Thursday, February 1, 2007

Best of my old blog #9 Bus Goddess

So I'm sitting on the preternaturally (don't really know if its the right word, but who the hell cares?) late bus last night, riding home after a long and insane day as an Increased Income Facilitator, and this girl gets on a few stops after. We're talking about a complete knockout here, utterly breath-takingly gorgeous, and not in the boozy "I see big boobs" sort of way. Like a painting, like a sculpture, like a song. That kind of beautiful.

She sits down in front of me, and as she gracefully slides into the seat, she flips this insanely thick, shiny chestnut hair to one side, revealing the nape of her neck (much like the Japanese, I consider the nape of the neck as an erogenous zone) and this tiny shell-like ear, complete with perhaps five piercings along the top curve.

I swear to you, I was so focused on her that I heard the rings tinkling as she tucked one loose strand behind her ear.

Without meaning to, I found myself imagining lying next to this girl (who in all likelihood is way to young. Icelandic girls tend to mature way to early for their own good, leaving the male population stuck between biology screaming "IMPREGNATE HER NOW!!!" and society bitchslapping them back into line with "SHE'S ONLY 17!!!!") on cool sheets and tickling the rings, listening to them tinkle together as we drift off to sleep.

This incident illustrates two things:

One, while I'm doing my damnedest to get over my romance crutch, I'm not out of the woods yet.

It's not that I'm against romance, or even that I disbelieve in it, it's just that I tend to focus on it too much, especially when I shouldn't. Thanks to some helpful talks with a good friend, I've begun to understand that I was using the romantic urge, and the "I want more than just sex" as an excuse to not even try to get sex, or flirting, or whatever. So now, I'm trying not to look for love, just for friendship and sex (which are not mutually exclusive, at least not always...but that's another blog) and I'll see what happens in the romance department later. But little romantic flashes like with Bus Goddess #14, not to confused with Bus Goddess #3 the incredibly sexy Korean/Icelandic women I see every now and then on my way up to Breiðholt, are proof that I'm still at least a little hooked on the romance.

And two, this illustrates that I am a dirty old perverted bus-riding ear-fetishist who wants to tickle the ears of a sculpture, a painting, or a song.

Ugh.

Best of my old blog #8 Poetry

Just read over yesterday's blog. That just sucked. Going to try to do better today, but don't hold your breathe.

Like most of my blogs, this one starts with me sitting on my couch in comfy clothes. I'm not terribly hung-over, surprise surprise considering how heavily I hit the bola (that's spiked punch to you English-speaking folks, and spody to you Cascadians) at Sindri's 25th last night. That went ok, some decent joking, a little flirting, but not too much, and right in the middle of the party, IT SNOWED!!!!!

Big-time fluffy whiteness abounds! Joy!

So I went out in many layers of warm stuff and played in it on my way to the market to pick up dinner stuff. I've started making a habit of cooking something very yummy on Sundays, inviting whoever happens to come to mind to eat it with me. Makes up for the lack of family in a way, not to mention greases the wheels of karma. Sadly my guest of (dis)honor wasn't able to make it. I invited Helga to make up for yet another drunken proposition! I seriously don't get this. I lived with the girl for the better part of a year and a half, and kept my cool (generally) the whole time. She moves out, and suddenly, my drunken ass can't stop trying to get in her pants. I suck. I just need to figure out why I'm doing this so I can knock it the fuck off.

So here I sit, food roasting away in the oven, Ladysmith Black Mambazo on the stereo, chillin. I just don't have much to say today, or, more truthfully, all the things I can think of writing about would require a level of effort that I just can't be assed to rise to.

Therefore, as certain friends have been pushing me to, and as I have nothing better to do, I shall expose the world to more of my pathetic attempts at poetry, just because some people (you know who you are and you are to blame!) seem to like it.

Start things off with something I wrote when I was only 16, traveling through Cali for the first time…

Mojave

In the hard
drought of winter
Immobile Joshua
stands witness
to my wilted heart
my dry-leaf voice
(dead leaves rustling on sand)
rolling across this old man's land.

Immobile Joshua
standing sentinel
guarding the land of the sun.
I am an interloper here
(with my withered old soul)
falling ever and ever into the desert.

And how these
crowded whisper clutch
(in my traveling mind)
known only to a child of dust,
and the arid god's disciple.

Joshua standing in ecstasy…

Wrote this one about an ex, when I got back from Iceland the first time…

For "Curls"

This morning I found three brown hairs
nestled in the pocket of an old leather coat
long unworn.
And I remember how they had lain against my chest
on that rainy night when we huddled at the bus-stop
my hands too shy to brave the passing headlights and
stay, cupping your cool breast.

Later, I remember how it felt when the waters came,
your gasps and pants and shy invulnerable shudders,
that night we played at Genesis.
How I pressed inside you, shaking as the tide rose to my ragged breathe.
That glory will not leave me, and I will not renounce it,

but for your asking…

And just to be absolutely sure to bore the crap out of you, dear perturbed reader…

Protection

I will hold you beloved
wrap the iron wings of a
mother's shawl about your thin shoulders,
the adamantine love of the unshattered home
and no king shall stand against you
and never a blade shall bite,
and Death shall have no dominion here.

There it is dear reader, I shall provide generous shots of insulin to counteract the vaemi (not really translatable, but has to do with sickeningly sweet and/or maudlin things) and promise to keep my crap poems away from the blog for a while now.

Sorry.

Best of my old blog #7 My career as a lust object

Interesting day today.

I started things off by not going to work. After yesterday's tummy-aches, headaches, twitches and stomach flips, I decided that I better off taking a little me time, even if it meant dealing with my self-inflicted home-from-work guilt.

Despite guilt, despite the nigh-overwhelming urge to clean the kitchen and do laundry, run to the bank, run to the Social Services offices (which are always closed whenever I have any free time) and generally appease the guilt by making productive use of the day, I persevered and managed to spend the hours between waking up and now doing absolutely nothing but chatting on MSN.

(I know, I know, I recently vowed to cut down on that, and I have after work and such, but I figured a sick/lazy day means I can do as I like.)

The chatting was not only entertaining but rather enlightening. Entertaining because it was an old and dear friend I was chatting with, one that will shortly be coming to the Lava Lump (aka Iceland), and she is always fun to chat with. Enlightening because it led to the realization that if I was an even remotely attractive woman, I'd probably be working in the "porn" industry.

What's that I hear out there? Gasps and groans and general "wtf"-ness from my legions of adoring sweaty blogodytes?*

Well, see, she is planning on staying here for a bit, but, thanks to her rather international life style, she'll have a bitch of time getting a work permit for any "normal" job. SO I mentioned, in all seriousness, the option that she try to find some modeling work.

Now, my sweet little friend does not look like a "model". She's tiny, for starters, even by Asian standards. But she also happens to be the single most photogenic person I have ever met. There has, quite simply, never been a bad picture taken of her. Basically, she's perfect for photographic modeling.

She liked this idea, so we began to try hitting Icelandic web-sites to find her a gig.

