Hidden Monuments

In Ireland, in the county of Clare, in the small town of Carron within the heart of the Burren rests, in the shade of some plants to short to be called trees and to tall to be called shrubs, rests a hidden place.  This shady area is behind the hostel, close to a cow pasture.  There are no paths in it but those made by the trees and animals who live there.  It is completely unremarkable in almost every way.  It is home to many small monuments, made by people, eager to leave their mark on this small piece of land.  Simple stacks of rock, miniature cairn's or recreations of Stonehenge. 

There is one in particular, made by a young man.  He made it to honor someone he knew, in the hopes that this small deed would bring a piece of them to the land, and communicate its beauty and serenity to them across the vast distances of the ocean.  They could not be with him in any way but thought and heart, so he created something for them there.  It is constructed of the rocky shale common to the area.  The base is a tripod of these rocks standing supporting one another, while another larger flat rock sits atop.  Two more rest on this, forming a point.  It, like the place, is unremarkable, and only this young man would be able to tell you why its there.

How many other places in the world have the hidden markings of people.  Not the statues or pillars that typify memories laid down in metal and stone.  The great hulking constructions made to enforce remembrance.  The small ones, with no plaque or historian to tell you its' meaning.  They were put there for one person, a symbol of something only they felt in that time and place.  Are there small markers like these in every forest, every place where humanity hasn't encroached fully?  Does every person have a place to go, where they have inscribed arcane runes of an indecipherable nature or created a masterpiece of their heart for no other reason than to have a secret in the land?  I think people do, and it isn't a footprint in the sand, saying MAN was here.  Its our desire to have a secret, a piece of solitude that only we know about, and can never be elucidated by another person.  A private section of the world, devoted to our individual peace and tranquility.

Magical Intellect

"Why are you so smart?" I've heard people ask.  Time and again, pepole demand to know the secret of beign smart.  What makes an individual intellegent?  Some people think some are born smart.  Others say its hard work and dedication to learning.  But everywhere I go, a common theme among those that ask the question, with wonder and mystery in their voices, is that being exceptionally intellegent is like magic.  they treat it as an otherworldy power.  As if there is a machine that hooks up to your brain and downloads information to it.  To see and think beyond the given front, extrapolate extra information and tease out hidden implications out of data is something akin to a paranormal feat. 

You can hear the same tone of voice in spectators at a magic show, or people watching for UFO's.  Intellegence is alien to these people.  Why is it that the process of becoming smart is seemingly linked to the unknowable or unacheivable?  I have encountered people with mental abilities that I simply don't have, musicians, sports fans, chess players.  All these people can do things that are near impossible for me, but it isn't unfathomable that they CAN do them, or how.  They hear, see or think about the world in different ways from myself.  They grew up valuing different kinds of information, filled in gaps in the world using that information in a differenc capacity from me. 

Its a problem of our culture that being smart is anathama.  We all know about the nerds bullied by the jocks, but its more than that.  People are taught that if they aren't smart, that they won't be smart.  The idea that there will always be sopmeone better than you has been perverted to mean something different than originally intended.  It doens't mean not trying, or allowing yourself to be overtaken by other intellectuals.  It means that there will always be someone you can turn to for help, and can help in turn.  That learning is a cooperative experience, and you will always have something to offer. 

And to answer the question that everyone contiually asks.  What makes someone smart?  It isn't genetics, or dilligence, or even books that hold the secret.  Its contiually asking questions.  You have to ask questions to get answers, and with enough parctice, you learn just the right question to ask.  You can shape the problem your trying to solve around what you know, frame the question to yourself in a way that calls on all you know about the world.  The better you become at asking questions, the easier it becomes to answer them, the more you learn.  Its a cycle that is simple to perpetuate within yourself, but difficult to begin.

