Running: My Year in Review

By Craig: Well, since I have finished running competitively for the 2012 calender year, I shall give a little summary of the races that I competed in this year. I had not entered any races in many years until really getting back into it this past February. It took me a couple of months until I felt that I was ready to run a race without embarrassing myself. So here is the list of races and a short summary of each one.

Race #1
May 26, 2012
Hickory North Carolina
5k Strong Body Strong Mind
Finishing Time: 25:22 Overall: 35th/ Age Group: 6th

I entered this race not knowing what to expect. It was my first 5k race. I had run 5 milers back when I was a kid, and a teenager in Massachusetts back in the late 1970s and early to mid 1980s (I still have an old YMCA medal that I won at one of them.) My only other experiences were running 3 mile races in the Marine Corps back in the late 1980s and early 1990s. These were PFT's (physical fitness tests) I would usually finish somewhere in the top 5 in my battalion. It would come easy and natural for me. Like some people were built to be football players, I was built to be a runner. I only wish that I had been more dedicated when I was younger. I missed my potential. I probably could have been really good, but oh well, I decided that what the hell, I'll see what the old man has at the age of 43! Needless to say, this first race wasn't pretty... at least for me!

     My first mistake was to line up in the back of the field which had somewhere in the vicinity of 250 runners. My objective was to start slow and finish strong and not get caught in the mad rush for glory at the beginning of the race. However, the crowd was so packed and the road so narrow that it took me 30 seconds to get to the starting line after the start. I was then bogged down by slower runners, and at times was forced to just shuffle along behind some of them until I found a break and then I would dart around them, leap up onto the sidewalk, and look for holes to escape through. I thought about leapfrogging over some of them, but this probably would not have gone over very well. Anyway, I learned a valuable lesson here. From now on I would start at the front. The course was not a brutal one, but it did have a pretty steep hill in the last mile of the race that nearly broke me. I was not training on hills, but at a track so I was nearly done in when I got to the top. I use to be real good at hills, but it was now obvious to me that I was using muscles that I had not used in...well...let's see, 20 years? I believe a couple of blokes past me on the hill, but I took some consolation in the fact that I passed a guy who was walking up it! I was never so glad to see the finish line. I could see the time ticking away and it read somewhere around 25 minutes. If I were to compete in my age group I would have to do better than that. However, I felt good. This first race was now behind me, and now I had a starting point. I ended up finishing 6th in my age group out of 24 runners. The post race refreshments were substantial. There was plenty of fruit and bottled water to go around. Also, every runner that finished received a nice pottery medallion that was presented to each runner after they crossed the finish line. The awards were based on 5 year age groups. I believe the top three in each age group received a hand made coffee mug or something of the sort. Of course, for my 6th place finish I received nothing. However, I did receive encouragement and camaraderie from other runners which is all that really matters in the long run. This was the first year that this race was run, and I plan on running it next year to see how I stack up.

Race #2
September 29, 2012
Morganton North Carolina
5K H.O.P. Race
Finishing Time: 22:48 Overall: 15th/ Age Group: 1st

Well, it had been 4 months since I had run my first race and now I was back to try my luck again. I was in somewhat better condition to race than I had been back in May, but it had not been easy. Shortly after my first race I pulled a calf muscle while doing some speed work at the track. I didn't think that it was too bad, so after a few days rest I became impatient and found myself back on the track. It was the wrong thing to do. I aggravated the muscle further. Needless to say I was done running for almost a month. When I returned to the track in late July I was about back to where I started. I now became slow and methodical in my approach to improve my speed. I have never had a problem with stamina. When September rolled around I began looking for a race in the area that would test my work. I asked my twin brother Jay to come along, and he decided that he would try his hand at the 10K race even though he was not training for races, and had been battling cancer for the last 3 years. However, the cancer was now in check, and he wanted to see what he could do in the longer race. In his day, Jay wasn't good, he was REAL good, winning numerous races. He had always been a better runner than me.

      We showed up early to the race and for a while we were not sure if we would be running in the rain or not. It was sprinkling out, but not enough to make things uncomfortable. The race started out fast. The first mile or so was mostly downhill and I immediately began to pace myself with a pack of runners who seemed to be going about my speed. At the one mile mark I heard a girl call out a time of 6:16. I was elated. If I could maintain this pace I would finish way above my expectations. The trick, however, was to maintain that pace! I was feeling good when we got to the turn at the halfway mark. The 10k runners continued on at this point. I knew that I was going to see Jay on the way back, and was surprised to see him not too far behind me. Was I going too slow? Or was he going too fast?The last mile or so of the race was grueling. As we had ran down the hill in the first mile, it was now time to climb it to the finish. Gee...I hadn't thought about pacing myself for that! I was running with three other guys and we were together on the first stretch of the hill. I was winded, and my legs muscles were burning so I imagined that these runners would blow by me anytime. I waited for the inevitable, but somehow it never happened. Obviously, they had blown their wind also. I even passed a little girl (I felt like a big bully) who might have been 10 or 12 and I felt bad about this, as she had obviously started out real strong. I shouted out some encouragement as I ran by. I was soon all alone on the hill, but I could feel the lingering presence of a runner behind me. One of the runners had not given up the chase! Eventually the finish line appeared as I took the crest of a hill, and I staggered across the line finishing in 22:48! I had cut nearly three minutes off my initial outing back in May.
I was surprised to find that I finished 1st in my age group, 15th overall. Jay came in at about 52 minutes in the 10K. In his day he would have run it in about 36 or 37 minutes. There were plenty of refreshments after the race including all sorts of fruit, and even sandwiches from the local Subway. The awards were nice also. The age categories were in 5 year increments and the top three in each were given medals.

                                            Start of the 2012 H.O.P. Race Morganton N.C.

Race #3
October 06, 2012
Gastonia North Carolina
5K St. Michael Catholic School Run
Finishing Time: 22:03 Overall: 6th/ Age Group: 1st

My next race occurred only a week after the Morganton race. This one was a nice little run through the rolling hills in back of my sons school, St. Michael's in Gastonia. I felt good throughout this race, and ran most of the last half of it alone, about a minute behind the runner in front of me, and maybe a minute ahead of the one behind me. In fact, at one point I could not see anyone behind me or ahead of me, and I began to wonder if I had made a wrong turn. I really enjoyed this race, and will run it again next year if my health permits! Medals were given to the top 3 runners in 10 year age groups.

Race #4
November 22, 2012
Wilkesboro North Carolina
5K Wilkes Family YMCA Turkey Trot
Finishing Time: 19:28 Overall: 9th/ Age Group: 1st

I planned on running in the Spencer Mountain Race a few weeks before this one, but I was feeling slightly ill in the days preceding the race, so I opted out at the last minute. I wanted to get another race in by the end of the month and began looking for one that was being held on Thanksgiving day. What a way to start a day that you know will end with a fine helping of turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce, never mind the apple pie and ice cream after the main course! My wife and son had taken my brother-in-law to Florida, so I attended this race by myself. It was about a 70 mile drive, but it was a scenic one through the foothills of North Carolina where the leaves had turned. My GPS had me pulling into a parking lot of what appeared to be an abandoned building. I knew I was about an hour early, but there should have been some sign of an event. However, there was nothing! Only a foggy parking lot. Had the YMCA moved? I drove a few miles down the main highway and stopped at a petro station to ask directions. A woman behind the counter told me that it was about a mile further along the highway, and that I couldn't miss it. By this time I feared that I might miss the start, hence a 70 mile drive for nothing but the beautiful North Carolina scenery!

