Stonewells, Part 4

November 26, ----
The Old House, Forehaven

My dear Mr. Hale,

I struggle to restrain myself from tearing up this paper and overturning the ink-bottle at each word I write, as the moment draws nearer, nearer, and ever more near when I must finally succumb to my separate though similar duties as a master historian and as a careful friend. I must in all conscience, though in no comfort, entrust to your eyes, and to yours alone for the moment at any rate, the continuing and chilling details that comprise the experiences of my kinsman Mr. Montgomery at Stonewells and in its grounds, outhouses, and neighbouring villages. Alas that the general course of things has put so romantic and desirable a stamp on the country life of the British Isles! Those who know better alone understand just how wrong such a stamp has proved and on how many occasions! The land of England is covered with mists and fogs and vapours for a reason that will be only too clear once I have finished my narrative. Let me merely say that -- I know not how to put it any more subtly -- things are better, I think I may say far better, this way.

I last wrote to you on October 19 of Mr. E. J. Montgomery's entrance into the Blue Room of his library at Stonewells, and of the seats that extended throughout the periphery of that heaven-hued chamber. I must continue at the point where Everlasting Jubilee -- oh, if only that name may hold true in the life to come, for it surely did not in this! -- was about to take his seat on one of the many cushioned sections of the more or less continuous bench. I wish to lessen the shock you will experience in reading this letter by saying that he felt a sense of foreboding in his heart. But as a truthful man, I cannot do so, for he never told of any such presentiment, either then or at any other time. As a recovering practical man, Mr. Montgomery took things at face-value, and was about to do so very literally within just a few moments of his entering the library -- how incongruously commonplace it seems to me that I must call it so! But enter he did, and prepare to seat himself he likewise -- dare I write the word in full? -- did.

As he took his seat the wooden top of the bench, along with the blue cushion that covered it, tipped up, and Mr. Montgomery found himself deposited by his own weight and the force of the seat's upward swing onto the softly carpeted floor. He knew that he had made a discovery of some kind, as he had expected he might do, his house having at one time been a Cisercian abbey, etc., but he had not anticipated the event's coming so soon upon his arrival and while he was -- that terrifying word to a man of some temperaments, though not, unfortunately for him, as the sequel would prove, his own -- alone. Such a word, I hope you will understand, deserves its own sentence, or rather fragment. Alone. In accordance with his practical habits, Mr. Montgomery did not choose at this moment to shout, cry, or scream for help. He merely made up his mind to investigate what, if anything, was contained in the compartment his simply action of sitting down had revealed in so nearly-eldritch a manner. He knew from his reading of books of a certain type that it was more than likely that at this point in his 'story' -- he has told me specifically that he thought of the word at that moment in inverted commas -- nothing would be present in the newly-uncovered space, except perhaps a few moth-balls, or a newspaper from a decade or two prior.

What he did find -- I tremble to say it -- is unfortunately constrained to be the subject of my next letter, if I can gather my wits, my courage, and my writing equipment together for yet another time. The events of this narration shook me up quite badly at the time I heard them, and that terraemotus continues to have its effect on my nerves, and indeed on every portion of my person. Please take pity on me if I do not write you as soon as I might be expected to out of courtesy. Courtesy has its places, but I fear me that the telling of detailed horror-stories, every word of which is true, is not one of those places. I regret this, but so it must remain if I myself am to be and to remain

Yours sincerely,

R. O. Fox

Citius, Altius, Fortius

Well, friends, the Olympics have been going on in London for some time now, and all those magnificent athletes -- also known as heroes -- have either become swifter, higher, stronger, or collapsed in tears and been carried away by their psychologists and coaches, unwilling to remain longer in the presence of some hateful person (often a Russian) who has stripped them of True Glory, i.e. the gold medal. Their silver or bronze medal, of course, is not actually a symbol of anything noble or athletic, but a depiction of their shame. Silver, unlike gold, tarnishes, you know.

Strangely, only the winners see things this way. We lesser mortals really dig it when our country's representatives win at all. And even when they don't. Miss Gabrielle Douglas came last on the uneven bars, and yet we (the USA) still love her. I have a sneaking suspicion that we would do so even if she hadn't won two gold medals, but she might not know that. This is an unfortunate situation, but then again there always seem to be a few of those at the Olympics. They're the best when they involve Bela Karolyi, however. He in himself a bit of a silver lining. Or, I suppose, a gold lining, since the other term might remind some poor Olympian of an inglorious prize I did not intend to reference.

