormtongue, Amanda Davis is Eowyn, Amanda Agapi is Arwen, Keirstyn is Galadriel, Graham Macauley is Haldir, Brendan Collins is Gollum. I can't remember who we cast as the other characters, but my POINT is that this made me reeeeeally want to watch Lord of the Rings. I was already craving it from a couple weeks ago, and such discussion only rekindled that longing. So Kylian and I decided at James Joyce that we'd split a twelve pack and watch Fellowship of the Ring. So I got drunk during the run of the show, which I don't condone or would particularly want to make a habit of. But this time was special: I'm going back to Vic soon after Rent is over, and there wasn't much time to hang out with one of my best friends, and the idea of getting smashed to the quest for the Ring was just too enticing to pass up. Needless to say it was a blast and I don't regret it, even though I felt a liiitle hungover the day after. It didn't compromise the show, so I got away with it. But now I will get on with the next week and hold out until Aftergala. I'm sure both my wallet and liver will thank me.

This is where the summer gets really good, I just want to say I'm loving every minute of it.

Propagating Vaulger Trash One Day at a Time

As I was checking in returned rentals at Rogers today, I found a note in the DVD case of Burn After Reading. It reads:

"Warning! this Dvd is nothing more then vaulger Trash that is Not worth your time! Consider your self warned! very-very-very Bad movie! As God as my witness!!!"

And then on the other side it read: "May God who proves to be bring His Judgement and will against such trash! In Jesus Name may it be so!"

Now I've inscribed the note verbatim here, because I'd like to point out not only how ludicrous it is that someone would bother to write this note and send it to a video store, but how awful this person's spelling, grammar and punctuation is. That's the icing on the cake right here. So, I've written a note in response to this person:

Dear Fundamentalist Christian,

Your note truly made my day. It's good to know that the morality police are alive and well, whether it's shoving pamphlets in our faces on street corners or clandestinely slipping notes in our movie cases. If it weren't for you, whom would we have to defy with every breath, every act of insubordination we commit to keep our art (and our minds) free of censorship? I must admit I am a little insulted though, that you would send me a note so poorly written! What IS the world coming to?? If anything, the real sin here is people like you who degrade our language into something so simplistic that the only concepts we have are one or the other, black and white, right and wrong. Double plus ungood, I say (that's a reference to a book, by the way. It's just more Vaulger Trash though, I wouldn't bother reading it if I were you). Anyway, thanks for looking out for my soul, Mr. Puritan. But next time, please remember to spell-check your fire-and-brimstone notes and save us all the embarrassment.

Yours truly,

Liam

Fallen Art

Here's one of my favourites from my Youtube account. Enjoy!

Alright, so I won't be finished the story for tonight, but I did get a good chuck of it done, at least a third of it. I'll provide updates as things progress. Have a good night, Cyberland!

JOHN CLEESE WCF

Here's a video that I actually came across on a random blog a few months ago. I thought it would be great to share this with anybody who concerns him or herself with the creative process:

Alright, alright!

Enough running. Enough evasive manoeuvres. Enough excuses. Time to blog again.

Having watched Uta Hagen's acting class was extremely inspirational for me. It's basically everything I read about in her book Respect For Acting, only it was far more helpful to see it all demonstrated by her and her students. The woman is, like Whoopi Goldberg said, a force of nature. If anybody will renew my interest in this bizarre art form, it's her. I know I said that after having read her book a few months ago, and then I dipped down again and have strongly considered dropping acting as soon as I'm done the next year. I really was, and I'd be lying if I said it doesn't still tempt me. But seeing Uta and her students in action reminds me just what acting in theatre can really be about. Anyway, it's getting closer to show time as well, and that's fuelling the fire too.

Speaking of Rent, the more I play around with the video camera during rehearsals and pretend to film people, the more I actually want to do what Mark Cohen is doing. I've wanted a camera for as long as I can remember, and doing it onstage really whets that appetite.

I shall be posting a short story on here soon. It's bubbling and brewing as we speak. I only have notes in my head, but it's fleshing itself out with great ease already. I'll devote Thursday night to its drafting, even if it means severe sleep deprivation! That's all I'll say for now, though...

Hello cyberworld,

Sorry for not posting in a few days. I've been busy with Summerstock and watching season one of Battlestar Galactica outside of Stock. My god what a good series. Anywho...

