Pygmalion

Pygmalion built himself a girl

and perfect in all ways was she,

with shapely silent marble lips

and eyes that gazed on only he.

A goddess saw the sculptor's heart

and as a gift brought breath to her,

but it could not have been too long

before he knew what he'd prefer.

For Galatea had been his,

the only woman he could own -

the only woman he could love

was but a woman built from stone.

The woman had a mind and thoughts

and she could speak them as she pleased.

Her hands could touch the things she liked

and now her feet could walk with ease.

Pygmalion feared she'd walk away

and leave him if she had the chance -

for certainly, if she were free,

she would not choose him for romance.

No other mind had chosen him,

no one could love this sculptor's soul.

He thought to chain her if he could

and keep her thus in his control.

But over time he learned to love

and learned to trust his marble bride,

for they did quarrel now and then

but never did she leave his side.

Through freedom Galatea loved

but her Pygmalion could not own

yet when she was his to possess

her very heart was only stone.

Storytelling Exercise: Dwarf Story, Part 3: P'kin Explains

P'kin laughs. "I'm not really going to kill you. Calm down. You're just stuck here til morning. Or you could try to walk home, but I hear the city is dangerous to walk this late, alone. So relax and I'll tell you why we've yet to be discovered by anyone besides you." He takes his own whistle, now finished, and waves it in my face a bit to show that he really did whittle mine so quickly. He then places it in his pocket, leans back, and suggests I get comfortable.

"The luck I have, to be in one of the few stations that does not run twenty-four hours. I have no chair. Are you going to whittle one of those too?"

He looks confused for a moment, and then stands and gestures like a gentleman at his seat. "Milady."

"And then where will you sit?"

"I am a dwarf. Does not your lore tell you how comfortable we are with the Earth? I will sit on the ground. It is not so damp over here as it is down that way. You may mind it, but I do not."

I sit in the chair in the alcove, and he settles onto the ground outside it, where I was standing before. "I don't like to believe everything in lore," I say. "While it also speaks of your folk as skilled craftsmen, which is evidently true, there are conflicting pieces of lore regarding your people's size and temperament. Why should I believe any of these things, without seeing for myself?"

"Fair enough. Know this, then - we do like the Earth. We live under it, actually, or many of us do."

"Many? And you chose to tunnel from the subway, and somehow managed this without people seeing you? Nothing is making sense."

"Then, Dinah, let me make it make sense. You have made the assumption that this bit of tunnel has existed for a very long time. It has not, and it is incomplete. You have also made the assumption that we tunneled from the subway. We have not. We tunneled from where we live underground, over to here. We were hoping to keep the wall between us and your subway system for just a while longer, until this tunnel is truly complete, and looks more like a proper dwarf-tunnel should. But I confess, I saw no danger in letting a fellow whistler find me. It seemed better, anyway, than to drive you away and let you alert the news-folks about this place."

My head spins. "But what do you and your people want with us? For that matter, where are the rest of you? Where is the rest of the underground? This tunnel, as far as I have seen, has no way of entry besides the way I came in, and ends rather visibly just past those lanterns."

"Ends? My dear, that's a door."

Extra Post: I Found Me At A Crossroads - A Poem

I happened to get inspired. The Dwarf Story should return on Saturday.

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I found me at a crossroads, and I had two ways to choose
It seemed each had its own to gain, but one had more to lose
And each one had a guarding man, who knew his road quite well
I thought it best to take the time, and find what they would tell
I tried first he with kinder eyes and face that was clean-shaven
"Sir, tell me, does this road you guard lead to some kind of haven?
Or misery, or challenges, or happiness, or friends?"
He smiled kindly, saying "I've not seen yet how it ends,
But I like this road, so straight and true; I find the work exciting.
No time for love, I'll grant you that, but it never seemed inviting."
I pressed for more, but he said less, so closed-off was he now
So kind yet so impersonal, he frightened me somehow.
So then I asked the other man, with earrings and a beard,
"Sir, tell me, what is down your road? The normal or the weird?"
"Why yes," he said, "and more than that; I've seen so many things,
The road meanders senselessly and I take all it brings
I've driven in a chariot, befriended large and small
I've loved, I've lost, I've worked, I've taught; I fly before I fall
There's much to see and much to do. I'm always entertained."
"Is it dangerous?" I asked him. "Yes of course!" Then he explained,
"I've been shot and stabbed and poisoned and I've twice been hit by cars,
But that's alright - the danger never makes it very far,
And I keep walking onwards, like I've always done before.
I'm beginning to believe this road will never reach Death's Door."
I thanked him for his time and I stood still to contemplate
For neither seemed ideal, and I did wish my choice could wait
I asked the men if somewhere else another road did lie
The first man handed me a map and then he bid goodbye
The second handed me a sword and said, "The road is free
To the traveler who makes it his - or hers, as it might be."
So I set off with sword and map to find what was ahead
To take the road or make the road - the road I chose instead.