No luck. None at all. There is simply not an agency in all of Iceland looking for models that are not taller than, say, me. And I'm 180cm/5'11", meaning that they are looking for stick thin (which my friend is, admittedly, although she comes by it naturally, sans enemas, puking, or starvation) Amazons.

Until we came across ">this .

For those of you who don't speak Icelandic, it's an ad from a local adult entertainment business looking for models for short erotic videos. They go on and on about it not being "porn" so I'm inclined to take their word for it.

Anyway, if you get hired, you go in, roll around a set for a bit, either scantily clad or full-on nekkid, whichever floats your proverbial boat, then consult with the film-crew over the editing (no shots you don't approve) and then four hours later, BAMM! 100,000ISK in your pocket and 50% of the take on the pay-for-play video on the website.

My friend kinda laughed it off. Not her cup of kink, apparently. I, on the other hand, was just jealous. I can't even begin to imagine getting paid that much money for that little effort! I'd jump at that opportunity so fast there'd be sonic boom.

This same company routinely pays women 20,000ISK to make recordings of themselves reading prepared scripts. Yet another opportunity I would jump at, but to my knowledge, only one of my perpetually broke-ass friends has ever taken advantage of the phone-sex gravy train.

I don't get it. I really don't. I'm jealous as hell of people who could make a quick buck (I'm not talking about making a career of it, mind) off something like this.

I've bought this up with friends before, and the general response, from those not of the "Sex makes the baby Jesus cry" persuasion is that they'd be too embarrassed. "Oh God! What if someone went on there and heard/saw me!" seems to sum it up.

Which I don't get. I mean, which is more embarrassing, the fact that you were ballsy enough to put yourself out there (even in quasi-anonymity like with the readings) or the fact that you're paying money to listen to women read stories about sex you're obviously not having?

So I'm jealous of people who have these opportunities, but don't take them. I mean, I can't do that sort of thing. Not because I'm shy. I'm not. Nor because I have some sort of moral objection to it. Simply because the only facets of the adult entertainment industry that would hire me would be something along the lines of "Middle Aged Bear Monthly" or "Hairy Beast". In other words, something that's less than likely to pay well, and very likely run by some guy with a sack full of roofies and a can of Crisco© in his van.

If I wanted that, then I'd just go to one of the bars down by the harbor.

Other than despairing at my thwarted career as a soft-core porn star, the only other thing I've gotten up to today is walking a few blocks through the sadly melting snow to make soup for and generally coddle the Eidles, who has recently had the Evil Tonsils of Infected Doom removed. She seems to be recovering nicely, and as television has stopped hating us, I think I'll take this opportunity to end this silly thing for the time being. See y'all tomorrow…

*I know there are actually no more than two or three of you, but humor me, my ego is in ruins after I realized that no one will pay to look at me nekkid.

Best of my old blog #6 No Gods/No Master Cards

Gas mask-$50 at an army surplus store

Second hand motor cross armor- $50 dollars at a second hand store

Can of black spray-paint- shoplifted

Can of red spray-paint- shoplifted

4'x2.5' piece of 1.5 inch plywood- dumpster dived

Duct-tape, screws and webbing to complete shield- shoplifted

First aid kit- $25

Empty Thunderbird bottles- $1.50 in deposits

3' length of rubber hose to siphon gasoline from the tanks of SUVs- shoplifted

Torn lengths of crappy Gap© clothing- looted

Disturbing the peace, use of an incendiary device, and "political disruption"-$3000 fine and 1 year in jail.

Taking to the streets to defend your liberty by any means necessary- PRICELESS!

There are some things money can't buy, for everything else there's the No Gods!/No Masters! Card.

Best of my old blog #5

Been thinking, obsessing more like on material things, work and money.

See, I've always been rather proud of the fact that almost all the furnishings, appliances, hell, even the majority of the clothes I own are gifts, or second-hand, or salvaged. I still am. But lately I've found myself getting all obsessed about a new kitchen, a dryer, new bed, all that some kind of stuff.

Just a few years ago, I was content to live in a single room, with a hot-plate for cooking, no phone (not even a cell), no TV, no nothing.

Add to that my constant obsessing about money, or more to the point, my lack of it, and you have me turning into something I don't like.

Thankfully, every now and again, you get a wake up call. Mine came tonight, when I went to see my Social Services client. He's a sweet guy, mid forties, paranoid schizophrenic, and I've worked with him for going on 7 years now.

He has nicer stuff than me. He has a brand new bike I'd kill for, nice antique or just plain expensively comfortable furniture, and a computer that is just about the most astounding thing ever, even though it's a Mac. He owns his apartment, which could be quite nice if he ever gets around to finishing the "remodel" he's been working on for the last 7 years.

He has most of the things I think I want, but he can't stop there. Hell, he's never ridden the bike; he hasn't even taken it out. He has no clue how to use the massive computer he bought, mostly it sits gathering dust. He has like five old-fashioned wooden radios, because they "give better sound". It goes on and on and on.

He just keeps buying stuff because he's convinced that only the best is good enough, and that if he has the best, he'll somehow be able to accomplish things he can't seem to do on his own. He bought a 100,000 ISK gold plated Mont Blanc pen because he though it would allow him to write a book he's been trying to write forever.

He honestly believes that having the right stuff will fix all his problems.

He's in debt up to his eyebrows.

"So what? He's crazy!" you say?

True, but in this regard no more crazy than a lot of us, including me of late. One of the weirdest things about this so-called life is that we've been taught to look for our salvation in line to the cash register. Well, no more. I'll find non-monetary solutions to my needs, as much as can. I'm done; get me off this hamster wheel.

As for work, apparently after my ultimatum yesterday, my boss's boss is talking to her boss about whether or not I'll get my way.

My boss's boss talking to her boss. Yes, hierarchal structures are so much more efficient, that's why there everywhere. Sure.

Smell my sarcasm!

Either way, after this month or the next, I'll be done paying off my existence bill (otherwise known as taxes) and can therefore at least drop a few mornings of work. Anything to keep me sane (ish), to hell with the added poverty. I'm not ashamed of being poor; I'm not ashamed of being working class. I'm ashamed I started thinking like a yuppie. Solidarity forever, comrades!

We're not fighting the man, we're just into fisting!

Best of my old blog #4 Rvk Bar Guide 1.0

Hang out with freinds and chat: Belly's or Cafe Vin

Hang out with friends and sing along to silly troubadors: Celtic Cross

Try to hook up while looking like Indy Royalty: Sirkus or Kaffibarinn

Rock out in a sardine can: Bar 11

Dance: Cafe Kultura, Kofan Tomasar Fraendi, (depends on who's DJing, and neither of them are as good as the old Spotlight, 22, or Thompson.)

