This morning I discovered Sean Connery turned down the role of Gandalf. The man who played James Bond could have exchanged wizardry with my kin, Christopher Lee. My kin, Ian Fleming, wanted Richard Burton to star in the first Bond movie. Burton and Lee are kin to Fleming. Two years ago, I began my Bondish book ‘The Royal Janitor’ that is inspired by my Muse, Rena Easton, who was the Muse of Christine Rosamond. I claimed I was heir to the Quest of J.R. Tolkien – and Ian Fleming! I was called insane. People said I should be locked up – then they laughed! I was made a prisoner in my own home. I was ordered to go back in my cell by my 500 hundred pound enemy ‘El Lardo’. Who is the Lady of the Lake and why does she hate me so?
Victoria Mary Bond, and her bodyguard, Miriam Starfish Christling, freed me from my amber prison. Somehow they owned a Literary Intuitiveness that allowed them to search all the words on the World Wide Web, and find my salivation. Thank you Victoria Miriam for liberating me. You are of the true Women’s Empowerment! Your Bond book may be the worst Bond book every written. Indeed, it may be the worst book ever penned. It may never sell! But, I will forever love you, for you have proven, there is Literary Justice in the World. And, of course there will forever be……Literary Magic!
Did you know Merlin is a candidate for the Antichrist? I made him manifest when I went to William Morris Square to confound the Gun Grunts who said they owned Biblical knowledge. Starfish brought her drum to this square. I have already began my Magical Movie…that no one believes in!
President: Royal Rosamond Press
P.S. As a Shape-changer I enjoy wearing many masks. Here I am as Big Bill Virus who says he has come for the Lip Readers and Signers, and not the self-righteous followers of the John Darby cult. That Connery kills Zardoz, who created him, is iconic, for Zed becomes the real Wizard of Oz that brings a freed magic out of the Circle Shield of The Vortex……THE MATRIX! That Sean ends up in what critics call the worst movie ever made, and with my revelations….we have a Holy Grail Cult Movie of the Profound Coincidence Kind. This is a unintentional clue, the best kind, that will set your mind free. The rest of you…..are wanna-be paying customers. It is going to take some BIG MAGIC to save the world from the Coronavirus.
Several decades later, Robert de Boron retold and expanded on this material in his influential Old French poem Merlin. Only a few lines of the poem have survived, but a prose version became popular and was later incorporated into Arthurian chivalric romance literature. In Robert’s account, as in Geoffrey’s Historia, Merlin is created as a demon spawn, here to become the Antichrist and reverse the effect of the Harrowing of Hell. However, this plot is thwarted when a priest named Blaise immediately baptizes the boy at birth, thus freeing him from the power of Satan and his intended destiny. The demonic legacy invests Merlin with a preternatural knowledge of the past and present, which is supplemented by God, who gives the boy a prophetic knowledge of the future. Robert lays great emphasis on Merlin’s power to shapeshift, on his joking personality, and on his connection to the Holy Grail, the quest for which he foretells. Inspired by Wace‘s Roman de Brut, an Anglo-Norman adaptation of Geoffrey’s Historia, Merlin was originally a part of a cycle of Robert’s poems telling the story of the Grail over the centuries. The narrative of Merlin includes Geoffrey’s episodes of Vortigern’s Tower, of Uther’s war against the Saxons, and of Arthur’s conception, but follows it with the new episode of the drawing of the sword from the stone, an event orchestrated by Merlin just as he earlier instructs Uther to establish the original order of the Round Table after creating the table itself.
Zed is less brutal and far more intelligent than the Eternals think he is. Genetic analysis reveals he is the ultimate result of long-running eugenics experiments devised by Arthur Frayn—who is Zardoz—who controlled the outlands with the Exterminators, thus coercing the Brutals to supply the Vortices with grain. Zardoz’s aim was to breed a superman who would penetrate the Vortex and save mankind from its hopelessly stagnant status quo. The women’s analysis of Zed’s mental images earlier had revealed that in the ruins of the old world Arthur Frayn first encouraged Zed to learn to read, then led him to the book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Zed finally understands the origin of the name Zardoz—Wizard of Oz—bringing him to a true awareness of Zardoz as a skillful manipulator rather than an actual deity. He becomes infuriated with this realization and decides to plumb the deepest depths of this enormous mystery.