Storytelling Exercise: Dwarf Story, Part 2: Dinah's Whistle

The dwarf is comically similar to the sort of dwarves and trolls I've seen in classic European fantasy art, so much so that I can hardly be surprised at his appearance, nor pretend not to know what he is.

"You're a dwarf," I say.

He smiles, and clearly cannot even pretend to be offended. "Aye, my dear, that I am. And you are a human. A human, and alone. My whistling tipped you off?"

"I heard a voice. Then I whistled, then you whistled."

"Ah yes. It is because of you that I am whittling this. Well…" He gives a few more touches of the knife to the whistle. "…have whittled is more accurate. It is for you, that you may whistle louder, more melodiously, and more accurately. Not that you are a bad whistler, but that if you enjoy it so much, you ought to do it even easier."

I take the gift he is offering and examine it. It is beautifully crafted of some sort of dark, thick wood, with a place to put a string through and several holes so that I may make a multitude of sounds.

"I thank you. This is beautiful. You made it very quickly indeed, if what you say is true."

"Would you like proof?" He opens the top of the school-desk and removes a chunk of the same wood. "I'll make myself a matching one, as we chatter. Only, let me make some quick adjustments to yours, so they aren't mixed up." I hand my gift back to him. He takes a leather string from the school-desk, puts it through the string hole, and closes the desk. "What is your name?"

"Dinah."

"Could you spell it? That is no dwarven name, nor an especially common human name."

"It isn't that rare, either." But I spell my name, and as I do, the dwarf quickly carves each letter into the side of the whistle, in strange and lovely script. He hands it back to me. Before my second thanks has left my mouth, he is already whittling the other piece of wood, and it is already resembling a whistle. I never knew such thick hands could move with such dexterity.

"So you know my name, dwarf, but what is your name?"

"I am P'kin. That is spelled with an apostrophe, and I am very much considering putting an 'i' in its place. I would like something more easily pronounced by you humans."

"P'kin. I am already used to it after one go. You needn't change a thing. Do you expect to be encountering many of us?"

"How difficult was it for you to find me?"

"Not that difficult at all, but presumably you've been here a very long time without being discovered. Unless you kill or kidnap everyone who comes down here."

"You seem awfully unafraid for someone who believes that to be the truth."

"You have given me a whistle. If that were the truth, you would be a very stupid kidnapper indeed, for I can call for help."

"You have already missed the last train. The only folks left in the subway are the bums whom nobody would miss."

My heart beats faster at these words, for I am typically cautious, not courageous. At best, I am stuck here until morning. At worst, he really is going to kill me.

Storytelling Exercise: Dwarf Story, Part 1: Into the Tunnel

I am walking through a tunnel under New York City. I didn’t know it was here; I don't suppose anyone did. I thought I heard a voice through a crack in the wall of the subway system, and when no one was looking, I moved the bricks aside, as they were unexpectedly loose. I move cautiously through, using an LED keychain flashlight to help me see. The walls are brick for the first thirty to fifty yards, but suddenly and irregularly turn to walls of dirt and stone. I listen and hear dripping, not very far off. I cannot see light at the other end of the tunnel. I walk farther until I can hardly see the light behind me, and still there is no sign of the end. I whistle a tune - the echo is far away. A small voice calls from the location of the dripping. I need to hurry; I mustn’t miss the last train home, yet I want to explore, and save the voice if there is a person in trouble. I walk faster, towards the dripping and the voice. I whistle again, feeling it is more innocuous than speech if someone dangerous resides here. Someone whistles back. The tunnel twists suddenly to the left, and as I peer down it, a lantern is lit, above. The ground, which has been hard soil and stone until now, is moist where I stand, and forwards of me. It seems the tunnel slopes downwards. I shine my flashlight ahead, take a few steps, and lanterns suddenly light on the ceiling, one by one, for about half a mile – where the tunnel appears to dead end. I turn off my light and place it in my bag. To my left, I see a wooden door, oddly shoved into an oddly-cut alcove. Cautiously, and with a whistle, I open it – to find a fairy-tale-style dwarf sitting at a stolen school-desk, whistling and whittling a whistle.

Mercenary - A Poem

I wrote this poem while I was a counselor at Youth Camp this summer. I haven't posted it yet, and I would like to share it with you now.