Rock out to live music: Kaffi Amsterdam

Chill to live music: Kaffi Rosenburg

Cougar hunt*: Viktor

Take your life into your own hands: Langibarrin**

Try to look "hip og kul" while swilling over-priced cocktails and searching the crowd for a "celebrity" to attempt to seduce in hopes that fame is infectious: Oliver

Be annoyed by yuppies who couldn't get in to Oliver: Barinn

Pick up random drunk people for sex: Glaumbar or Kaffi Kosy (if you swing that way).

Be picked up on by late-middle-aged shit-faced men and women: The Dubliner

Snort coke and feel superior to poor people: Q-barinn, Rex, Thorvaldsen

Act like a diva while caging drinks off drunk businessmen/servicemen/non-Indy foriegners/FM-hnakkar: Pravda, Hresso, Angelo's, Olstofan, and Vegamot.

Discuss literature, politics, or art with the Icelandic art mafia: Naestibar.

Watch teenage girls get hammered and try to act "grown-up": Prikid, Solon, Nelly's, Pravda, Glaumbar.

Have a great meal and a beer in the least pretentious bar in town: Vitabarinn

Get hammered with other alchoholics, and possible play darts: Grandrokk

Have 15 year-olds offer to blow you for a large beer: Hverfisbarinn

Have 14 year olds drunk off their asses on landi and vanilla drops offer to blow you for a pack of cigarettes: Hlemmur.

Have Thai men treat you with great hostility and suspicion because white guys keep coming in and offering their girlfreinds/sisters/cousins money for sex while spoiling the kareoke by being drunken asses: Kaffisettrid.

*For those unfamiliar with this term, it means to go out and find reasonably attractive older women, hopefully on the rather desperate side, for sex and free drinks.
**Or whatever its currently called...

Best of my old blog #3 Punk Pride and Prejudice

I swear, with a little work, maybe some meditation, a couple of brain teasers, some weird South American psychotropic herb, and I could be a psychic.

I was thinking about what I would discuss in the blog today, as I trudged down to the bus-stop, only to have inspiration jump up and bite me on my punk-rock booty.

There's a disabled woman, Down's syndrome I think, who is nearly always on the perpetually early #19 bus with me in the mornings. Generally, we hardly notice each other. But today, thanks in no small part to the newly trimmed and magnificent mohawk of me, she stood there gaping at me, chin down to the sidewalk, utterly baffled by my haircut.

It continued like this. I stopped to pick up smokes and a juice at the gas-station on my way to work. The cashier looked at me as if I was covered in freshly-skinned puppies, and the old guy who pumps the gas, washes the windows, and generally does all the grunt work, gave me a bewildered look that defies my skills at description.

Now, I don't find my mohawk all that shocking. It's rather short, is back to my natural mousy-brown hair-color, and is neatly trimmed and styled. Not at all hard-core, but enough to let me feel like myself. I just don't see it as any sort of big deal.

But apparently to some people it is. Like the Arts and Crafts teacher I share a room with when I'm helping the kids out in the computer lab.

As soon as she arrived, she very politely, with the sort of courtesy usually encountered when dealing with cops who know a supervisor is watching, informed me that she found my haircut "ugly" and that "people like us, who are role-models, should be more presentable". I proceeded to inform her that I thought I was being a role model, by showing kids that it's ok to be themselves, and also that people who don't look like typical "role-models" can still be a positive force in the lives of others.

Of course, that was the diplomatic, polite response.

This is what I was really thinking:

What the holy Jeebus fuck? Here I am, in a nice pair of black jeans, fitted T-shirt, nicely trimmed hair and beard, and YOU are giving me shit? You? In your seven layers of frumpy woolen old-lady clothing swathing your fat-assed complacent form? You with the crumbs of your breakfast still clustering around the corner of your mouth, with VISIBLE FUMES of your cheap-ass French hooker perfume rising from you in waves? You who seem to think it perfectly expectable to refer to another person as "ugly", when you yourself look a bit like the Wicked Witch of the West's fat older sister? You are a "role model"? You who cannot be assed to shut the fuck up but instead prattle on and on even once it becomes clear that NO ONE can be buggered to listen to you anymore? You who shove your face into other people's personal space, reeking of cheap scent and covered in crumbs with a mouthful of biscuit still half-masticated in your gullet? You who disrupt and interrupt classes so you can pull kids away from class for your pet projects? You who show considerably less "professional courtesy" towards others, constantly making snide comments about the other teachers and staff behind their backs, SOMETIMES TO THE KIDS, than my Anarchist ass? Just what the fuck are you thinking?

Of course, she wasn't thinking. Just like the grandmother of one of our after-school kiddies, who, when walking into the place for the first time and encountering Jason washing up in the kitchen and my mohawked self vacuuming exclaimed into her cell-phone that she couldn't be at the right place there was some kólsvartur rísí (coal-black giant) washing dishes and a dópistí (drug-addict, junky) cleaning the floors.

The nice thing about working these sorts of shit jobs is that generally, those with any say in the matter are just so thrilled with the fact that they have a competent employee that they could care less what said employee looks like. Now if only that enlightened self-interest would find its way into other corners of the sadly narrow-minded populace…

Best of my old blog #2 Evil Upstairs

Remember what I said about life being dull?

Spoke too soon.

Way too soon.

Woke thirsty this morning, stumbled out to the kitchen to get a drink, only to be confronted by the sight of my pantless upstairs neighbor stumbling around the hall, after he came home drunk of his fucking ass, walked into our apartment and started to try to climb in bed with the roomy and Eidles!

As I write, he's passed out in front of his door on the second floor landing.

Now, as weird as it may have been for my roomy to have to kick some drunk assholes head to get his attention and get him out of his room, the really weird thing is that my reaction to this smacked of "Not again!?"

I mean, back when the Frenchy was sharing the apartment with me, and I slept in the room Ragnar's in now, I was once awakened to pounding Norwegian death metal being played at the highest volume possible directly through the fucking floor, and the sight of strawberry skyr (a kind of Icelandic yoghurt) spilled all over the hallway and filling the shoes of Frenchy's current gentleman caller.

The reason for this you ask?

Well, The Upstairs Neighbor of Doom and Frenchy had had a thing, which she had broken off. He comes home shitfaced, stumbles upon the fact that someone forgot to lock the door (a sadly common occurrence, as we smoke outside) walks uninvited into the apartment, sees them getting it on, and takes the most childish revenge ever.

After the cussing out I gave him, he had to be really drunk to pull that shit this morning. I'm seriously considering throwing a bucket of water over his drunken ass, or coating embarrassing bits of him in hair-removal lotion, or possible handcuffing him to a tree and leaving him pantless in the front yard with a sign that says "Do Me!" around his neck.

The stupid fucking prick.

I mean, if its not his drunk-ass friends throwing pebbles at his windows and shouting for him to wake up from the garden at all hours of the night, not his wild midweek parties that always include both loud obnoxious electronica at 2am and a "jam session" on his assorted instruments, not party debris littering the yard which he never fucking cleans up, then its either him, or in one very awkward case, his naked fling, invading my apartment.