The Royal Janitor
When Victoria told Starfish they were going to Eugene Oregon to track down what became of the Rose Division amongst the Habsburgs, she let out a spine-altering scrrrrrreeeee! She then shook all over, began to sweat profusely, and went into a trance. Victoria retreated, and Sharena got out from behind her desk, just in case she had to make a bee-line for the exit as Starfish made super rapid foot movements with quck turns in different directions. She would later tell the folks at BAD that this was the Lek black grouse dance she learned in South Africa where she and her father fled to get away from Vladimir Putin when he became Premiere of Russia.
“I’m going to bring my drum! This is a dream come true. My mother was born in Eugene. I’ve never been there! Screeeeeee!”
“You own a drum? Why isn’t this in the report? By any chance have you heard of John von Bond?”
“Nope! But, have you heard of the Oregon Country Fair! My Kabalak Klock is telling me this is a Kosmic Konnection made in another dimension. What great timing! We are going to enter the Royal Drum Vortex. I am forbidden to ever step foot in Eugene, but, I don’t give a shit! This is it! You’re going to see – the real me! I want you to promise you will get me back to BAD!”
I have failed to get the Mayor and City Council of Eugene and Springfield interested in the real connection between the Miller Brothers, the Pre-Raphaelites, William Morris, and J.R. Tolkien. This would be a boon for all of Lane County – and Oregon! I am not sure what the problem is, but, if I press The Mighty Proud & Ignorant’ they will try to hurt me, like the Kimites and Alleyites, who insist they own all the answers.
“No need to look anywhere else – buster! The days of your curiosity are over. so get back in your little cell, Old Man! Prophet – my ass!”
I think jealousy in involved, because this looks like Big Stuff, and, it is not being presented and exploited by Big People, thus the Wee Ones can own permission to get on board in a safe and puny way. I will pay a penalty for making them look – small! If I would just die, or, go away, then there tiny input will suffice. The feeding frenzy over Nothing, will go on. The ongoing homeless problem will define us. They are all powerless! Not I. I came up with a solution for one homeless person. I did my Civic Duty. Consider Gulliver’s Travels.
J.R. Tolkien was deeply influenced by William Morris’s The House of Wolfen. Morris was a Pre-Raphaelite and great friend of Dante Gabriel Rossetti whose last name is translated thus in French…..ROSAMONDE. I will be safely accused of self-grandizing by invoking this name that was popular amongst the Brotherhood. Rossetti painted a version of Fair Rosamond, and his friend, Swineburne wrote…..ROSAMUND QUEEN OF THE LOMBARDS.
I have been so busy running my little town newspaper, and being a real prophet out to thwart the Mad Man in The White House, that I have neglected the little essay Joaquin Miller wrote about his Dinner with Rossetti. I had not noticed the mention or the poem Evangeline written by Longfellow the friend of Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote about my ancestor, John Wilson, in The Scarlet Letter. This work, and the writing of Washington Irving inspired me to write ‘A Rose Among The Woodwose’ which is a continuation, a splicing, a Time Machine that takes up where Longfellow left off….the telling of the Great American Tale and Spirit…that the Mad Woodwose and Wood Master, Jaquin Miller took to England, at the suggestion of Ina Coolbrith, the head of the Oakland Library. Did she know Jack London?
Cease! I have written too much! The Candy-coated Consumer can only take so much. They want QUICK BITES of candy full of Stars. Many want Quick Jesus Candy from a Con Artist and Lunatic. They want A Hit and a Toke! They want to swallow The Ring, then, go for The Ten Minute Ringtone Crown.