***

The greatest Olympian of all time (since 1896, anyway), the nonchalant, noncommittal, non-much of anything besides swift, high, and strong (presumably in the comparative degree), the naturally swimmer-shaped Baltimorean known as Michael Phelps, has reached the medal count of a well-performing small country. He would be 14th in the table of these Games. Yorkshire, however, not being from Baltimore, but rather the Texas of the UK, (despite being in the North), would be 11th if counted separately from Team GB. I thought that various people might like to know these things for various reasons. Now I have done my duty on that score.

***

Royalty of both the US and the UK are involved in equestrian at the Games of the XXX Olympiad. Zara Philips, daughter of the Princess Royal, and thus 14th in succession to numerous Crowns, got a silver medal (oh, the dishonor!) in the team eventing. If she were not already married to Mr. Michael Tindall, she might want to consider teaming up with that other Mr. Michael who is also 14th in something, namely Phelps. But then again, he got -- I am loth even to name it -- a bronze medal, so he is probably out of contention for most Olympians' hands, whether we refer to marriage, applause, or even shaking.

Ann Romney's horse is also in the Olympics, and that is what I meant by American royalty being involved. Of course, since the horse's owner's husband is running for President of the United States, a big deal must be made. I am sure I will have more to say on these matters before the first Tuesday after the first Monday in November.

***

Wouldn't it be insane if the Marathon were not 26.2 miles, but rather a race from Marathon to wherever the Olympics were held? It would be like an extreme version of the triathlon. Bikes would, naturally, be allowed for a portion of the race, and it would generally involve a lot of swimming: for example, when the Games are in Rio de Janeiro, the competitors will have to swim across the Atlantic Ocean. Perhaps there can be a sailing component to it as well. Someone must alert Jacques Rogge to this idea. Now that "rugby sevens" (whatever that is) is being introduced to the Games, I'm pretty sure no idea is indefensible.

***

Occasionally the subject of doping comes up in the context of the Games of various Olympiads. Hey guys, I'm pretty sure that's not what the IOC means by "higher." Never mind.

***

I leave you with a brief note on Russians at the Games, particularly in gymnastics, and their habit of kissing people more than Americans typically do. That's it. See you in Sochi.

Lux in tenebris (John 1:5)

The moon, too far to touch, too close to seem
So far away, has risen in the night,
And by its crescent's soft and gentle light
The tower and courtyard share a certain gleam.
And more, they share the gift, expressed in beam,
That first the moon received from something bright,
The sun that made it; it is only right
That light should so be shared and form a team.
The other members of that nightly band
The stars, who sing within their twinkling round,
Do share the light, as is divinely planned,
Not borrowed, not picked up, like something found,
Given directly by that mighty hand,
Which in creation made their light resound.

Stonewells, Part 3

October 19, ----
The Old House, Forehaven

My dear Mr. Hale,

From the tone of your last letter I regretfully infer that your anticipation of my story has increased, rather than decreased, in utter contrast to the hopes I placed in delay. I am sorry for you that such is the case, for although not given either to sentimentality or to prolixity, I have to go through a deal of introductory information before I come to the heart of the eerie tale which I have begun in my two preceding letters. What I have already narrated has been in effect the title page, the dedication, and the table of contents; only the preface, or prooemium, remains before Chapter the First rears its terrific head above the waters of eldritch uncertainty and deadly earnest.

When Mr. Montgomery reached Stonewells on November 1, he gave orders for the installation of some of the more important furniture, and the serving of his next meal, which was to be a simple supper of whatever could be got ready without a good deal of fuss or trouble. He has always been a considerate man, as those who are both well-read and practical tend to be, and this quality of his manifested itself on this occasion no less than on any other. He himself, meanwhile, retired to the room which was to become his library, taking with him a first instalment of the vast collection which was to populate that well-proportioned and commodious room .

It was, rather, a suite of rooms, large ones to be sure, clearly connected as only an enfilade can be, and yet quite separate and distinct. Each chamber of the library was painted a different colour, and the diversity of decor was evident as one proceeded from room to room. The portion of the library in which Mr. Montgomery settled when he first arrived at Stonewells was the Blue Room, as it had been called for generations of our practical forebears; their considerate nature is also evident from the clarity inherent in this nomenclature.

He had considered bringing along with him and his books a folding stool, cushioned for his greater comfort, but he thought better of it, for he remembered hearing of a set of built-in benches that graced the Blue Room around the entirety of its circumference. It was, I assure you, a circular room, yet this was through no necessity of form or function, since it was unrelated to any of the several towers of Stonewells, some of which will figure prominently in other sections of my chilling narrative. The Abbot's Tower, or Turris Abbatis, in particular has an eldritch significance that could not be denied by Mr. Montgomery, and consequently cannot be omitted whenever opportunity arises in this my faithful retelling of his words, words that, I confess, haunt me wholly to this day.

