Saturday, May 30, 2009

Shades of Stonehenge

The ravens conspire atop these megalithic ruins—they definitely know something. They’ve seen something, or perhaps their knowledge has only been passed down by oral tradition through the years. These black shadows, which swoop from monolith to monolith—and sometimes to nests wedged in cracks beneath cross-stones, which bridge the towering slabs of rock—are the sole survivors in a race of witnesses. No human knows what they know, what has transpired here.

There is a green magic about this place. Though much is ruin, enough remains to cue one’s mind to what it used to be. The east side’s outer wall stands with three bridging stones on top; the next inner ring (there are at least three concentric circles in all) is composed of stone slabs which are about half the size of the outer towers—that is to say, still twice my height—then there are two spires that are only as thick and tall as me. As I walked through it, that is to say, the main gate—which the sun pierces at the high summer solstice—I felt moved; I have no idea why, or in what way. I’d forgotten the wonder I had for this place when I was a dreaming boy, until that abrupt moment.

Not a flock but a horde of ravens emits a living cacophony of shrieks as one traverses the tunnel that is yet a hundred yards from the henge. It brings to mind dark incantations of druidic rituals, and I muse that maybe these are the shards of spells once heard by these birds’ forebears, that now live only in the ravens’ lore. The way it echoes in the tunnel is so eerie that for a second I actually seriously wonder if they were involved, or still could be. The sun is still not up, though there are predawn rays.

I step out of the rings to survey the stony ruin, now broken into mostly solitary obelisks, again. The ravens continue their surveillance but their watchful cries are drowned out by a new noise. It is the noise of screaming, primal energy; it is constant, and it is power; it is the raw roar of power. For half a second I turned to see what it was, and had I not, I do not know if I could have recognized sounds from a freeway sloped down to me. When you looked at the henge it didn’t sound the least bit mechanized, or intelligible. It was the sound of pure energy, that, despite being intangible, was somehow apprehended by the senses. The power rushes in to answer the summons to this place: it is like water deep in the earth, and Stonehenge is the earth-power’s well. I feel it is being drawn.

I return to the great circle, reflecting on what once had been. I sit next to one of the smallest monoliths, pondering the aura about—and especially the magic within—this place. I notice a single, sable feather in the dewy grass. I consider fingering it, then instinctively look up and see the dark sentinels, not unaware of my intentions. One presiding obelisk stands taller than all others—it was once co-ruler, but its crown and mate have long since fallen. Now they’re broken at its feet. A stone of sacrifice lies near the innermost circle. The epicenter is rough grass, strange and short-shorn between the stones. The stones too are witnesses; and though they are mute, perhaps they know more than the ravens, for they were the very observers. They were there.

The dawn has come, and now the primal roar from the nether fields, broken incantations from the black-winged priests, and a rising ray have pierced the henge to its very center. A throaty hum emits from something deep within the rocks, or maybe the earth. I whirl from stone to stone, seeking its origin. Cries grow shriller, and the ravens flock to the center, spitting curses, bloody curses. Their shrieks and blackness mix with misty light from through the eastern arches; the energy streaming in from all directions, through the arches, draining the earth, almost seems to power these cries into a shadow o’er the stone of sacrifice; yet there is no shape to shade it, nor does the shadow lean on the rock—it hovers in the air. The materializing shadow is pulsating now; it is an ethereal blackness, though transparent. There is a shape to it. I recognize it. A cowled, menacing, cruel cloaked figure—it is a Druid.


I retreat to before the stone where I’d been sitting, but the sounds roar from beyond the circle stones. Spirits rage through the curving corridors, trapping me within the sanctum. I recoil, aghast—pillars rise to former places; missing stones shimmer into reexistence; the two great pillars are reunited, and their immortal crown returns. The Druid smiled in dark satisfaction as awful power and dismal glory rematerialize: Stonehenge was reborn. Then, though the storm of screams continued unabated, a frigid voice pierced mortal blood. The Druid spoke to me.

“My summons is nigh unto complete. And YOU, son of blood and dust, will be the first to face the Fate. Unluckiest of your kind”—here it laughed, convulsing with sadistic glee—“If you cannot defy the unbridled fury of the earth, Our rule will be restored to this world. Again we shall reign from here, from this, Our ancient Throne of Stone. ”

The rasp of its immortal mind assaulted my inner thoughts. My soul was desolation, the world beyond the roaring henge, oblivion. Only a few words in answer required almost all my courage:

“Why me?”

“You are the unlucky one. Every thousandth year the fairest virgin is drawn here, drawn to die at dawn, or defy the earth—this or all the earth will pay.”

Then It grudgingly added,

“Incidentally, your race has never looked better.”

I conceded it graciously, then declared,

“Well then, I shall defy the earth. Let it be now.”

“So be it, mortal. Now,” it continued, “BACKFLIP!”

I was standing amidst the innermost stones; my shadow lay upon the altar whereon other beauties had once been slain. My muscle bulged and burst sleeves; spirit steeled and unknew fear; eyes squinted and pierced time. Rum thing—in retrospect, it was funny—I don’t think the earth was truly against me. She must have claimed me as her own, for as I channeled my thoughts, nether energies convalesced in my corpus and I became pure power overwhelming.