Yup, you read that right. Shortly after the Skyr –Puntur- Incident, his lady-friend-for-the-evening apparently got lost on her way to the bathroom, walked down the stairs, into my apartment, into my room, and crawled, butt-naked, into my bed, where she proceeded to steal all the covers and snore loudly, leaving me to spending the night on the couch in my own apartment while she slept it off.

It was almost worth it to see the look on her face the next day.

Almost.

So as I am found of making declarations about my future behavior on this blog (no more drunken big-mouthedness of me, no more drunk blogging, etc…) I hereby make another: REMEMBER TO LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR!

The Infamous "Yule-Log" Post

(To those easily offended by juvenile toilet humor, please read on, as I will so enjoy the shock and outrage you vent on my comments…you've been warned!)

So, I'm slowly becoming aware of a new holiday tradition. It starts roughly 3-4 days after I come back to the E.S.H. in December. Never other times, like the last time I was back for my sister's wedding. Just in December.

I've taken to referring to this tradition as "The Yule Logs".

Basically, couple of days after I get home, I start dropping tree-trucks in the can. I mean huge! HUGE! Coiled in the bowl like the rare Corn-backed Constrictor. Shits so unimaginably big that one is afraid to flush them for fear of making them angry, let alone fear of causing an unbelievably horrific plumbing fiasco. Poop of such prodigious size that one performs a little involuntary hop when standing up from the throne because you suddenly weigh so much less your leg muscles overcompensate!

What the exactafuck is going on here? I mean, it's not like Yankee Chow is renowned for its high fiber content and ease of digestion!

I have my theories of course. One is that whenever I come back, I start scarfing Altoids© The Curiously Strong Mints, which apparently contain Sorbitol, which apparently causes excessive poop.

So I have my sparkling fresh breathe to blame for my overactive ass.

Ain't life odd?

Best of my old blog #1

My only little survey
Current mood: geeky
Category: Quiz/Survey

So I've seen and filled out dozens of these "scene" surveys over the past months, but the "scenes" are always the same. You get your Goth, your Emo, your "Punk", Hip-hop/Rap, Redneck, Rock, Pop, Prep, Jock…all the same ol' stuff. So here's a survey for people not quite so easily categorized:..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Folkster:

[x] You loved "Oh Brother Where Art Thou"

[x] You knew the lyrics to all the songs in "Oh Brother"

[ ] You could play all the songs in "Oh Brother"

[x] You play at least two musical instruments

[x] You know what a bandolin is.

[x] You know that there are two kinds of dulcimers

[x] Autoharps are cool

[ ] You can your own fruits and vegetables

[x] You own at least one pair of bib overalls

[ ] You're still a bit pissed at Dylan for "going electric"

[ ] You'll never forgive Nirvana for messing with "In the Pines"

[x] Banjo and fiddle players steal the limelight from everyone else

[x] Banjo and fiddle players are kinda hot though

[x] More people should yodel

[ ] Square dancers are the hottest!

Total:10

SCA-Geek:

[x] You know what SCA stands for

[ ] You totally look down on those Renaissance Fair losers

[x] You think swords are cool

[x] You'd really like to learn to play the lute

[ ] You dream of being royalty

[ ] The History Channel is your favorite

[x] You could live on turkey legs and mead

[x] Hose and tunics are very flattering on men

[x] You made your own chain-mail

[x] You've had to explain to the emergency-room doctor that "We were sword-fighting and it got out of hand."

[ ] You've used the term "m'lady" or "m'lord" in bed

[ ] You've been hit on by a jester or a serving wench

[ ] You own at least three pieces of Celtic jewelry

[x] You'd love to speak Gaelic

[ ] Belly dancers are the hottest!

Total:8

Hillbilly:

[x] You object to being called a redneck

[x] You call a creek a "crick"

[x] Anything in the distance is "over yonder"

[x] Ain't nothing wrong with moonshine

[x] The banks are out to getcha

[x] The EPA is out to getcha

[x] The New World Order is out to getcha

[x] You wear bib overalls, and like it

[ ] Ain't nothing wrong with pickled eggs

[ ] Who needs eelectricidy?

[ ] You don't have dogs, ya got some hounds though

[ ] Shoes are for winter

[ ] You ain't prejudiced, ya just wanna be left alone

[ ] That girl over in the next holler is the hottest!

Total:8

Science-geek:

[x] You hate it when people forget about the Second Law of Thermodynamics!

[x] You've made model rockets before

[x] Bonus points for making your own engines

[x] Various activities involving vinegar and baking soda where your favorite games as a kid

[x] You've competed in Science Bowl

[x] Discovery Channel is your favorite

[x] You like to make passionate love to a cast-member on "Mythbusters"

[x] You get upset at the results on "Mythbusters" because the experiments are set up wrong

[x] You tried to invent things as a kid

[ xxx] Bonus points if you ever tried to put wings on your bike, caused an electrical fire, or forced the evacuation of a classroom thanks to chemistry.

[x] You owned/own a microscope

[x] You're parents bought you a subscription to National Geographic, Popular Science/Mechanics, or Smithsonian

[x] Explosions are cool

[x] Carry from "Mythbusters" is the hottest!

Total:16

Now, because we aren't cookies, and hence do not fit cookie-cutter definitions, post your top two results in descending order!

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

My Nifty Online Resume

So in lieu of the standard boring list of jobs and such, I've decided to make some sort of blog page out of my work history. Hopefully this will entertain as well as get me hired to a position of wealth and power.

Or not.

Here goes.

The Long Saga of Sam's Employment and Education:

I started working pretty early in life, my first job being that of an all-purpose laborer at a ranch just outside of my puny little home town of South Prairie, WA which I landed at the ripe old age of 12. I worked there throughout my academic career at White River High School (where I graduated with honors) and Pierce College (where I maintained a 4.0 grade average, out of a possible 4.0),most often in the summer. I picked up a lot of useful skills, mostly carpentry and machine operation, although I must say that being taught how to use dynamite and bulldozers by an intoxicated retired military engineer should be illegal. Come to think of it, it probably is.

Be that as it may, I emerged from the Hidden Valley Ranch (no, honestly, that was the name of the place) at least physically unscathed, with enough money to pay for my 1994-1995 AFS exchange trip to Iceland. Where I attended Kvennaskólinn í Reykjavik. Where I didn't work and didn't really show up to classes to any real degree. Best year of my life.

My next job, the summer I turned 19, was likewise in the idyllic confines of South Prairie. After my return from my exchange trip, I wound up working 16 hours a day, 6 days a week for the fire-trap/limb-removal service known as Hilstrom's Cabinets Inc. This lasted just long enough for my wrist to be broken by a wood-chipper with most of its safety devices removed to improve efficiency, at which point I was "let go" to save them the money of paying for my medical bills.

The next job was a particular low-point in my employment history. I got a job at a Burger King. ' 'Nuff said.