I hope to be able to relate further testimony after a lesser lapse of time, since, although it makes my heart quake at the least premonition of having to tell this -- what can I call it but a story? -- I have fully and pertinaciously committed to a total and ample account of its many terrifying details, as well as its quite normal and homely ones, which are, unfortunately, few and far between, as such things tend to be in the ruins of Cistercian abbeys, or in the buildings that rise therefrom. I must admit that I can only endure so much of my narration before I must cease for the sake of my organism, since I feel a revolting wave of sickness at the very thought of the events; think what Mr. Montgomery went through in the actual experience. With this alone as excuse, I am and remain

Your obedient servant,

R. O. Fox

P. S. No matter how much you beseech me to do so in your next letter, I will not reply any the sooner; I hope you can appreciate the effect such an action would have on my health, in any way considered or defined.

At Least It Rhymes With Something

My father tells a series of stories about a fictional family -- Mom and Dad (presumably so christened) and their three children: Timmy, Caroline, and Angela (their last name is never revealed). Many of the stories share common elements such as Angela getting lost, drawn-out and/or complicated adventures, and the one that is relevant to this post: the breakfast nook. Each story begins with the family beginning their day together by eating breakfast in this cozy roomlet.

So now you know what I think of when I hear tell of the Nook.

The Kindle Fire you have heard me speak of; concerning the Nook heretofore I have maintained silence. But no more. Please stop reading now if you do not wish to hear

The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of 
the wind

concerning what may be to some (I know not) a Sensitive Subject. If, like Rodolfo you can truthfully say Non sono in vena, then I cannot guarantee you will not miss out on your first meeting with the Mimì you have sought for I know not how long.

However.

What is the Nook? Is it a self-contained encapsulating Reading-space? Is it a New Book? (It wouldn't be the first instance of Word-smushing.) Is it a derivatively-titled product of Narnes and Boble? It could, for all I know, be any of these things. Or all of them. But at least it does not insult the medium it mimics by being named after that medium's worst enemy. Nook to me connotes "curling up with a good e-book" in a Small Space, which is all right, I admit. Much better than it could be, certainly.

However, a less constricting/claustrophobic name would be Liber. This name would be handy, because it can mean two different things: 1) book and 2) freedom. Everyone has really really really liked Freedom since  about the 18th century, and there has been a general preference for books since long before that. The two things have even at times been connected in various ways. Now comes the opportunity to really put this connection into noomenclatural practice. And it doesn't appear to restrict reading of Barnes and Noble e-books to confined (albeit cozy) spaces either.

I admit that Liber is also one of the names for the god Bacchus, or Dionysus. This may not be as welcome to certain segments of the terrestrial population. He has, in truth, also enjoyed a spike in his stats since, say, the time of Nietzsche, although he was not really ever out of vogue. I don't specifically approve of his name being applied to an e-reader, but as long as it is an unintended side effect, I think we can prudently call into play the principle of Double Effect. Don't you?

Note 1: Mom and Dad's next-door neighbors are named (in British accents) Mother and Father. The R's must be left off; no rhoticism for these folks. Their children's names are Bertha and Humbert, similarly R-less.

Note 2: Perhaps you have heard of the choral group Libera. I have often wondered about the grammar of their name. Is it an imperative? A singular adjective? A plural one? Who knows? (Perhaps it is a made up form, like J. K. Rowling's "Imperius.") Any guesses would be welcome.

Stonewells, Part 2

September 12, ----
The Old House, Forehaven

My dear Mr. Hale,

I believe I have now recovered enough of my courage – though perhaps somewhat less of my sanity – to continue on with the tale which I so abruptly broke off in my last letter. I was about to tell you in as unalarming a way as possible of the arrival of my cousin, Mr. E. J. Montgomery, at Stonewells, and the successively more horrible and (dare I say it?) eldritch events and phenomena which inexorably followed.

Everlasting Jubilee himself was, before these events, what one might call a practical man, and he often described himself as a realist. That was, as I say, before the events. Afterwards, he has sometimes confided to me in our numerous and chilling fireside talks sentiments to the following effect: “Remigius, I know now what's real and what isn't. And before” he thus always pronounces the word with dire significance and import “before...I didn't.” There is no need to inquire or to describe what he meant by these sinister and obviously deeply meaningful words, which I have dutifully italicised.

The account of the happening of Stonewells I now present to you comes from the lips of none other than Mr. Montgomery himself, and is thus to be taken as nothing less than the very truth of the thing.

