So It's Wasteland Once Again, After All This Time

     Hi, I'm Arlen Walker and I am Live from Pellam's Wasteland.  

    That's normally how I start my YouTube videos and podcast episodes, and I don't know that it makes as much sense in this format, but nevertheless I am far too much a creature of habit to change things now.  This is a blog that, long ago, I had very high hopes for but that I have let languish for some time now.  I would like for it to no longer languish in obscurity but instead to be a place of obscurity with regularly posted content.  

    I think that sharing my thoughts in written form is inherently good for me.  As I have shared in other places, like my Youtube channel and my Anchor podcast, I actually have a degree in English, and am someone that (ideally) values written communication, especially edited and optimized written communication.  Of course editing and optimizing content is an arduous process, at least for me, so don't expect anything miraculous overnight.  Whether or not me sharing written content is good for anyone who might read this is still up for debate, but a bit of selfish sharing on my part might be exactly what I need.

    There are two types of things I'd like to post here.  First, and probably most common, I'd like to post nonfiction writings about things that I like or have been thinking or reading about, probably centered on TTRPGs and the like but perhaps expanding to other subjects as I get into those subjects.  Second, and probably much less common but hopefully still often enough, I'd like to post fiction that I have written, probably in a somewhat unedited and rough state.  Eventually I may well end up posting things I've posted once before but in an expanded and edited state, but that will likely only happen months from now, once I have an accumulated source of written content to practice editing on.

    With any luck, those sorts of things are also the sorts of things you are interested in.  If so, I suggest that you bookmark the page or add the blog to your reading list or whatever else you do to keep track of blogs that you read.  Right now the plan is to post at least once a week, maybe more often if I can get into a more aggressive and consistent productivity schedule.  Also, if somehow you discovered this blog without knowing about my Youtube channel or podcast, you should check those out too!  There are links to both in my bio here.

    I hope each and every reader is excited about reading more interesting things here on the Pellam's Wasteland blog, so stay frosty and happy reading!

    With apologies to Horace for butchering his poetry in translation for the title.

-AW

The Superabundance of Arthuriana I

     There is an important question to be asked of Malory's Le Morte D'Arthur, and that is: why are there so many kings, and what happens to them?  Specifically, there are many kings in the beginning of the story, and only Arthur (and Mordred) by the end.  Why?  What happens to these kings, and what does it tell us about kingship?
     Perhaps the least important of these are kings like Pellinore and Lot.  Both are certainly described as kings, although their sons are not princes but rather the de Galis and Orkney clan-knights.  Malory does not say that Arthur usurped the princes of their birthright, and yet it seems that that must be what happened.  Is this the remembrance, almost a thousand years later, of a dark-ages unifier of Britain who was able to absorb the petty kingdoms into which the land had been sundered into his single monarchy?  Doubtful.  Then what else could this be?  Perhaps investigating the other kings will help.
     King Pellam is surely more important.  Pellam's wasteland is something meaningful, related to us by Merlin after he rescues Balin from the ruins of Pellam's castle (which is not called Corbenic here, is it a different castle?  Hard to believe that).  A bit of summary: Balin has chased the invisible knight Sir Garlon to a castle where there is a feast in progress.  At said feast a visible Sir Garlon strikes Balin and so Balin draws his sword and cuts him down.  Sir Garlon, it is revealed, is the brother of King Pellam, whose castle this is.  Than kynge Pellam caught in his hand a grymme wepyn and smote egirly at Balyn, but he put his swerde betwyxte hys hede and the stroke, and therewith hys swede braste in sundir.  Balin flees, racing through the castle until he finds a room marked by finery and a mervaylous spere strangely wrought.  Balin strikes true, wounds Pellam, and with the wounding the castle collapses about them.  And then Merlin rescues Balin for his unfortunate meeting with his brother.  Pellam's land is become a wasteland through the wounding.
     There is more to this story.  First, Lancelot's first act of infidelity is with a young woman at a place called Corbenic, Pellam's castle, and the young woman is Pellam's daughter.  Their child is Galahad, who is destined to find the Grail and restore the wasteland and heal Pellam.  Furthermore, when Galahad comes to Camelot to become a member of the round table, there is a second sword in the stone, which must be drawn by Galahad (no other can) and is Balin's sword (but was not Balin's sword braste in sundir?).  And remember, before all of this, when Balin was but a lad at Camelot, that he too drew a sword (from scabbard) which no other could draw, and was thus marked out by the ritual, and presumably this is the sword which Pellam sundered and which Galahad will draw from the stone.
     Perhaps another mythology will answer some of out questions.  Remember how Odysseus was recognized by his nurse?  She felt (and saw) along his thigh a wound he had achieved while boar-hunting as a lad before the Trojan War, from which he nearly died.  Robert Graves tells us that this is the mythological residue of a sacrifice of kings, like that at Nemi, where the king's genitals were torn off with a boar's tusk (or perhaps cut with a tusk-handled knife) in reenactment of the castration of Ouranos by Chronos and Chronos by Zeus and someday Zeus by Apollo.  Remember too that Chronos' dick and balls fell into the sea and from this sprang Aphrodite.  Aphrodite who loves Adonis, the sacrifice, who was gored by a boar.  Now we look to Balin's heraldry and what do we see: the boar, massive and furious, spread across his might chest which surely was muscled and hairy like the beast's.  Thus we must wonder if Balin is Odysseus' boar.  I answer: Surely, he is.
     More tomorrow.

