I can think of no word better suited to the task of describing the past two weeks than “fraught.” Your nation is vast, and teeming with an array of peoples and images almost overwhelming in their relentless demand for one’s attention. In particular, the sheer quantity and variety of illustrated arms and ankles makes me dizzy. I simply do not understand tattoos, no matter how often they are explained to me. Sons and Daughters of America, your form is the medium through which your spirit effects change in the world. It is not meant to serve as a canvas upon which your spirit passively paints symbols of self-praise. Also, your familiarity with the smoke nymph Mary Jane breaches propriety. She is a temptress! Be wary of her falsehoods!
Forgive me. It is neither my wont nor my place to be so critical of customs which remain so resistant to my understanding. I’ve been out of sorts of late.
Events in Cair Albuquerque did not transpire as I had envisioned. The rumour that lead me there had made mention of an Antlered Zebra whom I had hoped was the White Stag poorly disguised. But alas, no. The Antlered Zebra, as it happens, is its own thing, and to the same degree that the White Stag is temperate and centred and articulate (or so I have heard from trusted sources who gained his acquaintance under more favourable conditions than I) the Antlered Zebra is full of speechless hostility. I bear the marks to prove it.
Dazed, I lay on the side of the High Way, blotting the blood from my scalp with the palm of my hand, when an automotive drew up beside me. A Human who called himself the Pink Man helped me to my feet and offered to bear me in his carriage to the nearest healer. I declined, knowing that my injuries were not as dire as they appeared, but suggested that I would appreciate a ride in his automotive nevertheless. The wind in my face might aid in the collection of my wits, I said.
The Pink Man appeared disappointed at my failure to provide him with a definite destination; he seemed in desperate need of one. To divert him from his own dark thoughts, I engaged him in conversation as we drove without aim. I shared with him some of my recent travails, and he in turn told me a lengthy and tragic tale about a Human called Mr. White who rules Cair Albuquerque from the shadows. As his tale went on, my excitement grew.
“I am not from Spare Oom, as my lower parts may have indicated, but I too lived in a land held in the cold grip of one who went by the name White. And she too preferred manipulation and cunning to direct confrontation. And this blue… mess?”
“Meths.”
“These blue meths. Are they not Turkish Delight in a different form?”
“Sure.” The Pink Man drummed the spoked steer-wheel arrhythmically. “Yeah. You party?”
“My brethren do engage in revels on lunar occasions, but my temperament is more retiring. I prefer to heed the counsel of my upper half as much as possible.”
This is the only portion of our conversation I can transcribe honestly and in full without blushing. The Pink Man frequently employed a descriptive noun (without cause, merely for emphasis) which I find offensive on behalf of all Daughters of Eve. But underneath his vulgar bluster he was a gentle soul. I felt such affection for him that I took this picture of us together.
http://img546.imageshack.us/img546/2440/pinkmantumnusperfect2.jpg
Whenever I take a picture of myself it looks as if I have been clumsily cut out of an entirely different photographic and supplanted onto a new one, with a facial expression rendered ridiculous by the displacement. Even your cameras can sense that I do not belong here. I must return to Narnia!
Tonight I dine upon Cool Ranch Doritos. The packaging asserts that the contents contain zero Trans Fats but I believe this to be a distraction, for there are so many things other than Trans Fats that could be in there.
I intend to enjoy them. And so begins my quest to be less down on Spare Oom.
I enjoy relaxing by the fire with a hot cup of tea as much as the next Faun, but if these are the forms your anxieties tend to assume, perhaps something stronger is in order? Might I suggest lorazepam? Or gin?
This is a very good tale with which I'm sure many among us can identify. You've made mention of a novel in progress in the past, Mr. Hotspur. I do not think I'm alone when I express my wish that you finish it.
Dear girl, you were never alone in your sadness. When you looked back and saw only one set of hoofprints in the sand, that was when I was carrying you. And when you saw two sets of hoofprints, those were the times when I loaned you a pair of hoof-shoes to make walking across the damp sand a bit less inconvenient. I do not remember what was going on when there were three sets of hoofprints. It's quite possible that I was in my cups.