He arrived at Stonewells last November 1st with a small group of servants and a much larger one of books. In his younger days, he had been a voracious reader, laying hold with gusto of any quality printed material he could find. Sometimes he also read mediocre works, but these were in the minority and can be safely termed an exception. Nevertheless, in the past few years, when he had been deeply embroiled in practical affairs and had turned his attention solely to business, finance, and profit, he had neglected this study of his youth, but he was now about to renew it again, and he was filled with eager anticipation.

The night before had, of course, been Hallowe'en, and you may be curious whether any strange happenings had been bruited about the surrounding countryside. The fact is that they had not; at any rate, not any more than is normal for that frightening date. The usual reports of the birth of hideously deformed offspring of various species and inhuman rituals in a nearby grove of ancient oaks were duly given and duly – and dismissively – received, but nothing extremely weird or eldritch was mentioned. So Everlasting Jubilee doubted he had anything much to worry about. He was – need I state it explicitly? – wrong.

The hour grows late, and my cryptographical work beckons. I am sorry I must leave you again at such a point in the tale, but I shall continue at my first convenient opportunity. I know you are as eager to hear the sickening tale as I am not to recount it.

Sincerely,
R. O. Fox

They're Back

(The Somewhat Traditional Architect is drinking copious amounts of coffee and drafting something very like the Round Temple in the Forum Boarium, when up comes the Liturgical Consultant and with an exaggerated gesture taps him on the shoulder. This causes the STA's covered coffee mug to be in remote material danger of spilling, and he unnecessarily devotes his entire life-force to the safety of his drawing, despite the considerable distance between the mug and the paper. Having seen to it that his project receive nothing of detriment, he faces the LC, who appears likely to want a hug. However, the STA denies him that, and begins a conversation instead.)

STA: Hello, there. How's the church going without any architectural guidance whatsoever?
LC: Oh, pretty well, actually. I've brought along my preliminary plans.

(The STA looks at them. They do not resemble plans. They contain far too many smiley faces, for one thing. Also, the concept of scale is lacking.)

STA: This looks like a good start. I see you've decided on Modern then.
LC: No, no, this is Early Christian. Notice that the community space...

(At first the STA is nonplussed. Then he says:)

STA:: Oh, the nave.
LC: Yes, the community space. Notice that it's welcoming and comfortable like you said.
STA: Did I? Well. It's practically a square, though, you see.
LC: I was under the impression the Early Christian equivalent of a basilica was rectangular.

(The STA ignores the LC's mistaken perception of an anachronism.)
STA: The terms square and rectangular are not interchangeable. Vitruvius gives pretty specific proportions in Book V.
LC: Well, it seems more gathering-spacey.
STA: Yes, I suppose in a way it does. At least more circular. And at least more spacey. But this isn't a basilica.
LC: No? Why not?
STA: There are no columns. There are merely these obnoxious beams that look like something out of a Star Wars film.
LC: So? At least they don't break up the community and block the view of...oh never mind, it's not supposed to be a viewing sort of thing anyway.
STA: I notice you put the choir pretty much on the apsidal wall, and...what is this? a drum set? That's one pretty big drum set. Usually the ambo is there, and the drum set, if there is one, is somewhat closer to the choir and...well, considerably smaller, you see.

(The LC appears confused for a moment, as he had not intended the drum set to appear larger than normal. At least, not much larger.)
LC: I read a reactionary book from sometime before the Church...I mean before the Council...that they used to call the part of the church where the altar was the choir. I thought I might make a little accommodation to that set of viewpoints. Of course this was back when there actually were separate parts of the church for the oppressed and the oppressors...I think they called them laity and clergy, or something like that.
STA: Something very like that. That was, however, a hold-over from even earlier times when the clergy actually sang in a choir near the altar during Mass. I think a better model for you, if you like a central choir is a schola cantorum type of thing.
LC: OK.. What's that? I'm open to dialogue.
STA: It's an enclosure where the...
LC: Just stop right there. I will not have an enclosure in my church! I will not have an enclosure; I will not have a boundary; I will not have an ascent or a descent or change in any kind of level! It will flow, I tell you!
STA: Let's leave that to the baptistery.
LC: I will not have any separate space for ANYTHING! Everything and everyone must be together! Except the children during the Liturgy of the Word! You know what? I've had it. I'm going to go back and work on my church by myself!

(He storms off to read a book on swimming pool design as an aid in creating a fluid environment. The STA realizes it is time for lunch, and then orders a burger that he notices resembles the Round Temple in the Forum Boarium. He lets out a satisfied sigh, and wonders if the LC will ever learn that architecture is everywhere and cannot be escaped. Then he thinks: Maybe that's just because I'm an architect.)