Miller’s dinner with Rossetti preceded Tolkien’s discussions with his friend C.S. Lewis. This is my discovery that connects Lane County with Britain. This is an amazing cultural link that has to be ignored and rejected because it makes me powerful.
President: Royal Rosamond Press
THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,—
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o’er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman’s devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
To me a poem must be a picture,” I answered.
Proud I was when a great poet then said: “And it must be a picture–if a good poem so simple that you can understand it at a glance, eh? And see it and remember it as you would see and remember a sunset, eh?” “Aye,” answered the master, “I also demand that it shall be lofty in sentiment and sublime in expression. The only rule I have for measuring the merits of a written poem, is by the height of it. Why not be able to measure its altitude as you measure one of your sublime peaks of America?”
He looked at me as he spoke of America, and I was encouraged to answer:”Yes, I do not want to remember the words. But I do want it to remain with me a picture and become a part of my life. Take this one verse from Mr. Longfellow:
“And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.’”
“Good!” cried the fat cynic, who, I am sure, had never heard the couplet before, it was so sweet to him; “Good! There is a picture that will depart from no impressible clay. The silent night, the far sweet melody falling on the weary mind, the tawny picturesque Arabs stealing away m the darkness, the perfect peace, the stillness and the rest. It appeals to all the Ishmaelite in our natures, and all the time we see the tents gathered up and the silent children of the desert gliding away in the gloaming.”
A transplanted American, away down at the other end by a little man among bottles, said: “The poem of Evangeline is a succession of pictures. I never read Evangeline but once.” “It is a waste of time to look twice at a sunset,” said Rossetti, sotto voce, and the end man went on: “But i believe I can see every picture in that poem as distinctly as if I had been the unhappy Arcadian; for here the author has called in ail the elements that go to make up a perfect poem.”
“When the great epic of this new, solid Saxon tongue comes to be written,” said one who sat near and was dear to the master’s heart, “it will embrace all that this embraces: new and unnamed lands; ships on the sea; the still deep waters hidden away in a deep and voiceless continent; the fresh and fragrant wilderness; the curling smoke of the camp-fire; action, movement, journeys; the presence–the inspiring presence of woman; the ennobl- ing sentiment of love, devotion, and devotion to the death; faith, hope and charity,- and all in the open air.”
The House of the Wolfings is a romantically reconstructed portrait of the lives of the Germanic Gothic tribes, written in an archaic style and incorporating a large amount of poetry. Morris combines his own idealistic views with what was actually known at the time of his subjects’ folkways and language. He portrays them as simple and hardworking, galvanized into heroic action to defend their families and liberty by the attacks of imperial Rome.
Morris’s Goths inhabit an area called the Mark on a river in the forest of Mirkwood, divided into the Upper-mark, the Mid-mark and the Nether-mark. They worship their gods Odin and Tyr by sacrificing horses, and rely on seers who foretell the future and serve as psychic news-gatherers.
The men of the Mark choose two War Dukes to lead them against their enemies, one each from the House of the Wolfings and the House of the Laxings. The Wolfing war leader is Thiodolf, a man of mysterious and perhaps divine antecedents, whose ability to lead is threatened by his possession of a magnificent dwarf-made mail-shirt which, unknown to him, is cursed. He is supported by his lover the Wood Sun and their daughter the Hall Sun, who are related to the gods.
The Iron Crown of Lombardy (Italian: Corona Ferrea di Lombardia; Latin: Corona Ferrea Langobardiae) is both a reliquary and one of the oldest royal insignias of Christendom. It was made in the Early Middle Ages, consisting of a circlet of gold and jewels fitted around a central silver band, which tradition holds to be made of iron beaten out of a nail of the True Cross. The crown became one of the symbols of the Kingdom of the Lombards and later of the medieval Kingdom of Italy. It is kept in the Cathedral of Monza, near Milan.