Fiction

In a valley, which rests at the bottom of a modest mountain, there was a village.  It wasn't a place of magic.  It didn't spawn legacies of heroes.  It was not the seat of a great crime empire.  It didn't even have vast mines or wealth.  It was wholly unremarkable in every way.  The people who lived there didn't think this, but ask anyone else and they'll tell you its not important.  That is if they've ever heard of it.

The people who lived in this village however, knew that it was a place of magic.  That heroes did live among them.  And it was a wealthy place.  Their children born every year, who grew up battling monsters, showed the adults the magic of their imaginations.  The miller who single handed saved the village from starving by sharing his grain was one of their heroes.  Or the silversmith who made the beautiful rings for handfastings at no profit to himself, just because he loved love.  Their village was filled with people who knew and cared for each other.

One day, a child was born who was unlike any other child.  His parents were just like the other villagers, and they loved their boy.  They were no better off or worse than any other.  He did not possess amazing gifts, could not conjure fire or float things with his mind.  He was different, because he was bored.  The monsters and villains the other children summoned for play did nothing to amuse him.  So he grew up mostly alone, occasionally trying to play with the other children, but to naught.  His parents figured that he was either a little simple or he would grow out of it. 

The time of apprenticeship came and the boy could not decide what he wanted to learn.  It was traditional for children to apprentice with their fathers, but some had in the past taken other paths.  At a young age, the boy confessed to his father that he though the profession of a miller, which his father was, was boring, and his father wouldn't subject his son to that.  He didn't have the temperament to stay in one place for very long, so most of the other apprenticeships were out as well.  In fact, it only left the trappers, and they all said he was to loud to be any good.

Luckily, the boys family had a feeling something like this was going to happen.  So, with much reluctance and shame, they gave the boy, still young though old enough to start out on his own, some money they had saved, a good pair of boots, and directions to the city.  They hopped the sites and sounds would keep him entertained even as he found work.  So they found him a teamster who was driving part of the way there, placed him on the wagon, and said goodbye.

They have pills for that now you know?

There is something about madness, insanity, crazy-people what have you, that is practically endearing to us as people.  There are characters who are so crazy, they know they're insane.  Their own mental instability pains them, drives them to hold on to anything that makes them seem normal.  It makes the heart weep to know that they will never be healed, there is just a recursive spiral of hope and failure.  They want to be right and good, but they cannot for the life of them manage it.  The schizophrenic who exiles themselves, or multiple personalities that are barley contained.  Or what of the one who wears their instability like a cloak, wrapped up and safe in madness, giggling and running towards the darkness.  They know they go the wrong way, but it is their right way.  The ones who delight in the new bazaar worlds you can see within.  There is almost a magic in being able to embrace it, to see beyond to real world to the imagined and the hidden.  There is even an idea, of a person who is so sane, they are crazy.  Their grip on reality is so tight and unyielding that they break it into tiny fragments that can be recognized as sanity, but will never be reassembled. 

Insanity.  It's a well documented disease stemming from a variety of chemical imbalances, brain damage, or psychological imbalances.  But it's almost as if its catching.  Everyone, at one time or another, has thought to themselves, "I must be crazy."  I personally prefer to be described as mad.  It's said that the people who don't question their sanity are the truly crazy, but I disagree.  I think everyone is crazy, you'd have to be to put up with some of the shit we do.  I think the people who are to afraid to admit their imbalance are the dangerous ones, because they only grasp at the veneer of sanity and rationality without actually looking close enough to see the flaws.

I have often times toyed with loosening the hold that reality has on my mind.  By depriving my mind of sleep, I am able to change everything about me, simply by changing how I perceive the world.  I find it exhilarating to look out at the world from my own eyes and see something completely different and alien.  People pass by as shapes of consciousness, with effable goals and drives.  Trees become magical fractal constructs of life and creation.  Birds fucking FLY!  There are magical things and mysteries under every rock and within every bole.  The world's majesty is there for us to but open our eyes.  And while our eyes are surely open, and we see and navigate its tremulous corridors, we do not peek in the alcoves at its hidden arts, to busy are we at rushing through it.  We run, blind to the wonders it holds, just hoping that it wont all collapse on us before we get to the end.  But the end, is it.  So stay a while and listen to the music the reverberations play, and watch how the birds fly.  Maybe at the end of the day, we'll actually see all the real worlds.