Things started to look up when I began to attend Green River Community College (3.8 GPA, graduated with Highest Honors) where I got a job tutoring in the Student Help Center (English, English as a Foreign Language, French, Spanish, Biology, Geology, and Philosophy) as well as teaching informal classes in International English as a Foreign Language for the International Program, and helping out with some remedial classes. This is to date one of my favorite jobs of all time, as the work was challenging, varied, down right fun, and utterly free of high-explosives, dangerous machinery, and the nigh-mandatory consumption of trans-fatty acids. I also spent a great deal of time hunched over a tired old Mac writing stories and editorials for the Green River Current, in between editing and arguing with the professor about lay-out and too many feel-good articles.

After I graduated Green River with credits far in excess of the necessary 90, I returned to Iceland to study Icelandic at Haskóli Íslands. Sadly, my previous slackage as an AFSer seemed to stick, and I didn't finish my first year of studies. I did, however, work as a security-guard/handy-man for The Reykjavík Botanical Garden, one of the easiest gigs I've ever had, as well as teaching the occasional class at Enskuskólinn.

I then returned to the States in order to discover that I absolutely loathed attending The Evergreen State College, which did not last long at all. I wound up doing a lot of security work, both for The Puyallup Fair and for an outfit called Star Management Services where the fact that I lack the oh-my-god-you're-famous gene landed me work as backstage security and I got to meet interesting people like Johnny Rotten and Isaac Hays. A bit later I started working for Tully's, an espresso chain that fought a brave, but ultimately doomed battle against the Evil Empire of Starbucks, as a barrista and taster, as well as writing some of their ad copy.

Eventually, I got bored with the US and returned to Iceland in 1999, in order to work for the family of a good friend, providing home-care and support for the family during a very trying time. This wound up sequewaying into a full-time position at Reykjavik Social Services, where I worked both in "home help" and as a social counselor. The pay might have left something to be desired, but in the two plus years I worked there, I learned far more Icelandic than I ever picked up as an AFSer or in HÍ, so that made up for a lot.

After another overlong stay in the States, I worked briefly for Kaffitár, before landing a teaching gig in January of 2003 at Mimir-simenntun, where I continued to teach until 2006. I also began working with Vinnuskóli Reykjavíkur during the summers, as I had by this point reentered HÍ in order to finish my long-postponed BA in English Lit. My college years saw me working a variety of other jobs as well, including editing/translating the now-defunct design magazine aVs (an job that paid off, if only in experience), private tutoring gigs, assistant managing for the deservedly defunct Mama's Tacos, and finally working for one of my current three employers, ÍTR, or the Reykjavík Department of Youth and Recreation.

After graduating HÍ, with a GPA of 8,8 (Damn that last class and its annoying group work! It should have been a 9!) I continued working for ÍTR at Vogasel where I was recently promoted to "Frístundaráðgjafi" as well as working as a substitute English teacher/tutor and assistant librarian at Vogaskóli, and continuing to see one client for the Social Services. The plan was, and still is, to return to HÍ and finish an M.Ped, granting me the right to teach at Icelandic secondary schools/junior colleges.

But that's just the plan.

Volunteerism and Such:

Over the years I've done my share of volunteer and non-paid work. I've "volunteered" for the Town of South Prairie, including writing and editing memos and other Town publications, helping to design the town logo, and installing equipment in and maintaining the two town parks.

If you're wondering why "volunteered" is in quotes, it's because my mother is the mayor.

I've also volunteered for Second Harvest, an organization that gleams fresh produce from harvested fields for local food banks, as well as The Foothills Rails to Trails Project, which converts abandoned rail lines into pedestrian and biking paths. In my teens I volunteered as a camp counselor for my school district's outdoor education program, where I got to teach sixth graders archery and canoeing and other fun stuff, as well as volunteer English tutoring/mentoring for exchange students in my old school district. I'd love to volunteer at The Intercultural Center, or get involved in local politics, but who has the time?

Hobbies and Other Creative Wastes of Time:
I used to have a lot more of these. Seriously. Once upon a time I made jewelry and musical instruments for pocket money and fun, played music with a revolving collection of friends, held informal fencing sessions, worked out a lot, hiked, biked, and home-brewed.
These days its been whittled down to blogging, remodeling my apartment, reading, and watching geeky movies with my friends.
I've got to change that.

The Job I Want:

While I am relatively happily employed at the moment, I really don't see my current jobs as adding up to a long-term career. Ideally, I'd like to work as a professional blogger, writer, editor, English instructor (junior college or higher), fashion maven, rock star, or Salma Hayak's pool boy.

Hire me?

Monday, January 22, 2007

Apples and Oranges

Comic Apples and Tragic Oranges:

Comparing, but mostly contrasting, the writings of David Arnarson and Kristjana Gunnars.

“...As far as I can understand it, tragedy, and the ability to understand tragedy, is essentially a narrow, elitist sensibility of the upper classes that allows them to feel superior to the people in the pit. I’ll cast my lot with the people in the pit.”

(David Arnarson, “Story Forming.”)

Introduction: Dead Authors and Liberated Students

One of the most difficult essays I have ever been forced to read was Roland Barthes’ “Death of the Author”. I spent the better part of a week puzzling through a badly-photocopied collection of obtuse and seemingly purposely incomprehensible text, only to find a single diamond in all the dust. “There is nothing outside the Text”, writes Barthes, and therefore to attempt to discover what the “author-god” really means is an exercise in futility. The entire liberal-humanist approach to literature is annihilated in that essay. The reader is liberated to interpret writings as he or she sees fit, without regard to the desires or aims of the author or any other authority.

Sadly, this good news has yet to reach the hallowed halls of academia. In approaching this essay, I was confronted with the dubious task of amassing the necessary secondary sources to somehow legitimize my reading of David Anarson’s The Happiest Man in the World and Kristjana Gunnars Any Day but This. I found very little useful, aside from an interview with Arnason. Add to that the difficulty of writing a short paper on two collections of short-stories, which has the effect of multiplying the number of characters and possible themes to the point at which one would need to write a book as long as the collection to adequately examine them in detail and you get one daunting prospect.

So I’m taking a leap. I’m hoping my own writing will make up for the lack of regurgitated academic sources. Hope I don’t break something when I land.

Upper-class, educated, Canadian, middle-aged, and different altogether

In both these collections, there is an overwhelming majority of well-educated, professional, and upper-class (or at least previously upper-class) Canadian characters in their middle-age, with a smattering of children, teens and twenty-something’s, and elderly characters rounding out the mix. The voice of the stories, especially in the case of Gunnars, is almost entirely in this mode, with the other voices slipping in as dialogue. Given this, and the similar backgrounds of both authors, one would think that the voices would sound similar, would pontificate on similar troubles or move through similar situations, and to an extent this is true. Both collections contain a wide variety of similar people dealing with the post-modern angst of middle age and retirement, but here the two authors divide quite sharply. While Gunnars’ characters wallow in a seemingly unending series of tragedies, large and small, and grapple with their angst and long for escape, Arnarson’s clownish protagonists serve as entertaining parables on modern life, alternately bemused and reveling in a world they can’t understand, and have given up trying to.