Coolbrith, born the niece of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints founder Joseph Smith, left the Mormon community as a child to enter her teens in Los Angeles, California, where she began to publish poetry. She terminated a youthful failed marriage to make her home in San Francisco, and met writers Bret Harte and Charles Warren Stoddard with whom she formed the “Golden Gate Trinity” closely associated with the literary journal Overland Monthly. Her poetry received positive notice from critics and established poets such as Mark Twain, Ambrose Bierce and Alfred Lord Tennyson. She held literary salons at her home in Russian Hill—in this way she introduced new writers to publishers. Coolbrith befriended the poet Joaquin Miller and helped him gain global fame.
While Miller toured Europe and lived out their mutual dream of visiting Lord Byron’s tomb, Coolbrith was saddled with custody of his daughter and the care of members of her own family. As a result, she came to reside in Oakland and accepted the position of city librarian. Her poetry suffered as a result of her long work hours, but she mentored a generation of young readers including Jack London and Isadora Duncan. After she served for 19 years, Oakland’s library patrons called for reorganization, and Coolbrith was fired. She moved back to San Francisco and was invited by members of the Bohemian Club to be their librarian.
Whiles in the early Winter eve
We pass amid the gathering night
Some homestead that we had to leave
Years past; and see its candles bright
Shine in the room beside the door
Where we were merry years agone
But now must never enter more,
As still the dark road drives us on.
E’en so the world of men may turn
At even of some hurried day
And see the ancient glimmer burn
Across the waste that hath no way;
Then with that faint light in its eyes
A while I bid it linger near
And nurse in wavering memories
The bitter-sweet of days that were.
CHAPTER I—THE DWELLINGS OF MID-MARK
The tale tells that in times long past there was a dwelling of men beside a great wood. Before it lay a plain, not very great, but which was, as it were, an isle in the sea of woodland, since even when you stood on the flat ground, you could see trees everywhere in the offing, though as for hills, you could scarce say that there were any; only swellings-up of the earth here and there, like the upheavings of the water that one sees at whiles going on amidst the eddies of a swift but deep stream.
On either side, to right and left the tree-girdle reached out toward the blue distance, thick close and unsundered, save where it and the plain which it begirdled was cleft amidmost by a river about as wide as the Thames at Sheene when the flood-tide is at its highest, but so swift and full of eddies, that it gave token of mountains not so far distant, though they were hidden. On each side moreover of the stream of this river was a wide space of stones, great and little, and in most places above this stony waste were banks of a few feet high, showing where the yearly winter flood was most commonly stayed.
You must know that this great clearing in the woodland was not a matter of haphazard; though the river had driven a road whereby men might fare on each side of its hurrying stream. It was men who had made that Isle in the woodland.
For many generations the folk that now dwelt there had learned the craft of iron-founding, so that they had no lack of wares of iron and steel, whether they were tools of handicraft or weapons for hunting and for war. It was the men of the Folk, who coming adown by the river-side had made that clearing. The tale tells not whence they came, but belike from the dales of the distant mountains, and from dales and mountains and plains further aloof and yet further.
A Rose Among The Woodwoses
John Gregory Presco
Lady Mary Wilson Webb, inherited the job of keeping the fire lit below deck. All those who had gone before her, had failed. The fire tendered in a square iron tray, held together with rivets, then filled with sand, had become the altar of the Pilgrims. It, and the black pot hung on a trident, was watched most of the day by the lost souls packed under the creaking and leaking timbers. Moving about was almost impossible. Everyone was frozen in their place. But for the brave excursions above, met by some tempest, and cold sea spray, the wayfarers relieved themselves in a vile oaken bucket that was too close for comfort. Bible’s were taken out from under pillows when a lady went to tithe the Oaken Monster as they called it. Reading verses aloud, was the polite thing to do.
Tiring of the gory and bloody Biblical tales, that increased the Cargo Dread, the men brought out their bawdy jokes that they had memorized and gathered since their school days. The women pretended they ne’er heard a one. But, that guarded secret was soon out. And, a new kind of boredom set in. It was dreadful. Ones farting was amplified in the silence. The women ran out of perfume. Everyone got to know what a women really smelled like, including the women! Everyone was grateful for the occasional flying fish that was thrown in the pot, to cook all day, like temple incense.