Being Human

Sometimes, figuring out how we relate to other people is difficult.  We're surrounded by other people day in and out, through the magic of the Internet, our phones, even just walking out the door, we're buffeted by the morass of humanity.  Socialization is truly a process that continues until death, as we have all encountered those times where we have no idea what to say or do.  Another person comes, beseeching something from us; using the multi-variate tools of communication, double or triple meanings, body language, gestures and facial expressions, but never out right saying what it is that they might want.  It's as if expressing it steals something from the game.  We as the receiver have to guess correctly, because being given the answer cheapens the experience on both ends somehow.

We've all seen the games played.  In the eyes of lovers searching your face, hoping to convey just what they are hoping for, or friends asking for help by pushing away or acting strong, but never actually asking.  Its painful because you know that there is something that you can say, a panacea to assuage their grief or heartache, but it is beyond your ken at the moment.  I've even seen it in reverse.  The most horrible person, able to show love and kindness to a small child, to take away anothers' hurt.  Con men use it all the time, their words hiding the guilt and evil, until the moment your grandmother gives them her social security number.  These things aren't outside our realm of imagining, because they happen in and around us daily.

Sometimes, I equate existence to a never ending struggle to figure out my own niche.  An experience that is both interwoven into the tapestry of humanity, while simultaneously being cut apart.  Sometimes you know just what to say, and the people will love you.  Other times you know the things NOT to say, and manage to muddle your way through the rest.  Rarely, you think that you know the password to anothers' heart, but it actually locks you out forever.  I think these are some of the most confusing moments, when you know there is something riding on it, celestial betting is heavy on the outcome, and you feel the pressure of the odds at your back.  You take that deep breath and blow on the proverbial dice of your words, but once they're gone, you can see it's gonna land snake eyes.

Pensic

I am "home" from my vacation.  Though it isn't really coming home, its leaving home.  SCAdians everywhere know what I'm talking about, but most mundane people won't get it.  Just imagine a place so serenely beautiful and relaxing, inviting you through its gates with open arms and massive smiles.  Everyone there, from the lowest commoner to the High Kings strive to their utmost to be paragons of honor and hospitality.  But more than that, all the ancient gods, Jupiter, Hephaestus, Horus, Baste, Thor and Tyr permeate the very soil.  I am driven to walk barefoot so the ground can work its into my feet, so that I can walk on Pensic ground well after its over.

About midway through the first week, I returned to camp after a poor night out.  I was disheartened, and dwelt to much upon past misfortunes.  I reached the common area of my camp, and found it empty, the fire pit filled with coals.  I took a seat, lit a cigarette, and stared into the dying fire brooding.  As some minutes passed, the dying fire lifted itself, and a new flame lept among the crushed remnants of the logs.  The moon, waxing in the sky, was not yet full enough to give much light, so this new flame was startlingly bright.  Fire is in many myths, a gift from gods to man, so I took this as an omen.  On a dark night, a dying fire reached out for more fuel.  It was Loki's hand if I ever saw.  A bargain was struck, I fed the fire wood from the pile, and mead from my still full mug, and promised to seek mischief this Pensic, in return for respite and some happiness.

I preformed acts of guile for which I was neither caught nor punished, plotted future pranks, and minor evils, and dallied in dark corners.  It was a good Pensic War.  But it is over, and I am back to the realm of technology, and I find it hard to adjust to a world of shoes and shirts, pants and PDA's.  I long to spend more time in the cool shade drinking mead, or walking barefoot amongst the merchants hawking their wares.  I want every War to be better than the last, and I strive to be a better SCAdian for my clan and kingdom.  It is odd to talk of fealty when I have none in my more conservative life, but it is a strong pull, and hard to ignore.