Escaping Any Day but This

An overriding theme in Any Day But This is a longing for escape, the urge to cast off the hubbub world of professions and modernity, and escape to someplace somewhere where one can lead a content, slow existence. The “Sunshine Coast” of British Columbia, a warm, tranquil spot without extremes of weather, serves as a convenient symbol of this longing for escape. Other places serve this function as well, such as Svelvik, Norway, and a village in southern Sweden “where there is magic...Where life is magical”. Gunnars’ characters seem always on the verge of leaving something, be it a marriage, a home, a career, or life itself. The majority of these voices are far from content with their lot, touched by tragedies large and small, ridden with anxiety about relationships, the past, the future, or even the dark.

Yet even when they leave, they do not truly escape. The female protagonist in Code Pink and Denim plans her escape, going so far as to quit her job and pack up her apartment, but we never see her go. Arne Ibsen, in Directions in Which We Travel, escapes to Canada only to find his new home a prison of his own making. Nancy Hedgecroft seeks solace and a way out in the form of her pastor, only to be subject to his unwelcome advances in Dancing in the Market Place. The list goes on and on.

This lends a distinctly nihilistic feeling to some of the stories. Gunnars’ characters inhabit a world without meta-narratives, without God, without “Progress”, without permanence. Without a source of over-arching meaning in their lives, they wander about in a kind of existential fog looking for whatever lantern they can find, be it a grandchild (The Secret Source of Tears), the security of an older lover (Pleasures Liberty Cannot Know), or the illusionary comfort of controlling one’s small domestic sphere (The Road Between Wind and Water). And yet the author chooses to leave it to the reader whether or not these lanterns in the foggy Sunshine Coast of her creation are really lighting the way, or just illusions in and of themselves.

There in a certain pretension to these stories which troubles the reader. There is no humor as such and precious little joy. The focus is so purely on the tragic that one gets the sense the author is trying too hard to be taken seriously. Add to that such “literary” devices as quotes and references to authors and works, most of which obscure, that serve to weed out those not intellectually prepared. The author’s attempt at creating a feeling of coherency by having characters from previous stories appear briefly in later ones feels forced and fails at its aim. Finally, the purposeful elimination of “endings” in the traditional short-story style results in the tales simply stopping, without achieving any catharsis at all, and leaving the reader in an uncomfortable limbo.

My closest friend and I have this ongoing joke. Whenever we’re faced with a work of fiction that “tries too hard”, or is exclusionary, or pretentious, we sentence the author to imaginary torments for “committing Literature”. After reading Any Day But This, I felt forced to decide that the author is “committing Literature” in the first degree. My sentence is more humane than usual. I think she should read some David Arnarson.

Laughing at the po-mo condition

The gulf in tone, style, and content between Arnarson’s work and that of Gunnars’ is like a canyon. This is interesting. Both authors come from similar backgrounds. They are of Icelandic descent, both are academics, both live or lived in Canada, and both have chosen to write mainly short stories. But while Gunnars peoples her work with figures of tragedy, Arnarson peoples his The Happiest Man in the World with another sort of character altogether. While still educated, upper-class, Canadian, and middle-aged, Arnarson’s mid-life-crisis ineffectual male protagonists are very much a foil to Gunnar’s angst-ridden menagerie of voices. Also interesting is that Arnason includes a great deal of “Icelandic” material in his works, be it references to folk tales, names, or simply the location of the story. Gunnars, on the other hand, would appear to be Norwegian if one were to only read Any Day But This.

Arnarson’s characters, even when not taking part in an obvious comedy, are none-the-less laughable. They are victims of their own pretense, as in The Boys and The Naiads, or more-or-less ordinary folk presented with extraordinary circumstances (The Sunfish, The Washing Machine, The Marriage Inspector) who respond with varying degrees of comic effectiveness. Unlike Any Day But This, The Happiest Man in the World is not encumbered by the weight of tragedy. Rather, Arnarson transforms potential tragedies (the twice abandoned husband in Over and Over, or the widowed father in The Event) into moments of rueful comedy or transcendental wonder. His stories seem to say to the reader, “It’s not so bad, nothing can kill you that you can laugh at.” Arnarson’s stories are enhanced by a magical realism, which the author admits to reading a lot of, completely lacking in Gunnars’ work. The laws of space, time, and probability, along with the long established patterns of plot and literary voice are null and void in his stories. The utterly irrational can take place, a man can appear on your doorstep and announce that he is a marriage inspector; a rather effete middle-aged scholar can sail into an erotically charged nude camping myth, bed three beauties, and survive a shipwreck. A trip to a marriage counselor ends with smiles all around as all three involved part ways, bound for the life they truly want to live. Yet the reader believes, not because of the realism, or symbolism, or emotional weight, but because they are good stories.

The short story form is particularly punishing to writers unwilling to give the reader what they want, which in the case of the short story is, as Arnason himself states “the good parts”, with “the dull parts” left out. “The reader has to be entertained and there are ways of doing that. The thing about reading is, as soon as they close the book, that’s it. You’re not there and they don’t have to be polite. They’re sitting in their own living rooms and when you bore them, they close the book.” (Arnason,” Story Forming”)

In order to keep his readers entertained, Arnarson resorts to an interesting method. He rejects any ending he comes up with before he has finished the story. This would seem an odd choice for a short-story writer, as most short stories, especially the gothic ones, almost always have a twist ending. Poe, for example, is said to have written the endings for several of his tales before the body of the tale itself. (Cite)

By refusing to do this, Arnarson creates endings that do not necessarily “twist”, but none-the-less surprise. No story ends entirely happily, no story ends in pure tragedy, but all the stories have an ending at once satisfying and intriguing. A Girls Story, in which Arnarson as author keeps breaking into his own parody of a Harlequin Romance, ends with the young lovers just about to kiss, frozen in that moment by the author-god. This leaves the reader to wonder just how much the two characters would care for that situation, which, like much of Arnarson’s work, seems to contain heavenly bliss and tormenting disappointment in equal measure. At the end of Fathers and Sons, Sons and Fathers, the rather effete father/narrator is surprised to find that in the process of retelling the story of his tragi-comic hunting trip with this own father and young son, that he has become the center of the story, not the father he always felt over-shadowed by, and the reader is almost as surprised as he.

With his emphasis on humor and humanity, and his interest in hooking the reader in, Arnason’s prose stands in stark contrast to Gunnars’. There is next to no reference to literary works, with the possible exception on A Field Guide to Birds East of The Rockies, or obscure poets. Rather, Arnarson includes his references within the body of the story itself, calling on almost archtypal and widely know stories, which he then presents in his own comic way. Hence, Little Red Riding Hood becomes a coy seductress and the wolf her prey in Girl and Wolf. The Marriage Inspector has a recognizably Bradberrian flavor, with its topsy-turvy inversions of gender roles and public versus private issues, which makes for laughter and shivers in equal measure.

All in all, despite their myriad similarities in background and field, the dense, tragic, and rather exclusionary writing of Kristjana Gunnars has precious little in common with the lightly meaningful comedic writing of David Arnason. It’s a case of apples from Gimli and oranges from the Sunshine Cost. Frankly, I’ll take the apples.