I fear that Ms. Anabelleeppling is one of the many who have fallen through the manifold cracks in your education system. It fills one with gentle sorrow to see the promise of youth unfulfilled, but let us take heart in this case, for she seems to be offering us advice (if I understand her correctly) and an honest concern for the welfare of one's fellows is a far more precious gift than literacy.
I did not mean to put myself across as a paragon of the attitude I advocate. It's hard and usually seems pointless, and I fail at it far more often than I succeed. But it's something I strive for and it seems worth striving for because, while it is certainly idealistic, I honestly cannot see any other way to traverse your world without driving myself mad with frustration and rage. I am not suggesting that one should make ignorance more comfortable for the ignorant. One's time is not infinite and one shouldn't waste it on those whom one feels are irredeemably lost in the fog, if only because one is less likely to find them if one believes this to be true. Sometimes it's best to respond to ignorance with laughing indifference, or indulgent nonchalance. While it's often tempting to reply with a scathing witticism, to prove that one is above the conditions imposed upon the dialogue by one's fellow interlocutor, sometimes accepting these conditions and working within them leads to the greater good. One term for this standpoint is Appeasement and it didn't work out for England too well in the nineteen o'thirties, so yes, there are some very convincing arguments to be made to the contrary. But the crux of my argument is this: what other path through history has even the slightest chance of working out for the best?
I have already stated my very simple and I fear simplistic opinions on this topic up above, so alas, there is nothing left for me to contribute here, but I must say I do enjoy Mr. Delahaye's recent willingness to mix it up with the monsters in the comment section. And I have found this entire conversation quite useful, in that it has challenged me and helped to clarify my position on the subject in the solitude of my own mind. Everyone in this micro-thread has been given an upward thumb by me.
This is a good point well-stated and I must apologize if my remarks seemed to make light of racism. It is a problem, and I do believe that even superficially harmless stereotypes are a part of the problem, in that they provide fertile soil for the more harmful breeds of racism. It's possible that I have chosen the path of non-confrontation not because it is the most likely to lead to societal change, but because it is the most compatible with my own nature. And it is even further possible that everything I believe is mere self-justification for my innate tendencies. I'm afraid I have no argument to refute this. But when I look around, it seems to me that just as seemingly benign stereotypes allow racism to flourish, negative reinforcement can provide an environment in which ignorance proliferates indefinitely. A truly ignorant person is not going to be swayed by yet another smack on the hand. In all likelihood they have a lifetime full of hand-swattings behind them, and mayhaps that is what has made it so desirable for them to live within the self-limiting cage of their preconceptions and to view so much of what lies outside that framework as undesirable. Perhaps the truly ignorant person cannot be reached by any amount of good will but I choose to believe otherwise because that way lies hopelessness. The connection may seem tenuous and hyperbolic, but one cannot help looking at your nation's recent wars and coming to the conclusion that in the long term things might have turned out better if the situations had been approached as a complex tapestry of micro-problems requiring finesse and understanding to untangle rather than a single macro-problem solvable with bombs. At some point the cycle has to end, for better or worse. I prefer better, and I believe that the solution must begin at the micro level.
And while I very much appreciate the warm sentiment, my dear friend, you don't have to state that you're a fan before disagreeing with me. It's okay to just disagree with me. I'm a big Faun. Well... a big enough Faun.
I get this a lot. When I'm in my cups I've been known to respond with, "I'm half goat! Whaddayathink I am? Obviously I am your Human Devil!" A discourteous reply, but it shuts my inquisitors down.
There is no doubt that it's frustrating to hear the same ignorant questions repeated over and over when the answer is so obvious to me, to the point that I have considered carrying a pitchfork and attaching little paper flames to the ends of my horns, purely out of spite. But I have been trying to see the questions as founded in ignorance rather than true malevolence, and to cultivate within myself the philosophy that understanding begets understanding. It takes more effort in the short term but in the long run it is far less exhausting than holding onto resentment. And, as an added bonus, I get to think of myself as the bigger person. Or Faun, as the case may be.