     I made it on time. The YMCA appears to be a new building, hence the probable mistake on the GPS. It was bitterly cold but the cold has never bothered me, anyway, I would be warm soon enough after the race started! I had bought a new pair of Asics a few days earlier and had only ran in them once so I was hoping that they were broke in enough. They didn't fail me. This was a fast paced race, and I broke out early with the leaders, only falling back after I determined that their pace was just a little too uncomfortable. Still, I felt great. It was a flat course, perfect for a PR time. The last mile of the course is adjacent to the greenway on a paved surface that resembles an airport runway. It was a little disheartening to see the leaders running about a minute ahead of me, but by god I was flying! I was astonished to see the time on the clock at the finish time registering 19 minutes and some change. Not only was I going to beat my PR time, I was going to shatter it! After finishing the race I met some great people and we engaged in some good race talk! The refreshments were also in abundance. There was plenty of fruit, drinks and power bars, and biscuits to boot. The awards were white coffee mugs. I guess that you can do more with a coffee mug than you can do with a medal or trophy! At least they have a practical purpose. I have also utilized the nice long sleeve shirt that came with the entrance fee. I might try to attend this race next year.

Race #5
December 22, 2012
Mt. Mourne North Carolina
5K Elf Run
Finishing Time: 20:01 Overall: 17th/ Age Group: 2nd

It had been a month since the Turkey Trot in Wilkesboro, and I was looking to run one final race in 2012. I had actually considered running one of the ultra races in Morganton on New Years eve, but after hashing this over in my mind for a couple of weeks I decided that I wasn't quite ready to tackle one of these events. Perhaps if I am still in fit shape next year at this time I will attempt it. Anyway, I scouted around, and found that there was a race in Mount Mourne a tiny community just south of Mooresville. It looked like a decent event, so I decided to sign up and see what happened.

     It was a cold morning. I was only going on about 4 hours of sleep, but since I had already registered for the race, I figured to give it a whirl and drove the 40 or so miles to the event. It started in front of the Mt. Mourne volunteer fire station, and proceeds from the race go to support it. This was mostly a flat course, and I was hoping to better my time from the Wilkesboro race, and perhaps even run a sub 19:00 minute race which I believe that I am more than capable of doing. I started out strong, but my legs didn't feel as strong as they did during the Turkey Trot a month earlier. I am not sure if this had to do with my lack of rest, or perhaps something else. However, I did kick it up near the end of the race, and somehow found a burst of energy in the last half mile or so which separated me from the small group of runners that I had been pacing myself with. When I took the final turn toward the finish I could see the clock at around 19:50 or so. With one last burst of energy I attempted to cross the finish line in under 20 minutes, and I thought I might have done so, but afterward learned that I was clocked at 20:01! Oh well, it was still a great run, and I managed to finish 2nd in my age group. The race refreshments were adequate. There was plenty of fruit which is always a plus in my book. There were even doughnuts for anyone who wanted to take in a little sugar! I love doughnuts, but if I want to maintain a good running weight (135 lbs) I have to exclude them from my normal fare. The top three in 5 year age groups received nice trophies. I would definitely recommend this race to anyone who is looking to end their competitive running year on a fast note. The winner of this race was Anthony Famiglietti, a Steeplechase Olympian who came in at 14:07! This is an almost super-human time. There are not too many people in the world who could have came in ahead of him.

                            Here I am grinding it out to the finish at the Mt.Mourne Elf Run

1900 Olympic Marathon

By Craig: It was a humid July day in Paris in 1900. Thirteen runners from five nations lined up at the starting line inside of the Olympic stadium. It was extremely hot. The temperature, some say, peaking at 102 degrees. For some absurd reason it was decided by the Olympic officials to start the marathon at 2:30 in the afternoon, the hottest part of the day. Why the race did not start early in the morning when the temperature would have been much cooler is not known. The countries that fielded runners for the days marathon were France, Great Britain, Sweden, Canada, and the United States. The field was not lacking talent. The British contingent consisted of the top three finishers of the grueling 54 mile London to Brighton race which had been held in 1899. Frederick Randall had won that race, and he was accompanied at the Olympic marathon by the 2nd and 3rd place finishers from that event, William Saward, and Ion Pool, who at 42 was the oldest runner in the field. The French, of course, being the host country fielded the most runners. There were five Frenchmen at the starting line led by the formidable Georges Touquet-Daunis, and Emile Champion, another long distance standout. The other French Runners were Michel Theato, Auguste Marchais, and Eugene Besse. The American runner Arthur Newton was one of the favorites. He had won the New York Athletic Club's 15 mile race in 1:28:54 to qualify for the Olympic Marathon. Newton was also the youngest runner in the field at the age of 17. Two Canadian runners started the race. Both of these men Richard Grant, and Ronald J. McDonald, however, were running for the United States since Canada did not have a Track & Field team in the Olympics. McDonald was a force to be reckoned with as he had won the 1898 Boston Marathon. The other two runners in the field both hailed from Sweden. Ernst Fast, and Johan Nystrom.

                                              The Start of the 1900 Olympic Marathon

      The marathon started inside of the stadium where the runners were to run four laps around the track  before leaving through an exit. The runners would then find themselves running through the streets of Paris. The first casualty of the race was the Swedish runner Johan Nystrom who dropped out for some unknown reason after the first lap. The twelve remaining runners made a good show of it on the track. From most contemporary accounts of the race, the Frenchman Touquet-Daunis took the lead and led the runners out of the stadium into the Paris streets which were swarming with spectators, bicycles, and other traffic. The British runner, Ian Pool, writing for a Athletic journal after the race describes the mayhem outside of the stadium:

The marathon turned out a dismal fiasco. The whole conduct of the race on the part of the responsible officials, beginning with the tardy date of the announcement abroad down to the smallest details providing, or rather failing to provide, for the convenience of contestants on the fatal day, and the entire absence of precautions to ensure fair play, can only be characterized by the one word "Preposterous" with a capital P. Add to this the non-sporting instincts of the French populace and it will not be necessary to cite fully the details of the troubles that invariably beset the strangers only bicycles and cars for obstacles. At the best it proved a steeplechase, 25 miles is really to far for a steeplechase, but that was with mere circumstance. Suffice it to say that when the three placed men in last year's London to Brighton GAYP found it necessary to retire inside of four miles and Arthur Newton (a well known long distance record breaker in the states), who was unwise enough to finish, took longer than walking time to complete the distance, it shows, it shows that things were very, very wrong."