Arnason, David. “Story Forming.” Interview by Robert Enright. Trace: Prairie Writers on Writing. Birk Sproxton, ed. Winnipeg Turnstone, 1986. 101-09

Arnason, David. The Happiest Man in the World. Talonbooks, Vancouver, 1989

Gunnars, Kristjana. Any Day But This. Red Deer Press, Calgary, 2004

Dream of the Rood

Ruminating on The Rood:

Anglo-Saxon Culture and the “Warrior” Christ.

Samuel Levesque Háskólí Íslands Haust 2005

Medieval Literature in Translation

Málstofuverkefni

Introduction: How I became an atheist and why there are so few Japanese Christians.

Religion has always held a certain fascination for me, which ironically led to my becoming an atheist. After studying most of the major world religions, I realized that none of them really fit my view of the world. Christianity was too passive, Judaism and Islam too dogmatic, Hinduism too complex, and Buddhism too simplistic. So I rejected them. Which is unusual I think. Most people tend to stretch and alter their religion to fit their world-view. Not only people, but whole cultures as well.

In the Americas, there are a multitude of different “Catholicisms” many that bear only superficial resemblance to the Church of Rome. In these cultural offshoots, saints stand in for pre-Christian pagan gods and goddess, offerings are made to altars, and traditions long pre-dating the Catholic Church are given a Christian veneer. Yet the people who pray to these altars and make offerings to these saints see themselves as good Catholics, despite the fact that the religion they practice is often at odds with the teachings of the church, if not with that of the Bible itself.

Other times, a religion introduced to a society from outside can fail to adapt to it, especially when the pre-existing culture has values very much at odds with it. Japan has one of the smallest Christian populations in Asia, due to, among other things, the crucifix. As theologian Jack Miles says in the introduction to his book Christ: A Crisis in the Life of God:

The Crucifixion, the primal scene of Western religion and Western art, has lost much of its power to shock. At this date, perhaps only a non-Western eye can truly see it. A Japanese artist now living in Los Angeles once recalled the horror most Japanese feel at seeing a corpse displayed as a religious icon, and of their further revulsion when icon is explained to them. They ask, she said, “If he was so good, why did he die like that?” In Japanese culture, “good people end their lives with a good death, even a beautiful death, like the Buddha. Someone dying in such a hideous way- for us, he could only be a criminal” (Pg.3)

The Anglo-Saxons shared many cultural traits with the Japanese. Their society was semi-feudal, based on a code of honor that demanded absolute loyalty to one’s leader, even unto death. “The Battle of Maldon” and “Akouroushi”[1] would be mutually acceptable. Both Anglo-Saxon England and medieval Japan shared a belief in “fate”, the idea that one cannot change the course of one’s life, and therefore to fear the future, meaning death, is foolish. In both places warfare was chiefly an economic activity, bringing tribute, vassals, slaves, and prestige to the victors. Defeat was so shameful it could only be avoided by death. Pre-Christian, and to an extent Christian Anglo-Saxon culture placed, as do the Japanese, a great deal of emphasis in dying well. Beowulf goes fearlessly and heroically to his death. Countless saints smile and recite poetry on their deathbeds.

So how is it that the Japanese reject the crucifixion, while the Anglo-Saxons not only accepted it, but also wrote moving poetry in its praise? I think this is due to the fact that the Anglo-Saxons managed to adapt some aspects of Christianity to their culture, while changing or ignoring those that were distasteful to the Anglo-Saxon mind. If ever there was an example of this, if ever there was a poem to tempt the Japanese to Christ, “The Dream of the Rood” is it.

“The Dream of the Rood” manages with great aplomb to transform the story of a pacifist political and religious dissenter being tortured and sent to the gallows into the story of a “proud warrior” boldly climbing onto the cross to win victory. It is both a quintessential Christian poem, in that it deals with the defining moment of the New Testament, and a rather un-Christian poem. For, when one looks at the highly Anglo-Saxon heroic elements in the poem from a biblical perspective, it often contradicts the very story it was inspired by.

The First Stanza: Wealth and Judgement

On beginning to read “The Dream of the Rood” one is immediately struck by the archaic nature of the imagery, even if one is reading a modern translation. There are two elements in this stanza that, on deeper reflection, rather stand out.

The first of these is the description of the cross: “that emblem was entirely cased in gold; beautiful jewels/ were strewn around its foot, just as five/ studded the cross-beam.” This is a far cry from “The Old Rugged Cross” of the Protestant hymn. While it can be argued that by the time Christianity reached the hearts of Anglo-Saxon England the Church was a wealthy emperial power, given to adornment and display, most of its holy orders still believed in a life of material poverty. Poverty as a means to salvation is a cornerstone of Christ’s teachings. Throughout the New Testament there are admonishments against wealth and ostentatious displays. As Christ said, “A camel has a better chance passing through the eye of a needle than a rich man of entering heaven.” So why this gem-studded cross?

Put simply, in Anglo-Saxon culture wealth equaled virtue. If one was wealthy, it was due to one being valiant and cunning in battle, winning material gains along with military victory. A culture with values such as that would have difficulty accepting poverty as something noble. Therefore, even though it is demonstratively un-Christian, the poem contains many references to wealth as a sign of virtue. In the third stanza the voice of the Rood depicts being girded “with gold and shimmering silver.” In the final stanza, the narrator speaks of a heaven where one “feasts” and “dwells in splendor”, which sounds more like the Norse Valhalla than Augustine’s City of God.

Then comes the line “that was no cross of a criminal…” Here, as with the Japanese, we see the tendency to think of anyone put to such a shameful death as criminal. The poet obviously felt the need to make very sure that his audience would not make this mistake. At the same time, it sounds very judgmental. Which is fine if one is a proud Anglo-Saxon chieftain. Passing judgement was a large part of the role after all. But Christ tells us not to judge, “lest [we] be judged in heaven.” An oft-overlooked but very poignant moment in the story of the crucifixion is the conversion of the thief on the cross beside Jesus. Here we have an “actual” criminal, crucified beside Son of God, and yet still worthy of his forgiveness. This point seems lost on the author.

Second Stanza: Martial not martyred.

The business of any heroic poem is war, and the Anglo-Saxons loved their heroic poems, among which “The Dream of the Rood” could be counted. The problem is that in trying to turn the story of the crucifixion into a heroic praise-poem, the author had to stray a great deal from the scripture.