I don’t understand how this movie that has yet to be brought into being can communicate through Tweetings, while the souls in Youtube will not reply to even the most basic of questions. Furthermore, does a movie or a video possess a spirit distinct from those snared within its frame? To use an analogy: much as a fish can be held in the flowing form of a Naiad, does a Telenymph rush like water from one video to the next, briefly embracing the bound souls before moving on? And if so, is it the lot of these Telenymphs to bring momentary succour to the denizens of Youtube or are they the orchestrators of the entrapment? Must I watch these Vainglorious Bros in their Entourage movie to uncover the answers I seek? Spare Oom is cruel indeed.
I so enjoyed Mr. Delahaye’s humourous rage this afternoon that I neglected to breathe life into the Youtube girl by tapping on the glass with my pointer. Now that I have done so, I must concur that it is quite distressing.
I don’t mean to criticize… but in Narnia we don’t have corporations or corporate synergy or people who act as if they are hollow vessels through which nebulous corporate abstractions achieve their desires in the physical realm. Our abstractions have the common courtesy to take physical form themselves. It is much less confusing that way. What of the White Witch, you ask? Yes, it is true that she could seem fair and kind when her purposes dictated, but her semblances were transparent to anyone with any discernment. Don’t get me started about Edmund.
You have come very close to perfecting the art of seeming here in Spare Oom. Please don’t take offense, my insubstantial friends, but is that really a good thing?
On a side note, all the souls trapped in Youtube make me quite despondent. Doomed to repeat the same actions over and over every time someone taps the glass, like fireflies trapped in jars who beat excitedly to be free, only to fall still when the tapping ceases. Are they happier when they’re dancing for our enjoyment or when we leave them alone with their own thoughts? I have asked them this question several times but have yet to receive an articulate response. In the event that I do receive such a response, I will report my findings directly.
I too have been under a dark cloud of late. In happier times, I found solace in attending to the little things, the trivial comforts of home and hearth. A good book, a cup of tea, pleasant company.... But there are times when one feels adrift and even these unquestionably good things can seem hollow and of little use. When one's first priority is keeping one's head above the waves, everything is measured, classified, and kept or rejected according to its buoyancy, and of this property a silver tea set holds very little to none at all. This can be disheartening and numbing if we let it be so. But if we trust that there is a purpose to our suffering, it can also reveal to us the things that keep our hearts full and allow us to expand so that we bob merrily atop the waves with no need to grasp at floating debris.
Although I would very much like to have my old tea set. I could rest it on my stomach as I bobbed. I've heard that dolphins are very entertaining conversationalists.
Be well. No winter lasts forever.
Today I heard that the White Stag was sighted on the outskirts of Cair Albuquerque so across the entire span of your nation I must trek yet again. Ever since he caught me up in his antlers and we leapt through the magical wooden door, I have found myself stranded in Spare Oom. I tried to return the way we came but was not quick enough and he smashed the door with his hooves. “Look,” I implored him on my knees, “I didn’t know you were a talking beast. I would never have given your whereabouts to the Kings and Queens of Cair Paravel if I had. I will do anything to make recompense for my grievous error. Now please, my dear, unjustly wronged friend, let us return to Narnia.”
“Why didn’t you just ask?” the White Stag said. “What kind of Faun tries to get someone murdered – “
“I say, murder’s a bit much – “
“MURDER!” the White Stag screamed. And then, with an impatient toss of his head, he leapt through a window and was gone.
I admit that I wronged him but murder? Even the Human known as Morrissey, who I understand has some very strong views on this subject, would understand that at worst I was indiscreet. I’ve written him – and, for good measure, his fellow Smiths – several letters arguing my case and although none have responded yet, I’m certain it is only because they are very busy. I picture them nodding in silent agreement as they read them. In front of their roaring fires, with a cup of tea perched on the armrest as they munch their cakes….
I must return to Narnia! The White Stag is bound to grant my wish if only I catch him and this latest lead is, I believe, a red hot one. This internet café smells like my lower half when I neglect to bathe. I have tarried too long here in Spare Oom. It is beginning to bring me down.
Pray that Aslan’s breath carries me to my goal, my dear and charming friends, and may you too someday find release from the sparkling window in which you are held.
It is said that when Aslan was shorn, his golden mane turned dry and yellow as it fell to the ground. None knew what became of it after that, until now: this Spectre gathered it up and fled with it back to the shadows. And look now, it wears the brittle mane upon its head. Do not be deceived, my friends. This is a false Aslan.
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