     Needless to say the three British runners decided that it was a day when they found the unfavorable running conditions outside of the stadium. This left nine runners in the field. Touquet-Daunis led the remaining runners through the clogged narrow streets with the Swedish runner Ernst Fast hot on his heels. After about 12 miles Touquet-Daunis decided that the heat was becoming too unbearable and he noticed a small cafe which he found too irresistible to turn down. He ran inside and downed a few beers. While this ludicrous scene was unfolding, Fast took the lead. What happened next is confusing. The course was not well marked, if marked at all. Apparently Fast took a wrong turn and before he realized his mistake he had lost his lead. It was rumored that a French policeman had given Fast wrong directions which led to the blunder. Be that as it may, Fast never regained the lead. At this point in the race only a few runners remained in the field. At the finish line it was the Frenchman Michel Theato taking the Gold medal with a time of 2:59:45. Champion took the Silver, while Ernst Fast was not to be denied a medal finishing nearly 40 minutes behind Theato to take the Bronze. Only four other runners finished the race. Arthur Newton later made accusations that Theato and Champion had cheated by taking shortcuts through back alleys, and peoples houses. It was said that Theato was some sort of baker's delivery man and was well familiar with the streets in this part of Paris. However, it was later determined that he was not a delivery man at all, but worked as a carpenter by trade.
     
     The 1900 Olympic marathon, if anything, was a colorful event, even if it was poorly organized. It is hard to imagine one of today's runners stopping in a cafe to have a few beers like Touquet-Daunis which would have led to severe dehydration, never mind stomach cramps if he had continued!

Results of the 1900 Olympic Marathon

 

1.    Michel Theato (France)                     2:59:45    

2.    Emile Champion (France)                 3:04:17

3.    Ernst Fast (Sweden)                           3:37:14

4.    Eugene Besse (France)                       4:00:43

5.    Arthur Newton (U.S.A.)                     4:04:12

6.    Richard Grant (Canada)                      Finished,but time unknown

7.    Ronald J. McDonald (Canada)            Finished, but time unknown

8.    Auguste Marchais (France)                 DNF

9.    George Touquet-Daunis (France)        DNF

10.   Frederick Randall (Great Britain)       DNF

11.   Ion Pool (Great Britain)                      DNF

12.   William Saward (Great Britain)          DNF

13.   Johan Nystrom (Sweden)                    DNF

 

 



                                          Race Winner Michel Theato (1878-1923)

             

Arthur Newton (1883-1959)

 

                                                                   Emile Champion

Ernst Fast (1881-1959)

                                                     Ronald J. McDonald (1874-1947)

Georges Touquet-Daunis

Elements of Time: The Crossing Guard

By Craig: He stands on the street corner every morning and afternoon. I have noticed him there for many years. He waves to every car that passes, a mechanical motion of his hand that seems to be perpetually raised. Only the fingers move in response to the passing cars, as he waits for the school bell to ring as it has done in perpetuity for many years from September to June. He is around 80 years old, a rather large man with a healthy weather beaten face. He is spry for his age, and although he is now in the twilight of his life he still exudes a strength that others half his age could not muster. In his day he might have been a man who others turned to when a dangerous situation arose. It would have been only natural, for here stood a man that knew what it was all about. He is the crossing guard.

     When I was in elementary school back in the 1970s, I can remember being fascinated with all of the old junk that was left in the storage room behind the gymnasium. I don't remember exactly when my fancy for things of a bygone age came to be, but it was early on in my life. It might have been the fact that I found it hard to believe that there was actually a time before my existence. Even today I still cannot quite fathom the fact that the world will get along just fine without ME. In fact, perhaps even better, since, after I am gone there will be one less creature consuming the limited resources of our dainty little planet. But, alas,someone will take my place, perhaps two, or three new people will be born the moment that I expire. Anyway, before I digress too much from the subject at hand I will now return to the old junk in the school storage room. If I recall correctly, the school was built in 1939. Why I remember this I cannot say, but I either read it somewhere, or somebody might have told me after I asked, since I use to, and still do ask people when we are discussing the past if they can be troubled by recalling a date. Most of the time the person cannot remember, or gives an approximate date, but sometimes I receive a strange look, as if they are getting ready to tell me "Who cares?" Oh well...anyway, I attended this school from the time I was 5, in 1973, until I graduated from elementary school in 1980. There was 40 years of junk that had accumulated in that storage room. There were old chairs, and tables that should have been thrown out decades earlier. There were boxes of old school books that dated from the 1930s and 1940s that still regarded F.D.R. or Harry Truman as the United States President, and George VI as the King of England. However, the thing that fascinated me the most was an antiquated metal sign that was as tall as a person. It was the likeness of a police officer in his dress blues, smiling, wearing a white glove with his arm extended. He was holding a bright yellow sign that said "SLOW SCHOOL ZONE." The sign was weather beaten, as if it had seen countless days of use in a bygone time. The paint chipped off in flakes and sheets. I wondered when it had last seen use? A decade before? Perhaps two decades? Obviously somebody had made a conscious decision to retire it, but keep it. For what purpose? Why not throw it in the scrap metal yard? Had there possibly been a plan to restore it? And then, like most things, more important issues developed until it was unceremoniously forgotten in the storage closet? It has been 32 years since I left that school. I have never been back inside. Perhaps it is still there, pushed further back into the recess' of the room holding company with a 40 year old mop and bucket, and some old chalk erasers and blackboards.

    There he stands, the crossing guard, who, if I did not know any better was the older version of the vintage sign from my childhood. They look similar... eerily similar, as if the older man had modeled for the sign in his youth. The hand...the friendly smile... aged, but still exuding a remote whiff of authority. I pass by and wave, and smile.

A Sea of Humanity: The Holiday Season

By Craig: The other night I went for a 10 mile run under the lights at the Dallas 1/5 mile track. The sun was an orange ball low on the horizon when I started my run. It was pitch black when I finally limped toward my truck 1 hour, 28 minutes and 13 seconds later. I was starving so I pulled into an Arby's and ordered two turkey and swiss sandwiches which I wolfed down almost immediately. As I was pulling out of the parking lot I had to wait for traffic to pass before I could make a left hand turn. It was close to 7 P.M. so traffic was pretty heavy both ways. As I sat there waiting for a break, a huge SUV decided that I was being too cautious and blew it's horn attempting to get me to panic and dart out into the street to be tee-boned. I looked behind me to see if I could catch a glimpse of the driver of the impatient SUV, but all that I could see was the tinted glass of the windshield. It was as if the SUV itself was making the decisions and it began to take on a personality all of it's own. Was there a driver behind the wheel of this impatient machine? Or was it merely traveling down the highway of life making it's own decisions and pestering the other machines that it encountered during the course of a day? I watched the sea of headlights zooming by in both directions. Each vehicle possessing the shadowy shape of a driver motoring their way to parts unknown.