The men ran out of jokes. Nothing was ever going to be funny again. The art of Mary keeping the fire alive was the highlight of their existence. You could hear the beards growing. In the glow of the red coals, the women felt like roses among the Woodwoses.
Two weeks at sea and another three weeks to go. Something had to be done.
“I brought my father’s book on rhetoric with me. Does anyone know it? My kindred William Shakespeare read it and was quite impressed. I saw him perform at the Rose theatre, on several occasions. He and my father were friends. They used to go the Bearbait Theatre and sit among the Protestant Spies. There were lawyers of the Temple present. Thomas called them the Roman Senators. There were horrific scenes of animal torture going on in the round arena. It was like the Roman Coliseum. I know enough about rhetoric where I can teach you. It will make the time fly.”
“For God’s sake, Mary. Why have you withheld this book from us!”
“My father was taken prisoner by the Inquisition, put in prison, and tortured. His books were ruled heretical, I don’t want to instigate spurious opinions about me and my father, for, I have nowhere to go to get away from you if you start in on that!”
“In Jesus’ name, relieve of us of our excruciating tedium! We are dying here Mary! Don’t be cruel!”
“My tutor taught my brother and I rhetoric from your father’s book. We can have a rhetorical argument about having Mary produce it for our salvation from our mind-numbing malaise!”
“Good idea! But, it is fair we all receive a sample. Is it not?”
“Would you care to elaborate?”
On March 31, 2019 I found Thomas Wilson’s book ‘The Art of Rhetorike’. There are several spellings. After reading forty, pages I believe my theory that Thomas Wilson had a hand in writing some of William Shakespeare’s’ plays, if not all, is sound.
On this day, I copyright my idea that I arrived at with my battle I am having with Meg Whitman, and the alleged owners of the California Barrel Company, over ownership of this company name that once made barrels. I spoke with an attorney. I am critical of Quibi. To discover Apple TV is being backed by Steven Spielberg, and a bevy of Hollywood talent, is ironic, for Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor and Richard Burton are in my Rosamond Family Tree, as is, Sir Thomas Wilson. I do not want Shakespeare to fall into either capitalist camps, because William made Acting more than an Art Form, as I will show in my novel. Then there is the question……..
Who owns America – and why?
I will give my reader a good example of how Rhetoric fits well with Shakespeare’s’ work. Peter G. Platt has written one of the finest essays I have read. I am envious.
Then, there is this illustration. It took my breath away. Do you know who he is, the man leading noble women with chains linked to the tip of his tongue. He is my hero.
What really got my interest is this line……….
“And God save the Queen’s majesty.”
Where were Britain’s great Rhetorical Men when the Brexit issue came up?
QUEEN OF THE LOMBARDS
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
CHATTO & WINDUS
Albovine, King of the Lombards.
almachildes, a young Lombard warrior.
Narsetes, an old leader and counsellor.
Rosamund, Queen of the Lombards.
Hildegard, a noble Lombard maiden.
Time, June 573
A hall in the Palace: a curtain drawn midway across it.
Enter Albovine and Narsetes.
This is no matter of the wars: in war
Thy king, old friend, is less than king of thine,
And comrade less than follower. Hast thou loved
Ever—loved woman, not as chance may love,
But as thou hast loved thy sword or friend—or me?
Thou hast shewn me love more stout of heart than death.
Death quailed before thee when thou gav’st me life,
Borne down in battle.
Woman? As I love
Flowers in their season. A rose is but a rose.
Dost thou know rose from thistle or bindweed? Man,
Speak as our north wind speaks, if harsh and hard—
White I know from red, and dark from bright,
And milk from blood in hawthorn-flowers: but not
Woman from woman.
How should God our Lord,
Except his eye see further than his world?
For women ever make themselves anew,
Meseems, to match and mock the maker. Friend,
If ever I were friend of thine in fight,
Speak, and I bid thee not speak truth: I know
Thy tongue knows nought but truth or silence.