“If I die,” I thought, “this was a good day to die. And if I do not, why then, this was a rad day not to.”

“You bad, cracka, you bad,” mused the Druid, while his head grooved like a voodoo hobbit from MGMT’s “Electric Feel” music video (or maybe an extra from “Renegades of Funk”).

My outstretched arms rose until my hands had traced an arc perpendicular to the trail of the sun, and as my hands touched, all of Earth’s power thundered through my fists and I exploded into the pure Platonic form of backflipness—it was, as if for the first time, known to Earth.

Stones screamed and creation roared—the Druid with his hardcore frown nodded His otherworldly approval—and my feet erupted into a volcanic reverse arching kick, THE Backflip, and I landed levitating on the air an inch above the ground.

“Boom-shuckalucka,” said the Druid, still wearing his sneer of badness.

I nodded curtly in response, “Yeah, Bass.”

“Yeah, Bass.”

“My man.”

(Backhanded Peace Sign + Approving Sneer Back)

“Be cool.”

Then he moonwalked into the mist.

May humanity ever produce such breakdancers, and such backflippers—such heroes.



This is not my story. This is the story Stonehenge told to me. The last thing it showed me was this camera, mostly overexposed to pure awesomeness, which recorded the last half of the single most epic move known to mankind—the backflip that saved the earth. View it well, for it was this that inspired this story.



Tuesday, May 12, 2009

England is Blue

Mmmmmmm, just wanna tell ya bout that hurt deep down inside. I's (it is) gonna be comin in real soon...




Here in England, in a hotel with ten kids, just wound up singing the blues on camera, which moved me to start this. It also includes a harmonica debut, live, without training.




Peace be unto you,




Bentley







(round one of the blues was not recorded, so it doesn't all make sense)


Saturday, May 2, 2009

Arthur's Seat



Behold the glory of Arthur's Seat--an eminence not far from Edinburgh.Sometimes, professors are irreverent.
The hike was great--our first of many. I used my chacos for the first time: they had been recommended by many, but it was Greg Littlefield's voice which cemented my trust of their worth. I actually scrambled up the side of it barefoot for awhile, because I thought it was something William Wallace would do, and I bet it's where he did it.

The view from the top, looking down on Edinburgh. Great view of Edinburgh Castle.
I squinted for one last look at the front entrance.
Then harder to view into a little chapel from the 8th century or something which was around the sweeping, swirling stone road down from the keep, to review my favorite stained glass window I saw that day:
Our group bonded. Katie Pitts and I were both Chacos novitiates, so we frequently did "chaco checks," to see how we were holding up. Katy A also began being noted as awesome in Scotland as we hiked up, and she was witty.




Friday, May 1, 2009

Edinburgh Castle and Scott Monument

Come on, come on big guy -- gettin some love from Scotland










From the sweet vennels we saw lovely things like the Sir Walter Scott monument, the biggest monument to a single writer in the world, "created to represent the esteem in which he was held by his contemporaries, and to show the gratitude felt for him by Scotland," or something like that. He revived Scottish culture almost singlehandedly after their final war for freedom was crushed at the Battle of Culloden in 1745. Kilts and bagpipes were almost nonexistent, but Scott grew up on the border of Scotland and England, and he heard the old timers tell their tales of both the war and the true Scottish culture. He romanticized it so movingly that after his Waverley novels rocked the world and established the historical fiction genre, which eminents such as Victor Hugo and Leo Tolstoy wrote their magnum opei in (forgive my unwieldy latin: greatest works, I mean), that the world fell in love with Scotland so much that through it she was reborn.

As you can tell by this gallant lads face, Scotland is no place for mamma's boys.
The high keep in Edinburgh Castle is this: a monument to Scotland's fallen in World War I. The phrase over the inner entrance simply reads, "Lest we forget." You should read the "Beware of Pride" talk by Pres. Benson--that line is taken from Rudyard Kipling's poem, which I might add here in full sometime. The other tribute inside--where we couldn't take pics--which I loved best, was inscribed in stone, beneath stained glass windows, round and round a central tomb: "Their Name Lives."
"Some say that the age of chivalry is past: that the spirit of romance is dead. The age of chivalry is never past, as long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth, and a man or woman left to say, 'I will redress that wrong, or spend my life in the attempt." -- Charles Kingsley
(I've only read this quote, but intend to read the rest:
Scotland was epic. We were very tired, all having just got in, but adjusted quickly to the massive British breakfasts consisting of eggs, bacon (ham), sometimes mushrooms!!! (as I learned to yearn and scream for in my heart like Merry and Pippin), delicious mueslix cereal, yogurt, juices--even rolls and cheese and meat if you want. I suspect I'm fatter. But I don't care!!!

Beginning with the Beginning, from the End

So what's better than a 374 hour flight including layovers? Getting to Scotland and meeting up with your bagpipe piping pal Jamie and heading directly to Loch Lommond herself for some rustic revelry and a Scottish revival hullabalooza in the presence of all the great Scots and as the lone American representative. Tell me you don't want Scotland to never die. Try it. As if Braveheart wasn't reason enough to love Scotland forever.