Anthropophagus Beasts

Of all the beasts of the wild
our senses are dulled to simple vision,
sometimes hearing, but we have no
night-sight,
and yet it is the smell which announces them,
the rotting flesh of our fathers
and our sacrifices,
Andromeda's sweet-smelling decay
that drives Perseus to immortalize the monster
in Parian marble like Galatea.
I assume Medusa's statues were made
of metamorphic rock, with crystalline arrangement,
because igneous is shot through with imperfections
and sedimentary would crumble beneath the gaze.
But all of this is beside the point, which is:
Anthropophagus beasts are not of one kind.
Some stalk and some crawl and some slither
and some have the fire in their beating hearts
while others must make do with the worship of Sol Invictus.
Let me not be eaten by reptilian predators.

Logs

We can prove, with certainty,
just as John did,
the existence of the Adamic tongue
from which creation issued
from the original.
Milton's imagined version of existence before existence
need not be invoked
however much we enjoy the image
of the study lit by Lucifer.
It is study that concerns us
because the WORD ITSELF
has been troped and twisted and tautologized
into something it is not.
Think upon biology,
upon theology,
upon technology,
and not upon philosophy,
for there love & wisdom exist alone.
Geometry was clever not to include the word,
because it is founded upon that assertion
of truth beyond language.  We shall see.
But all the others are not studies but are WORDS,
the LANGUAGE of life, of the gods, of craft.
And can you believe that they believe
that WORDS are not thoughts?
as if John's story was not in Greek.

Parataxis

In the beginning there was not darkness,
no shadow cast by monuments of men,
though Tyndale's Vulgate, imperial and opulent,
was already in the mind.
But soon enough there was no twist, iamb or trochee
that could escape it, and all subordination
(Did Thomas H. know?  Did Thomas M.?)
transformed into parallel clauses.
And this is how the story went,
founders and builders with their mind turned by it,
Cooper, long after Turner's truth spread west,
told the story of king, ruddy and majestic,
fresh from the fields where they stood signifier for themselves.
And let us not forget thorny Nate,
Puritanical,
the whale-man dedicated that book to him,
through which one might depopulate the sea,
wrestle with Leviathan,
and undo what was done in the beginning.
And yet he used the words
which cannot belong to him.
And Hemingway must have known
that his 'ands' had antecedents,
his narrative of subsequent but parallel clauses
was not created from nothing.
And we still see it today, the long shadow of the king.
Is the only one who we have left,
Crevecoeur the Ophiolater
(a British man found that out)
because he heard it second hand?
If only we read and read and read
and knew for sure.

Eclipsed Starlight

The stars shine no less brightly
though they, unknowing, will be eclipsed
by the demiurgic vomiting of the Apollonian sphere,
sunlight before starlight.
And so little of it, spit out into the void
actually forming the cast shadow of our immensity,
call it an eclipse, why don't you.
For truly it is a titanic undertaking
to light the world.
But there are wolves in the sheepfold,
slavering and wicked
and if I told you that their hunger dwarfed
the immensities we have already discussed
would you believe me?
I think not.

Before Grendel

Oh hall of heroes, mead-hall magnificent,
let us see terror's terminus this night,
the rampage rocked by mighty men,
the end of Grendel's goings and comings and slayings
the very break of dawn to light the darkness.
He disdains swift swordplay,
sharp axes and bright spears,
the honed knife-edge of smith's handiwork,
and for those he kills: nothing.
No compensation for the decomposing.
No man-price in glittering gold for the grieving.
Guard over these, All-Father and Word-Lord,
that the ravens do not rip
and the wolves do not worry
and their bright steel blazes forth in the morning.