     The holiday season brings out the best and the worst of humanity. People become overwrought with their lives. Not only do they still have to perform the mundane tasks of their everyday lives, they are now expected to attend social gatherings and office parties. Money becomes short because of the exorbitant amount of it spent on gifts. They are also tasked with trying to keep up with the Jones.' This is something that I have never been able to understand. I know almost nothing about video games but it seems that every year at about this time some new fandangled system emerges on the scene which has been heavily advertised by the corporation who stands to profit from it. Of course, video game companies are not the only ones who profit from this unscrupulous form of capitalism. What? Just have to have the latest phone? New cell phones emerge on the market. Pretty soon people will be so reliant on these devices that they will forget how to use their brains. Probably the most insidious tactics used by big chain stores is how they rake in the kids with their promotions. When I was a kid (many moons ago) there was the Sears-Roebuck Christmas catalog with it's small section of toys for boys and girls. My mother would usually get this catalog sometime after Thanksgiving. We children would devour the toy section until, by Christmas, it was so heavily thumbed by greasy fingerprints that the X's and O's and squares penciled in by my brothers and myself were hardly recognizable. Whether it was Stretch Armstrong, a Shogun Warrior, or the latest talking GI-Joe it didn't matter. Usually we never got anything that was in the catalog anyway, but we were always happy with what we did get. It was the mere thought that we might get it that kept the mystique of that catalogue alive.  These days, however, things are different. The internet and cable television have provided an almost unlimited amount of advertising that reaches our children no matter where they go.

      Of Course, Holiday advertising is nothing new. Stores and merchants have been promoting their wares with an added frenzy around Christmas for generations. I try not to shop at the big chain stores. This is especially true around this time of year when people are trying to find order out of chaos. I was finally able to make the left hand turn out of the Arby's parking lot. When I did, the impatient driver behind me shot around me into the other lane as if to make a statement. I glanced over to see the shadowy image of a soulless and nameless human form propped behind the controls. "You're free!" I thought. You're free of the imposition known as ME who was for but a short time an obstacle in the way of you're journey through life." A short time later as I drove home I noticed another shadowy image of a shabby looking human, holding a cardboard sign, on which, because it was dark the writing could only be imagined.  Free... I thought, who was truly free.

Elements of Time: His Name Was Bob

By Craig: Does anyone remember? His name was Bob. He stares at the camera. He is pensive. His face is hard to read, but he doesn't appear to be too happy. Why should he be happy? Perhaps he knows something that the other three people in the photograph don't know...or don't sense. Something is wrong. Or better put...something is about to go wrong. But he can't possibly know this. The year is 1945... or 1946. I am not too sure. The war is over and life is getting back to normal. Standing to his right is his brother. He saw the blank stare of combat and has survived. He seems resigned, almost happy. His hand rests on the top of the canopied chair that protects his aged mother from the sun. She has been through a lot and it shows. Her wispy white hair blows in the wind which will continue to blow long after the people in this photograph have given up their mortal cares.  Her daughter stands to her left...or right in the photograph. Her face suggests kindness. She is glad to be there with her family. However, she may not know it, but the time is short.

 

          We live a fast paced life. Sometimes we take the small things for granted. "We will always be here to enjoy the fruits of our labor" we might unconsciously tell ourselves as we continue on our course. But time passes in regular intervals. It is fair, but  merciless in it's passage and is not discriminatory. We are mere passengers who borrow a block of this infinity so that we can experience the substance of our universe. We propel ourselves forward on times linear plane. It is but a mechanism on which we ride for a brief interval before succumbing to natures calling. The 17th century French philosopher Blaise Pascal says it best:
"When I consider the short duration of my life, swallowed up in the eternity before and after, the little space I fill, and even can see, engulfed in the infinite immensity of space of which I am ignorant, and which knows me not, I am frightened, and am astonished at being here rather than there, why now rather than then?"

         Time is a funny thing. We humans create an eternal paradise where we will reside forever...happy...blissful, there is no pain here, or evil. There is no mad rush to achieve the impossible in the little time afforded to us on the corporeal sphere. No ridiculous Black Friday rushes for the latest I-Pod. No sickness or disease. No war or pestilence. No greed or poverty.  It is our pathway for beating time. it is a coping mechanism. A device to conquer the inevitable! "Ha!" says Father Time, "I will have the last laugh!"

      Then there is Bob...He stands there hands unseen, perhaps his fists are clenched, like a fighters ready to do battle with the demon that awaits him on the near horizon. Only the shadowy image of his left leg can be seen behind the chair. It is bent, as if some unseen force were tugging at it from the cold earth attempting to pull him into the grave even now. Or perhaps...maybe, he is running from something. Running into the photograph because he somehow, on some level is aware that his time is short. "Hurry up!! Take the picture!! I haven't long!! Don't forget me!!"
His face says it all... furrowed, moth eaten, and already balding at 27 or 28...he will die at 30. His mother follows a few weeks later. His brother a year before him at 33.
He speaks to me even now. Through this photograph and the 5 or 6 other known photographs of him that have somehow eluded the ravages of time. How many photographs were taken of him throughout his lifetime it is hard to say. Perhaps there were hundreds...Now there are 7. Seven survivors clinging to immortality. They are all black and white...the images are distant, blurry, and hazy as if Bob himself were playing a game of hide and seek. "Wouldn't you like a clearer photo?" He asks me. "Yes! I would" I might say, and he would respond with an ironic laugh "So would I, but it has been so long that only a blur of me remains."
I watch as each of the figures in the black and white photograph are pulled into the earth until only the chair remains, sitting silently until a gust of wind topples it over and blows it beyond the scope of the scene. Everything then turns to color and the scenery changes obliterating whatever once was. I hear a voice in my head. Perhaps a vision of some surreal reality that exists only in the deep chasm of the mind. It is calling to me...or am I calling to myself.
"Although you never met me...Don't Forget me!!"
"I won't forget you Grandfather..." His name was Bob.

Goblins, Fairies, House-Spirits & the Imagination

By Craig: The world is full of legends, myths and folk tales that become imbeded in a regions cultural history. In the days of old, people were at a loss as to explain certain aspects of the natural world that they did not understand. They explained these mysteries using the only means in which they had been endowed. They accomplished this through reason and experience. Often times they would come up with erroneous conclusions based on their limited scientific ability. Naturally, they would turn to the spirit world where such mysteries must (according to them) come from. Each culture has its own legends that often times transcend the bounds of reason. These legends do not have to fit in with the corporeal world of mere mortals. They belong to another realm where something greater than mankind dwells. A place where the fragile human is reduced to being a subject of interest, or a plaything for these superior beings. These beings might take the shape of omnipotent Gods like Zeus, or Odin. They might appear as great warriors such as the Irish hero Cuchulainn, or the Sumerian King, Gilgamesh. However, they may appear in a more innocuous form, at least at first, before beguiling the unwary human. Some of these beings issue forth as goblins, fairies or house spirits.

