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