I'm reading The Unfinished Canadian right now, and as I was reading the first chapter, one passage stood out in my mind. The author describes how a professor named Martin J. Gannon points out symbols of national character in different countries. "He says, for example, that the most distinctive symbol of Japan is the spare, landscaped garden...in Turkey, the symbol is the coffeehouse, which mixes elements of the religious and the secular....etc". The particular passage I'm concerned with is this: "In Ireland, it is conversation, the staff of life for a gregarious people in thrall to the melody and meaning of language." My heart sang at this sentence. It resonated with me for very personal reasons, namely that I have a strong affinity for Irish culture, a pride and sense of belonging in its context. I'm half Irish from my mom's side and my dad is in a Celtic folk band, not to mention the constant exposure to Irish myth and legend for my own fairy tale. And then this got me thinking: I'm more proud of my Irishness than my Canadianness, not to mention my Germanness and Danishness. This doesn't seem right, since I've never actually been to Ireland, nor am I particularly gregarious or gifted in storytelling, which the Irish are famous for. Indeed I'd say I'm thrall to the "melody and meaning of language", otherwise I wouldn't be on here journaling, but it's not in the same way. I am only HALF Irish after all. And I hate Guinness. The pride I have is more the product of wishful thinking than anything else; the desire to belong to a heritage as strong and ancient and mysterious as Ireland's. And so what's wrong with Canada that I have to entreat a step-parent identity? Some may argue it is Canadian to have multiple identities and roots, to be a chameleon of sorts. It's possible, but this theory doesn't seem to satisfy. I act as though I am a cultural orphan, having to look elsewhere than my broad nation. Well, if I'm not going to look here I might as well not stay here and call myself Canadian at all! I am not an orphan. But I think that cultural disconnect is very real, if only in our heads, otherwise so many people wouldn't feel like this, prompting people like Andrew Cohen to write books like The Unfinished Canadian. I may not be an orphan, but at times I am certainly a child estranged from his parent. Well at any rate, the search for Canada goes on, until I can know it and love it for what it is.

In other news, I'm debating over word choice for my story. When I refer to mortal human beings, I'm tempted to define the race as Man, rather than Humanity. I don't mean to be sexist at all, but in some ways the word Man, being archaic and obsolete now in our day better suits a more archaic world. I don't want to compromise this world simply because of modern sensibilities. Trust me, this is not something I take lightly, as I wouldn't use it in the context of our real contemporary world. Women and Women's rights supporters have fought too long and hard to be hampered by small yet significant things like language suited to a patriarchal society. But at the same time, I don't like the idea of political correctness running amok and eradicating the possibilities of language, and the decor of my fairy world. Just know that that's as far patriarchy goes in my story. Otherwise I'm determined to make it as balanced as possible in the roles that both sexes play (without making it seem forced and depreciate the many and rich differences between Men and Women in this place). Any thoughts on this would be greatly appreciated.

I have a question: in light of boundless historical fallacies, is it possible to be a Christian, or a believer in the biblical God in general at all? God as we know Him/Her/It first came into parlance through a small tribe of people that was struggling to survive in a desert land, beset by much more powerful empires all around. Something like God becomes a survival mechanism, a means of uniting the people. And it's no wonder that this God was vengeful and vindictive, given the harsh circumstances. What better way to keep law and order than to invoke the most powerful being in the universe? This image of God evolved over time, becoming a loving Father, and further yet to be some gender neutral force-field. Anyway the point is that God evolved throughout history until the one we started with did not resemble the one we inherited in the 21st century. Where's the grain of truth in this inconsistency? You might say that God stayed constant while those we changed our minds over what God is. But ultimately, God started as a survival mechanism for a patriarchal society. I really want to believe in God, but is it not possible that he is ONLY the God of Israel and nobody else? Furthermore is it possible to discredit the Bible and still be Christian? It's one thing to reject the Church, but the very text itself is something else. But each book in it was hand-picked by a council of men who decided that this version, this point of view would be what all Christians must follow for ages to come. Who's to say they were right? None of the Gospels were written directly at the time of Christ, and none of the Church fathers who decided this canon even knew Jesus, personally. The faith of St. Paul appears very different from the faith of St. Peter, or Jesus himself and yet it's Paul's religion that spread across the mediterranean and beyond, taken up by the gentiles who became the inheritors of the Christian faith. And then at the Council of Nicea, they disputed over whether Jesus was literally the son of God or whether this was mere metaphor. the way we see Jesus and God was decided over a vote, not divine intervention. I'd like to have been there when they decided that, and how one side won out over the other(s). I just find it really hard to take what has been handed down to us for centuries to be the be all and end all of Christian doctrine. Why did the other Gospels not make the cut? What was wrong with them? Not to mention how drastically the whole thing changed when it became the official religion of the Roman Empire, undergoing further surgery and cross-pollenization with pagan customs. The Good News starts to feel like an f#$%ing long game of Telephone spanning two millennia.

So nothing that I'm saying is new. This is something that plenty of believers and non-believers alike are aware of. I'm not trying to discredit the religion. I think it's a beautiful faith, so much so that I wish I could return to it. I believe in everything the Bible stands for, but when I think about the fact that it's the final draft of what could have been many editions at the hands of very fallible albeit well-meaning human beings, I can't help but feel cheated, like I'm missing the bigger picture, and it's hard for me to take the Bible for more than just great literature. How do you take it for more than a human construct? Some might say that it's how it is written that gives people the sense that its Author is divine. But then I've found other works just as uplifting or insightful as the Gospel, works from people who don't claim to be prophets or messiahs. So I ask as someone desperate for spiritual nourishment, not someone out looking for a fight with belief. I believe there is something greater than us, and I am open to the possibility that the God of Israel is that very same force, so I ask: is there enough room in God's universe for skepticism, and in light of all of this that I've just mentioned, is it possible for a skeptic like myself retain a belief in a Christian faith? And if so, how? I would genuinely like to know.

Oh and I'm deliberately ignoring all the alternatives because I want the answers to these questions specifically. Trust me, I'm very aware that there is more than just Jesus or nothing at all. The other faiths and philosophies of the world--that's a whole other topic!