  A Domovoy

     When I was a small child living in the backwoods of rural New England my brother and I would often times form exploratory parties and venture off into the woods to see what we could find. I can still recall the feeling that I would get when I noticed or heard something that I did not yet understand. One time, during the autumn, when the leaves had fallen from the trees in thick, brown,red, orange and yellow piles, I heard a sound close by that I had not previously heard in my short life. It was a creaking sound, as if something heavy was being moved. I immediatly scanned the forest looking for a giant, or ogre who might suddenly appear above the tree tops wielding a large club. I then thought that I heard heavy footsteps crushing the brittle leaves. Even after I finally determined that the creaking sound was coming from a dead tree swaying in the cool autumn breeze I still made leaps and bounds over fallen logs, and boulders as fast as my little legs would carry me back to the safety of our house. My brother, of course, reaching the safety of the backdoor yards ahead of me. I bring this up only to show that the human mind can imagine and invent many things. It can create something out of little or nothing. This is how legends start.

       House spirits have been a part of folklore for centuries. The English house spirit is commonly referred to as a Brownie. In Russia it is called a Domovoy, and the Germans call it a Kobold. Typically, these spirits are guardians of a house, barn, or stable. They are generally benevolant spirits that merely guard the residence and protect it from evildoers. Traditionally, the resident of the house give these spirits an offering of some kind. Usually this is in the form of a block of cheese, some bread, a bowl of milk, or some other edible. There are, however, other fairies that are not so nice, and in fact are associated with mischief of some kind, and sometimes downright terror. There is the Irish Banshee that howls or cries outside of a bedroom window at night. This is usually taken as an omen that the occupant of that room will soon die. Probably one of the most terrifying fairy legends has circulated among the English countryside for centuries. It is a water spirit that haunts the creeks, marshes and brooks of old England and goes by the name of Jenny Greenteeth. This wretched monster is an old ugly hag, usually green and slimy looking with long hair and sharp teeth. It crawls out of the water grabbing unsuspecting children and carries them into the watery depths to an early grave. This legend probably arose from an innate fear that parents had of their children drowning.
"Watch out for Old Jenny, or she'll pull ye down into a watery grave!"

                                                     The Shakespearean Goblin Puck
      
         Goblins have a long history, especially in Europe. There is Redcap who lurks in the ruins of old houses and castles and preys on the unwary traveler who might cross his path. His cap is suppose to be dyed red in human blood. Probably the most famous of goblins is the English, Puck. Puck resides in the forest, and often times makes mischief by raiding farmers barns, toppling things from shelves, and opening stable gates. He makes an appearance in William Shakespeares play A Midsummer-Night's Dream.

Puck: Fairy, thou speak'st aright;

           I am that merry wanderer of the night.

           I jest to Oberon, and make him smile

           When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,

           Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:

           And sometimes lurk in a gossip's bowl,

           In very likeness of a roasted crab;

           And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob

           And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.

  
   Another well known goblin, or fairy like creature comes from either a German, or Dutch legend called Rumpelstiltskin. A certain miller brags to his king one day that his daughter can weave straw, or hair into gold. The king imprisons the girl and threatens to cut off her head if the room she is in is not filled with gold by the next morning. The girl, of course, does not know the secret of alchemy, however she is saved by the sudden appearence of Rumpelstiltskin. He emerges from the shadows and agrees to fill the room with gold if the miller's daughter gives him her ring. She readily agrees, and the next morning the room is filled with gold, much to the satisfaction of the greedy king. The king then  demands that she fill the room with gold again or lose her head in the morning. If she succeeds he will marry her. Once again, Rumpelstiltskin comes to the rescue. This time, however, he demands that she is to give up her first born son to him as payment. She agrees, and the next morning the king returns to see more gold, and keeps his promise by marrying the girl. Some time later, the girl has her first born son, and Rumpelstiltskin returns for his payment. She refuses him outright, but he swears revenge. He tells her that she can keep the boy if she can find out what his name is within three days. She sends a spy to the goblin's cottage where he is seen dancing around in his parlor repeating a chant.
                                Today I'll brew, and tomorrow I'll bake.
                                And the child away I will take.
                                For little knows the queen.
                                Rumpelstiltskin is the name!
Rumpelstiltskin returns to the queen and demands his due, but she shocks him by divulging his name. He becomes so mad that he stomps his feet on the ground causing a great crack in the earth where he falls in never to return.

     Rumpelstiltskin was one of my favorite stories from my childhood. It brought out the imagination, and I would often believe that I would meet up with a goblin-like character on one of my forays into the woods where the Nipmucks had trod centuries before. Perhaps I would even enter into a fairy circle and join them in a dance, never to return to the world I knew. Of course, the circle that I encountered was nothing more than a whirlwind, turning the crisp autumn leaves into a funnel in which I soon entered...It was the whirlwind of youth, a time when you could enjoy the freedom of imagination.

    

                (A Fairy Circle) From which it is said that if one enters one may never return.

 

     

    

 

     

     

     
    

    

    

    

A Certain Encounter: Spiderman 1977

By Craig: It was the news of the week. At least it was for a couple of 9 year old kids during the late summer of 1977. What was it? Was it President Jimmy Carter signing over the Panama Canal to Panama? Maybe death of the king of rock and roll, Elvis Presley? Perhaps it was the launch of Voyager II, a satellite that would eventually visit the gas giant planets of the outer solar system in the following decades? No...it was none of these things. In fact, these newsworthy events, at the time meant practically nothing to Craig and Jay, two brothers who anxiously awaited the arrival of one of their heroes. We had seen the sign in the window of the local bookshop. In big bold letters it read:

"Coming Saturday at Book Corner! The Amazing Spiderman!"

   Noon until 3:00 P.M.

 

 

     I don't exactly remember if these were the exact words that were boldly printed on the advertisement. It has been over a third of a century, but the effect that this notice had on me was electrifying. Spiderman? from the Marvel comic books, coming to our little town? Actually, he was coming to the next town which was a little bit bigger than our town which was only able to boast of having one gas station, but still...he was coming. Of course, even at the age of 9 I knew, as did my brother, that Spiderman was a fictional character coming from the imagination of Marvel creator Stan Lee. We had quit believing in Santa Claus the previous December when our 12 year old uncle, who we now refer to as "The Great Dane" broke the heart wrenching news to us by using some simple arithmetic to prove to us that it was impossible for ole St. Nick to visit every house in the world in one night. In fact, the logic was so absurdly simple that I can remember sitting there stupefied, wondering why I had not previously thought of it. So, we knew that the Spiderman that was coming to Book Corner that Saturday afternoon was just a regular guy dressed up to look like the superhero. Still, for some absurd reason we felt compelled to go.