“The Dream of the Rood” is not the only example of this phenomenon from the early Middle Ages. The so-called Hildebrandslied takes the martialization of the Gospel to almost ridiculous lengths, resulting in a poem that Richard Fletcher in his book The Barbarian Conversion describes as “not Christian at all”:

The author of the Heliand used stock phrases drawn from secular epic to render the gospel narrative accessible to his audience. Jesus is the landes uuard, “guardian of the land”, the thiodo drohtin, “lord of the peoples”. The Virgin Mary is an adalcnosles uuif, a “woman of noble lineage”, and King Herod a boggebo, a “giver of rings”…The infant Christ is decked with jewels and the shepherds are transformed into grooms looking after horses. Jesus gathers about him “youths for disciples, young men and good, word-wise warriors”, just as a Saxon lord would seek sword-wise warriors for his retainers…At the entry to Jerusalem the ass is omitted: the Lord enters on foot rather than on an ignoble beast unfitted to his royal dignity. (Pg.266)

While not straying as far as Hildebrandslied, “The Dream of the Rood” contains many phrases that seem strange to a modern Christian, just as they would to an early believer. Early Christianity was very pacifist, so it comes as a shock when Jesus, he who counseled men to “turn the other cheek” is described as “the young warrior, God Almighty…firm and unflinching”. “The Dream of the Rood” transforms the crucifixion into a test of strength and manhood. Rather than sacrificing himself to redeem mankind, Jesus is portrayed as bravely climbing onto the cross to win victory. There is no mention of his cry “Father, why hast thou forsaken me?” Later, in the third stanza, Jesus is said to have “rested for a while/ worn-out after battle”. The fourth stanza praises his “great strength”, just as with any other Anglo-Saxon hero. Even the cross, the Rood itself speaks in a martial tone, saying that “strong enemies seized me” and that “Many enemies fastened me there”. In this stanza the “Prince of Peace”, the “Lamb of God” is portrayed as a war-leader, a lion. This emphasis on warriorism is patently un-Christian, at least according to scripture. As Owen Chadwick points out in his A History of Christianity:

Clement of Alexandria called Christians ‘the peaceful race’. They looked for an age to come when wars would be no more, and states would not make arms, and swords would be turned into ploughshares. They were sure that nothing could do more to end war than for all people to follow Christ. They seriously believed-and may be forgiven the illusion- that when the Gospel was accepted war would end. (Pg.44)

Fifth stanza: Valhalla or Heaven?

The fifth stanza contains a very telling line: “[They] live in heaven with the High Father, dwell in splendour.” The phrase “High Father” is highly reminiscent of the Norse/Germanic “All-Father”, used to describe the chief god Oðinn or Wodan. The portrayal of souls dwelling in “splendour” is telling as well. Heaven, in Christian terms, is a paradise where souls sing eternal praise to God. There is little mention of wealth, aside from the oft-quoted “streets of gold”. This sounds much more like a Valhalla, a glorious hall of warriors than a place of peace.

Another interesting line is “May the Lord be a friend to me,” which brings to mind the relationship between a warrior and his earthly lord. As in Hildebrandslied, the Germanic mind seems to have fit heaven into a pre-existing mold.

Anglo-Saxon Christianity to Protestantism.

The Anglo-Saxons adapted Christianity to their culture in more than just poetry. King Edwin is said to have promised to convert to Christianity on the condition that his campaign against his enemies was successful. This is not a terribly Christian way of thinking. It more closely resembles the sort of “bargaining with the gods” that took place in pagan Germanic rituals (Rosenberg, pg.219).

There are other interesting ways in which Anglo-Saxon culture influenced Mediaeval Christianity. “The Fortunes of Men” shows us how the Germanic idea of fate adapted itself to Christianity and vice versa. It is tempting to link this belief in unchangeable fate with the Protestant doctrine of predestination, whereby God’s elect where chosen at birth, and only those elect would enter the Kingdom on their death.

This is not the only aspect of Anglo-Saxon Christianity that seems to foretell aspects of Protestantism. After reading other poems and stories from this era one eventually gets a feeling that the Anglo-Saxon were more interested in loyalty to god, rather than the more conventional obedience. This is an important, but subtle difference. Loyalty implies a measure of reciprocation, a personal interaction with God, which is exactly the primary argument made by Luther hundreds of years later. The “militant” characteristics of Anglo-Saxon Christianity, as well as its equation of success and worldly wealth with virtue are likewise themes that become central to the Reformation. The Protestant work ethic, militant Christianity (in the form of organizations like the Salvation Army), and the personal, almost friendly relationship with God espoused by many modern Protestant churches, are all lurking between the lines of Anglo-Saxon Christian writing.

Perhaps then it should not come as a surprise that the Germanic regions of Europe were among the first to take up Protestantism, and remain so to this day. There is something very similar in “The Dream of the Rood” to later Protestant religious poetry, this time in the form of song.

Just think about the lyrics to two well-known English hymns in this context and the parallels become rather striking. First, there is the classic Anglican hymn “Onward Christian Soldiers”:

Onward Christian Soldiers

Marching as to war,

With the Cross of Jesus,

Going on before.

(Anderson. Pg.45)

Here, as in “The Dream of the Rood”, we see martial themes integrated into religious texts, with the cross playing a central role. “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, an iconic American hymn from the Civil War era (which once nearly replaced “The Star Spangled Banner” as the national anthem) is even more striking:

Mine eyes have seen the glory of

The coming of the Lord,

He has trampled out the vineyards

Where the grapes of wrath are stored.

He has loosed the fateful lighting

Of his terrible swift sword.

His truth is marching on.

(Anderson. Pg.56)

I think that a medieval Anglo-Saxon audience would find both these hymns very familiar in spirit if not in language. There is something of “The Dream of the Rood” in both these, and many other, latter-day hymns.

Conclusion: Culturally Adaptive Religion

If there is any lesson to be learned from “The Dream of the Rood”, other than that one should pray to the cross as a means of salvation, I think it rests in the very elements that make this poem vaguely un-Christian. Just as the Anglo-Saxons stretched and adapted religion to suit their culture, so do we today. In some cultures the majority of churches make no judgements on homosexuals, while in others this is an issue of hot and often divisive debate. One must be careful to avoid falling into the trap of judging religious belief in a vacuum, without taking into account the culture where said belief is practiced. But the variety of religious cultural expression continues to provide us with works of fine and fascinating art like “The Dream of the Rood”, and by that standard alone, it must be judged a positive thing.

Works Cited:

“The Dream of the Rood”, The Anglo-Saxon World, An Anthology.

Crossley-Holland, Kevin. New York, Oxford University Press, 1984

Chadwick, Owen. A History of Christianity. London, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1995

Fletcher, Richard. The Barbarian Conversion: From Paganism to Christianity. Los Angeles, University of California Press. 1997

Miles, Jack. Christ: A Crisis in the Life of God. London, Arrow Books. 2002

Anderson, John G. Songs. San Anselmo, Songs & Creations, 1972

Rosenberg, Donna. World Mythology. Lincolnwood, NTC Publishing, 1993



[1] A medieval Japanese poem recounting the story of a group of roninn, samurai whose leader, or shogun has been killed in battle. Rather than live with the shame of defeat they launch a suicide attack against the enemy who killed their leader. This poem is considered to be a masterpiece of the boshido code, which governed the actions of samurai, and is very similar to that of the Anglo-Saxons as portrayed in “The Battle of Maldon”.