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Mercenary

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The Prince, advice for despots, gives a word for hiring swords
Hire not one mercenary, for they'll take no man as lord
They will fight for any creature that provides them with a wage
They should not be trusted - this is what is written on that page
But the Enemy I know is a strategic one indeed
He will hire any fool to make the Christian soldiers bleed
And few mercenaries ever become loyal to his cause
But he keeps them his by way of chains and claws
Oh, at first it seems he'll pay a prize of stately size and weight
And he'll tempt you with some smaller sins, so you'll accept his bait
So the Devil gains a soldier, though the man is not aware
Is he loyal? Well, the Devil does not care
For the smallest sin is helpful to the war against our God
Which is why the Devil's method seems to us a little odd
"Go ahead," he says, "and try be good, it matters not to me,
I still will gain by your hypocrisy."
I quit your camp, O Prince of death, yes, hereby I resign
I long instead to fight for only He Who Is Divine
My service ends, I'm finished here, I'll do no more for you
No, not alone, but Christ will make the words I say be true
I will not be your mercenary, Enemy, I will not be
I take my sword and leave you, Satan - I have been set free.

Portrait of a Floridian Autumn

The high temperature today is eighty degrees Fahrenheit, which means jeans and a long sleeves or I'll be chilly on the way to class, especially if I walk in the shade. I have lived here too long to find weather in the seventies warm anymore. But, it is delightful. It is perfect. After a few weeks of regular rain, heat, and humidity, the air is completely breathable again and has been for a few days. I hold my breath daily waiting for it to cease, for the sun to become painful again, for the air to gain its signature Floridian moisture and stick awkwardly to my skin so that I am relieved to be indoors. It hasn't happened yet. It will. It is only early autumn.

The moment the weather starts to cool down after a relentless summer, I start thinking about Christmastime. Soon, the temperature will stop its inevitable teasing fluctuations and stay truly cold for a couple of weeks. I'll be able to wear gloves and scarves and boots all the time. For now, I'll stick to sweaters and flip-flops, or t-shirts and fuzzy socks. Odd combinations for odd weather in an odd location.

The trees are staying stubbornly green, of course. Around December, a few will unenthusiastically turn orange, and I'll still wonder why the others don't try. It is hard now to believe that there are worlds to the north where nearly every tree bursts into the colors of flame, dropping leaves for adults to rake and children to crunch. I have seen it, I have lived in it, and it is still hard to believe because it has been so many years.

I won't pretend that autumn here isn't nice. The flowers last a lot longer here, and the weather can be delightfully surprising, alternating between warm sun and cool breeze. Since the rain has become far less frequent, we live under a sky of dauntingly endless blue. We still have Halloween, Thanksgiving, and the new school year - all very important staples of autumn. I just wish the seasons would be a bit more obvious; I am not a fan of their of subtlety.

Portrait of a Downpour

Very occasionally, and usually only in rare moments of near-silence, am I aware of exactly how badly my ears are bombarded by sounds throughout every day. I am sitting now, at my desk, with no music playing, looking out my window and watching the rain fall hard on a courtyard devoid of people. Current sounds include occasional voices from my roommates on the other side of the apartment, and the light and beautiful sound of the rain itself. It is as close to silence as I am likely to get.

The air conditioning just came on. Another layer of background noise. The rain is lovely enough to make it easy to tune out. It falls harshly on the magnolia tree that is just outside my window, but the tree hardly takes any notice. It is a straight-down sort of rain. There is no noticeable wind and no battering of windows. Drops fall from the leaves of the magnolia tree, slowly. Many more drops fall quickly from the sky.

The world is greener when it rains. The sky is pale gray, and the tree trunks are dark brown. This version of the world is loathsome to most people, but the world is cooling off after a hot-sun day. I am glad it is a silent sort of rain, with no wind, no thunder, no noise - just soothing. I am glad it is a constant sort of rain, and has been going for some time, yet every moment I fear it will stop - I enjoy it.

View From An Airplane

I must admit I love flying. At sufficient altitude, one may peer out the window and catch a glimpse of heaven, too much light for the eye and too much beauty for the mind, a sea, a land, a world of clouds, all lit by the unfettered sun and lying beneath an indigo sky.

How I wish to dance upon that ground that wouldn't even slow my fall, to sleep within that seeming-snow with all the substance of a sigh. It is only a dream, an illusion; at best it is a hint at what may lie beyond this life. I squint against the sun, across the monochrome savannah, half-expecting to see the mirage of a village on the horizon.

Eventually the plane tilts, and the captain brings us all down to Earth.