 

 

     My son is the same age now as I was on that Saturday afternoon back in the late summer of 1977. Yesterday, we took in the new James Bond movie, and afterwards we walked over to the Books-A-Million so that I could get a cup of coffee. While I was enjoying my cup of Joe, my son was fishing through stacks of old comic books that had somehow found their way into the store. They were $1 a piece and I noticed that he had picked out three of them. He showed me an old copy of The Avengers which I thumbed through while he went through the other stack. Marvel Comics...suddenly I was transported back to 1977. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. my mother had pulled the puke brown Pinto into the parking lot of the Stop & Shop where the little book store sat wedged in the strip mall between a package store and a pharmacy. A crowd of about 100 people had gathered around a pickup truck, mostly kids about our age with a parent who waited anxiously for the arrival of the hero of the hour. My brother and I ran to the scene where we took a spot somewhere along the outer perimeter of the crowd which was bustling with excitement. Suddenly, a meek, emaciated figure in a spiderman costume emerged from the bookstore. He walked over to the pickup truck and began signing a few comic books for kids. "Was this it?" I thought, with disappointment. This guy was a joke. There were some chuckles and snickering while a few people in the crowd left shaking their heads in disbelief. What did they expect? Did they expect a grand entrance...perhaps he should have come swinging down from a web from the top of the building into the back of the pickup truck. Would this have met with peoples absurd expectations? A few hecklers in the back of the crowd began making jokes at the expense of this sad excuse for a spiderman. This went on for a few minutes while the gaunt looking fellow in the Spidey suit continued signing autographs and talking to some of the younger kids who in no way questioned the legitimacy of his identity.

"HA! HA! look at this guy!"

One of the hecklers had become blatantly rude and obviously felt no compunction about relating his sentiments to the onlookers in the crowd. At this point, I could only see the top of Spiderman's head. However, I noticed that the head had suddenly turned from a downward position where it had been concentrating on signing autographs to a position where it now scanned the crowd. The murmur in the crowd began to die down...almost, as if there was some unconscious inner feeling among them that something of great magnitude was about to happen. And suddenly, something did happen. The sickly looking man in the Spiderman costume was soon standing in back of the pickup truck. I was unsure of how it happened, but there was a transformation of sorts. The man in the Spiderman costume stood up to his full height. His bearing became one of strength and fortitude. Standing in the back of the truck he towered over the crowd around him, making everything around him appear small. He was meek and emaciated no more. Muscles bulging from his biceps and chest.

YOU!!!!!!!!

Spiderman, yes, Spiderman, not a guy in a costume was pointing toward the rude heckler.

"If you don't like it you can leave!!!"

The crowd was silent. The heckler, a burly looking young man with a stubble of beard, perhaps in his early 20s, stood looking dumbfounded. If this man had been asked to speak at this time, I seriously doubt anything would have been able to issue from his mouth. Spiderman stood there for a minute glaring after the heckler who meekly shuffled away from the scene of his humiliation. A cheer arose from the crowd, and soon every kid there was mobbing the webbed hero shaking his hand and getting his autograph. The seeds of doubt, erased for the moment anyway, for nobody, at least on this day, denied the authenticity of this man's identity. He was Spiderman.

 

      I found myself back in the present day, sipping coffee and watching my own son thumb through the piles of comic books. Time has a funny way of making things seem irrelevant. 35 years have now passed since my encounter with Spiderman. That same week Voyager II left the Earth headed toward the outer reaches of space and the unknown. It is now approximately 9 billion miles from the Earth, or twice the distance from the orbit of Pluto. If left undisturbed, it should pass by the bright star Sirius some 296,000 years from now, long after all memory of anything related to Spiderman or myself is eradicated from the face of this planet.

 

 



Shot From A Cannon

Shot from a Cannon

By Jay

Several weeks ago, my brother and I attended an event in the foothills of North Carolina that was hosting a 5k and 10k run.  He had been training for 5k’s and so chose to run the shorter race, and as for myself…  Well, I decided to try the 10k to see how my old legs would hold up.  I have always enjoyed running, more so for the way it makes me feel rather than the competitive side of the sport; however, I have had my fair share of races over the years.  I suppose I could lay some claim to have been rather fast in my distant past, and even as late as four years ago I could post fairly competitive times in my age group.  These days, it’s a hit or miss whether I can even finish a race!  Plagued with health problems, I feel fortunate that I can still get out there and engage in this activity that has given me an inordinate amount of pleasure since I was nine years old. 

On this particular cloudy Saturday morning as my brother and I lingered within the crowd of runners preparing to run our respective races, I couldn’t help but notice a very fit individual dressed in a bright yellow dry fit shirt doing sprints to limber up.  He leaped forward several times from the starting line as if he were shot from a cannon, surged maniacally forward for about forty meters, turned on his heels, and trotted back casually to his former position on the line.  I gazed rather muddily upon the rest of the runners, including my brother and myself and said, “This race is a foregone conclusion.”  They may as well just put the winners medal around his neck and be done with it.  Of course, there were probably only a handful of the runners present that day who perhaps entertained the notion that they could seriously win the race.  Most were running for the simple act of finishing or posting their PR for their respective distances.  As for my part, I had no idea why I was running except that my brother had suggested it.  I hadn’t been training 100%, though not for lack of trying.  One health related issue after another had hindered me from making any progress so that as I was standing there in the crowd, my goal was simply to finish the race in a respectable time without killing myself.  If I could still walk with a somewhat steady gait after I finished, I considered that would be a successful run!     

And so, the gun was fired and off we went, “yellow dry fit” surging forward as expected, my brother moving out at a quick 5k pace, and myself settling in at a comfortable, relaxed 10k stride.  I watched as my brother gradually increased his distance until finally, he disappeared around a bend in the road.  “Yellow dry fit’s” pace seemed supernatural to me  --  phantom-like.  He seemed to have disappeared entirely, as if he had been sucked into some vortex.   I knew I would see him again because the 5k and 10k course was a turn-around.  The cone for the 5k was roughly 1.5.5 miles up, and the cone for the 10k was about 3.1 miles up.  The first runners I saw were the 5k people.  A young guy in a black shirt was way out in front.  Then came a group of about three or four.  My brother was a couple of minutes behind them (He ended up finishing first in his age division.).  As I passed the 1.5.5 mark, I began to wonder when I would see “yellow dry fit”.  Yes, when I saw him…  Because there was no doubt in my mind that he would be leaps and bounds in front of his nearest competition.   

As I ran, I passed the time thinking, The sooner I see “yellow dry fit”, the closer I’ll be to the halfway point in this thing!  I love running, but it can be quite taxing on the body, especially when you are not really conditioned to run any faster than a jog!  Though I was not running fast (for me), my pride would not allow me to jog, so I was essentially running faster than I should have been.  And my pace had now become just a little bit more challenging than comfortable!

At last, I saw a yellow jersey in the distance!  He was charging towards me at a furious clip on the opposite side of the trail.  He pumped his fist with encouragement at one or two runners who were in front of me, and then it was my turn! 

We both pumped our fists and shouted simultaneously,  “GOOD JOB!”  or something to the effect.  And then “yellow dry fit” was gone.  POOF!  I was on my own again, breathing laboriously as my long, stiff legs plodded on and his were carried by the wind of Mercury on to certain victory. 

One day, however, “yellow dry fit” will be like me.  He will no longer have the spring and endurance that enabled him to cause me to question his mortality on this particular day.  His legs, once loose and supple, strong and fast, will eventually begin to crack and creak, and his aerobic capacity will have waned to the point where his once iron lungs will have rusted away.  He will perhaps, be in my situation, gazing with admiration at a form superior to his own, a future quicksilver who will pump his fist and cry out,  “GOOD JOB!”  And he will remember the time when he was the best and the fastest, and which caused at least two who were present that day to remark with awe as if he were shot from a cannon! 

The End

 

 

Jules Verne: Master of the World

By Craig: "It is an Earthquake!" "It is an eruption!" "Whence comes it?" "From the Great Eyrie!" Into Morganton sped the news that stones, lava, ashes, were raining down upon the country...
So writes the great French author Jules Verne in his book Master of the World published in 1904. Actually, this is a translation, as Verne wrote in his native tongue which happened to be French.

     Recently, I had a visit with the "Great Eyrie." Verne's model for the Master of the World's secret hideout was Table Rock, which rises 4,000 feet at the eastern rim of the Blue Ridge mountains in western North Carolina. I live only a hop, skip and a jump from the "Great Eyrie" which has stood for eons waiting for me to behold it's majestic sunrise. I  had crossed the Blue Ridge from Tennessee, and found myself sitting in a corner booth at a roadside mom and pops, dawdling over a cup of steaming coffee and waiting for my french toast. The place was half empty, but the regulars had gathered in a mass at a long table a few feet from my own. Most of these regulars were older, retired men who seemed to enjoy the camaraderie of their own kind. Politics was the topic of the day, and I could not help but eavesdrop on the conversation. Some of the men merely sat there listening to their friends spout off their limited knowledge of national and world events. One of the biggest talkers was a rustic looking, lanky fellow with a pot belly and a giant, red bulbous nose that looked remarkably similar to one of those fake ones that you might find at a dollar store.
"That ole Obama ain't no Christian, I tell yuh, he one of those Muslims"
Another giant of a man wearing bib overalls and a red ball cap like uncle Jesse on the Dukes of Hazzard agreed with bulbous nose, and added "If he's American why don't that rascal show his birth certificate?"
The waitress soon appeared with my plate of french toast, and refreshed my nearly empty coffee cup. My mind drifted from the old timers racist rantings to the "Great Eyrie" Perhaps this planet needed some "Master of the World," some Klaatu type character that would come down in a spaceship and land outside the White House. Perhaps, in some manner known only to them they would purge this world from all hate, evil and greed. Then again, more than likely, they would land here, make a cursory assessment, and determine that this world was beyond all hope of saving.
"Sorry Earthlings but you guys just ain't worth the effort."

                                                              The Great Eyrie
    
      Sometimes I daydream of being my own "Master of the World." How could I, a mere mortal of average intelligence, claiming very little talent in anything, except perhaps an uncanny ability to call up dates and years from my memory, save the world from itself? When I was a kid I  envisioned myself as a Lone Ranger type of hero. I would travel around the country seeking justice, punching out villains and saving helpless women from the clutches of evildoers. I would become a hero with insuperable abilities. Often times I would act out these fantasies by either  play acting, or with a pencil and paper, sometimes even creating cartoon characters. The heroes of these early writings were usually nothing more than different personas of myself. They were sketches of a fictional self that only existed in a mind that wandered precariously on the fringe ridges of reality. When, indeed, I one day came to the full realization that life was not a storybook I lapsed into a period of disillusionment. Perhaps even today I still feel the residual effects. There is a fine line between reality and fantasy. I am no Lone Ranger. I know that now. I am more apt to be punched out than do any punching out.  Oh well, such is the stuff of life.

"A cry leaped from his mouth, and was heard amid the shrieks of the tempest and the howlings of the thunder. "I, Robur! Robur!-The Master of the World!" Jules Verne

I was awakened from my musings by a cackling voice.
"I don't know about that dang Romney," said bulbous nose,  " he's a dang yankee, but I guess he's our only hope of savin our country from them socialists. Ole Sean Hannity thinks so, that's good enuf fer me!"
I had to smile, sitting here listening to these simplistic, moronic conclusions based on other peoples rhetoric. At least I still possessed my own mind. Or, at least I think I do. I am the Master of my own world, though that world exists only in the cavity of my thoughts.
     

                                                       Classics Illustrated
                                          Jules Verne's  Master of the World

The Cynicism of Hamlet

By Craig: Although I am not a huge fan of Shakespeare, there are a few of his plays that I have found myself reading over and over again throughout the years whenever time permits. Richard III is one of them, probably due to the fascinating and somewhat enigmatic character of the main protagonist. Hamlet is the other play that I keep returning to. There is something mystical, and timeless about this play that exalts it above all others in the Shakespeare canon. Perhaps it is the image of Horatio, Bernardo, and Marcellus encountering the ghost of Hamlet's father on the castles ramparts. "Speak to it Horatio!" Whatever it is, it remains one of Shakespeare's most revered works.

 

                                           The Ghost of Hamlet's Father (Henry Fuseli)

     The story of Hamlet Prince of Denmark has seen many varied interpretations over the years. It is the behavior of his character that has caused much controversy, and is often misinterpreted. Hamlet was not a suicidal madman as he is often portrayed. He was a misanthropic cynic that acted on his passions when confronted by the ill-treatment and gullibility that he received from those around him. At some points in the play, Hamlet may have acted with selfish intent, but for the most part his actions were wholly justified.

     The first signs of Hamlet's cynicism appear when the king and queen are inquiring about his melancholic disposition (1:2). King Claudius appears uneasy by Hamlet's attitude, probably for fear that Hamlet will find out that he was the one who murdered his father. He has good reason to be fearful, for Hamlet would find out soon enough. Claudius attempts to cheer the depressed prince up, but Hamlet would rather question life itself. Hamlets first soliloquy (1:2) sets the tone for the rest of the play. he is deeply suspicious of human behavior, and is even ambiguous of his mother's motive for marrying Claudius so soon after his father's death. he seems suspicious of everyone, even Horatio,his old friend,who appears before him shortly after the king and queen depart. Hamlet is glad to see Horatio,but assumes that there has to be a reason for Horatio's visit, and that visit is not merely to socialize. Hamlet is correct, and Horatio soon reveals his knowledge of the ghost.

     Although Hamlet is a suspicious person by nature, he accepts Horatio's story of the ghost. He believes Horatio and Marcellus without having actually observed the ghost himself. this attitude gives compelling evidence to the fact that Hamlet is prey to the passions of things that he desires. it is probable that if Horatio had come in and told Hamlet that he had seen the ghost of Hannibal of Carthage instead of his father, that Hamlet would have derided him for being a fool. Misanthropy and cynicism seem to converge on Hamlet as he is suspicious of Polonius who he treats with contempt and disgust (2:2). Hamlet is asked by Polonius if he knows who he is, Hamlet replies, "Excellent well, you are a fishmonger." Hamlet has questioned the man's honesty. Polonius is too daft to understand Hamlet and is confused by his remarks. Indeed, it is obvious that the younger man is more sentimental and philosophical than the older Polonius, when he tells him "Ay sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand." Hamlet's misanthropy and cynicism are plainly seen in this statement.

                                    David Garrick (1717-1779) as Hamlet

     Hamlet's conversation with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern is another good example of his deep suspicion of the human motive (2:2). He talks of the world being a prison, and it is readily obvious that Hamlet is suspicious of both these courtiers. He finally calls them on his suspicion, and he is immediately told a lie. At first they deny that Claudius has sent them, but Hamlet persists and they eventually concede to his correct assumption. He then delivers a pessimistic view of humanity, and concludes with, "man delights not me no nor woman neither." Hamlet's famous soliloquy "to be or not to be" is often thought by scholars like Northrup Frye to be the "kernel of the play." It is also thought to be a speech on self destruction or suicide. However, Hamlet is not suicidal, and this is evidenced near the end of the play when he is dying. Hamlet is merely contemplating the state of death. Hamlet's cynicism runs deep in this soliloquy, and he questions life's motives and there seems to be a duality conflict in his mind. Samuel Johnson the great lexicographer and philosopher did not believe that Hamlet was mad or suicidal when he wrote:
"Of the feigned madness of Hamlet there appears no adequate cause, for he does nothing which he might not have done with the reputation of sanity. He plays the madman most, when he treats Ophelia with so much rudeness, which seems to be useless and wanton cruelty,"
Hamlet possess' a cynical outlook and at the same time a desire to meet his personal needs and wants. He is in no way mad. If anyone is mad in this play it is Claudius. He murders Hamlet's father for no other reason than the lust for power. Hamlet kills Polonius believing him to be Claudius, and it was therefore a murder of revenge. This is a natural response that even the most tame men in the world have sometimes contemplated. If someone were to murder a member of your family, after the initial period of grieving, the next natural step would be to seek revenge, or justice for the murder. In Hamlet's mind, the killing of Polonius, though not premeditated, was justified. Claudius, in murdering Hamlet's father had carefully planned this foul deed and, therefore was definitely an act of madness.

     There are other instances of Hamlet's cynicism that have been falsely labeled for being suicidal tendencies, or acts of madness. G. Wilson Knight in his essay on Hamlet is one of those who believe that Hamlet is cruel. Hamlet is not cruel, he is only defending himself in the only way that he knows how. If it appears that Hamlet is cruel, and that cruelty borders on madness, it is only because of Hamlet's cool reactions to the way people are treating him. Claudius is attempting to control everybody by coercing people into believing that Hamlet is crazy. Claudius has convinced Gertrude that her son is mad, and has succeeded in manipulating Polonius into spreading this false notion. He has even subtly convinced Ophelia, through Laertes, and Polonius that he is mad. Knight says, "That Hamlet is cruel for he murders Polonius, though he did so thinking that he was Claudius." Knight also refers to Hamlet's misuse of his own mother when Hamlet says, "Ay, but to live. In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, stewe'd in corruption, honeying and making love over the nasty sty." It is probable and extremely likely that given the same situation, a mother marrying an uncle a few days after a father's death, and then finding out that the uncle had killed the father, that most people would react the same way as Hamlet.

     Hamlet's alleged madness is spread even further by Claudius through the two sycophants, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. (3:3) Claudius has drawn up orders that will send Hamlet to England. Hamlet is aware of Claudius' scheming and realizes that there is a conspiracy against him. it is at this point in the play that he breaks into a soliloquy. he affirms his cynicism and natural suspicion of human nature. However, we see another side of Hamlet, one that is sympathetic. He is about to approach his mother and reveal the news of his father's murder to her, when he says, "Let me be cruel, not unnatural, I will speak daggers to her, but use none. my tongue and soul in this be hypocrites." Here, Hamlet admits being cruel, but is he really being cruel? Or is he merely acting on his nature? He says, "Let me be cruel, not unnatural." Hamlet has every right in the world to be mad at his mother. He is full of suspicion and doubt. She is most certainly a gullible and naive queen. If Hamlet were really cruel and twisted by nature, it would surely show by his actions. He would kill his mother for betraying him, and kill Claudius outright for the murder of his father. Instead, Hamlet gives his mother a good tongue lashing, and the killing of Polonius is done in the heat of the moment. He has plenty of opportunities to kill Claudius, but he chose not to do so. Hamlets conscience bothers him throughout the play. While he is praying, Claudius is spared an ignominious end when Hamlet sneaks in and observes the hypocrite in meditation. Claudius is unaware that Hamlet is in the room, and confesses to his brother's murder. Hamlet could have killed him at this time, but instead lets him finish his prayer. This is convincing evidence that Hamlet is not mad, but in complete control of his faculties. If Hamlet was crazy, he would have killed the king on the spot. Instead, he rationalizes the folly of this would be impetuous act. Hamlet believed that by killing the king in prayer, he would send him straight to heaven, instead of the eternal bonfire that he hoped would be his fate. Let God be the judge!

     Hamlet seems to have acted with unnecessary cruelty only once during the play. It is his treatment of Ophelia. (3:1) Hamlet tells her to place herself in a nunnery, after Ophelia has been cordial to him. There seems to be no rational explanations for his actions here. He does not believe himself to be acting with cruelty, only that he is once again acting on his passions. Hamlet can never be misconstrued for being reserved in his nature. He is definitely outspoken, and it seems that offending someone does not bother him in the least. Hamlet can be rightly accused of lacking tact. He even has the audacity to curse Ophelia by telling her, "If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shall not escape calumny, get thee to a nunnery." This seems to be an isolated incident, and can be seen as a quarrel between friends. Ophelia is the victim in this scene, while Hamlet shows the duality of his nature.

    As the play nears it's end Hamlet seems to become more cynical of life in general. More than once he ponders it's purpose. A good example of this takes place in the graveyard, (5:1) wher Hamlet is shown the skull by the gravedigger. He is told that it is Yorick's skull, the king's old jester. Hamlet is fascinated by this, and breaks into a tirade about the futility of existence. Although he ponders over death, he is acutely aware of his own mortality, and seems to be resigned to this inevitability. Hamlet's obsession with death is more a fascinating curiosity than an actual longing for that eternal state. It took the death of his father to actually impress upon him the mortality of the human species. At this time in his life he is full of suspicion, which inevitably leads to misanthropy. He thinks nothing of dumping the corpse of Polonius in the hallway in the castle. To Hamlet, Polonius might well have been an animal's carcass rather than a human corpse. His disgust with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern leads to their demise on the open seas. hamlet regards these men as mere interlopers that get in the way of his means to reach an end. In these two scenes it might seem that hamlet lacks a conscience. he is portrayed as an unfeeling brute to the people around him. Hamlet's anger is what makes it seem so, and his anger is a direct result of his cynicism. Hamlet is a complicated individual. He is a misanthrope that becomes more skeptical of the human motive as the play nears it's end. Hamlet's story has been open to many interpretations in the four hundred years of it's existence. However, one thing is clear. Hamlet is no madman. Rather, he is a desperate man coming to terms with death and the issue of his own mortality. His behavior during the play is merely a response to the actions of others.